Okay, I don't own anything to do with the perfection that is CM or any of its affiliations. I do, however, have the pleasure of owning my OC, Charlotte. Hope you enjoy the story - and have a great day!

Okay, so you can tell I know nothing about wax making, and so I'm kind of winging it.

I'm sorry for taking so long, my loves. I was being an idiot, and I lost a lot of motivation for this story ever since the finale of CM. I'm back though.

- EDIT 27/12/14 -

To be quite honest, having my O.C so 'all-knowing' is really dumb. I was very young when I made this story up and I wanted my character to be super smart and super beautiful etc, so if I were to re-write it, she would have a B.A in Psychology and a minor in Criminology, nothing more.

I apologise for how outlandish her achievements are, I appreciate all of you that are joining me on this journey, the story is not over!

ON THE BRIGHT SIDE:- I've been watching CM again, from the beginning and I've found my love for this story again!

I love you guys! Have a wonderful day!

Charlotte POV

I flipped the squared photograph over for the twelfth time in the last two minutes and murmured into my fist, "I think we might be looking at this all wrong."

Spencer glanced at me over the head of his water bottle, and after he finished drinking, he asked, his head angled slightly to the left, as though he were curious, "What do you mean?"

Truthfully, I found it somewhat thrilling that I could make a guy as intelligent as Spencer curious. I chewed on my lip and scowled at the photograph of the deceased woman, then grumbled, "This guy... He's... There's something I'm missing."

Spencer sat forward and picked up another photograph, then handed it to me, and said, "I know what you mean. This one... It was different than the others. I know why you're frustrated. I feel it, too."

I chewed on the crook of my finger and whined, shifting in my seat, "I just... I know I can do this. I know we can do this. It's just... Yeah, frustrating."

He scoffed and placed the water bottle on the edge of the table and said, soothingly, "Come here. You will get it. Just stop thinking so hard about it. It will come to you."

Huffing a little, I turned around in his arms, so I wasn't sitting beside him, but sitting with my legs draped over his lap, and my forehead pressed against his neck. I huffed, annoyed, and he chuckled. "You are still thinking too hard. We have been working on this case for days on end. You are going to burn yourself out."

Softly, I grabbed the silky material of the thick tie draped around his neck and sighed, twirling the material between my thin fingers, "I'd prefer to burn out and catch this son-of-a-bitch than let him get away because I caught a couple extra hours of sleep."

He smelled really good. Like, really good. It was distracting, but I didn't want to move away from him. He was so warm and comforting, but it wasn't as though he seemed to mind. His fingers wound around my middle and drew small circles against the material of my shirt.

Spencer kissed my forehead, then said, quietly, but with a strange tightness in his tone that made me glance up in surprise, "We all would. But it will do none of us any good – the team, the people of this town, the victims, the potential victims – if none of us can function. Now, just close your eyes and think. I am not telling you to sleep, but looking at the same group of photographs sixty-eight times – which you have been done in the last half an hour, might I add – is not going to yield any new answers. You know I am right, so just... There you go. Just relax."

Slowly, I drawled, my words slurring almost, "I keep thinking that we've missed something. I don't think it was especially important at the time, but now, it's essential."

He rolled his eyes and threw his arm over my shoulder. He raised his knee, so I could relax against it, and said, "Like I said, you will figure it out. Come on, relax. You are going to drive yourself crazy."

And I listened to him. I let him lead me to my room, and, because I asked him to, he waited for me to get undressed in the bathroom, and held me close as I fell asleep. He didn't stay the night, he never did, but he waited until I drifted off, as he found it comforting. He said that I was an interesting sleeper. I assumed it was because I mumbled while I dreamt, and if that was true, I was thoroughly embarrassed.

Sleeping at that time was probably the best thing that I could have done at that moment, as when I woke up, my mind felt clear. I woke up with a purpose, and an idea in my mind as to where I could go with the change in the UnSub's M.O. I showered and washed my hair, then towel-dried my body and braided my hair in two plaits, and dressed in a pair of jeans, thick boots and an oversized sweater. As soon as I was able to get my hands on a notepad, I scribbled down everything that came to my head, and by the time it was seven forty-three in the morning, I was downstairs, grabbing Derek Morgan by the shoulder. I threw the piece of paper in his hands and said, "Get Hotch. I think I've got it."

–

"They didn't find any DNA, fingerprints at the scene or in the wax, so it suggests that he wore gloves while doing both. But the blood that we found in the dog's fur can be used as a comparison. All you need is a sample. But I pulled some strings. You were right. They checked the wax again. Or, should I say they compared the wax that the UnSub had used in each of the crimes and found that although there wasn't anything immediately strange about them, they found poop. Seriously, Alaskan Grackle poop. Turns out they only flock here at this time of the year, and they tend to stick in the same area. They are attracted to the mistletoe in the trees – another substance found in the wax. We take both of these, and it gives us one place."

Garcia smirked over the head of her laptop and I knew we had it. Now, we just needed to find him.

–

Because of the high number of victims in the case, and the amount of attention the small town of Cordova was receiving because of the actions of one deranged maniac, the FBI had decided to sent in a small team of agents in support of Hotch and the BAU. Any help is better than no help, in my opinion. More bodies meant there were less of a chance of him escaping. According to the schematics of the woodland areas of the town, there were no documented shacks, residences or homes. That didn't mean that he wasn't out there. It simply meant that we were going to be spending many hours on foot, searching for his abode. We started as early as we could, so as soon as the sun broke the skyline, we had all gathered at the mouth of the woodland entrance. My team was made up of JJ, three unidentified FBI agent and Cade.

I was still very mad with him, and his partner, but I knew, practically, that they were doing their job and it wasn't their fault. It still hurt, but I wasn't going to be an asshole about it. He smiled at me, weakly, as though he expected me to completely ignore him, and, just to throw him a loop, I winked, softly, and turned back to my designated line of sight.

It took us hours, and I mean hours, before anyone turned anything up. Hotch's team, or Team Alpha, as I had taken to calling them in my head, were the ones who found the cabin. We were told to stay back and lay in wait, just in case the assailant wasn't in there, and tried to make a break for it. In our ears we had small nude coloured earpieces, so we could all communicate with one another, and through those, Hotch's rough voice barked, "Negative confirmation. An illegal settlement but no sign of the UnSub. We are going to check inside."

There was a moment of silence before we were called in. Everyone was summoned to their location, and by the time we had arrived, I saw that Hotch had already began gathering evidence. He was in the middle of photographing the inside of the damaged, solitary cabin. I stepped inside, once I grabbed the blue plastic baggies and covered my feet with them, as to not disturb any footprints, or track in any dirt from the surrounding forestry. I could see that this was where he slept.

The cabin itself was gnomish. Literally, everything about it was small. The windows were barely half the size of normal ones, the glass wasn't clear, but was tinged with ochre. The door was simply a piece of wood, with an unfamiliar shape etched into it, over and over again, as though it had been gouged out with a knife. It was a large half circle, with two lines drawn through the side. I didn't recognise the pattern, it wasn't Roman, Greek or Latin. There didn't seem to be any ancient connotations with the image, however evidently it was important. Again, the same inverted pentagrams were there, on the wood of the door, on the floor, drawn in the leaves and mud. The roof was slanted, made up of dark slates. Before I could take anything else in, the first wave of officers swarmed the cabin. It was go time.

I trailed in behind the last group of officers after someone inside shouted, "Clear."

I went through the house, inspecting the living arrangements in quiet disdain. The floor was littered with trash; soiled newspaper, hay, yarn, leaves and branches, probably from the forest surrounding the cabin itself. The table in the living room had been made by the UnSub, and it had the same markings that had been on the door. In the bedroom, the bed was unmade and the bathroom joined into the bedroom. The walls had claw marks all over it, nails having been dragged along it, over and over, blood matted on the wood, broken nails having fallen to the floor.

I grabbed my phone and pressed the number '3'.

Garcia's light voice flitted through the receiver, "You've reached the phone of the world's sexiest hacker. How may I be of service?"

I span on my heels and replied, "Garcia, can you please find any individuals that fit our profile that has a history of psychosis. Schizophrenia, manic depression, dissociation, delusions, the works. He's living in filth, the same images over and over again, scratched into wood, nail marks in the wall. I think he's having a psychotic break."

She quipped, smartly, "Will do. Garcia out."

I stepped into the living room, and turned towards the furthest wall, then, with a frown, I went into the kitchen. The entire grizzly scene was coated in paraphernalia that screamed 'UNSUB'. There were bloody knives, ropes littered with flecks of bloody, cracked skin, melted candles. Outside, visible through the window, was a slab of metal, where he made the candles; the wax, the paraffin, the mistletoe, all lined up and waiting. I pulled open the small box freezer and nearly recoiled at the smell. There was nothing but ice and frozen meat inside.

I went back out into the living room, then into the bedroom once more. Something was off about the room. It was bare, except for a soiled mattress and a singlet wardrobe. It didn't fit. He didn't fit the profile of somebody that required a wardrobe. He would prefer to throw his clothes away in a corner and leave them to fester.

I pulled on a pair of latex gloves and ran my fingers over the corners of the wardrobe. I was short, so I could only reach a certain height, but that didn't matter. It was a secret door. I just had to figure out how to-

Got it.

The wardrobe door was the entrance to the secret room. Something struck me as odd about this entire thing – this UnSub wasn't organised enough to create this kind of order.

My phone began to vibrate as I called another officer to check out the cubby-hole. Rubbing the back of my neck, I sighed, "Hey, Garcia."

She replied, all chipper and clearly awake. "Hey. Okay, so, you were right. There were only a few, considering Cordova is such a small town. I went back fifteen years, just in case the UnSub was on the older side of the spectrum, but it turns out that I didn't need to."

I cut in, my tone flat, "Garcia."

She stuttered then stopped, and apologised, softly, "Yeah, sorry. It turns out that he's not from Alaska. The first recorded case that I could find was from just under five years ago, in Bozeman, Montana. Four women, all killed, all left in their homes, all brunette, one with a young child, one was expecting another and the other two had adopted young boys. The inverted pentagram wasn't present at these crimes, but the wax was, minus the poop. I was so stupid, I thought that he hadn't travelled, or that he had been a native of Cordova... God... His name is Shawn Pope, twenty-three years old. As a child, he was considered socially inept. He frequently wet himself in class, all the way up to high school, when he goes off the grid."

My brows furrowed as I asked, "What do you mean?"

She began, clearly discomforted by the information, "He ran away at seventeen. His family life was... Oh, wow. It was terrible. His mother got pregnant aged fourteen by her father's friend. After they found out, she was kicked out and left to fend for herself and her newborn son. At twenty one, she moved in with her then-husband, a sexual sadist who had a penchant for touching on little boys, specifically nine-year-old Shawn."

My eyes widened, overwhelmed, "Christ."

She mumbled, upset, "I know. Like I said, he wet the bed and himself under duress. He had numerous visits to the E.R with his mother, sometimes taking himself. His mother died three months ago."

Without pause, I explained, "His stressor."

She responded, the sound of her fingers tapping away at her keyboard over the receiver, "Bingo. I'm sending you a photograph now."

I looked at my phone to see an e-mail file with an image attached. The woman that flashed up on my screen didn't appear dangerous or violent in any way. She had soft brown hair, light in the ends and short, curling at the nape of her neck, and light brown eyes. It was her work picture, so she had dressed formally, in a plum blouse.

I turned back to the secret cubby-hole, with new eyes, and muttered, "Thanks, Garcia."

She answered, quietly, "No problemo."

Inside of the cubby-hole were images that I wouldn't be able to relieve from my brain any time soon. The walls were littered with articles from the local newspaper, all to do with his crimes. He followed the case, vigilantly. He got off on seeing his crimes, laid out in front of him. This didn't make sense. He wasn't a psychopath, he was delusional, psychotic, even. There was a seat in front of the main wall, the floor littered with tissue, with dried... God, he relieved himself while looking out at these women. Their faces, their families, the grief and pain shown in the neighbourhood. God, he was sick.

There was a desk, and I nudged a few pieces of dirty paper around on it. I picked up a photograph, my latex covered fingers raising the photo up against the orange-tinged light and gasped. The woman in the photograph, a pretty, young looking woman with dark brown hair. She was innocuous, plain, motherly, even. It was the first victim, Jemima. Her eyes had been scratched out. I pulled open the desk drawer, to find more pictures, their eyes scratched out, the children's faces burned through with matches. The fathers though. God. I took his time. He stabbed through their eyes, scratched at their clothes, black ink spread in their mouths, coating their teeth. He hated the mothers, envied the children but he loathed the fathers. He didn't want to kill them, he wanted them to suffer. I was certain, then, that if the children – Jesse and Alana – had been home, they would have been victims, too, just to increase the grief and pain that their fathers might feel.

We needed to find this guy, as soon as possible. Before the neighbourhood found him, otherwise his entrails would be decorating the forest floor.