"Time is the one thing we never have enough of." - Hotch.
///
Ray did not answer right away. He walked to the board and uncapped the marker, then circled three lines hard enough that the tip squeaked.
Access to fast-acting sedative.
Prior surveillance.
Studied the victim file.
He turned back to the room.
"Our unsub has medical knowledge. He could also get into the police personnel files. That's how he uncovered everything about Elle. He knew exactly when she clocked in and out, figured out when the traffic on her street was light, and knew the blind spots of the security cameras well enough to appear for less than five seconds without showing his face."
The bullpen stayed quiet.
"He has patience," Ray continued. "He stalked her long enough to build a psychological trigger. He understood her instincts better than some of us do. That means close proximity. Institutional access. Or both."
Holt's expression sharpened slightly.
"You are suggesting an internal connection," he said.
"Yes," Ray replied. "This guy either works around us or works around people who do."
Hotch studied him. "So who fits the profile?"
Ray's eyes shifted toward the board again. His mind replayed the week before the tactical sim: The paperwork, briefings, physical checkups, and psychological evaluation. Everyone had to go through it to prevent unnecessary accidents during the simulation.
Holt's gaze changed a fraction.
"You do not mean," Holt began slowly.
Ray looked at him.
"Bingo."
A ripple of tension moved across the room.
Holt straightened slightly. "One week ago, everyone participating in the training simulations underwent mandatory medical evaluations. Vitals, bloodwork, updated emergency contacts. The results were logged into personnel files by medics."
Terry frowned. "So you are saying one of the medics copied the data."
"Possible," Ray said. "They would have access to updated addresses, medical histories, emergency contacts, and psychological notes if flagged. They could see her old BAU affiliation in the extended file summary."
Spencer nodded slowly. "Medical professionals would also have access to controlled sedatives and understand dosing windows."
Rosa's jaw tightened. "So we grab every medic from that clinic and start punching them. One of them will eventually break."
Ray shook his head once.
"That is what he wants."
Everyone looked at him.
Hotch's eyes narrowed. "Misdirection."
Ray walked back to Amy and handed her the closed pad.
"Yes. If we assume medic, we chase medics. That burns hours. Maybe days. Our unsub planned this. He left us a chemical clue because he knows we will fixate on medical credentials. He is organized. He anticipated our first logical step. He wants that tunnel vision."
Holt tilted his head slightly. "Then who?"
Ray looked toward the bullpen doors, like he was seeing something that no one else had paid attention to.
"It is the janitor."
Silence hit hard.
Jake blinked. "I am sorry, what?"
"The janitor," Ray repeated calmly. "Janitors enter before everyone. They leave after everyone. Nobody questions why they are around file rooms, locker rooms, and training facilities. They are invisible."
Spencer's eyes opened a little wider as the realization hit him.
"They'd hear the medical staff talking," Spencer said, a bit fast. "They'd pick up on drug names, stuff about dosages, how things get disposed of."
Ray nodded along.
"They notice everything. They see who's staying late, who's working overtime, who leaves by themselves. They take out the trash from the admin offices, they handle discarded drafts. They're just standing there in rooms while people chat, like they wouldn't hear a thing."
Holt's voice dropped a degree. "You are implying this individual used proximity rather than credentials."
"Yes," Ray replied. "The right janitor could collect information over months without touching a database. Addresses get mentioned, schedules get complained about... People talk. We are cops. We overshare in hallways."
Amy flipped back through her notes. "That still does not explain the way he stalked Elle without her knowing. I mean, she used to work in BAU, so she must have training to detect such movements, right?"
Spencer leaned forward. "Military?"
Ray nodded.
"Yes. He's either military or has a law enforcement background. I'm leaning towards military, probably from a special operations support team. This person knows field medicine, is trained in stealth, and is very comfortable with surveillance and patience."
Terry exhaled slowly. "So, a retired veteran working janitorial."
Ray continued.
"He understands camera angles. He understands timing. He executed the grab in under ninety seconds. That is rehearsal or professional conditioning."
Hotch studied him. "You believe he has operational experience."
"I do," Ray answered. "He stalked a former federal profiler without raising suspicion. That requires discipline. He groomed a child into compliance. That requires long-term control." He looked at Hotch. "Have Garcia dig out all the files and check if someone fits the profile and tell her to run a quick scan through this year's similar cases in New York. We connect the dots, we find our unsub."
Hotch was already pulling his phone from his pocket before Ray finished speaking.
He stepped away from the circle and hit speed dial.
"Garcia."
There was a burst of rapid typing on the other end before she even answered.
"Please tell me you are calling with good news and not with the intense quiet voice that means I need caffeine and possibly holy water."
"I need both," Hotch replied evenly. "Run a priority search. New York City. Last twelve months. Adult female abductions with no ransom demand. Any case where a child was reported present in proximity to the disappearance."
A pause. Keys clacked harder.
"Okay, that is already nightmare fuel. Narrowing to boroughs first or full metro area."
"Full metro," Hotch said. "Also pull employment records for janitorial staff contracted through NYPD facilities over the past three years. Cross-reference with prior military service, especially medical support, logistics, or special operations support units."
Another pause.
"Okay, that is oddly specific and I do not love that you sound so certain," Garcia said. "You want dishonorable discharges filtered out or included."
"Included," Hotch replied. "Flag anyone with chemical handling certifications or prior disciplinary action related to controlled substances."
More typing. Faster now.
"Running it now... give me 30 seconds..."
Hotch stood still while Garcia worked on the other end of the line. His expression did not shift, though everyone in the bullpen watched him like the verdict was already in his hand.
A few seconds later, Garcia spoke again, and this time her voice had lost its playfulness.
"Okay. I filtered the last four months across the full metro area. Twenty unsolved adult female abductions. No ransom demand in any of them. In every single case, witnesses reported a child nearby within minutes of the disappearance. Sometimes in a parked vehicle. Sometimes walking alone on the sidewalk."
Hotch's jaw tightened slightly.
"Locations."
"Queens, Staten Island, parts of the Bronx. Manhattan has two. Brooklyn is clean so far, which is weird because that is statistically improbable given the population density."
'Of course. He's kidnapping them and bringing them into Brooklyn.' Hotch thought.
Garcia kept typing.
"Now for your hyper-specific janitor plus military filter. Six current or recent janitorial or maintenance employees contracted with NYPD facilities have prior military field medic history. All six have on record deployment time. Two of them have documented advanced trauma certifications. One has chemical handling training logged during overseas support."
Hotch's voice lowered half a degree.
"Any of the six have children."
There was a pause while she pulled family records.
"Yes. Two."
The bullpen seemed to lean in even though they could not hear her.
"Names and locations."
"First one. Jason Wells. Lives in Brooklyn. 23rd Avenue. Building number three. Second floor. Apartment five. Divorced. One male child, age seven."
Garcia continued.
"Second. Selina Newman. Brooklyn. 24th Avenue. Building one. Fourth floor. Apartment one. Single. One adopted male child, age eight."
Hotch asked, "Any prior complaints?"
"Jason Wells has one civilian complaint about inappropriate behavior during a school volunteer event, but it was dismissed due to insufficient evidence. Selina Newman has a prior internal reprimand for accessing restricted supply closets without authorization. Nothing criminal on record for either of them."
Hotch gave a quiet nod even though she could not see him.
"Thank you, Garcia."
"Please tell me you are about to send armed people somewhere very fast."
"We are."
He ended the call and dialed another number.
"Gideon."
A brief exchange followed. Hotch spoke in clipped, efficient phrases.
"24th Avenue. Building one. Fourth floor. Apartment one. Suspect name: Selina Newman. Possible child present. Exercise caution."
He ended that call and turned back toward the bullpen.
All eyes were on him.
"We have two matches that align with the profile," Hotch said evenly. "Gideon and Morgan are heading to Selina Newman on 24th Avenue."
He shifted his gaze to Ray.
"We are going after Jason Wells. 23rd Avenue. Building three. Second floor. Apartment five."
...
[Location: Unknown]
The room stayed quiet except for the soft scratch of crayon against paper.
Elle sat on the floor with her back against the wall, wrists free for now, watching the boy draw on a wide sheet of printer paper. The place looked almost domestic. Beige walls, clean carpet, and a couch that probably came from a discount warehouse. The bathroom she woke up in had been spotless too, like someone took pride in keeping everything neat.
The boy colored carefully inside the lines of a house with a red roof and a stick family standing outside. A tall man, a small boy and a woman with long hair.
He pressed harder on the crayon when he drew the woman.
Elle kept her breathing steady.
The front door opened and closed with a quiet click.
Footsteps.
The man walked into the living area carrying a small black case in one hand. He looked mid-forties. He was clean-shaven and was wearing plain clothes. The kind of face you would forget two seconds after passing him on the street. Brown hair trimmed short and no visible tattoos or wedding ring.
He smiled when he saw them.
"Good," he said. "You are cooperating."
Elle did not answer.
The boy looked up. "Daddy."
"I am right here, Adrian," the man replied softly.
The man set the black case on the coffee table and knelt in front of Elle. He did not rush. He moved like someone assembling a piece of furniture.
"You must be feeling the onset by now," he said.
She did feel it.
A faint tightness in her chest. A crawling heat under her skin. Her pulse was slightly irregular, like her heart skipped a beat and then tried to make up for it. She had woken up with a small puncture mark on the inside of her arm. She noticed it the moment she checked herself for injuries.
He opened the case.
Inside were syringes, small vials with clear liquid, and alcohol swabs lined up in perfect rows.
"I injected you this morning," he continued, conversational like he was explaining the weather. "A compound I have been refining for years. You require an antidote every seven hours. If you do not receive it, systemic failure begins. Respiratory distress first. Then cardiac arrest within approximately three minutes. It is not peaceful."
Adrian kept drawing.
Elle stared at the man.
"You expect me to believe that," she said evenly.
He smiled faintly. "You do not have to believe it. You will feel it."
He pulled a vial from the case and drew the liquid into the syringe with slow precision.
"You are at hour six and twenty minutes."
Her chest tightened again. Just slightly.
He swabbed her arm and slid the needle in with practiced ease.
Cold spread through her veins.
Within seconds, the pressure in her lungs eased. The crawling sensation faded. Her body betrayed her before her mind did.
He withdrew the needle and placed it back in the case.
"There," he said softly. "Relief."
He locked the case again and set it aside.
"You are the twenty-first," he added.
Elle's gaze sharpened.
"Twenty before you. Some cooperative...." He shrugged. "Some rebellious. None successful."
Adrian looked up briefly. "Daddy said they did not love me enough."
The man rested a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder.
"They failed him," he corrected calmly. "You will not."
He looked back at Elle.
"You will take care of Adrian. You will read to him, cook for him, sit with him and teach him. You will behave like a mother should. If you try to escape, if you harm him, if you refuse, I will simply stop administering the antidote and wait."
He stood.
"Even if you manage to break through reinforced windows, bypass locked steel doors, and reach a hospital, it will not matter. No one else has the counteragent. Only I have the antidote. You live because I allow it."
He walked toward the kitchen area.
"Dinner at nine," he said. "Adrian likes pasta."
The room went quiet again.
Elle watched him disappear around the corner.
Her mind started moving fast.
'Poison that requires an antidote every seven hours. Custom compound, no trace and only he has it. It's possible. But it could also be a lie to keep me in line. People like him love control. They love fear. And Fear made compliance easier.'
Her heart rate felt normal now.
She flexed her fingers slowly.
'Should I make a run for it? Seven hours should be enough to find an antidote. But...' Her eyes went toward the kid.
"This is you," he said, pointing at the woman's figure.
Elle forced a small smile.
"That is very nice," she said gently.
He scooted closer, like proximity was natural to him. There was no fear in his eyes. No confusion about why a strange woman sat on the floor of his living room.
'Ray, where are you? Please hurry.'
She held onto that thought like an anchor.
He probably would have made it to her apartment by this point. He would have noticed the car, the phone, and the Glock. He'd realize she never leaves her weapon unattended. He would tear the city apart until he found a pattern.
She trusted that more than anything.
But trusting him did not mean sitting still.
She shifted her weight slightly, scanning the room without making it obvious. Camera in the corner near the ceiling. She could see the small red light. It's probably live feed to his phone or a laptop somewhere. Reinforced door with double deadbolts. Windows are barred from the outside. Kitchen knives are also locked away. The kidnapper only allowed her to cook before his eyes, just like when she made breakfast and lunch.
Elle looked back at Adrian.
"How old are you?" she asked softly.
"Seven," he said.
"Do you go to school?"
"Daddy teaches me."
'Of course he does.' She nodded slowly. "You draw a lot?"
He smiled faintly.
"Daddy says drawing helps me stay calm."
She looked at the house on the paper. The windows were square. The door had a small circle near the top and at the bottom.
"What is that?" she asked, pointing.
"That is the peephole," Adrian said. "So Daddy knows who is outside."
'He looks at the shoes and face to identify the threat.'
"Do you have neighbors?"
He thought about it. "There are people downstairs. They make noise sometimes."
'Apartment building.'
She leaned her head back against the wall.
Adrian leaned against her side lightly, still coloring.
"Are you going to stay?" he asked.
She opened her eyes and looked down at him.
"For now," she said gently. "I am right here."