Criminal Minds

by Max Allan Collins

  ‘‘No,’’ Tovar said.

  ‘‘We’ll get it to our lab,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘They might be able to find something.’’

  ‘‘The murder weapon,’’ Morgan said. ‘‘What do we know about it?’’

  Tovar said, ‘‘It’s a—’’

  ‘‘Would it be a Charter Arms Bulldog,’’ Reid interrupted, ‘‘.44 caliber special?’’

  Hotchner watched the detective sitting there open-mouthed, staring at Reid as if a two-year-old had suddenly spouted the Gettysburg Address.

  ‘‘It, uh, was a .44,’’ Tovar said. ‘‘What are you, kid, a witch?’’

  ‘‘That would be ‘warlock,’ ’’ Reid said.

  Morgan cut in. ‘‘But he is a doctor and a supervisory special agent, so ‘kid’ may not really be appropriate.’’

  ‘‘Sorry, Dr. Reid,’’ Tovar said, flustered.

  Reid waved that off, while Hotchner said, ‘‘You just want to make sure you take Dr. Reid seriously. Because he doesn’t just pull these things out of the air.’’

  Morgan said, ‘‘Or the other place you might assume he’s pulling it out of.’’

  ‘‘Point is,’’ Reid said, ‘‘it’s the same gun Berkowitz used.’’

  Jareau touched a button on the remote and the second photo came up on the screen: bones found in the Lakewood Forest Preserve.

  Jareau said, ‘‘Detective Tovar got this photo from a friend on the job in Wauconda, one of the far northern suburbs in the lake counties.’’

  ‘‘Jake Denson,’’ Tovar said. ‘‘He sent me the photo when I asked him if he’d received any in the mail; but Jake thinks, because of the difference in MO? His nut and our nut are different guys.’’

  Reid said, ‘‘ ‘Nut’ is probably not a good way to describe this individual, and it is one individual. You’re dealing with someone intelligent and even sophisticated. Don’t underestimate him.’’

  The two detectives exchanged awkward glances. They had the look of minor leaguers thrust into the big time.

  Rossi, whose face assumed a deceptive blankness when he concentrated, nodded toward the image of bones and asked, ‘‘What’s the story here?’’

  Jareau said, ‘‘Hikers found the remains of two young women in Lakewood Forest Preserve on Saturday, June twenty-first. There were two skulls, four femurs, and a jawbone. The remains were identified as Donna Cooper and Casey Goddard, two young women who disappeared from Bangs Lake in Wauconda on June fourteenth.’’

  Prentiss said, ‘‘Like two young women last seen with a handsome young man, with a cast on one arm, claiming he needed help getting a boat off his car.’’

  ‘‘Oh hell,’’ Morgan said.

  ‘‘Ted Bundy,’’ Rossi said.

  Reid said, ‘‘The date is off by exactly one month, but it matches the disappearance of Janice Ott and Denise Naslund in Washington state. Their bones were found later in Lake Sammamish State Park.’’

  ‘‘Damnit,’’ Tovar said, and pounded a fist into a palm. ‘‘I never put that together . . . but yeah, that fits what Denson told me. He just included so much extra crap I never saw the pieces for what they were.’’

  Lorenzon said, ‘‘Then mine’s a copycat too.’’ Taking the hint, Jareau switched to the third photo, the plastic barrel in the vacant apartment. ‘‘On July twenty-second, this was found by policemen following up on an anonymous tip about a domestic dispute in an apartment building in Chinatown.’’

  Eyes narrowed, Reid said, ‘‘The address? Is it in the nine hundred block of Twenty-fifth Street?’’

  Lorenzon stared at him for a long moment, probably about the way Moses looked at the burning bush, Hotchner thought.

  Then the Chicago cop slowly shook his head. ‘‘You got the street right, but there is no nine hundred block, Dr. Reid—the street’s too short. It was in the two hundred block . . .’’

  ‘‘Two thirteen,’’ Reid said, unfazed.

  ‘‘Now, man, that’s freaky,’’ Lorenzon said. ‘‘How did you know? Goddamn, is Dr. Reid here psychic?’’

  Hotchner said tightly, ‘‘No. He’s a profiler.’’ Reid, trying not to look pleased about Hotchner’s remark, said, ‘‘The apartment house where the original blue barrel was found was nine twenty-four North Twenty-fifth Street in Milwaukee, Wisconsin— the apartment number was two-thirteen. The occupant was a thirty-one year old man who had recently lost his job at a chocolate factory . . .’’

  ‘‘Oh Christ,’’ Lorenzon said. He swallowed thickly. ‘‘Goddamned Jeffrey Dahmer.’’

  His expression grave, Morgan asked, ‘‘What about the victim?’’

  ‘‘Male, young Caucasian, twenty, maybe— probably a runaway—haven’t identified him yet. The ME thinks he had been in the barrel for the better part of a month before he was found.’’

  ‘‘Did the medical examiner give you a cause of death?’’

  Lorenzon shook his head. ‘‘The body was nearly too decomposed . . . broken hyoid bone, though. Probably manual strangulation.’’

  Reid asked, ‘‘What about the sexual aspects of these crimes?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know about the Wauconda case,’’ Tovar said. ‘‘I haven’t seen the entire file and the photo just shows bones. I can tell you there was no sexual evidence with the shooting in the Heights.’’

  Reid nodded thoughtfully. ‘‘There was no direct sexual evidence in the Berkowitz killings either, though. What about the barrel?’’

  ‘‘Again,’’ Lorenzon said, ‘‘he was just too decomposed.’’

  Rossi said, ‘‘Berkowitz hated women, as did Bundy, while Dahmer killed gay men—a sexual aspect in each case, but this UnSub is taking two from column A and one from column B in an unusual way.’’

  ‘‘What does that tell us about the killer’s sexuality?’’ Prentiss asked. ‘‘He’s copying both straight and gay killers.’’

  Hotchner said, ‘‘The killer could be straight, gay, or judging by the complete lack of sexual evidence at the scenes, asexual. In fact, by avoiding the sexual aspects of the case, the UnSub might even be trying to remove his own sexuality from the equation.’’

  ‘‘I think that’s it,’’ Reid said, nodding. ‘‘He’s trying to compartmentalize his own sexuality from these crimes, which is not easy considering the extreme degree of sexual dysfunction in the crimes he’s copying.’’

  Rossi lifted an eyebrow and added, ‘‘That may be because he views himself as a performance artist, for whom the ultimate expression is not the murder itself, but the photographic record of that murder.’’

  Shaking his head, Tovar said, ‘‘So, where does that leave us—back at square one?’’

  ‘‘Not completely,’’ Reid said. ‘‘We know his signature.’’

  ‘‘Yeah,’’ Lorenzon said, ‘‘his signature is he kills people.’’

  ‘‘Signature?’’ Tovar asked. ‘‘He’s used a gun on two, cut up two, and God only knows what he did to the other.’’

  Rossi said, ‘‘Don’t confuse signature with MO.’’

  ‘‘There’s a difference?’’ Tovar asked.

  With a nod, Rossi said, ‘‘ ‘Modus Operandi’ is how he does the crime. ‘Signature’ is what he has to do for the crime to get him where he’s going. What gets him off.’’

  ‘‘And what’s that?’’

  Rossi pointed at the picture on the flat screen. ‘‘The photos.’’

  Morgan twitched a frown. ‘‘Someone is re-creating murders by some of the most infamous serial killers of all time—why?’’

  ‘‘Simple,’’ Prentiss said. ‘‘This guy wants to be infamous, too.’’

  They all turned toward her, Hotchner noticing that Rossi gave her an encouraging nod.

  ‘‘Is there any other way this pathology makes any sense?" she asked. "An UnSub who wants to make a place for himself in the Hall of Infamy?’’

  Nobody seemed to have an answer for that.

  Raising his voice just a little, bringing the focus of
the room to the oldest old pro among them, Rossi said, ‘‘He’s killed five people in three different jurisdictions—which means he’s working hard at not getting caught, even though his desire for recognition has him sending photos on ahead. He’s got to have some knowledge of police work, and even police politics—he knows these jurisdictions won’t cooperate with each other without someone like Detectives Lorenzon and Tovar pushing them.’’

  Hotchner nodded, adding, "The UnSub probably also knows the more places he hits, the longer it will take for people to identify his MO and ID him as a serial. Despite the photos he’s sending, he likely expected to go longer without us being brought in.’’

  Lorenzon looked toward Morgan. ‘‘Then you are going to help us?’’

  ‘‘Not my call,’’ Morgan said, and turned to Hotchner.

  ‘‘Yes, Tate,’’ Hotchner said, ‘‘we’re going to help.’’

  Lorenzon nodded. ‘‘Thank you. We’re going to need it.’’

  No one disagreed.

  ‘‘JJ,’’ Hotchner said, ‘‘let’s start by you telling Wauconda PD we’re coming in at the invitation of both Chicago and Chicago Heights. Tell them we’d like to oversee a joint task force among the jurisdictions involved in the case. My guess is, before this is over, it won’t be just three.’’

  ‘‘On it,’’ Jareau said.

  Turning to Reid, Hotchner said, ‘‘Background history on the cases he’s copying.’’

  ‘‘Pleasure,’’ Reid said.

  ‘‘Prentiss, read the police reports and start working on victimology.’’

  ‘‘Right.’’

  Hotchner sighed heavily. ‘‘All right, people, let’s get packed up. We’re wheels up at Andrews in an hour.’’

  Tovar said, ‘‘Thank you for coming on this.’’ Hotchner said, ‘‘We’ll do everything we can, Hilly.’’

  ‘‘Does that mean . . . ?’’

  ‘‘It means we’ll catch him.’’

  They all rose except Rossi, who lingered. He sat staring at the last photo.

  ‘‘Damn,’’ he said, and then he laughed, once, harshly.

  They all turned to him, with Morgan halfway out the door.

  ‘‘It’s a serial killer greatest hits album,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘By a goddamn cover band.’’

  Chapter Two

  July 28 Chicago, Illinois

  Derek Morgan kept his eyes closed, not letting anyone know he was awake yet. They were still in the air, somewhere over the Midwest. Around him, the others were chatting quietly or working on their laptops. Always a hundred-and-ten-percent effort kind of guy, Morgan had not outslept his fellow teammates due to exhaustion or indolence. He just knew that this would be the last chance to really rest until they brought this killer to ground.

  Morgan had spent part of the hour before they left calling his mother to tell her that he would be coming home on a case, promising he’d find time to see her—he just didn’t know when. His mother had just been happy to hear his voice. ‘‘Whenever you have time, son,’’ she had said. ‘‘I know how demanding your work is. I’m proud of you!’’

  Anyone who encountered the BAU team would soon identify Morgan as the resident tough guy. Nonetheless, Morgan still phoned his mother every Sunday. Family remained important to him, and that was no axiom: his had been a close, tightly knit family. That the BAU was going to Chicago to help families that weren’t that much different from his own was not lost on him. The two young women found in Lakewood Forest Preserve could have been his own sisters but for the age difference.

  Someone plopped onto the seat next to him, but Morgan forced himself to not move or open his eyes.

  ‘‘You really think,’’ Prentiss said, ‘‘pretending to be asleep is going to fool a profiler.’’

  Smiling, Morgan said, ‘‘Maybe you’re not that good.’’

  She ignored that. ‘‘Hotchner asked me to brief you about what we’re doing when we hit the ground.’’

  ‘‘Don’t say, ‘hit the ground’ in midair. It’s bad luck.’’

  ‘‘After we land,’’ she corrected herself. ‘‘I never would have pegged you as the fear-of-flying type.’’

  ‘‘More fear of dying.’’

  ‘‘That, either, frankly. You might as well open your eyes. We’re having a conversation, you know.’’

  His eyes came reluctantly open. ‘‘Is that what this is?’’

  ‘‘Seems to be. When we land, Hotch says he wants the two of us to take the Chinatown crime scene. He thinks you’re the only one who knows the city well enough to find it without help.’’

  ‘‘Not a problem,’’ Morgan said with a yawn, then rubbed his face with one hand and sat up a little straighter. ‘‘How long?’’

  ‘‘Till we hit the ground?’’

  He grinned at her. ‘‘You’re evil.’’

  ‘‘I like to think of it as ‘wicked.’ We land in about half an hour.’’

  Morgan glanced around the plane. ‘‘What are everybody else’s assignments?’’

  ‘‘Rossi and Reid will go to the first scene—Chicago Heights—using Tovar as a guide, though Rossi’s a Chicago boy himself. Meanwhile, Lorenzon will accompany Hotchner and JJ to talk to the Wauconda PD, and then they will visit that crime scene.’’

  He grunted. ‘‘Something, isn’t it?’’

  ‘‘What is?’’

  "A killer hiding inside the MOs of other killers."

  ‘‘It’s a variation on an old theme, Morgan.’’

  Morgan nodded. ‘‘Hiding in plain sight.’’

  Nearly an hour later, the team was loading up three black Chevy Tahoes provided by the Chicago FBI field office. The heat was even more oppressive than usual, the humidity so high it couldn’t have been much harder to breathe if they’d been under Lake Michigan.

  Having walked out with two carry-ons and loaded them into the Tahoe, Morgan found himself dripping sweat. Once their gear was stored and their weapons ready, the vehicles took off in three different directions, Hotchner and Jareau, accompanied by Lorenzon, to the north, Rossi and Reid, along with Tovar, to the south, while Morgan with Prentiss in the rider’s seat drove east.

  He followed I-90, then turned south after it merged with I-94. Outside, the afternoon sun blazed down, reflecting off their vehicle’s hood; but inside the air-conditioning hummed quietly. Morgan left the car radio off—he was in work mode.

  They had been on the road the better part of ninety minutes when Prentiss asked, ‘‘How much longer?’’

  He gave her a sideways, arched-eyebrow look. ‘‘Didn’t you work in Chicago before you joined the BAU?’’

  Prentiss smiled but didn’t look at him. ‘‘Yeah.’’

  ‘‘For how long?’’

  ‘‘A while.’’

  ‘‘Then you know how much longer, don’t you?’’

  She nodded. ‘‘Just making conversation.’’

  ‘‘You don’t have to go out of your way to be friendly with me, Emily. I like you.’’

  ‘‘Gee, thanks.’’

  ‘‘By which I mean, I respect you. You’ve done well.’’ He returned his eyes to the swarming traffic. ‘‘But you figure Hotch is still testing you.’’

  ‘‘Why would he be testing me?’’ Her voice sounded a little defensive. ‘‘It’s been over a year, and I wasn’t exactly a novice when I joined the BAU.’’

  Morgan grinned. ‘‘Hell, Emily, he’s still testing me. I’d say he’s still testing himself. He’s the team leader. That’s part of his job. And just maybe you’ve noticed he’s wrapped tighter than a new spool of thread.’’

  ‘‘He lacks confidence in me.’’

  ‘‘Why do you say that?’’

  She shrugged. ‘‘Hotch knows I know Chicago. But he had you drive.’’

  ‘‘Maybe he thinks it’s a man’s job.’’

  ‘‘Are you kidding?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’ Morgan laughed. ‘‘Is there a possibility you’re overthinking this?’’


  She smiled again and looked away as they crossed the Chicago River. He had to pass the street they wanted and exit the expressway at Thirty-first Street, then work his way back to Twenty-fifth. He went west on Thirty-first for a block, turned north on Wentworth and followed that through the light at Twenty-sixth, taking a left onto Twenty-fifth, only to find that the street was blocked by fireplug-sized columns of cement after about a car-length, turning the street into a cul-de-sac, leaving Morgan on the wrong side. Still, an alley ran back south and that would keep him from having to make a U-turn to get out.

  ‘‘Of course,’’ Prentiss said, ‘‘I would have known not to do that.’’

  ‘‘Are you kidding?’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ she said.

  The first building on the south side of the street faced Wentworth, the alley running behind it. Across the alley to the west, the first thing Morgan saw was a set of four concrete stairs with wrought-iron railings, the stairs leading to thin air, the building they rose to long since demolished, going nowhere except to overlook a stretch of grass and weeds, surrounded by a four-foot cyclone fence.

  Prentiss gave him a look. ‘‘Stairway to heaven?’’

  ‘‘If it is,’’ Morgan said, ‘‘next door you’ll find the stairway to hell.’’ He looked down the block at the next residence from the building-less stairs.

  The house with 213 stenciled on the mailbox next to the front door was a dirty beige two-story. From his angle parked at the northeast corner, Morgan could see that something drastic, probably a fire, had happened to the huge structure once upon time.

  The front half of the building was the dirty beige siding; the back half was old, bronze-colored brick. A door on the east side split the border of the two halves, which would be the entrance to the middle apartment, and where the alley curved around behind the building would be the entrance to the rear apartment. The length of two normal houses, the ungainly structure might have been constructed half from LEGOs and half from Lincoln Logs.

  ‘‘Weird damn building,’’ Morgan muttered.

  He drove down the alley, then turned west on Twenty-sixth and then right again on Wells, taking one last right, coming around on Twenty-fifth, then pulling up to the building in question.