Criminal Minds

by Max Allan Collins

  She stared at the chief as the man gaped goofily at her. Men, she knew, could at times act like little boys, even men in power like the chief here; and she didn’t have to have children of her own to know the look a disgusted parent gave a misbehaving child. Seated across from Chief Oliver, she focused that look on him.

  Hotchner, for his part, sat silently, letting his agent establish control so she would be able to do her job when he wasn’t present.

  Finally, the smile slipped from Oliver’s face and his eyes met hers squarely. ‘‘Police liaison, yes. Go on, Miss, uh . . .’’

  ‘‘Supervisory Special Agent Jareau. But you can call me Agent Jareau. Or JJ, once we start working together. If we start working together. Could I outline what we have in mind?’’

  The chief swallowed. ‘‘Go ahead.’’

  ‘‘What we propose,’’ she said, ‘‘is to help you and your police force join in with other police entities in greater Chicago to bring to ground a vicious killer who has killed elsewhere in the area.’’

  Hotchner said, ‘‘And this is a killer who will continue killing, if we don’t join together to stop him.’’

  Oliver nodded. ‘‘With all due respect, Agent Jareau, Agent Hotchner . . . we’ve heard all this before— you scratch our back, we’ll scratch yours and so on. What we’ve gotten out of such collaborations is an extremely itchy back.’’

  Jareau said, ‘‘We’re sorry you’ve had bad experiences cooperating with federal agencies before but—’’

  ‘‘You’re different,’’ he interrupted.

  ‘‘We are,’’ she said, the words sounding more defensive than she meant them to. ‘‘The BAU operates in an advisory capacity. We don’t steal credit. We’re not interested in credit, just results.’’

  ‘‘That we’ve also heard before, Agent Jareau. You have to understand, we’re a small force and our political decisions must be made on a basis of—’’

  ‘‘This is not a political decision,’’ she cut in. ‘‘This is about stopping a killer.’’

  Oliver bestowed a patient smile, as if he were the parent now, and dealing with a very slow child. ‘‘Agent Jareau, as I’m sure Agent Hotchner would tell you, every decision is a political decision.’’

  She glanced at Hotchner, whose expression might have been carved out of a chunk of wood.

  ‘‘I would think,’’ Hotchner said softly, with no inflection whatsoever, ‘‘that it would be politically advantageous for you to catch the killer of the two girls in your town.’’

  ‘‘You make my point, Agent Hotchner,’’ Oliver said. ‘‘It would be politically advantageous for us to catch the killer.’’

  ‘‘That’s why you don’t want our support?’’ Jareau asked. ‘‘So you can do this yourself?’’

  ‘‘You don’t seem to understand,’’ Oliver said.

  ‘‘No I don’t,’’ Jareau said flatly. ‘‘Neither will the family and friends of the next victims.’’

  The chief ignored that. ‘‘We’re a small department in a small town. Our budget is a tenuous thing. If the feds solve local crimes, the budget goes down. If we solve them, the budget goes up.’’

  Jareau frowned. ‘‘This is about money?’’

  ‘‘Most everything is, Agent Jareau.’’

  She shook her head. ‘‘The lives of potential victims can’t be measured in dollars and cents, Chief Oliver. Are you prepared to let a serial killer run free over fiscal issues?’’

  Oliver’s face reddened and his eyes narrowed as he rose. ‘‘We’re not idiots here. We’re not ‘letting him run free.’ We’re going to catch this bastard, and when we do, the community will thank us, not you. When this perp’s been caught, whether you do it or we do it, you’re outa here—back to D.C. or wherever the hell you come from. We, on the other hand, will still be right here in Wauconda.’’

  Jareau said, ‘‘I don’t get your point, Chief.’’

  ‘‘If you catch him, we look like a bunch of Barney Fifes and our budget goes down. If we catch him, we’re heroes, and the budget goes up.’’ He was almost shouting. ‘‘Because, you see, on the average day in our fair little city, when the high-and-mighty FBI isn’t around to ‘help’ and ‘support’ us? We still have crimes to deal with. And for some strange reason, that’s an easier task for us if we have enough money to keep officers on the goddamn street!’’

  Realizing he was on a rant, Oliver let out a breath and sat down.

  Rising as the chief sat, Hotchner said, ‘‘Thank you for your time.’’

  Jareau and Lorenzon also rose and followed Hotchner out of the station and back to the SUV. Hotchner climbed behind the wheel, Jareau next to him, Lorenzon in the back.

  As they pulled away, Jareau could hold her tongue no longer. ‘‘What was that?’’

  ‘‘It’s something I’ve run into more than once,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘Never as extreme, maybe. . . .’’

  Lorenzon said, ‘‘Sorry. I should have warned you about some of these outlying suburbs. They want to cover their asses more than they want to solve crimes.’’

  Trying not to sound too critical, Jareau said to the Chicago cop, ‘‘I noticed you didn’t wade in.’’

  ‘‘I just couldn’t see getting in a pissing contest with those small-minded jerks.’’

  Hotchner sighed. ‘‘That doesn’t mean his points aren’t valid.’’

  Jareau goggled at her boss. ‘‘You’re siding with Oliver and Denson?’’

  ‘‘Not a chance,’’ Hotchner said, driving along the lake where the two girls disappeared. ‘‘We’re still the best option for catching this killer . . . but I understand what Oliver said about living here after we’re gone. He knows his town better than we do. And he doesn’t know we were being straight with him about our willingness to give him and his people the credit.’’

  ‘‘What are we going to do, then?’’ Jareau asked. ‘‘We can’t investigate without being asked in.’’

  ‘‘No, we can’t,’’ Hotchner said, pulling the SUV into the parking lot on the lake’s beachfront. ‘‘But there’s no law against stopping for a cool drink before we head back to the city.’’

  The beach was nearly deserted, the sun a ghost on the horizon, the lake looking cool and choppy as an evening breeze rolled in. The July heat still hung in the air, but the crowd had gone home for the night and the kids who ran the refreshment stand were pulling umbrellas out of the few tables outside their boxy little concrete building, stacking plastic chairs.

  Jareau gave Hotch a look. ‘‘Aren’t you breaking the rules? Visiting a crime scene when we haven’t been invited?’’

  Shaking his head, as he pulled into a parking spot, Hotchner said, ‘‘I’m just thirsty—aren’t you?’’

  ‘‘Well, I don’t know about JJ,’’ Lorenzon said from the back, ‘‘but I’m parched.’’

  With a little half smirk, Jareau said, ‘‘I guess I could use a drink, too, although right now I might prefer something a little harder than what that stand offers up.’’

  ‘‘You’ll settle for lemonade or bottled water,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘Anyway, I’m buying.’’

  ‘‘Better hurry,’’ Jareau said. ‘‘Looks like they’re about to close up.’’

  ‘‘No problem,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘I don’t want to spend a lot of time here, anyway. I just want to get the lay of the land.’’

  They got out of the SUV and strode over to the screen-covered service window of the refreshment stand. Behind the counter, a teenaged girl stood smiling. ‘‘May I help you?’’

  She was blonde and perky, even for the late hour, and Jareau couldn’t help but remember her own teenage jobs back at East Allegheny High.

  Jareau swiftly scanned the menu on the wall behind the young girl. ‘‘Lemonade, medium.’’

  ‘‘Medium lemonade,’’ the girl said. ‘‘Anything else?’’

  Hotchner leaned in and twitched a smile. ‘‘Make that two.’’

  ‘‘Three,’�
� Lorenzon said, making the Boy Scout sign.

  The girl got their drinks. Hotchner paid the bill, then joined Jareau and Lorenzon and their lemonades next to the SUV. Fitting, Jareau thought. We need to make lemonade out of the lemons Chief Oliver and DetectiveDenson have tossed our way. . . .

  Jareau gave Hotchner a look. ‘‘You’re not going to ask her if she was working the day the girls disappeared?’’

  Shaking his head, Hotchner said, ‘‘That would be crossing the line.’’

  After a quick sip of his drink, Lorenzon looked back toward the building. ‘‘I’m not FBI. I could ask her.’’

  ‘‘You’re working with us now,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘That would constitute breaking the rules, as well.’’

  ‘‘What the hell,’’ Lorenzon said with a smile. ‘‘I’ll just bend ’em a little—they won’t break.’’

  ‘‘Not this time,’’ Hotchner said, easy but firm. ‘‘If we want to win Chief Oliver over to the side of a joint task force, going behind his back is not the way to get that done.’’

  ‘‘What do you call this?’’ Lorenzon asked, gesturing to himself and them.

  ‘‘I call this,’’ Hotchner said, ‘‘three coworkers sharing a nonalcoholic drink at the end of a hard day.’’

  ‘‘Riiight,’’ Lorenzon said.

  Jareau watched as Hotchner sipped his lemonade through a straw, and for one brief moment she could imagine her stoic boss a young man standing on a beach like this, as human as the next guy or girl. But it was just one brief moment. . . .

  Hotch was slowly scanning the lake, then the beach, then the parking lot. A great deal of the lake’s perimeter was wooded. On the south and east sides businesses and houses lined the shore and up the west side were a small marina and more homes. The beach was large enough for a couple of hundred sunbathers as well as swimmers, Jet Ski enthusiasts and boaters. The parking lot was smallish, room for maybe fifty cars, tops. As the sun set and the shadows thickened, Jareau could have sworn she felt the killer somewhere out there. . . .

  As they loaded back into the SUV, Lorenzon asked, ‘‘So, what did we just do?’’

  ‘‘We learned,’’ Hotchner said.

  ‘‘Learned what?’’

  Shaking his head as he put on his seat belt, Hotchner said, ‘‘Not much.’’

  He started up the Tahoe.

  ‘‘But something,’’ Jareau said.

  As they began the long trip back to the city, Hotchner said, ‘‘We learned there are something like one-hundred places our UnSub could have observed his prey from.’’

  ‘‘A hundred?’’ Lorenzon asked.

  ‘‘Easily. With high-powered binoculars, he could have been anywhere around the perimeter of the lake.’’

  ‘‘And that tells us what?’’

  Hotchner drew in a breath. Let it out. ‘‘It may tell us he was particular. He was trolling for a specific kind of victim—he picked two girls who were at the lake that afternoon, unaccompanied girls. He might have watched all day waiting for just the right set of victims to satisfy his needs.’’

  Lorenzon asked, ‘‘What were his needs?’’

  ‘‘Not the normal needs of a serial killer, if the word ‘normal’ can be applied. Not sex, although obviously murderous rage. He was coolly seeking two young women like Janice Ott and Denise Naslund, the two young women Ted Bundy abducted from Lake Sammamish State Park.’’

  Lorenzon’s voice was hushed. ‘‘And he found them.’’

  ‘‘He found them.’’ Hotchner glanced at the detective. ‘‘The thing is, with Bundy, several people saw Janice Ott talking to a well-dressed young man with a cast on one arm. One witness even heard her call him ‘Ted.’ Did Denson mention to you anything about that? A man with a cast on one arm, spotted at the lake that afternoon?’’

  Lorenzon said, ‘‘Denson didn’t talk to me—he spoke to Tovar. But Tovar never said anything about witnesses or a cast, either. Judging from our reception by Denson and the chief, though, I wouldn’t exactly be shocked if the Wauconda boys had neglected to share all they knew with Tovar, either.’’

  Jareau shook her head and said, ‘‘You would think that someone must have seen him.’’

  Hotchner lifted his eyebrows in a sort of shrug. ‘‘This guy is very good at his job.’’

  ‘‘His job?’’ Lorenzon asked.

  ‘‘On one level, that’s what it is to him. This is what he does, it’s what defines him. He is a master at blending in. Someone probably did see him, but they don’t even know it.’’

  ‘‘You have to ask the right questions to find out that kind of thing,’’ Lorenzon said. ‘‘And I have no particular faith that Detective Denson did.’’

  ‘‘There were probably lots of people at the beach that day,’’ Jareau said. ‘‘Still, our UnSub picked out two victims and managed to abduct them, without anyone noticing.’’

  ‘‘Which means,’’ Hotchner said, ‘‘he’s a smooth operator.’’

  Lorenzon said, ‘‘He’s smart, he’s smooth, he plans things well and he blends in. So we do know a thing or two, at that. But how in the hell are we going to catch him?’’

  Hotchner glanced into the rearview mirror. ‘‘If we do our job, we may be able to catch him before he strikes again.’’

  ‘‘And if not?’’

  Hotchner’s sigh must have started down around his toes. ‘‘Then we have to make sure we’re there when he makes a mistake.’’

  Lorenzon was shaking his head. ‘‘What if he doesn’t make a mistake?’’

  ‘‘He will,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘He will. They all do.’’

  Hotch was right—Jareau’s experience told her as much. But experience also told her that an UnSub could take his time, making that mistake. . . .

  He sat in his car watching them. They had strolled across the parking lot, got into an SUV and pulled out. He’d let them get out in front, then eased in behind them. They were headed for the city now, but he hoped they would give him a chance to take care of business before they got into the witness-filled streets of Chicago.

  Night had fallen and their headlights were on as were his, but in this traffic he knew he would not look suspicious as he trailed them. Once they hit the expressway, things would get more complicated and it would be harder to tail them without their noticing. At least at this hour. During rush hour, when traffic was at a standstill, he could practically take care of business while they were sitting in line waiting for someone to move.

  He could tell now, they were headed for the expressway;and he started to wonder if tonight was going to be a missed opportunity. He hoped not, even though he was already following the SUV onto the ramp of eastbound I-90. Trying to keep his karma good, he pulled out his cell phone and hit speed dial number two—home.

  She answered on the second ring. ‘‘Hello,’’ she said, her voice a little frosty.

  ‘‘A late job came in, honey—sorry.’’

  ‘‘How long will you be?’’

  He smiled at the thought of what lay before him if things went his way. ‘‘It could take quite a while. I’ll just get something to eat on the way home later.’’

  ‘‘The boys will want to stay up and wait for you.’’

  ‘‘Tell them to go ahead to bed. I’ll take the day off tomorrow, and we’ll do something as a family.’’

  ‘‘Really? Do you mean that? Darling, that would be wonderful. . . .’’

  She sounded almost giddy, like when they first had met. For a moment he felt a twinge of nostalgia. ‘‘Sure,’’ he said, trying to sound magnanimous.

  ‘‘That’ll be great. Should I tell the boys? I don’t want to tell them if there’s any chance you’ll cancel. . . ."

  The SUV sped up a little and switched lanes. He kept his eyes on the rear bumper but did not change lanes himself.

  ‘‘Sure, go ahead and tell them.’’

  ‘‘I love you,’’ she said.

  He mumbled something and pushed the button to end
the call. He knew that by the time he got home, much later if he had his way, she would have the whole day planned out.

  The SUV was in the fast lane now, pulling away. Switching lanes, he gunned it and his car slowly eased closer, two cars between him and his prey.

  He eased right a lane, closing in a little more, but not getting too close. The SUV crossed over two lanes and instantly the killer knew where they were going. They would take the next exit and the SUV would go to one of the three motels that sat on corners of the intersection at the bottom of the ramp.

  Happily, he watched as the SUV did exactly as he had supposed it would, as if he controlled the vehicle with his mind. In his mind, he picked one of the three motels as he followed the SUV down the ramp. The vehicle turned right then turned again into the motel he had chosen.

  The rush was great—they were following his every telepathic command. He mentally told them to stop and let out the passenger in the backseat. When the SUV pulled under the overhang outside the front door and stopped, he pulled his car around and parked in a nearby spot.

  The passenger climbed out of the SUV. He was a white man in his late forties, a little overweight, and he carried a briefcase in a meaty paw. He wore a navy polo and navy blue slacks. He was a salesmanof some kind, who had just been wined and dined by customers or vendors or some business contact and they had just dropped him at his motel. He was in motion before the SUV pulled away.

  And by the time the SUV was on the same expresswaythat another SUV bearing two FBI agents and a Chicago detective had taken several hours before, the mark was near the killer’s car . . . and before the coworkers who’d dropped the salesman off had reached the next exit, the killer had the victim stuffed in the trunk of his car and was calmly driving away from the motel with his unwillingpassenger.

  Chapter Four

  July 29 Chicago, Illinois

  Emily Prentiss, in black slacks and black blouse, knew that by the end of this muggy summer day she would be cursing the choice of color. Nonetheless, she also knew black aided and abetted her sleek professional look and nicely complemented her lithe figure.