Criminal Minds

by Max Allan Collins

  ‘‘Which tells us?’’

  ‘‘He’s careful?’’ Tovar asked, a kid guessing at the right answer in algebra class.

  ‘‘Okay,’’ Morgan said. ‘‘What else?’’

  Tovar thought a while. Then he said, ‘‘Dr. Reid says the perp went to the driver’s window, because the male was a greater threat. Another sign that he’s careful.’’

  ‘‘Good. Anything else?’’

  ‘‘He dropped the piece of paper right where Berkowitz did the same. Means he’d studied the original crime. He mimicked it.’’

  ‘‘That’s right,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘Which shows?’’

  ‘‘He’s . . . detail oriented?’’

  ‘‘Right,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘Now, what do you know about most careful, detail-oriented people?’’

  ‘‘Mostly, they’re a-holes,’’ Lorenzon piped in.

  Rossi chuckled. ‘‘And a lot of them are cops—but we’ll set aside the chicken and the egg discussion on that point.’’ To Tovar, he said, ‘‘What else about detail-oriented types?’’

  ‘‘Well, they’re conservative,’’ Tovar said. ‘‘Not necessarily in the political sense, but . . . in that they don’t usually take big risks.’’

  ‘‘I agree,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘So, our UnSub is taking a huge risk by shooting two people on a public street. Why would he do that?’’

  Tovar asked, ‘‘Isn’t that the question we brought to you? One of ’em, anyway?’’

  Nodding, Rossi said, ‘‘The big answer will come when we have the profile fully developed. But for right now, in just this Chicago Heights case? He took the risk because he was relatively certain he could commit the deed and escape. He had it well planned out. He had studied not just Berkowitz, but every aspect of this attack as well. Escape routes—what to do if things went wrong. He might even have gone so far as to make bogus 911 calls, so he could gauge police response time. This UnSub doesn’t blow his nose without planning it out.’’

  ‘‘Oh-kay,’’ Tovar said, eyes narrow.

  Rising, pacing now, occasionally glancing at the grim photo on the screen, Rossi said, ‘‘Even though this careful, detail-oriented UnSub studied and planned every detail of the crime, he made a mistake.’’

  ‘‘You keep saying that,’’ Tovar said. ‘‘What the hell was it?’’

  Reid stopped and said, ‘‘Remember what I said when we first looked at this photo? He went to the wrong side of the car.’’

  ‘‘For safety sake, he did.’’

  ‘‘But for re-creating a famous crime he didn’t,’’ Reid said. ‘‘Berkowitz always went to the passenger side—the women were the objects of his anger. He shot them first. So our UnSub made a mistake.’’

  ‘‘How does that matter?’’

  Rossi said, ‘‘It’s something we can use against him.’’

  Shaking his head, Tovar said, ‘‘I still don’t follow that.’’

  ‘‘Go back to careful, detail-oriented people in general. How do they usually react when someone points out they’re wrong?’’

  Lorenzon said, ‘‘They get well and truly pissed off.’’

  ‘‘Uh huh,’’ Rossi said with a devilish little grin. ‘‘And what if the person who points out their mistake is someone that our detail-oriented friend considers an intellectual inferior?’’

  Lorenzon gave up half a grin. ‘‘They get way the hell bent out of shape.’’

  Tovar was frowning. ‘‘This guy thinks he’s smarter than us?’’

  Rossi’s short laugh was as bitter as it was humorless. ‘‘This UnSub thinks he’s smarter than both of you, Detectives Lorenzon and Tovar, and everybody you work with in your PDs. He’s smarter than us, too, smarter than the whole FBI, and—perhaps most important—smarter even than the killers he’s mimicking. He thinks he can do their crimes better than they did. He imagines he’ll get away with it. They all got caught, but he won’t—in his freedom, that makes him the king, and the famous killers he’s imitating are his court.’’

  Hotchner said, ‘‘Now, take a person with that much ego, and all the other qualities we’ve outlined, and how do you suppose he would react to us pointing out his mistakes?’’

  Tovar said, ‘‘But maybe they aren’t mistakes. If he’s trying to do these murders better than the originals, maybe he views what you call mistakes as improvements.’’

  Hotchner nodded. ‘‘That’s valid. So these aren’t mistakes—they are personal flourishes, improvements. And so how would he react to his improvements being viewed as errors?’’

  ‘‘He’d go batshit,’’ Lorenzon said.

  Rossi grinned. ‘‘That’s as good a technical term for it as I could come up with myself.’’

  Morgan said, ‘‘He also made a mistake—or maybe an improvement—with the women in Wauconda.’’

  Lorenzon frowned. ‘‘Which was?’’

  Prentiss jumped in. ‘‘When Ted Bundy committed the original crime, he also lured two women away from the lake, killing them, burying them in the woods. The difference is that Bundy placed a body part of a third female victim—one who was never identified—in the grave with the other two. Our UnSub overlooked that detail."

  Rossi said, ‘‘Let’s call it another mistake.’’

  Tovar sat forward. ‘‘And you want to use a public relations campaign citing this madman’s mistakes to drive him into a frenzy?’’

  Rossi shrugged. ‘‘Once we figure out how to know when, where, and who he might lash out against, perhaps. If we can force him into the open, and into making a real mistake, we’ll catch him. The key is to do it without losing another victim.’’

  The two detectives stared at him.

  Hotchner drew their attention, saying, ‘‘That’s why we’re not suggesting any publicity campaign at this time. When we know more about our UnSub, we may want to try that, to draw him out. Not yet, though.’’

  Rossi said, ‘‘I can tell you a couple more things about him, however.’’

  The detectives looked up at Rossi expectantly.

  ‘‘Even though this UnSub is copying crimes, his rage is as real and as great as those who originally committed them. It would be a mistake to read this as a cold-blooded killer playing copycat from a prepared script.’’

  ‘‘If it’s rage,’’ Lorenzon said, ‘‘why the elaborate re-creations? Why not just lash out?’’

  ‘‘This rage is nothing new to our UnSub," Rossi said. ‘‘He’s felt this fury for a long time, possibly his whole life. But now something has fueled him to act out that fury. If we find the stressor that triggered all this, we find the beginning of the chain.’’

  Tovar frowned. ‘‘Are you saying he’s killed more than these five people?’’

  ‘‘It’s possible,’’ Rossi said.

  ‘‘Oh hell,’’ Lorenzon said.

  Rossi looked from one local detective to the other. ‘‘I’ve also seen enough of these cases to know this UnSub is a cop buff—the type that thinks he’s smarter than all of us cops combined. So the next thing to be aware of is that almost certainly he’ll be injecting himself into this investigation.’’

  ‘‘How so?’’ Lorenzon asked.

  ‘‘That, I have no idea,’’ Rossi said, then added: ‘‘Yet . . . But, trust me, he’ll find a way. He’ll want to know what we know, and he’ll want to prove to himself that he’s smarter than we are.’’

  Hotchner added, ‘‘By insinuating himself in the investigation, the UnSub gains a feeling of power. This reassures his feeling of superiority, when we can’t figure out it’s him, and he’s been right in front of us.’’

  Tilting her head, Prentiss asked, ‘‘Were there gawkers at the Chicago Heights crime scene?’’

  ‘‘There are always some,’’ Tovar said with a nod. ‘‘Mostly neighbors.’’

  ‘‘Possibly the UnSub, too,’’ Prentiss said. ‘‘Did you get pictures of the crowd?’’

  ‘‘No . . . I never even thought of it.’’

 
; Prentiss didn’t give him a hard time about that, just asked, ‘‘How about Chinatown? Any gawkers there?’’

  Lorenzon said, ‘‘You know there were. Half of Chinatown came around, and a bunch of walk-ups who just happened to be in the neighborhood eating Chinese and buying trinkets.’’

  ‘‘Photos of the crowd?’’

  ‘‘I didn’t take any, and I didn’t specifically ask that any be taken. Someone else might have. Possible TV news footage might cover that. I’ll look into it.’’

  ‘‘Thanks,’’ Prentiss said. ‘‘We might get lucky. If the UnSub shows up to check out what’s going on, we might catch a picture of him. If we spot a face at more than one scene, with the locations this far apart? It might just belong to our guy.’’

  ‘‘No shit,’’ Tovar said.

  ‘‘It would be nice if it was that easy,’’ Hotchner said dryly. ‘‘My guess is it won’t be.’’

  Lorenzon’s cell phone chirped. They all turned to him as he yanked it off his belt and checked the number. ‘‘My boss,’’ he said. ‘‘Better take this.’’ He rose and left the room, all their eyes still on him.

  Before Hotchner could start up again, Garcia spoke through the computer. ‘‘Emily?’’

  Prentiss looked at the screen, where Garcia was staring at her with wide, bright eyes. ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘The Cook County ME has just ID’d your body in the barrel.’’

  Garcia had the attention of everyone in the room now.

  ‘‘Who is he?’’ Prentiss asked.

  ‘‘His name is Bobby Edels. He was twenty. The ME had to identify him through dental records.’’

  Hotchner asked, ‘‘What do you know about him?’’

  Garcia said, ‘‘He worked at a Fix-It Mate in Mundelein.’’

  ‘‘Fix-It Mate?’’ Reid asked.

  ‘‘Small chain of home-repair stores,’’ Tovar said. ‘‘Dozen or so across the Midwest.’’

  Jareau asked, ‘‘And Mundelein?’’

  ‘‘Far northern suburb,’’ Lorenzon said. ‘‘No telling how he got from there to Chinatown.’’

  Reid said, ‘‘The starting point is when he disappeared.’’

  ‘‘March twenty-first,’’ Garcia said from the computer. ‘‘He was last seen when he clocked out from work that day.’’

  Prentiss frowned. ‘‘Almost a month before the shooting in Chicago Heights . . .’’

  Hotchner said, ‘‘He’s been at this even longer than we thought.’’

  ‘‘Sunshine,’’ Morgan said, looking toward the computer (he and Garcia had a close, joking relationship), ‘‘have you got anything else on Edels?’’

  ‘‘His parents live in North Barrington. Cook County has sent officers to inform the family.’’

  ‘‘Nothing else?’’

  ‘‘Still digging,’’ Garcia said.

  ‘‘That’s my girl.’’

  Hotchner said, ‘‘All right, let’s get to work. David, you and Reid visit Edels’s parents. Maybe they know something that can help.’’

  Half out of his seat, Tovar said, ‘‘I’d like to go with them.’’

  ‘‘Fine,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘Prentiss, you work the victimology.’’

  ‘‘Yes, sir.’’

  ‘‘Morgan, you and Detective Lorenzon hit the Fix-It Mate. Interview Edels’s coworkers. See if they have security video of the parking lot that might tell us something.’’

  ‘‘You got it,’’ Morgan said.

  ‘‘JJ, try to keep the media at bay a while longer, and meantime I’ll keep going over the material we have, to see if we missed something.’’

  Except for Prentiss and Hotchner, they all rose at once and emptied the conference room to work their assignments. Sneaking a glance at Hotchner, Prentiss noticed that his typically serious expression seemed even more grave.

  They were going full bore now, and there would be no rest and not just for the wicked: the team would push from now until they brought the UnSub down.

  It was going to be a very long day.

  And probably just the first of many . . .

  Chapter Five

  July 29 North Barrington, Illinois

  Though Supervisory Special Agent David Rossi had visited scores of families of victims, he found the task never got any easier. Unlike the first round of uniformed officers, detectives and crime scene analysts, profilers arrived after the loved ones had begun to deal with their loss, meaning wounds that were still healing or even recently healed requiring picking at.

  On occasion, though, a profiler on the front line of a case could appear in the early hours, when wounds were fresh and so was the information, the latter a plus no matter how painful the former. But the distress of the families could be so severe as to cloud the inquiry, and distract even a hardened investigator.

  The air-conditioned car had provided relief from the relentless Midwestern heat and humidity, but as Rossi stepped out into the punishing bright sunshine, he could almost feel his sports jacket’s dark color soaking in every ray.

  Detective Tovar, who had driven the unmarked Ford, came around to the passenger side as Dr. Spencer Reid got out of the backseat and stepped up next to Rossi.

  ‘‘Normal middle-class neighborhood,’’ Reid said.

  Tovar shook his head. ‘‘The more normal the neighborhood,’’ the Hispanic detective said, ‘‘the weirder it seems. I mean, you find somebody shot in an alley with his pockets turned inside out, where’s the surprise?’’

  ‘‘Every smooth rock in the world,’’ Rossi said, ‘‘has worms squirming under it.’’

  Tovar thought about that. Reid just nodded.

  They were poised in a quiet neighborhood whose streets were nearly deserted on this Tuesday morning. The worker bees of this middle-class enclave, with their trimmed lawns, well-maintained homes and backyard barbecues, had long since departed to go sit and wait on the freeway, enduring their daily commute to the hive. Theirs was a lifestyle that Rossi, much as he might respect the hard work and good hearts behind it, could never have maintained himself.

  Rossi had craved something more, a career that made a difference, a path that included less sameness to each day. That craving had brought him here, to the front door of yet another family who had lost someone to the pointless violence. And in such moments, he could only envy the worker bees.

  No police car out front. No family vehicles, either—maybe no one was home. The two-story white clapboard, with green shutters and a single car garage tucked up the driveway on the left-hand side, would have made a nice house to grow up in. A silver maple on one side and an oak on the other flanked a sidewalk that divided a freshly mowed front yard.

  ‘‘Another Pleasant Valley Sunday,’’ Rossi muttered.

  ‘‘What?’’ Tovar said. ‘‘It’s Tuesday.’’

  Reid said quietly, ‘‘Monkees. Goffin and King. 1967. Got to number three on the Billboard chart.’’

  Rossi gave Reid a sideways look that said, Stop that.

  Tovar got out his cell phone and made a quick call. He spoke for a moment, then clicked off. Turning to Rossi and Reid, he said, ‘‘The ME says the family’s been notified.’’

  ‘‘That’s a small blessing for us,’’ Rossi said and started up the front walk, the other two behind him. ‘‘But it still won’t be easy.’’

  The house had a three-step porch up to an aluminum front screen door with an old English ‘‘E’’ embedded into scrollwork.

  Rossi rang the bell.

  They waited a long moment and, just as Rossi was about to press the button again, the inside door swung open and a pale, pouchy male face peered out.

  The man was about Rossi’s age, somewhat taller than the FBI agent, his hair grayer, his body softer, his eyes red-rimmed from crying. His thin lips quivered as he said, ‘‘You gentlemen look official.’’

  ‘‘We are,’’ Rossi said and smiled just a little. ‘‘Mr. Edels?’’

  ‘‘Yes, sir.’’

>   Holding up his credentials, Rossi said, ‘‘David Rossi with the FBI. This is Supervisory Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid, and that’s Chicago Heights police detective Hilly Tovar.’’

  Edels nodded at each as the introductions were made.

  Rossi asked, ‘‘May we come in, sir? We need to talk to you about your son.’’

  ‘‘Please do.’’ Edels held the screen door open for them.

  The central air was on and the house cool, the entryway dark though Rossi could easily make out stairs to the second floor, at right, beside which a hallway led to the back of the house. The law enforcement group went through the handshaking ritual with their host, then Edels led them off to the left, into the living room, which was not large but homey and inviting enough.

  Against the wall to Rossi’s right was a long, well-used sofa with family photos scattered across the wall above it. The wall at left was mostly windows onto the front yard, flimsy curtains covering them now. Beneath the windows crouched a coffee table flanked by wing chairs. The wall directly before him held shelves with a television, some electronic equipment, a row of DVDs and quite a few CDs. This was no formal living room but a lived-in room.

  Edels said, ‘‘Have a seat, gentlemen,’’ then sat on a recliner near the sofa, perching on its edge.

  Rossi sat in a wing chair while Tovar and Reid took the sofa, sitting forward.

  Their host seemed clearly in shock to Rossi, who asked, ‘‘Are you here alone, Mr. Edels?’’

  ‘‘No, no,’’ Edels said, wiping away a tear with the back of his hand. ‘‘My wife is in the kitchen with Karen.’’

  ‘‘Karen?’’

  ‘‘Our daughter.’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry to have to ask,’’ Rossi said, ‘‘but would you get them, please? We need to ask them these questions, too.’’

  Edels nodded, got up and walked in zombie fashion back through the entryway. When he returned, he was followed by two women—the younger one, obviously the daughter, high school age, was rather tall and thin, wearing navy blue shorts and a gray T-shirt with NOTRE DAME in navy blue letters over a green clover leaf; her dark hair was trimmed short.

  ‘‘This is my daughter, Karen,’’ Edels said.