Criminal Minds

by Max Allan Collins

  That gunshot, before, would have sounded like a cannon going off out here in the middle of nowhere,so it was best to finish fast and leave.

  That’s just what the killer did.

  Once the burial was complete, the ground patted down hard around the pipe, he returned the shovel to its place behind the bushes, pulled his vehicle out of the barn, pulled the cop’s in. The last thing he did, before shutting the barn door behind him, was remove latex gloves that prevented him from leaving fingerprints on anything; these he threw into a corner of the barn.

  He got into his car and drove away. Here he was in the middle of the night—actually, the early hours of morning—and he still had work to do.

  Who was it said, no rest for the wicked?

  Supervisory Special Agent Spencer Reid knew he was blessed in his ability to get by on short sleep. On the BAU, that was as valuable to Reid as his intelligence or his memory.

  Hotchner had phoned just before six a.m., barely four hours after Reid had finally crawled into bed, and told him to be in the hotel lobby, ASAP. Fifteen minutes later, mildly disheveled, hair still damp from a hurried shower, Reid exited the elevator into the lobby to find Hotchner, Prentiss and Rossi waiting.

  Hotchner, newspaper folded under his arm, his countenance perhaps even more tense than normal, looked typically impeccable in his navy blue suit, as did Rossi in a gray suit of his own. Prentiss too seemed to have taken more time than Reid getting ready, and Reid wondered if he had been the last one called or whether the others were just better organized.

  The next elevator car opened and muscular Morgan emerged looking like he’d walked out of a magazine ad in black loafers, slacks, and a T-shirt that might have been spray-painted on.

  Only Jareau was MIA, and Reid wondered where the normally hyper-punctual JJ was until he spotted her through the hotel’s glass doors. She, too, was impeccable in a gray pants suit, though her hair swung animatedly as she paced a small patch of sidewalk, cell phone pressed to her ear, engaged in a heated conversation with someone.

  Seldom had Reid seen JJ this upset—she was naturally cool and her liaison role required her to be cooler than that; but now and then she lost it, though judging by her gestures, she was as worked up now as he’d ever seen her. As she marched back and forth beyond the door, her expression said that whoever was on the other end of the call had not informed Jareau she’d just won the lottery. . . .

  Reid turned to Hotchner. ‘‘What’s going on? That’s not JJ’s normal style.’’

  ‘‘This is going on,’’ Hotch said tersely. The team leader took the paper from under his arm and handed it to Reid like a summons he was serving.

  And as tentatively as someone who’d just been so served, Reid opened the newspaper—the Chicago Daily World. Not in a class with the Trib or the Sun-Times, the Daily World ran a distant fourth in what was, essentially, a four-paper circulation race. What the paper lacked in readership and integrity, it made up for in sleaze and salaciousness.

  The headline read, ‘‘Artist’s Grisly Tableau.’’ Then, below that, in a slightly smaller font, it said: ‘‘Serial Killer Claims Seventh Victim.’’

  ‘‘Seventh victim?’’ Reid asked no one in particular as he continued to read.

  Under the headlines, just above the fold, was a color photo of an empty car with blood on the seat and windows.

  ‘‘This is our UnSub’s work?’’ Reid asked.

  ‘‘Seems to be,’’ Hotchner said.

  ‘‘How did that paper get this before we did?’’

  ‘‘The UnSub sent it to them,’’ Hotch said, biting off the words. ‘‘That and the photos from the other crimes. The other three papers are cooperating and not running them, but the Daily World is going all out. . . . On page three, you’ll see the rest.’’

  Frowning, Reid asked, ‘‘What about consideration for the families of the victims?’’

  Shrugging, Hotchner said, ‘‘Evidently, the Daily World feels the public’s ‘right to know’ trumps that.’’

  Reid blew out air. ‘‘These must be all over the Internet, already.’’

  Until now, Jareau had done a yeoman’s job of keeping the murders off the front page and off the lead story of nightly local newscasters. The murders had been covered by the newspapers and TV, of course; but thanks to her efforts, the copycat aspect had been kept out, as part of the ongoing investigation.

  That minimized citywide panic and, as Hotchner and Rossi had reasoned, put the killer on edge as the news coverage did not feed what they already knew to be a hungry massive ego. Of course, a possible downside of that strategy was that it might speed up his kills, as the UnSub sought to garner media attention through sheer volume. Now, thanks to the Daily World, that point was moot.

  Reid held the paper up and pointed to the grisly photo. ‘‘Do we know where this crime scene is?’’

  Morgan said, ‘‘Lorenzon and Tovar are working the phones—we’re assuming the photo was sent to the local PD, as well, although if it went snail mail, it might not have shown up yet.’’ He gestured with open hands. ‘‘But it’s just about got to be one of the outlying suburbs—none of the nearer ones have claimed it.’’

  Prentiss added, ‘‘The area in the background appears to be woods, but . . .’’ She shrugged. ‘‘. . . there are lots of wooded areas around Chicago. Garcia’s also on the job, trying to track down the police department. This time the UnSub used e-mail to send the photos to the newspaper. That’s new.’’

  Morgan said, ‘‘So an area PD may have received the photos via e-mail attachment already.’’

  Reid frowned in thought. ‘‘Then this is a fresh kill. . . .’’

  ‘‘Probably sometime last night,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘Possibly the night before, but I doubt it. E-mail tells us he’s looking for more immediate gratification.’’

  Reid’s eyes tightened. ‘‘Do you think he’s devolving?’’

  ‘‘How could he not be?’’ Rossi asked. ‘‘He abducted the first victim in March, at least the first one we know about, and made sure that body wasn’t found until July. Now, he kills another in the last twenty-four to forty-eight hours and can’t even wait for the mailman to deliver the picture, he’s so proud of his work—for the first time, he e-mails it to speed up the process. Not only do I think the UnSub’s devolving, I think he may be in spree mode and won’t stop killing until we stop him. Every day, hell, every hour that we don’t have him in custody puts another innocent in danger. How long did Cunanan take?’’

  Rossi was referring, Reid knew, to notorious spree killer Andrew Cunanan, who killed five people, then himself.

  In case any of the others weren’t as familiar, Reid said, ‘‘Cunanan threw himself a going away party in San Diego on April 24, 1997. His first two victims were in Minnesota—Jeff Trail in Minneapolis and David Madson in Rush City. Next, Cunanan turned up here in Chicago, where he killed a prominent real estate developer named Lee Miglin. Then he drove Miglin’s car to Pennsville, New Jersey, and killed a cemetery caretaker named William Reese. That was May ninth. He didn’t show up again until he shot the famous designer Gianni Versace in Miami on July fifteenth. The police finally found him in a Miami houseboat on July twenty-third, where he had shot himself to avoid capture. Almost exactly three months after his ‘going away’ party.’’

  Rossi was smirking at Reid. ‘‘You could at least credit me with a footnote.’’

  ‘‘Your spree-killing book is the standard reference,’’ Reid said, with a shrug.

  Rossi’s eyes widened in the way they sometimes did when Reid made a point.

  Then Rossi said, ‘‘Well, this guy’s not going to be around in three months. At the rate he’s going, he’s not going to last three weeks. I think he’s got the fever, and I think his temperature is still going up.’’

  Hotch nodded grimly. ‘‘No question he’s accelerating. But let’s not get too far out in front. Let’s deal with things as they come.’’

  Reid glanced back
through the glass doors as Jareau snapped her phone shut, then came through the main lobby door and marched toward them, heels firing off like gunshots on the marble lobby floor. Her anger was so extreme it almost cancelled out her prettiness. Almost.

  Hotchner asked her. ‘‘What did the editor say?’’

  Jareau took a deep breath, then let it out, and seemed to will herself into a more calm state. ‘‘I asked the gentleman how he thought the families of the victims would react to these photos, and he said, ‘Read tomorrow’s edition. We’ll be interviewing them all today.’ ’’

  Hotchner chuckled but there was no humor in it. ‘‘Did he say anything about knowing where the crime scene is, or the name of the victim?’’

  ‘‘If he has that,’’ Jareau said, ‘‘he’s not saying.’’

  Reid frowned. ‘‘He ran the photo of a murder victim, without knowing whether the family had been notified or not?’’

  Jareau, her eyes hot in her cold face, said, ‘‘I don’t think he’s the type to care.’’

  ‘‘All right,’’ Hotchner said, taking control. ‘‘Back to the office—we need to get started. He’s not slowing, so we need to speed up.’’

  Half an hour later, they entered their conference room to find Lorenzon and Tovar waiting, the older detective talking on the phone, while Lorenzon sat punching keys on a laptop.

  Tovar wore loafers with no socks, jeans, a white shirt with a navy blue knit tie, loosened at the neck, and a gray sport coat. Even though he was balding, what little hair he had looked slept on.

  Lorenzon, on the other hand, looked like a page out of the Derek Morgan fashion field manual—a black polo with a Chicago police shield over the left breast, black slacks and socks and black loafers with rubber soles and tassels.

  ‘‘Anything?’’ Hotchner asked as they entered.

  Lorenzon shrugged toward Tovar. ‘‘I think Hilly’s got something.’’

  ‘‘Thank you, Chief,’’ Tovar was saying into the phone. ‘‘We’ll have someone out to talk to you ASAP.’’ He clicked off.

  ‘‘What?’’ Hotchner asked.

  ‘‘That was the Aurora chief of police,’’ Tovar said. ‘‘Far west suburb. The crime scene is in their jurisdiction. Killer shot the victim three times in the chest, and left him in a place called the Aurora West Forest Preserve.’’

  Tovar rose and went to a map on the wall and stuck a push pin into the area he’d referred to, making it one of five pins, each representing a crime scene.

  Reid considered the five pins—one way up north in Wauconda, another way south and east in Chicago Heights, then in Chicago’s Chinatown, on to the Gacy house also on the north side and now, this latest one, far west and on a line halfway between the two easternmost pins. He struggled to divine a pattern, mentally connecting the dots, first this way, then that, going through the various possibilities until he was certain there was no help there.

  Hotchner asked, ‘‘Anything with geographic profiling?’’

  Reid shook his head. ‘‘This is a huge area. The UnSub’s safety zone could be any of a hundred places without him ever having to hunt in or even near it.’’

  ‘‘What about a pattern with the crimes?’’

  ‘‘None that I can detect,’’ Reid said. ‘‘There’s certainly no geometric pattern evolving. But when Luke John Helder was dropping bombs in rural mailboxes, to make a smiley face on the map of the U.S.? No one saw that pattern until he told them.’’

  ‘‘All right,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘Prentiss, you and Tovar head to the Aurora PD and talk to the chief.’’

  ‘‘Right,’’ Prentiss said.

  ‘‘Morgan, get with Garcia—try to ID the victim if the locals haven’t.’’

  ‘‘Yep,’’ Morgan said.

  ‘‘Rossi, you and Reid go with Lorenzon and hit the crime scene. Much as I hate its existence, it’s nice to get a fresh look for a change.’’

  ‘‘Talk about mixed blessing,’’ Rossi said, getting up.

  Reid merely nodded.

  ‘‘And you, Aaron?’’ Rossi asked.

  ‘‘We’ve only got one suspect,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘Our colleague Detective Denson—I’m going to try to figure out where he’s been lately, without tipping to him we’re looking.’’

  ‘‘Good luck,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘It’s a whole different deal when a suspect is a cop—they have access to the playbook. Be nice if we had a real friend in the Wauconda PD.’’

  ‘‘Would at that,’’ Hotchner said.

  Even with the majority of rush hour traffic headed into the city, the drive to Aurora took the better part of two hours.

  The forest preserve sat on Hankes Road, west of Aurora and just east of a little town called Sugar Grove. The promise of another hot, humid day made a haze of the air as they followed a blue-and-white around a bend to the preserve.

  As the FBI Tahoe pulled in, the squad car pulled off to the right and behind another squad. Three more blue-and-whites and a couple of unmarkeds were along the other side of the blacktop drive. A last squad was parked across the entrance, its occupant climbing out as they pulled to a stop a few feet short of the obstruction.

  Rossi glanced around. ‘‘No ambulance?’’

  ‘‘They took the body away already,’’ Lorenzon said. ‘‘Funny—the victim wasn’t in the car, but in a shallow grave in the woods. They found it pretty easily.’’

  The uniformed officer came to the driver’s side and Lorenzon showed his ID.

  ‘‘And these two?’’ the officer asked.

  ‘‘FBI,’’ Rossi said, showing his credentials.

  Reid followed suit.

  ‘‘Park over there,’’ the officer said, pointing to the unmarked cars. ‘‘You’ll have to walk in. It’s not far.’’

  Lorenzon pulled the car up the road and off onto the shoulder. They walked back, passing the car blocking the entrance and, as they did, three men came walking from the other direction, the first with a camera, the second carrying a crime scene kit, and the third obviously a detective.

  The photographer, shorter than the other two, stood maybe five-ten and weighed in at about one-seventy. He had a heart-shaped face, ruddy cheeks and blond hair. The crime scene analyst was an African-American with a shaved head. Maybe forty, he was building a little belly despite an otherwise muscular build; he wore wire-framed glasses and walked with a slight limp. The detective, blond and blue-eyed, tall and wide-shouldered, had walked off a recruiting poster for the Aryan Nation; he wore a navy blue suit and dark glasses.

  Lorenzon and Rossi nodded to the photographer. ‘‘Jerry Peters,’’ the photographer replied, shaking hands with Rossi and Lorenzon.

  ‘‘You on the Aurora PD?’’ Lorenzon asked.

  ‘‘Freelance,’’ Peters said. ‘‘Too many crimes, not enough cameras. I’m all over the suburbs.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘You help where you’re needed.’’

  They turned to the detective.

  ‘‘Detective Henry Karl,’’ the cop said, extending his hand. ‘‘Aurora Police Department.’’

  Rossi introduced himself and they shook hands. The senior agent then introduced Reid and Lorenzon.

  ‘‘Glad to meet you,’’ Karl said with a wide smile. ‘‘Thanks for pitching in. This big guy is our crime scene tech, Orlando Ramirez.’’

  The African-American with the crime scene kit shook hands all around, then took a step back, his limp exaggerated a little.

  ‘‘Football?’’ Lorenzon asked, nodding toward the leg.

  Speaking with the barest trace of a Spanish accent, Ramirez said, ‘‘I wish. Nine mil in Cuba, when I was a boy.’’

  ‘‘Ouch,’’ Lorenzon said.

  Rossi nodded toward the crime scene. ‘‘What have we got here?’’

  ‘‘A nightmare,’’ the photographer said.

  The cop and CSA nodded and shook their heads, in accidental synchronization.

  ‘‘We don’t usually have anything like this out our way,’’ Kar
l said. ‘‘We’re far enough from the city that not much of the slime rubs off. Hell, we would have thought it was just a robbery gone bad without that photo . . . plus Detective Tovar calling us to tell us this was part of a serial crime.’’

  ‘‘This isn’t just far from the city,’’ Reid said, looking all around. ‘‘This preserve is at least five miles from anywhere. Any idea how the UnSub got out? Are there tire tracks?’’

  ‘‘Ay, mierda,’’ Ramirez said. ‘‘This place has more traffic than you would think, Agent Reid. Sightseers, picnickers, nature lovers, people looking for a little privacy in God’s great green world. Are there tire tracks? What does a bear do in the woods? We’ve been here since before sunup, and most of what we’ve done is take tire impressions and pictures of tire tracks. Your suspect, though, he left another way.’’

  Reid cocked his head. ‘‘What other way?’’

  Ramirez gave a harsh single laugh. ‘‘On a damn bicycle.’’

  Rossi said, ‘‘I’ve seen weirder.’’

  ‘‘Come with us back to the scene,’’ Karl said. ‘‘Orlando and Jerry found some good evidence, I think.’’

  The six men followed the blacktop a quarter of a mile into the woods to where a gravel parking lot filled a small clearing on the right. The victim’s car sat at the far end.

  The car—a newer, green Honda Accord—had Illinois plates.

  Rossi asked, ‘‘Is he a local?’’

  Karl shook his head. ‘‘We traced the plate to a Peoria guy named Vern Latham. Salesman for a company that deals with Mastodon, local company that makes tractors and earthmovers.’’

  ‘‘So,’’ Rossi said, ‘‘here on a sales call?’’

  ‘‘Yeah,’’ Karl said. ‘‘We’re trying to retrace his steps, but it’s hard, since no one seems to have seen him since he left Mastadon yesterday afternoon.’’

  Rossi shook his head. ‘‘Someone saw him.’’

  Reid studied the car and its position. He leaned inside to look at the bloodstains.

  ‘‘Three shots,’’ Karl said. ‘‘Probably a .22. I doubt he ever saw it coming.’’