Reid said to Rossi, ‘‘It’s as we thought—Aileen Wuornos.’’
The others had come over by now.
‘‘Who?’’ Karl asked.
Rossi turned to them. ‘‘You haven’t seen this morning’s Chicago Daily World?’’
Karl grunted. ‘‘I wouldn’t wipe my ass with that rag.’’
Ramirez said, ‘‘They don’t sell it out this far.’’
Rossi nodded. ‘‘Okay, I better bring you fellas up to speed.’’
Quickly the profiler did so.
‘‘Son of a bitch,’’ Peters, the photographer, said. ‘‘He’s copying famous serial killers?’’
‘‘Yes,’’ Reid said. ‘‘This one is Aileen Wuornos, and it’s a frankly audacious choice for a male UnSub. Wuornos was a prostitute in Florida who shot seven men. Six were found and identified. Peter Siems’s car was found, but his body never was. This crime was supposed to match that. Except he didn’t think you’d find the body so quickly.’’
‘‘You’re sure about this?’’ Karl asked.
Reid said, ‘‘Call it probability.’’
Rossi put a hand on Karl’s shoulder. ‘‘Trust us,’’ he said. ‘‘If Dr. Reid says it’s Wuornos, it’s Wuornos.’’
Reid’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘‘This may mean we have a male UnSub whose physicality lends itself to a remarkable masquerade.’’
Rossi said, ‘‘Dr. Reid means the UnSub probably pulled off a drag queen routine that fooled his victim.’’
Eyes wide, Karl said, ‘‘Posed as a woman, and what? Picked him up somewhere, a bar maybe?’’
‘‘As a working hypothesis, yes.’’
Reid faced the Aurora detective. ‘‘Where was the body buried?’’
‘‘Over here,’’ Ramirez told them, and led them to an area not far into the woods.
The grave had been shallow, blood still visible in the bottom.
Reid shook his head. ‘‘He couldn’t have thought this would fool anyone. . . .’’
Peters said, ‘‘Maybe he wasn’t trying to hide the body.’’
‘‘He should have,’’ Reid said. ‘‘That was part of the Siems crime. He got the date wrong too—that crime was July 4, 1990. He missed by over a month. This is, generally, the Siems scene . . . but he’s getting sloppy.’’
Peters frowned. ‘‘How many has he killed?’’
‘‘Seven, that we know of.’’
‘‘How sloppy can he be, if he’s at large after seven of these atrocities?’’
Reid said nothing. Turning to Ramirez, he asked, ‘‘Any evidence from the grave?’’
‘‘Just that he used a camp shovel to dig it. The marks on the sides aren’t wide enough to’ve been caused by a full-sized shovel.’’
Looking back toward the parking lot, Reid asked, ‘‘How did you determine the UnSub left by bicycle?’’
‘‘I came across something,’’ Peters said, and led them over to a spot past the other side of the parking lot.
Soon they stood around a bare area of grass surrounded by piles of leaves.
Peters pointed. ‘‘He had something buried here under the leaves. Could have been a bike.’’
Then Ramirez and Peters led them further into the woods to another area that had been cleaned away, this one larger than the first.
Rossi, hands on hips as he looked down, asked, ‘‘What do we have here?’’
Ramirez said, ‘‘The escape route.’’
‘‘Yeah?’’
Ramirez pointed to thin ruts in the grass. ‘‘Tire tracks from a mountain bike.’’
‘‘Could it have been a motorbike?’’ Lorenzon asked. ‘‘Kind of out in the boonies for a bike, aren’t we?’’
‘‘Maybe, but it’s not motorbike tracks. The killer had a bicycle snugged here and did his thing and just pedaled away.’’
Rossi was nodding. ‘‘This guy’s organized,’’ he said.
Karl’s eyes went from Rossi to Reid and back again. ‘‘One of you says he’s organized, the other says he’s getting sloppy. Do you guys really know what the hell you’re doing?’’
Rossi gave the detective a sly smile. ‘‘Hard to believe, maybe, but we do. The UnSub has been organized in how he plans the crimes, but he’s becoming more disorganized in his actual carrying out of the crimes.’’
‘‘Isn’t that a contradiction?’’ Peters asked.
Rossi’s smiled broadened. ‘‘Isn’t making murder an art form a contradiction in itself?’’
Hotchner was livid.
He had spoken on the phone, personally, with the editor of the Daily World, who had gone on and on about the first amendment and freedom of the press when obstruction of justice was more like it. The team leader knew he should have left this critical work to Jareau and got off the phone as soon as he realized how futile the effort.
Shortly thereafter, Jareau came into the conference room. ‘‘I’ve got the court order! I found a federal judge who will let Garcia into the Daily World’s e-mail account.’’
‘‘Take Prentiss,’’ he said. ‘‘Go serve it to that editor.’’
‘‘You don’t want to go yourself?’’
Shaking his head, Hotchner said, ‘‘I don’t think I can be in the same room with that defender of the freedom of press right now.’’
Jareau smiled. ‘‘All right. But I intend to enjoy myself telling him to move over and let us in.’’
‘‘Enjoying yourself is allowed, if the job gets done.’’
Jareau and Prentiss left.
Only Morgan remained in the room with Hotchner. Bent over his laptop, Morgan seemed deeply involved in something. Hotchner made himself put his anger aside and get back to work. Letting out a long breath, he rubbed his forehead and sat down at his computer.
This day was shaping up to be another long, bad one and he knew that the clock was ticking. With the UnSub back in business, and spreading news of his deeds to an even wider circle of the media, before long a full-blown panic would grip the nation’s Second City.
Even though Denson’s story had checked out—at least according to the cop’s ex-wife and his associates—the man had seemingly disappeared. The tail Hotchner had set up with local agents had lost Denson—hard to tail a cop, at least for long—and now no one could find the detective. In fact, no one had seen him since he’d turned over the Bangs Lake files to the BAU.
Hotchner hoped that was because Denson had taken his advice to stay away from the case, that the man was taking it easy somewhere and staying out of trouble.
Morgan looked up from his laptop screen to ask Hotchner, ‘‘Did you ever get the second picture from the forensic artist?’’
Hotchner swung around in his chair. ‘‘After you left yesterday, the Demerol they gave Minchell for his broken nose kicked in, and he passed out before the artist could even get started. Artist is back over there now.’’
Reid and Rossi entered, fresh from the latest crime scene. They took seats around the table and filled Hotchner and Morgan in about the new murder.
Hotchner wadded up a piece of paper, which was about as much emotion as he was willing to show. When he looked up, the others all stared at him.
‘‘Sorry,’’ he said, and twitched a smile. ‘‘Frustration. We’ve been a step behind this UnSub since we got here. We still don’t know how he picks the victims, and we don’t know which killer he’s going to imitate next. How do we get out in front of him until we figure out how he’s choosing the killers and victims? He’s gone right down the line, Berkowitz, Bundy, Dahmer, Gacy, Wuornos . . . there’s no way to know who’s next.’’
‘‘Alphabetical order,’’ Reid said quickly.
All eyes went to Reid.
‘‘Simple,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘And I noticed that a long time ago, Reid; but it doesn’t help us. Obviously not every serial killer in history is on his list—we could fill in plenty of others between all of those names. . . ."
Very quietly, Rossi said, ‘‘He s
kipped a chapter.’’
They all turned to him.
‘‘What?’’ Hotchner asked.
‘‘He skipped a goddamn chapter,’’ Rossi said, and pounded the table with a fist. ‘‘Damnit. I didn’t put it together, Aaron, till you listed them just now.’’
‘‘Put what together?’’
Rossi’s laugh was bitter. ‘‘I know how he’s picking which killer to imitate next. I was fooled because he skipped a chapter. Literally.’’
Frowning, Morgan said, ‘‘Dave—what are you talking about?’’
‘‘Max Ryan’s book, Serial Killers and Mass Murderers:Profiling Why They Kill. Max Ryan, Jason Gideon’s mentor, my colleague. The UnSub, he’s doing the chapters of the book . . . in order.’’ Rossi held up a forefinger. ‘‘Except for one—he skipped Herman Kotchman. That’s probably what took me so long to put this together. He’s done them all, in order of the chapters in the Ryan book . . . except Kotchman.’’
Reid said, ‘‘Herman Kotchman was a serial killer in the early seventies infamous for abducting middle-aged men who reminded him of his sexually predatory father, and burying them in coffins in his backyard. Dubbed ‘The Premature Burialist’ by the media, he claimed innocence, since he always gave his victims a ‘fighting chance,’ burying them with a hammer, a gallon of water, and a vent pipe for air.’’
‘‘Right,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘I helped catch the sick bastard.’’
No one said anything—not even Reid.
Quietly, Rossi said, ‘‘One of our first cases—hell, we weren’t even the BAU back then. We were just a bunch of guys who thought that if you studied enough offenders, you could learn things from their behavior. Things that would help you stop them.’’
Hotchner said, ‘‘You were right.’’
Rossi said, ‘‘You know, at his trial? Kotchman said, ‘They had at least a week before they died of thirst. I’m innocent. If they died, it was because they decided not to free themselves.’ We might not have caught him at all, but his last victim did get free, and led us right to Kotchman’s damn door.’’
A sick feeling ran through Hotchner’s gut. ‘‘Kotchman’s crimes took time—a long time. What if he hasn’t skipped a chapter?’’
Rossi frowned. ‘‘What?’’
Hotchner’s intensity heightened. ‘‘What if he’s alreadycommitted the crime, and hasn’t mailed a picture because the victim is buried out there somewhere, and isn’t dead yet?’’
His teammates’ expressions did nothing to alleviate Hotchner’s queasy stomach. In fact, they all looked a little ill.
Rossi said, ‘‘We have got to catch him—right now.’’
Morgan snapped his fingers, and all eyes went to him. He said, ‘‘Rossi, you said you know which one he’s doing next. Who is it? Who is the next chapter in the book about?’’
‘‘Richard Speck,’’ Rossi said.
Reid said, hollowly, ‘‘Speck killed eight nursing students in one night. Right here in Chicago . . . but what happened to alphabetical order?’’
Rossi said, ‘‘Max’s book was divided in two sections—serial killers first, mass murderers second. Speck as the first of several of the latter discussed.’’
‘‘My God,’’ Morgan said. ‘‘The son of bitch built acceleration into his overall scenario!’’
‘‘Eight young women,’’ Prentiss said, the whiteness of her face heightened by her bloodred lipstick. ‘‘Facing a death sentence . . .’’
As Hotchner’s eyes traveled the conference room, the faces looked back at him with the same obvious concern.
Did they have enough time?
Chapter Ten
August 7 Chicago, Illinois
Finally, things were moving.
The UnSub would re-create the Speck murder next. That much the BAU team knew—but not the killer’s identity or where precisely he would strike, much less when.
But they had taken the first step in the thousand-mile journey and, with any luck, the next step would be easier.
They began with Dr. Spencer Reid filling them in on what had happened the day Speck committed his atrocities.
‘‘July 14, 1966,’’ the young agent said. He was on his feet, the others seated at the conference table. ‘‘Richard Franklin Speck entered the two-story townhouse at 2319 East One-Hundredth Street in the Jeffrey Manor neighborhood of Chicago. Speck claimed his intention to commit a simple burglary. Nine student nurses shared the dwelling, and Speck took them all prisoner, as each returned home. Then he brutally stabbed and killed seven of his captives. The eighth and final victim, he raped, then stabbed to death. The ninth woman in the house, Corazon Amurao, escaped by hiding under a bed. Famously, Speck seemed to have lost count of his hostages during the murders, and left thinking he had killed them all.’’
Even these hardened profilers could only fall into a grim silence, hearing of the madman’s spree.
Reid continued: ‘‘At nineteen, Speck went to a tattoo parlor and had the words ‘Born to Raise Hell’ applied to his left forearm. This was one of the things police used to identify him when Speck was arrested on July seventeenth, three days after the crime and his own attempted suicide. In an interesting sidebar, when he was in prison, Speck once found an injured bird. He nursed it back to health, tied a string to its leg and let the bird ride around on his shoulder. When he was told he couldn’t have the bird, because the prison had a policy against pets, Speck threw the bird into a running fan. When a guard said, ‘I thought you liked that bird.’ Speck replied, ‘I did, but if I can’t have it, no one can.’ ’’
‘‘Well,’’ Morgan said, ‘‘that’s a little selfish.’’
‘‘Speck is generally categorized as a mass murderer,’’ Reid went on, ‘‘but he was a suspect in the deaths or disappearances of eight other women other the years, as well as an individual rape. So other experts classify him a serial.’’
Reid looked around for any questions, then lifted his eyebrows and twitched a smile, like a nervous kid who’d just finished a school report. He took a seat at the conference table.
Hotchner asked Rossi, ‘‘Do you remember the other names in the mass murderer section of Ryan’s book?’’
Rossi’s eyes were tight with thought. ‘‘The emphasis was on serial killers, with a relatively small section on mass murderers. I know Howard Unruh, first of the so-called lone gunmen, and Charles Whitman, the University of Texas tower sniper, were written up. I believe there was one other, but I don’t recall who.’’
‘‘Byran Uyesugi,’’ Reid said. ‘‘The Xerox murderer.’’
Rossi chuckled dryly. ‘‘That memory of yours does come in handy. But we could still use a copy of that book. If it’s the UnSub’s bible, having it around could be helpful.’’
Hotchner dispatched Reid to a track down a local bookstore with a copy of Serial Killers and Mass Murderers:Profiling Why They Kill. The book was not available for download, and it wasn’t as if they could print a copy from Reid’s memory. No one said so, but they all knew that if they failed to stop the Speck reenactment, they would need every tool available to prevent the next performance on the UnSub’s list.
Morgan felt great respect for Max Ryan, David Rossi, Jason Gideon and the other pioneering profilers; they had built all this up from nothing. The BAU had worked a case with Ryan several years ago, helping the retired agent crack an old unsolved case that had haunted him. With the exception of Rossi, the old guard was gone now. Hotchner led a new generation of behaviorists. Mind hunters, the press called them.
The mind they were hunting this time belonged to an utter sociopath bent on killing as many people as possible in his sick bid for power and recognition. And knowing that the reenactment of individual killings was headed toward re-creations of mass murder was a chilling thought, even to a seasoned veteran like Morgan.
While Jareau dealt with the media, Prentiss stayed in touch with Garcia, who sought to locate groups of nursing students living together who might mirror
the configuration of Speck’s original atrocities.
Reid was out getting the Ryan book, and Hotchner was searching for the missing Jake Denson via phone and computer. Rossi, along with detectives Tovar and Lorenzon, was headed for One Hundredth Street, the site of Speck’s invasion.
Meanwhile, Morgan dug into the Herman Kotchman case. Born in California in 1948, Kotchman grew up with an alcoholic mother who turned a blind eye to the abuse of her two sons by her bisexual second husband, perhaps because that lessened his presence in her bed, sparing her to some degree the man’s physical and sexual abuse. One night the abuse turned to murder, when the stepfather killed Herman’s brother, who had dared try to escape his grasp, and the boy was buried in the backyard of their rural home in what was forever referred to as ‘‘a terrible accident’’ and ‘‘our family secret.’’
In 1966, the same year Speck was making a name for himself, Herman Kotchman, not content to wait for the draft, had joined the army. With the Vietnam War escalating, the army seemed willing to take just about anybody. Kotchman, however, couldn’t make the grade even with lowered standards, and was mustered out on a dishonorable discharge, after savagely beating another soldier in the shower. Seemed the man had been looking ‘‘funny’’ at Kotchman’s penis.
Once back home, Kotchman chose not to return to the house of his mother and stepfather. Instead, he took an apartment in nearby Modesto, California. A year later, the stepfather died of cirrhosis of the liver, and his grief-stricken drunken mother’s first call had been to Herman. To help keep his mother from starving, the dutiful son entered into a plan with her to bury the stepfather in the backyard and continue to cash his social security checks.
The stress of all those years of abuse and secrets finally cascaded over into Herman’s reality once he was living in the house again. His pent-up fury at his late stepfather consumed him and he began trolling gay bars and nightclubs for victims that reminded him of the balding, pudgy man. He would bury them in the backyard, too, but with a gallon of water, a claw hammer, and a vent pipe for air.
Criminal Minds Page 18
