Criminal Minds

by Max Allan Collins

  Morgan holstered his weapon and moved toward the workbench, finally allowing Reid access into the garage. Shooting that lock off was not an option Morgan relished—that kind of stuff worked better in the movies. He had hoped for bolt cutters, but none presented themselves; he was granted his second wish, though: a crowbar leaning against the wall in the corner.

  Morgan climbed the stairs with his new tool, and jammed the bar behind the hasp from underneath, braced himself and pulled up.

  The hasp groaned but did not give.

  He pulled harder, it groaned louder, but still did not give. Muscles burning, he pulled up on the bar and, finally, the hasp squealed and gave with such force, Morgan damn near went ass-over-elbows back down the stairs.

  After barely maintaining his balance, he crouched and waited, to see if anyone was within the sealed-off room who had an opinion to express about his intrusion—for instance, bullets flying through the closed door . . .

  Nothing.

  Morgan opened the loft door. To his right, his hand found a switch and flipped it. The room remained dark, but Reid called from downstairs: ‘‘That red light just came on!’’

  Morgan turned it off and found another switch next to it. When he flipped that, two ceiling fluorescents flickered to life.

  The long, wide room ran the entire length and width of the garage. The space was surprisingly cool for this hot, humid August day—air-conditioning, Morgan realized. Pretty pricey extra for a spare room above a garage, photo lab or not.

  A long table along the back wall was home to a large laser printer, a flat-panel monitor, a mouse, and a keyboard. A two-foot computer tower squatted beneath the table.

  Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves consumed the west wall. Shorter shelves on the north wall, below a window, held leather-bound, numbered journals. On two long, end-to-end tables midroom, where the chemicals and baths and pictures hanging to dry should have been, no sign of any photography darkroom equipment was to be seen. Instead, the tables were covered with maps, photos, and a few books.

  Coming in, Reid said, ‘‘I figured as much. All digital.’’

  Morgan jerked a thumb toward the computer tower. ‘‘You think you could get into that?’’

  Shaking his head, Reid said, ‘‘I wouldn’t even try. Too much chance of losing evidence. We’ll get the local computer forensics crew in.’’

  At the tables, Morgan looked down at maps with had spots circled on them—each one a crime scene.

  And the photos, grisly photos, were shots from every crime scene, as well.

  ‘‘They could just be from the job,’’ Reid said, with a reasonable lilt in his voice. ‘‘His job is, after all, to go to crime scenes and take photos. He could explain all this stuff away as circumstantial.’’

  Morgan pointed to one of the books, Serial Killers and Mass Murderers: Profiling Why They Kill by Max Ryan.

  ‘‘Circumstantial,’’ Reid said.

  Then Morgan saw it.

  From under the book where it had peeked out at him, Morgan pulled out a photo—Addie Andrews and Benny Mendoza . . . before the shooting.

  The couple walked along obviously unaware their picture was being taken, coming down the sidewalk from Addie’s house, probably shot from the park across the way.

  Morgan held it up for Reid to see.

  ‘‘That,’’ Reid said, ‘‘will be harder for him to explain.’’

  ‘‘Go get Hotch and tell him we’re going to need a search warrant before we go any further . . . but there’s not much doubt we’ve found our man.’’

  ‘‘Well, his lair, anyway,’’ Reid said, then, holding up a photo of a two-story brick townhouse with a flat roof. ‘‘This is interesting. And worrisome.’’

  ‘‘Why?’’ Morgan asked. ‘‘What’s that?’’

  ‘‘That is 2319 East One-Hundredth Street—where Richard Speck murdered eight nurses. The crime that’s going to be copied next, if we’re right. And where Rossi and those two Chicago detectives were headed, when we saw them last.’’

  Chapter Eleven

  August 7 Chicago, Illinois

  Generally, Supervisory Special Agent David Rossi was fairly laid-back; right now he was on edge.

  Hotchner had phoned twice, over the last two hours—once with the name of their suspect, crime scene photographer Daniel Dryden, and again to alert him that Dryden was still unaccounted for and might well be headed Rossi’s way, if the picture Reid had found in the garage loft was any indication.

  Rossi and the two detectives, Lorenzon and Tovar, sat in a black SUV, air conditioner doing overtime. The two cops were in front, the FBI agent in back.

  Across the street, in the late afternoon heat, two African-American women sat on the front stoop of 2319, the first-floor windows and the inside front door open. A small window air conditioner chugged in a second-floor window. The women, both in shorts and tank tops, were watching three young children playing in a minuscule front yard, two boys and a girl, none older than five, taking turns chasing a plastic ball, kicking it, catching it, then kicking it again, each squealing with delight, oblivious to the humid heat.

  Rossi explained the Dryden situation to the two detectives.

  ‘‘Daniel fuckin’ Dryden?’’ Lorenzon said with a head shake. ‘‘Him I would’ve never guessed. How would a zero like Dryden have the balls for something like this?’’

  Rossi said, ‘‘That opinion’s part of what motivates him.’’

  Lorenzon looked puzzled. ‘‘My opinion?’’

  ‘‘Not yours in particular, but that sort of mind-set. Dryden had some early success, and now he thinks he’s a loser—and that’s the feeling people get being around him. He’s smart. No question, we’ve seen that. Yet in his day-to-day life, he doesn’t have any self-confidence. He feels he doesn’t have control. These killings, this is how he gets back some control.’’

  Lorenzon was frowning. ‘‘Control of what?’’

  ‘‘The victim, for starters. You remember what we said about manipulation, control, and domination?’’

  ‘‘Yeah, sure.’’

  ‘‘This is where that comes into play. Dryden manipulates, controls, and dominates his prey. For once, he’s not on the receiving end of such things.’’

  ‘‘How can he compare being snubbed to killing people?’’

  ‘‘We’re not talking about reality, Tate—we’re talking about the killer’s perception.’’

  Lorenzon nodded, but was still frowning in thought.

  ‘‘Take a hypothetical,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘Suppose you’re driving in Chicago traffic, and get cut off.’’

  ‘‘I don’t have to suppose very hard.’’

  ‘‘Then it happens again! Are you pissed?’’

  ‘‘Depends on how close the guy came, but, yeah, maybe a little.’’

  Nodding, Rossi said, ‘‘Pretty normal response. Our killer would go straight to anger after the first time . . . and furious enough to kill after the second.’’

  Tovar said, ‘‘That’s screwy.’’

  ‘‘Careful,’’ Rossi said with a little smile. ‘‘You’re getting into highly technical profiling terms now. Meanwhile, back in Chicago traffic, it would never occur to the killer that two separate people simply didn’t see him or weren’t paying attention. For him, this is all part of a conspiracy on the part of society to stifle him, to not recognize his talent, his brilliance. As far as he’s concerned, cops like us are out to get him, not for his crimes, rather as part of a society that’s always been out to get him.’’

  Tovar said, ‘‘But this guy’s been a functioning member of society for years. . . .’’

  ‘‘Sure,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘Being a cold-blooded killer doesn’t rule that out.’’

  The two detectives gave him a look.

  Rossi shrugged. ‘‘Sue me. It’s true.’’

  Across the street, the kids kept playing.

  ‘‘You know,’’ Rossi said, with a nod toward the children, ‘‘we need to ge
t them out of here—no point in handing him victims.’’

  Tovar said, ‘‘I thought he was after nurses.’’

  ‘‘He’s devolved to a ‘close enough’ state—maybe not nurses, maybe just wiping out everybody at that address.’’

  Traffic on One-Hundredth Street was steady but everybody knew this was a residential neighborhood and held their speed down accordingly. The profiler and the two detectives climbed down from the SUV, then strolled across the street.

  They were halfway when an eastbound gray Ford Crown Victoria, an older model, slowed as it approached. They were almost across when the car picked up speed.

  As the car shot by, even though its windows were tinted, Rossi recognized the driver at once. Or was he just projecting his anxieties?

  Before Rossi said anything, though, Tovar nodded and pointed. ‘‘Was that fuckin’ Dryden?’’

  This confirmation was all Rossi needed.

  He watched as the vintage Crown Vic took a right at the next corner. Sprinting toward the building, jerking his credentials from his pocket, Rossi yelled, ‘‘FBI—get these kids inside, now!’’

  The two women jumped up and ran to their kids, the children mesmerized by the screaming white man.

  The two women were also yelling at the children, the caregivers apparently alarmed by Rossi charging at them, with Tovar and Lorenzon in his wake.

  That suited Rossi just fine. Anything that got the women and children locked indoors was a good thing.

  He yanked his pistol from its holster and one woman shrieked as she dashed into the house with a boy in her arms. Her friend, with two wriggling children to corral, having trouble keeping up, watched helplessly as the door shut in her face. Rossi was close enough now to hear the dead bolt slam home.

  The woman outside pounded on the door. ‘‘Damn you, Laticia!’’

  Rossi touched the woman’s arm and she spun on him, teeth bared, eyes wide with fear, her right index finger coming around and scolding him.

  ‘‘Don’t you ever touch me!’’

  Holding up his credentials, Rossi said, ‘‘I am with the FBI. It’s all right, we’re here to help.’’

  ‘‘Help what? We haven’t done a damn thing!’’

  The corner of the curtains of the town house fluttered and Rossi could see the other woman looking out.

  He displayed his credentials. ‘‘FBI, open the door and let this woman in.’’

  Laticia shook her head.

  Rossi frowned. ‘‘Now!’’

  The woman disappeared from the window. Whether it was to open up or go hide, Rossi could not tell. He waited and, seconds later, he heard the dead bolt slide. The door opened and the woman on the stoop went inside with her two children.

  From the doorway, Laticia stared at Rossi, who said, ‘‘Shut and lock this door, then call 911—tell them the FBI said you need special protection.’’

  Eyes wide with terror, the woman shut the door and the dead bolt snapped into place.

  Turning to his colleagues, Rossi saw they both had their weapons drawn, Tovar slowly scanning the neighborhood, Lorenzon talking into his walkie-talkie.

  Lorenzon was shouting into the radio: ‘‘Well, fucking find him!’’

  ‘‘What?’’ Rossi asked.

  Lorenzon shook his head and said, ‘‘While you got the families inside, I called for a patrol car to pull the prick over. Now, they can’t find him or the car.’’

  ‘‘Not a lot of Crown Vics in this neighborhood, except maybe for police cars. And it was pristine for its age.’’

  Ninety percent of the cars on the street were what street cops commonly referred to as a Dodge POS or a Chevy POS or a Ford POS—piece of shit.

  ‘‘Gave ’em the damn plate number,’’ Lorenzon said, shaking his head again. ‘‘The only good news is that the computer IDed the car as Dryden’s. Christ, he’s owned it since his fashion mag days.’’

  Tovar’s face was red. ‘‘Where the hell is he then?’’

  Lorenzon said, ‘‘Maybe we scared him off.’’

  ‘‘But where to?’’

  Before any guess could be offered, Lorenzon’s walkie-talkie squawked to life.

  ‘‘Shots fired,’’ the cool voice of the dispatcher said. ‘‘State University. Science building, first floor. All available officers, 9501 South King Drive, Williams Science Building.’’

  Rossi asked, ‘‘How far away is that?’’

  Lorenzon said, ‘‘Ten blocks maybe?’’

  ‘‘Shit!’’ Rossi grimaced. ‘‘Went straight to the source—nursing students.’’

  ‘‘Goddamnit!’’ Tovar said.

  The three men sprinted to the SUV and climbed in, Lorenzon getting behind the wheel. The African-American detective gunned the engine to life, hit the siren and flashing lights, then—as he dropped the SUV into gear—mashed the gas pedal.

  They practically leapt to the corner, turned right, and were halfway up the next block when Rossi yelled, ‘‘Stop!’’

  Lorenzon slammed on the brakes. ‘‘What the hell?’’

  Rossi opened the door and jumped out.

  ‘‘What are you doing?’’ Lorenzon asked.

  ‘‘I know how this bastard thinks,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘He wants to copy Speck. I think this is a diversion.’’

  ‘‘Three nurses shot is a diversion?’’

  ‘‘I think so.’’

  Tovar’s eyes were huge. ‘‘What if you’re wrong?’’

  ‘‘Then you two will nail him at the university.’’

  Rossi slammed the door and headed back at a trot as Lorenzon sped off toward the university.

  When he got to the corner, Rossi hoped to see a squad car out front, officers at the door listening to Laticia’s tale of the three crazy men, waving guns, who had run at her, her friend, and their kids.

  Unfortunately, he knew better.

  The dispatcher’s call for every available officer would drop the priority of Laticia’s call to rock bottom. He made a quick 911 call himself, gave his name, FBI status and the address.

  ‘‘That’s the Richard Speck murder house,’’ Rossi said, ‘‘and the copycat we’re all looking for may be in there.’’

  ‘‘Sir?’’

  ‘‘Just give the word.’’

  Rossi clicked off.

  He’d be happier if he could get inside that town house, but given his last visit, that was probably impossible. Problem was, he couldn’t watch the front and back of the place from here, or anywhere else for that matter. The building was set up like a row house, eight two-story. If he went around back and Dryden came to the front, Rossi would never get inside before the killing started. The same was true if Rossi stayed in front and then Dryden came in the back. . . .

  He had told Lorenzon he knew how the killer thought—well, now was the time to prove it. If he was wrong, more innocent people would die.

  Think, Rossi told himself.

  Dryden was normally organized, highly so. He had deviated from his plan when he’d seen Rossi and the detectives. The thing was, Dryden was devolving so fast, he couldn’t bring himself to cancel his performance. Dryden had, instead, decided to open fire on nursing students at the university.

  But that didn’t mean the killer wouldn’t still come back to his original destination.

  Speck had strong-armed his way in through the front door, hadn’t he? So Rossi took a calculated risk. The killer wanted to copy the murders at this address; therefore, Dryden would want to go in the front way. . . .

  After ducking into a doorway across the street opposite 2319, Rossi got out his weapon, checked to make sure a round was in the chamber, then lowered it along his leg, barrel down.

  His cell phone chirped and he responded. ‘‘Rossi.’’

  ‘‘It’s Lorenzon. SOB’s in the wind. One student dead, two wounded.’’

  ‘‘Damnit.’’

  Ten minutes later, the sun setting, his patience wearing thin as he started to wonder if he was wrong about
Dryden, Rossi was just about to holster his weapon and step out of the shadowy doorway when he saw something move across the street.

  A vehicle crossed his line of vision, and Rossi wondered if his eyes were playing tricks on him.

  Then, from behind a car parked two doors down from 2319, Dryden—all Johnny Cash in black T-shirt, black jeans and black running shoes—crept out, crossed the yard slowly, his head on a swivel, looking for cops. A bulge in his pocket might be a small camera, and Rossi was almost sure a black knife sheath was on his left hip and a black holster on his right.

  Rossi slipped back into the doorway, counted to five, then peered out again. Dryden was mere yards from the front door now. Stepping forward, Rossi could see a bus coming eastward; the agent used the bus for cover to get to the middle of the street, then took three quick steps and ducked down on the driver’s side of a parked car Dryden had just passed.

  Rising slightly, the FBI agent looked through the driver’s-side window toward 2319 . . .

  ... and saw the back of Dryden. The killer was only two or three steps from the front door now.

  Rossi moved forward, using the car as cover, then popped up over the hood and yelled, ‘‘Daniel Dryden, freeze! FBI!’’

  Eyes wide, Dryden spun, a little revolver in his right hand, a hunting knife coming up from his side, in his left hand. He fired two quick rounds at Rossi, missing him, but Rossi did not return fire. The FBI man was a good shot, damn good, but didn’t relish firing when the only backstop behind Dryden was a houseful of children.

  Ducking back behind the car, Rossi hoped to draw Dryden into attacking him instead of the house. Two more rounds slammed into the vehicle, making it obvious Dryden was a lot less concerned about what lay beyond his target than Rossi.

  Sliding his head up a little, Rossi peeked through the driver’s side window and saw Dryden sprinting toward the car. Another round spiderwebbed the windshield and Rossi dropped and edged to the rear of the vehicle.