The sun was coming up now, the shadow of the house still making it hard for them to see.
Before long, the shovel touched something harder than dirt, but considerably less sturdy than plywood.
‘‘Something,’’ Rossi said.
They used their hands now, pushing dirt out of the way until they uncovered a shoe with a foot in it connecting to a still mostly buried leg.
‘‘Hell!’’ Morgan said. ‘‘Son of a bitch didn’t even use a box!’’
Rossi said, ‘‘Wait a minute. The shoe is a Rocky. Cop shoe. This isn’t the victim. . . .’’
They dug faster now, uncovering the rest of the body until they were looking down at a man dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, his head shaved clean, exit wound in his back.
‘‘Denson,’’ Morgan said.
Rossi grunted. ‘‘Poor bastard did find the killer before we did. . . .’’
And now Dryden’s math made more sense: this was his twelfth victim.
Morgan’s cell phone rang and both profilers jumped a little.
‘‘Yeah,’’ Morgan said into it. ‘‘. . . thanks.’’ He clicked off. ‘‘Garcia says the Bronco belongs to a Jacob Denson.’’
Any sense that this was a crime scene was obviously secondary, since saving a life took precedence over preserving evidence. With care and something near reverence, they lifted the deceased detective’s body out of the grave and laid him carefully on the ground. Morgan did the digging as they went back to work. He had gone another half foot down when he hit something that clunked.
The box.
They dug even more quickly, Rossi pitching in with his hands as they uncovered the top of the box. When its lid was fairly well cleared, Morgan used the shovel to pry a corner loose and—with all the strength of both men—tore the nailed lid off.
Inside lay a figure curled in a fetal position, clad only in white boxers and a sleeveless white undershirt.
‘‘Mr. Shuler,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘Mr. Shuler!’’
The figure did not move.
Morgan gingerly lifted the man out of the box, handing him up to Rossi, who lay him out on the ground and checked for a pulse.
‘‘Faint,’’ Rossi said, ‘‘but it’s there. . . .’’
Morgan whipped out his cell phone.
‘‘Hotch! We’ve got him, but we need the medivac now!’’
Half an hour later, with Shuler stabilized but in serious condition, the chopper took off for the nearest hospital. The rest of the team had caught up with them. They all stood over the body of Jake Denson, waiting for the coroner’s wagon that would haul the detective to the morgue.
Rossi said, ‘‘He couldn’t let go of the case.’’
Hotchner gave him a look. ‘‘Could you have?’’
‘‘Probably not.’’
Prentiss asked, ‘‘How did he end up out here?’’
Hotchner said, ‘‘Most likely he held back some information from us.’’
Reid said, ‘‘Something convinced him Dryden was the killer—must have followed him out here somehow.’’
Morgan gave Rossi a grim smile. ‘‘See what happens to loners, Dave?’’
Rossi said, ‘‘I see what happens when a decent detective lets emotion take over. If Denson had come to us with whatever he had, other people would still be alive.’’
‘‘Including,’’ Hotchner said, ‘‘Denson.’’
‘‘Take hope from the heart of man,’’ the novelist Ouida wrote, ‘‘and you make him a beast of prey.’’
Epilogue
August 8 Learjet
The plane banked to the east to glide through the night, the lights of Chicago receding. They’d bid Lorenzon and Tovar quick good-byes at the airport and felt the bittersweet pang of leaving behind others who’d fought with them in the trenches. Now they were all whipped, the cabin silent, everyone asleep except Rossi and Reid. The young man played chess, spinning the small board on the table in front of him after every move.
Rossi rose and hovered over the table. Reid seemed to not notice his presence.
The older man asked, ‘‘Who’s winning?’’
Ignoring the question Reid said, ‘‘Gideon and I used to play after a case, sometimes.’’
‘‘Ah,’’ Rossi said.
‘‘You play?’’
‘‘A little.’’
Reid waved for him to sit and Rossi accepted. The young man reset the board and said, ‘‘Black or white?"
"You choose."
‘‘You can go first,’’ Reid said, spinning the board so the white pieces faced Rossi.
Rossi eased a pawn forward.
Reid countered.
Rossi asked, ‘‘You’re not tired?’’
‘‘Sure. I don’t sleep much.’’
‘‘Don’t need it?’’
‘‘I can get by on just a few hours.’’
‘‘Ever have nightmares?’’
‘‘It’s been scientifically proven that we all dream every night.’’
Rossi made a move. ‘‘Don’t let it eat at you,’’ he said.
‘‘. . . I try not to.’’
‘‘Because, brother, does this job have a way of eating at you.’’
Reid moved a piece. ‘‘Gideon told me that, too, in so many words.’’
‘‘That’s because it’s true. That’s part of why he’s not here now.’’
The young man frowned. ‘‘Are you saying Gideon was weak?’’
‘‘No,’’ Rossi said, moving a bishop. ‘‘Gideon is one of the strongest people I know, but he lets things get in . . . well, it’s hard not to let things get in. Let’s say, Jason can let things get too far inside.’’
‘‘You are saying he was weak,’’ Reid said.
‘‘No,’’ Rossi said, calmly. ‘‘I’m also not referring to him in the past tense. He’s not dead, Spencer, he’s just not here right now.’’
Reid thought about that. ‘‘It’s hard to keep someone in the present tense when they’ve entered the past tense of your life.’’
‘‘I know. But he’s got his own path. For a long time, Jason took this path, and took it for a lot longer than most; and now he’s on a new one.’’
‘‘You’ve lasted just as long. Longer.’’
Rossi considered that. ‘‘No. I was off the path a while. But this is what I’m supposed to be doing now.’’
Reid seemed to be considering his next move. Then he looked up and asked, ‘‘How do you keep things from getting too far inside?’’
Rossi shrugged. ‘‘The wreckage we see, victims and killers, the lives destroyed, other lives scarred . . . you can’t wade as deeply into it as we do and not have some of it seep in. I’m just saying, you can’t let it consume you.’’
The game forgotten now, Reid asked, ‘‘How do you keep that from happening?’’
‘‘Think of it this way. We’re doctors—hell, you even have the word in front of your name. But our patients aren’t the victims—we diagnose the disease afflicting not the innocent but the guilty. We have to understand the sickness that has turned these human beings into monsters. We can’t cure their disease, but we can sure as hell quarantine them.’’
‘‘Okay. I get that. But that doesn’t address how to keep the horror from consuming us.’’
‘‘Reid, I see you do it all the time. You keep a distance, maintain an intellectual perimeter. Doctors have to stay objective . . . and they can’t take their work home with them.’’
They were silent for a long time, then Reid said, ‘‘Sometimes it all just seems . . . not pointless, no, I understand that we accomplish something. But . . . hopeless. There’s no end to this disease.’’
Rossi locked eyes with the young man. ‘‘Daniel Dryden would have kept killing if we hadn’t stopped him, right?’’
‘‘He wasn’t going to stop, unless it was with a grand flourish—killing his wife, his sons, himself.’’
Rossi nodded curtly. ‘‘But he didn’t. Mrs. Dr
yden and her boys, no matter how scarred this will leave them . . . and it will . . . are alive. They are survivors. So—how many people did we save?’’
Reid shrugged facially. ‘‘It’s impossible to say.’’
‘‘Right. But you agree, we did save some?’’
Reid nodded. ‘‘But we’ll never know those people.’’
‘‘Now you’re getting it. That is my hope.’’
‘‘What is?’’
‘‘That I never have to meet any of those people. For now, they’re safe . . . and that’s enough for me until the next time.’’
‘‘I can see that,’’ Reid said. ‘‘And we can always hope that there isn’t a next time.’’
Rossi gently pushed the chessboard away and got up into the aisle. ‘‘Afraid that’s more hope than I can muster, Spencer. I’m pretty damn sure there’s going to be a next time. So, for right now, let’s get some sleep.’’
Until the next nightmare comes along.
Profile In Thanks
My assistant, Matthew Clemens, helped me develop the plot of Killer Profile, and worked up a lengthy story treatment (which included all of his considerable forensics research and on-site location scouting) from which I could work.
Profiler Steven R. Conlon, Assistant Director, Division of Criminal Investigation for the State of Iowa Department of Public Safety, generously provided a great deal of help and useful information.
Lt. Chris Kauffman (retired), Bettendorf (Iowa) Police Department, and Lt. Paul Van Steenhuyse (retired), Scott County Sheriff’s Office, again provided professional insights and expertise.
Also helpful were Matthew T. Schwarz, CLPE, Identification Bureau Manager, Davenport (Iowa) Police Department, and Sheila Rogeness, IAI Certified CSI, Lead Crime Scene Tech, Davenport (Iowa) Police Department.
The following books were consulted: The Encyclopediaof Serial Killers (2000), Michael Newton; Mind-hunter(1995), John Douglas and Mark Olshaker; and My Life Among the Serial Killers (2004), Helen Morrison with Harold Goldberg; and Profile of a Criminal Mind (2003), Brian Innes. Information was also gleaned from Court TV’s CrimeLibrary.com.
Special thanks go to Executive Producer Edward Allen Bernero of Criminal Minds; editor Kristen Weber of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.; and Maryann C. Martin of CBS Consumer Products. Without them, this novel series would not have happened.
Thanks also go to agent Dominick Abel; Matthew’s wife, Pam Clemens, a knowledgeable Criminal Minds fan who again aided the effort; and the author’s frequent accomplice, Barbara Collins.
About the Author
Max Allan Collins was hailed in 2004 by Publishers Weekly as ‘‘a new breed of writer.’’ A frequent Mystery Writers of America ‘‘Edgar’’ nominee, he has earned an unprecedented fourteen Private Eye Writers of America ‘‘Shamus’’ nominations for his historical thrillers, winning for his Nathan Heller novels, True Detective (1983) and Stolen Away (1991).
His graphic novel Road to Perdition is the basis of the Academy Award-winning film starring Tom Hanks, directed by Sam Mendes. His many comics credits include the syndicated strip ‘‘Dick Tracy’’; his own ‘‘Ms. Tree’’; ‘‘Batman’’; and ‘‘CSI: Crime Scene Investigation,’’ based on the hit TV series for which he has also written video games, jigsaw puzzles, and a USA Today bestselling series of novels.
An independent filmmaker in the Midwest, he wrote and directed the Lifetime movie Mommy (1996) and a 1997 sequel, Mommy’s Day. He wrote The Expert, a 1995 HBO World Premiere, and wrote and directed the innovative made-for-DVD feature, Real Time: Siege at Lucas Street Market (2000). Shades of Noir (2004), an anthology of his short films, includes his award-winning documentary, Mike Hammer’s Mickey Spillane, featured in a DVD collection of his films, Black Box. His most recent feature, Eliot Ness: An UntouchableLife (2006), based on his Edgar-nominated play, is now available on DVD.
His other credits include film criticism, short fiction, songwriting, trading-card sets, and movie/TV tie-in novels, including the New York Times bestsellers Saving Private Ryan and American Gangster.
Collins lives in Muscatine, Iowa, with his wife, writer Barbara Collins; they write the Trash ‘n’ Treasures mystery series together as Barbara Allan. Their son Nathan, a University of Iowa graduate, has completed a year of post-grad studies in Japan, and spent much of 2007 working for the Barack Obama presidential campaign.
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