Criminal Minds

by Max Allan Collins

  Managing editor Brinkley was saying, ‘‘The publisher wants to run all the photos in tomorrow’s edition, despite their . . . graphic nature. I can’t blame him, since the police behavior here is certainly questionable. Still, I managed to convince him that we should call the FBI first. So, here I am.’’

  ‘‘Running those photos,’’ Jareau said, ‘‘could seriously impede a federal murder investigation.’’

  ‘‘Please, Agent Jareau. How many times has a government flack uttered those words?’’

  ‘‘I can’t deny that,’’ Jareau said coolly, though the harshness of the word ‘‘flack’’ offended her. ‘‘I can’t comment directly on an ongoing investigation, of course . . . but it would be safe to say that any killer who sends pictures of his crimes to a newspaper is looking for attention.’’

  ‘‘Agreed. But perhaps, if we give it to him, he will stop.’’

  ‘‘Mr. Brinkley, how long have you been in the newspaper business?’’

  ‘‘Thirty-two years.’’

  ‘‘And in all that time? Have you ever heard of a serial killer stopping because he got attention from the press?’’

  Several moments crawled past. Then: ‘‘You make a reasonable point, Agent Jareau.’’

  ‘‘Thank you,’’ she said. ‘‘You seem like you want to do the right thing here, Mr. Brinkley. Perhaps we can work something out.’’

  ‘‘You’ll give us an exclusive?’’

  She wanted to say: How many times has an editor of some tabloid rag uttered those words?

  But what she did say was, ‘‘I can’t make that promise, Mr. Brinkley—not where the public safety could be jeopardized. I do have an idea of how you can sell papers and not interfere in our investigation . . . and you can do a service to your community as well.’’

  ‘‘I’m listening,’’ Brinkley said.

  ‘‘I can give you a twenty-four lead on one thing. Did you get a photo of a young man partially buried in a crawl space?’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ Brinkley said.

  ‘‘The victim is a John Doe. You can run a photo of his face with a plea for anyone who knows him to come forward and identify him.’’

  ‘‘I don’t have a picture of just his face.’’

  ‘‘You will. Our digital intelligence officer will send it to you while she investigates the path the killer’s e-mail took to get to you.’’

  Brinkley considered that. ‘‘And if I fight to keep your agent out of our computers?’’

  ‘‘First, our tech is smarter than you and smarter than me and you couldn’t keep her out with Bill Gates’s help. And second, you want to help us catch this killer—I know you do. That, Mr. Brinkley, makes for favorable press . . . and it won’t be limited to just your own paper.’’

  After a moment’s thought, Brinkley said, ‘‘Special Agent Jareau, I believe you have yourself a deal.’’

  ‘‘Thank you, Mr. Brinkley. Now, I have one more question for you.’’

  ‘‘Yes?’’

  ‘‘Did he send the photos to the other media outlets?’’

  Brinkley’s voice was subdued. ‘‘I don’t think so. Mine was the only name in the address box and there were no others in the courtesy copy box either. If he did send the pictures to all the media outlets, would he have taken the time to send a copy to one person at each outlet, individually? That would take a lot longer than just spamming us.’’

  ‘‘I agree.’’

  ‘‘And if he did send mass copies, why send a single copy to me? No, Special Agent Jareau, I think it’s possible that he only sent them to us. Then again, it’s not like any other media outlet would tell me if they had copies of these things.’’

  ‘‘Thank you, sir.’’

  ‘‘You might put your computer whiz on it.’’

  ‘‘I might at that.’’

  ‘‘Now, Agent Jareau, if I may . . . one bonus question?’’

  ‘‘All right.’’

  ‘‘You haven’t told Chicago that there’s a serial killer out there—why?’’

  ‘‘It’s a policy of the FBI and the BAU not to discuss ongoing investigations.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, right, that’s the officialese,’’ Brinkley said. ‘‘But how long have you known?’’

  ‘‘Off the record?’’

  ‘‘I could do that,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Because of the jurisdictional considerations, and the involved departments not sharing information until now? Two days.’’

  ‘‘Oh hell,’’ Brinkley said.

  Jareau sighed. ‘‘That kind of response I’ve been hearing a lot lately. . . . Our digital intelligence officer, Penelope Garcia, will be in touch within the next half-hour. She’ll send you the picture and start tracking the e-mail, Mr. Brinkley. I want to thank you for your cooperation.’’

  ‘‘We’re not all in it just to make money, Agent Jareau. I’ve seen the photos and I would do everything I could to keep them out of the Examiner, but the last word here is seldom mine. As a concerned citizen, though, I want you to catch this monster and relegate him to some dark hole forever.’’

  ‘‘We’re trying to do just that.’’

  ‘‘Well, good luck.’’

  ‘‘Thank you, Mr. Brinkley.’’

  ‘‘And, uh, Agent Jareau?’’

  ‘‘Yes?’’

  ‘‘Sorry about that ‘flack’ remark. That was un-called for.’’

  ‘‘That’s all right. I almost called your paper a tabloid rag.’’

  He laughed. ‘‘You wouldn’t have been the first.’’

  Chapter Seven

  August 5 Chicago/Aurora, Illinois

  Six days had passed since the last murder and— although the BAU team had been working sixteen-hour days, and sometimes longer—they were no closer to finding, and stopping, the UnSub.

  As for the UnSub, he seemed to have taken a very long weekend after re-creating the Gacy murder. While he rested, they had worked. And worked.

  For her part, Supervisory Special Agent Emily Prentiss was exhausted. They had already put in eight hours, and now as she stood with Hotchner and the rest, before an expectant audience, she could only wonder if her teammates felt as spent as she did. They were about to present the profile they had developed over the last week.

  Their audience consisted of not only the officers from the task force and the affected jurisdictions, but representatives of neighboring communities, as well. So many had been invited (and so many more had asked to attend) that the conference room in the FBI building on West Roosevelt Road would not hold them. Instead, the BAU had borrowed a lecture hall at the University of Chicago.

  Three quarters of the seats were filled as the five members of the BAU team gathered on a low stage, Hotchner at the lectern, the others fanned out around him. As usual, the team leader wore an immaculate dark suit. Rossi, to Hotch’s right, wore a charcoal sport coat over a light blue dress shirt with a navy tie and jeans. Beyond him, Jareau wore gray also, a business suit with sensible shoes. To Hotch’s left, Prentiss wore one of her classiest dark business suits and to her left Morgan wore a white button-down with dark tie and slacks, but no jacket. Even Reid, next to Morgan, had his tie snugged in place.

  They were the top professionals in the profiling field, and they looked it.

  They were all such imbeciles.

  The cops, the FBI, the pathetic public, none of them had any idea about him and who he was and what made him tick. The public feared him, but they still didn’t respect him. That would change, as the media fueled the fire. The cops knew only what he wanted them to know, and the FBI even less. And none of them could touch him.

  As for the individual citizens who made up this city, they were so goddamn dim that, right now, one of their pitiful ilk was driving him away from a downtown bar, thinking he was a woman.

  Oh, he had the requisite attire, a black dress, naturally.His freshly shaven legs looked even better than he had anticipated. Once upon a time, he had created beautiful
women from lesser material than this. His wig had been appropriated from home, a prop from that past life, and the makeup had been applied perfectly (tricks of his former trade) in the motel room he had taken for the night—he explained to his wife that he would be at a conference.

  His mark was now, ostensibly, driving him to another motel, one that catered to clients who might not necessarily need the room for the whole night.

  Hotchner said, ‘‘This UnSub has killed six innocent people who appear to have no connection with each other.’’

  Except for the three who had a connection to Detective Jake Denson, Prentiss thought.

  ‘‘Three women and three men,’’ Hotchner said, ‘‘with no sexual evidence in the crimes, even when there was in the original crime being mimicked.’’

  He was a chubby guy, Tom Something, who had picked ‘‘her’’ up in a crummy, dark bar downtown. A salesman from Peoria, Tom had been a no-sale at a factory here in Aurora before he entered the bar, where he’d been taken by the cool blonde at the end of the bar.

  ‘‘I don’t normally do this sort of thing,’’ Tom said.

  Balding, with thick-lensed wire frame glasses, Tom wore a K-mart dress shirt, a tie with a tomato sauce stain, and polyester slacks that had long since lost the battle with his ample belly.

  ‘‘I do it all the time,’’ ‘‘she’’ said huskily.

  Hotchner said, ‘‘Our UnSub is a chameleon, able to be different things to different people—an actor of considerable skill. The Chicago Heights murders were a blitz attack—an assassin personality. Yet, the Wauconda murders required him to charm two women into leaving with him, without anyone noticing—a sexual predator personality. The Chinatown killing could have been either, since we have yet to establish the circumstances of his death. That victim, Bobby Edels, was treated as if he simply disappeared.’’

  Hotchner glanced at Reid, who came forward and said, ‘‘Jeffrey Dahmer, like Ted Bundy, was a sexual predator. The difference between the two was gender of victims. The key factor here is that the UnSub displays an impressive ability to appear as whatever facilitates his gaining control of his intended victim . . . and reenacting the next famous murder on his list.’’

  ‘‘What did you say your name was?’’ Tom asked.

  ‘‘Aileen, with an A.’’

  ‘‘Really,’’ Tom said, his speech slightly slurred from several Rob Roys (and a little something extra supplied by ‘‘Aileen’’ when he had been looking at ‘‘her’’ legs instead of his drink).

  Night had fallen and traffic was thin as they moved deeper into the darkness. They were gliding west on Galena Boulevard.

  Tom’s hand slid over and touched ‘‘her’’ knee, then slid farther up the thigh.

  ‘‘Aileen’’ playfully slapped the hand away. ‘‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, big boy.’’

  ‘‘It’s just I can’t hardly wait—you’re so foxy, it’s unreal. . . ."

  ‘‘This killer,’’ Hotchner said, ‘‘like many serial offenders, thrives on manipulation, domination and control. He feels that he has no control in his normal life, and this is the only way he can get it.’’

  ‘‘Turn right here,’’ ‘‘she’’ said.

  Tom did as he was told. They now traveled north on Hankes Road, not another car in sight.

  ‘‘You sure there’s a motel out this way?’’

  She rubbed Bob’s leg reassuringly. ‘‘Just another maybe ten miles up this road—that’s all.’’

  ‘‘Ten miles? I don’t know if I can wait that long. . . ."

  Which was exactly what Tom was supposed to say.

  Smiling, ‘‘Aileen’’ said, ‘‘Well, if you’re in that much of a hurry, why not just pull off up there . . . into the forest preserve.’’

  ‘‘Where?’’

  ‘‘It’s right up on the right. To tell you the truth, lover, I don’t know if I can wait, either.’’

  ‘‘Really?’’

  ‘‘Really. Baby, baby . . . am I wet for you. . . .’’

  ‘‘Even though he has an inadequate personality, don’t be fooled,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘His IQ is probably well above normal.’’

  Hotchner glanced at Rossi, who said to the crowd, ‘‘This is a very organized offender, capable of almost anything. He’s convinced beyond a doubt that he’s superior to the police, the FBI, and of course his victims. He began by sending these photos to the police, and now he’s going to the media to gain even more attention.’’

  Hotchner, nodding, picked back up: ‘‘He’s certain we can’t catch him, and he’s demonstrating his arrogance.’’

  Following directions, Tom turned off the road onto the blacktop of the Aurora West Forest Preserve.A short distance in, a gravel parking lot loomed on the right.

  Tom pulled in, killed the lights, and shut off the car.

  As he turned to kiss her, ‘‘Aileen’’ withdrew a gun from ‘‘her’’ purse and leveled it at Tom, whose eyes went wide with fear.

  ‘‘What the hell?’’

  ‘‘Oh, Tom, Tom, Tom . . . you’re such a fool.’’

  Hotchner continued: ‘‘This UnSub is cold and calculating and devoid of compassion or mercy. He is a textbook sociopath.’’

  ‘‘What the hell? You want money?’’

  ‘‘She’’ pulled the wig off and the ‘‘female’’ voice dropped to its normal, deeper timbre. ‘‘I don’t want your money, Tom.’’

  His face went pasty. ‘‘You . . . you’re a man?’’

  ‘‘And to think I called you a fool, when you’re clearly such a perceptive observer.’’

  He flicked the safety off the .22 automatic. Not a big gun, but big enough.

  ‘‘Please . . . please don’t kill me! Please, I . . .’’

  The first shot hit Tom in the face and he sagged back against the door. He groaned once and two more quick shots silenced him.

  ‘‘Now you’re wet for me, Tom.’’

  ‘‘The UnSub," Hotchner told the assembly, ‘‘is highly organized—he plans ahead and, so far at least, he seems ready for pretty much any situation he encounters.’’

  Working quickly now, he got out the passenger side, came around to the driver’s side, opened the door and watched as Tom flopped out of the car into a heap on the ground.

  From the purse, the killer got a handkerchief, then got back into the vehicle to wipe down everythinghe had touched. The wig, purse, and gun, he took with him. Outside, he plucked a Mini Maglite from the purse, clicked it on, and sent the beam, narrow and pointed low, out ahead as he made his way to a pile of leaves at the far end of the parking lot. After shoving the leaves aside, he pulled out a backpack he’d buried in the underbrush.

  Next, he picked the corpse up under its arms and dragged the thing into the woods, where he tossed it into a shallow grave. Using the camp shovel with which he’d dug it, he filled the hole in quickly.

  Changing out of his ‘‘Aileen’’ apparel, and into his regular clothes, took barely any time even in the near-pitch darkness of the forest. All the while he dressed, he strained to hear any sound. He knew he was in the middle of nowhere, but the possibilitythat someone had heard one of the shots, or seen the flash as they drove by, had to be considered.

  ‘‘The photographs serve a couple of purposes,’’ Hotchner told the attentive group. ‘‘First, they function as a souvenir, giving him a way to relive the crime later. The UnSub can re-create the excitement for himself with the pictures. Secondly, they are his instrument to communicate with us . . . and to taunt us.’’

  After packing his female clothes in the backpack, he got out his camera. As he set up the first shot, he wondered if he should send it straight to the FBI. The idea amused him.

  They knew about him now, these so-called ‘‘profilers.’’ Taunting the police was easy, almost too easy, but the feds—these particular feds—made a new challenge.

  Perhaps it was time to say, ‘‘Hello, and welcome to my world.’’

&nbs
p; He snapped the photo, flash strobing the night; then another, then changed angles and took a few more. Then, in a burst of inspiration, he realized that a bigger, more spectacular introduction was needed for the profilers.

  And he knew just what to do.

  When he had finished shooting his photos, he squatted outside the passenger side of the car. Looking through the windows on each side, he could see the moon hanging just above the trees, the mark’s blood black on the driver’s side window in the moon glow.

  He took a couple more photos. He loved the black blood. It took every ounce of strength he possessed not to touch it.

  But a real artist knew not to touch a masterpiece when it was still damp.

  A voice from the audience called out: ‘‘What he’s telling us now?’’

  Prentiss detected a note of sarcasm in the question, but Hotchner answered it straight.

  ‘‘That he’s in control. That he’s smarter than us. That he can strike any time he wants . . . and there’s nothing we can do to stop him.’’

  Rising, he strode to the backpack and put away the camera, then swung the pack onto his shoulders.

  He had known he would not want to walk back to town, and a hitchhiker would be noticed. Deeper in the woods, not near any trail, he had taken a secondhand bicycle he bought this morning and chained it to the trunk of a tree, before covering it with leaves and dirt. Even in the blackness, the arithmetic was simple: just count his steps from the concrete block that held the trash bin across the parking lot to the spot one-hundred-fifty steps into the woods where the bike lay waiting.

  Ten minutes later, he was on the road, pedaling toward town, nothing more than a silhouette in the night, ‘‘Aileen’’ as dead as Tom.

  Rossi stepped forward. ‘‘What is he saying? He’s saying ‘Go screw yourselves.’ ’’

  This got a few laughs in the big hall.

  Rossi continued: ‘‘But, just for the record? He’s not limiting that sentiment to the five of us on this stage. He’s saying it to every man and woman here. This UnSub thinks he’s smarter than all of you and all of us, put together. And, so far, folks . . . he’s been right.’’

  No one laughed at that. The auditorium fell silent and Rossi stepped back, nodding to Hotchner to continue.