Criminal Minds

by Max Allan Collins

  Kotchman always told them, ‘‘And another of his disciples said unto him, ‘Lord, suffer me first to go and bury my father’ ’’—a quote from the book of Matthew, possibly somewhat misinterpreted by the killer.

  Convicted of four counts of murder and one count each of kidnapping and attempted murder, Kotchman, sixty now, was serving a life sentence in a California prison.

  Morgan kept digging into Kotchman’s background (much as the FBI had earlier dug into his backyard), studying the address of Kotchman’s home, the dates of his kills—anything that might give them a leg up on locating a potential victim who had presumably been buried and was possibly still alive. He was still doing that when Reid came in with a copy of Max Ryan’s book.

  Morgan asked, ‘‘How long will it take you to reread that?’’

  Reid sat at the conference table, smiled just a little. ‘‘I read it on the ride back from the bookstore.’’

  He’d been driven to and from the bookstore by local agent Kohler, who’d been doing odds and ends for the team.

  Morgan asked, ‘‘And?’’

  Reid shrugged. ‘‘The book didn’t tell me anything we didn’t already know, per se.’’

  ‘‘Per se?’’

  ‘‘Well, it did get me thinking. What would you need to re-create one of Kotchman’s crimes?’’

  Morgan shrugged. ‘‘Not much—a shovel, some plywood, some PVC pipe for the vent.’’

  ‘‘And where would you get these things?’’

  ‘‘I can think of quite a few places,’’ Morgan said. ‘‘But I know just who can narrow the search for us.’’ He tapped some keys on his laptop and Garcia’s face appeared on his screen.

  ‘‘What’s up?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘We’re looking for someone who might have gone shopping—he could have gone any number of places, but he’d have a very distinct list. He would’ve bought maybe three ten-foot sheets of plywood, ten feet of PVC, and probably a shovel. Can you do your magic and see how many times that’s happened in the Chicago area in the last say . . . three weeks?’’

  ‘‘I’m on it.’’

  ‘‘Be sure to include that Fix-it Mate where Bobby Edels worked. In Mundelein.’’

  ‘‘Will do. When I know something, you will.’’

  And, like any good genie, she was gone, just minus the puff of smoke.

  They went back to studying other aspects of the crime and, although waiting was a large part of any law enforcement job, Morgan felt about to jump out of his skin. He was about to say to hell with it, long enough to grab some lunch anyway, when Jareau entered the conference room carrying a large manila envelope.

  ‘‘Got it,’’ she said, presenting the envelope to Hotchner.

  ‘‘Got what?’’ the team leader asked.

  ‘‘The forensic artist’s suspect drawing. Minchell says this is the guy that hired him to procure the two gay men.’’

  Hotchner was already studying the sketch.

  ‘‘This is our suspect,’’ Hotchner said, handing the drawing to Prentiss, who looked at it for perhaps ten seconds, nodded, then passed it along to Reid.

  The younger agent studied it and, shaking his head, said, ‘‘Doesn’t remind me of Detective Denson.’’

  Reid handed the sheet to Morgan, who needed only a moment to recognize the face. ‘‘This is the guy?’’

  ‘‘According to your broken-nosed friend in the hospital bed, yes,’’ Jareau said cheerfully. ‘‘Evidently, Minchell told the artist that the drawing was spot on—Minchell says that’s absolutely the guy.’’

  Morgan shook his head. ‘‘Son of a bitch . . .’’

  Frowning, Hotchner asked, ‘‘You know him?’’

  ‘‘Saw him—just once, but this is the guy . . . a police photographer. Daniel Dryden.’’

  Hotchner sat up, his eyes sharp. ‘‘Where did you see him?’’

  ‘‘The Gacy house,’’ Morgan said. He gave them a smile that had little to do with the usual reasons for smiling. ‘‘He was very helpful.’’

  Reid’s eyebrows were up. ‘‘We called it—a police buff, or even PD employee, injecting himself into the investigation.’’

  ‘‘We’ve been getting crime scene photos from a crime scene photographer,’’ Prentiss said, and rolled her eyes. ‘‘How old is he?’’

  Shrugging, Morgan said, ‘‘Fortysomething. Closer to forty than fifty.’’

  Jareau said, ‘‘That fits the profile, too.’’

  ‘‘Prentiss,’’ Hotchner said, with coiled urgency, ‘‘get with Garcia—we need an address for Dryden. JJ, let the police in all the jurisdictions know we’re looking to talk to this guy, but make sure the PDs know we don’t want Dryden to know; and get a photo of Dryden over to that hospital and have Minchell confirm that the sketch and Dryden are one in the same. Morgan, Reid, get ready—soon as we have an address, we’re going to call on Mr. Dryden.’’

  Within several minutes, Prentiss had the info from Garcia, and soon the four profilers loaded into an FBI Tahoe and, with Morgan driving, made their way to Oak Park, a suburb that included the Frank Lloyd Wright historical district. They were on Oak Park Avenue, heading slowly north in heavy traffic.

  Reid asked, ‘‘Are you going to call Rossi and the detectives?’’

  ‘‘Yeah, but only to tell them that we’ve tentatively identified the UnSub. I still think they should go to the Speck scene, as a precaution if nothing else. After all, he used the Gacy house.’’

  Morgan turned right on Iowa, went two blocks, then turned back north. The Dryden home, a handsome brick structure vaguely in the Prairie style, sat on the east side of the 700 block of Linden Avenue, the only one-story on a block of two-stories.

  As Morgan parked the SUV in front, Prentiss’s cell phone chirped.

  She answered, listened for a long moment, then said, ‘‘Thanks, Garcia,’’ and clicked off.

  ‘‘What is it?’’ Hotchner asked.

  ‘‘Dryden’s lived here for the last fifteen years. He’s a former fashion photographer, briefly pretty successful, including some gallery shows of his more artistic efforts. But he was a flash in the pan and wound up working for the PD shooting crime scenes. He’s got a wife, Connie—one of his former models—and two boys. Dryden has no criminal record.’’

  Morgan said, ‘‘I wonder if his family is in danger.’’

  Prentiss shrugged. ‘‘Well, he’s a sociopath, so in a way that goes without saying. But do you mean something more specific?’’

  Reid was squinting at the house. ‘‘His list of mass murderers is finite—rather small, actually. He’s accelerating in one sense, but winding down in another.’’

  Prentiss was squinting, too, but at Reid. ‘‘What’s your point?’’

  Reid shrugged. ‘‘He’s in mass murderer mode now. Many mass murderers go on sprees, taking out their entire families and ending with their own suicides. His final photo, his last crime, could be a family portrait.’’

  They got out of the vehicle and stood on the sidewalk for a moment. Once again, summer’s heat gripped the city with fingers of high humidity that seemed to squeeze the very breath out of the city, leaving only car exhaust. The sun did its best to penetrate the dense foliage of the tall trees that sheltered the block, their shade the only hope of a break from the strangling heat.

  Morgan asked, ‘‘Which serial killer, or rather mass murderer, would he be doing, killing his family and himself?’’

  Reid met Morgan’s eyes with an atypically hard stare. ‘‘Daniel Dryden.’’

  Prentiss’s eyes widened as she got it. ‘‘Adding himself to the list . . .’’

  ‘‘And maybe a revised edition of the book he’s following—coming right before Speck, maybe. Alphabetical order?’’

  The house sat sideways on the lot, driveway leading up to the front of the home, a separate two-story garage on the left side, front door facing the driveway on the north side. The west side faced the street with a large picture window, c
urtains open onto a long, wide great room.

  Hotchner answered his cell. He said, ‘‘Yes . . . yes . . . Good.’’

  He clicked off and the other profilers just looked at him. ‘‘JJ says Minchell has seen Dryden’s picture and confirms his identity as the man he set up with the Hot Rods victims.’’

  They went up the driveway, Hotchner first, Morgan second, hand casually on his hip-holstered gun, Reid and Prentiss behind.

  As they neared the door, Hotchner said, ‘‘Prentiss, you and Reid go around back. Make sure no one gets by you.’’

  They nodded and trotted off.

  Morgan and Hotchner gave them thirty seconds, then went to the front door and Hotchner rang the bell.

  They waited quietly for an endless moment before the door swung open and they were greeted by a strikingly pretty woman of thirty-five or so. Her eyes were bright blue, her smile wide and friendly, her cheekbones high, her nose straight. Her blonde-highlighted brown hair curled softly onto the shoulders of her a sleeveless blue blouse; she also wore jeans and open-toed sandals, and was both slender and shapely.

  Former model is right, Morgan thought.

  ‘‘May I help you?’’ she asked.

  Hotchner displayed his credentials. ‘‘Mrs. Dryden?’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ she said, her voice rather musical.

  ‘‘I’m Special Agent In Charge Hotchner, and this is Supervisory Special Agent Morgan.’’

  ‘‘With the FBI, yes,’’ she said, the smile fading. ‘‘You must want Daniel. Something to do with his work? But I’m afraid he’s not here.’’

  Hotchner said, ‘‘Would you know where he is?’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry, no, not exactly where. He’s on the job.’’

  The team leader nodded. ‘‘May we come in?’’

  Her head tilted to one side, giving Hotchner an odd look; but nonetheless she said, ‘‘Of course,’’ and stepped aside to allow them in.

  Morgan followed Hotch.

  The entryway was Spanish tile but the carpeting began almost immediately, the great room stretching out to the right, the kitchen straight ahead, the dining room just to the left.

  ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ Morgan said. ‘‘May I use your bathroom?’’ The request was one he assumed the middle-class housewife could not refuse.

  ‘‘Why, of course,’’ she said. ‘‘Down the hall, first door on the right.’’

  He made the trip quickly, doing his best to see into the other rooms and listening intently for any sound that indicated they were not alone. He ducked into the bathroom, counted to twenty and flushed the toilet. He washed his hands quickly so she could hear the sink running, then rejoined her and Hotchner near the door.

  He flashed his patented smile. ‘‘Thank you.’’

  Mrs. Dryden gave him a half smile, a quick nod, and waved a hand for them to enter the great room.

  The picture window dominated the west wall, and an entertainment center complete with a plasma TV engulfed the north wall. Along the south wall was a long beige sofa with two brown swivel rockers set out on either end as if standing guard, a small coffee table in front.

  Hotchner got out his radio and instructed Prentiss and Reid to join them.

  While they waited for the other agents, Hotchner asked, ‘‘Mrs. Dryden, are your boys at home?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ she said, puzzled. ‘‘They’re at the mall with friends—why do you ask?’’

  ‘‘Actually, I’m relieved. We need to talk to you about some things, and it’s better done with your boys not around.’’

  Reid and Prentiss came in and Hotchner made brief introductions. Morgan and Reid stood while the others sat, Mrs. Dryden and Prentiss on the sofa, Hotchner in one of the swivel chairs.

  ‘‘I must say you’re . . . frightening me,’’ Mrs. Dryden said. ‘‘Is it something about Danny?’’

  ‘‘Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid so.’’

  ‘‘Oh my God, is he all right?’’

  ‘‘As far as we know, he’s fine physically.’’

  ‘‘Far as you know . . . ? Fine physically . . . ? What—’’

  ‘‘Mrs. Dryden, I’m afraid your husband is a person of interest in an ongoing FBI investigation.’’

  ‘‘My husband?’’ Her smile was half-amused, half-horrified. ‘‘What kind of person? Is this some kind of joke—you work with Danny, right?’’

  ‘‘You’re aware of these murders the media’s been covering lately? Really they’ve been taking place since spring.’’

  Mrs. Dryden nodded. ‘‘The copycat killings. Danny’s mentioned them in passing.’’

  ‘‘Would you happen to know if he’s worked all the crime scenes?’’

  ‘‘I have no idea,’’ she said. She was frowning. ‘‘Why aren’t you asking him these questions?’’

  ‘‘We will be,’’ Hotchner said, ‘‘when we locate him. Mrs. Dryden, I hate to have tell you this, but he may prove to be more than just a person of interest. Right now, he’s our chief suspect.’’

  Mrs. Dryden’s eyes were wide though the skin around them was tight. ‘‘What? No . . . no, that’s not possible.’’

  Hotchner said, ‘‘He’s been identified by an eye witness.’’

  ‘‘The witness is mistaken.’’

  ‘‘Perhaps you can help us clear up our thinking, then,’’ Prentiss said quietly. ‘‘You see, in addition to this witness, Mr. Dryden strongly fits the profile we’ve developed.’’

  ‘‘What profile?’’

  ‘‘We’re part of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘And we’ve developed a profile of this suspect. Your husband fits it.’’

  ‘‘You’re wrong!’’ She was on her feet.

  Prentiss stood, touched the woman’s shoulder, but their reluctant hostess lurched away and held up her index finger like it was a knife she could use to defend herself.

  ‘‘Stay away from me!’’ she said.

  ‘‘Mrs. Dryden,’’ Hotchner said, his voice calm. ‘‘I know none of this seems to make sense, but please listen to us.’’

  ‘‘No,’’ the woman said, backing away. ‘‘I . . . I don’t want to. . . .’’

  Hotchner asked, ‘‘Does your husband leave at all hours?’’

  Reid asked, ‘‘Is he secretive about his work?’’

  Prentiss asked, ‘‘Has he had problems with depression?’’

  The woman continued to back slowly away from them, her finger wilting now, tears starting to overflow.

  Morgan asked, ‘‘Does he have a place he won’t let you go, no matter what? A . . . fiercely private place?’’

  Mrs. Dryden was at the front door now. She said nothing, but her eyes cut toward that door . . . or something beyond it.

  ‘‘He does,’’ Morgan pressed, ‘‘doesn’t he?’’

  Her voice was a sort of wail: ‘‘The . . . garage . . .’’

  Prentiss enfolded the woman in her arms and held her while Mrs. Dryden wept. Finally gaining a small measure of composure, the woman said, ‘‘His . . . his darkroom. It’s just his darkroom—upstairs, garage.’’

  Hotchner asked, ‘‘May we have a look?’’

  She frowned; for the first time, something like fear could be seen there. ‘‘Danny . . . he never lets anyone in his darkroom. But there’s a, you know, practical reason—you could ruin something he’s working on. Screw up a crime scene photo, you can screw up a case.’’

  The words were clearly an echo of what her husband had said to her.

  Hotchner said, ‘‘We can get a warrant, Mrs. Dryden. But the faster we move, the sooner this will be cleared up. And if we’re wrong about your husband, all of us want to know, sooner than later. Wouldn’t you agree?’’

  Her face was frozen in confusion. The world had just opened up beneath her feet and she was having trouble not getting swallowed up.

  Morgan said, ‘‘People will be looking to arrest your husband, Mrs. Dryden. And something could go wrong, and someone m
ight get hurt. If there’s nothing up there to tie him to the crimes, we may be able to eliminate him as a suspect. Wouldn’t you want to help him if you could?’’

  She considered that for a long moment. What she decided here could be vital—one way or another, they would be getting into that garage today, yes. But getting that warrant could give Dryden just enough time to practice his deadly performance art once again. . . .

  ‘‘If it might help clear him,’’ she said, as if talking to herself, ‘‘I suppose I should do it.’’ She gazed at Hotchner, her face streaked with tears. ‘‘But be very careful, won’t you? Danny wouldn’t want any of his work spoiled.’’

  I’m sure he wouldn’t, Morgan thought.

  ‘‘We will,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘May we have the key?’’

  She went to a side table near the door, picked up her purse and withdrew a ring with half a dozen keys. She singled one out and handed the key on the ring to Hotchner, who passed it on to Morgan.

  ‘‘That’s to the garage,’’ she said. ‘‘I’m afraid I don’t have a key for the upstairs. Danny has the only one. . . ."

  ‘‘If we have to force a door, we will,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘You do understand that?’’

  She swallowed and nodded.

  ‘‘Thank you.’’ He nodded to Morgan, who went outside, Reid trailing behind him. While they went through the garage, Hotchner and Prentiss would stay with Mrs. Dryden in the house.

  Once outside, depending on Hotch and Prentiss to keep Mrs. Dryden away from the windows, Morgan drew his pistol, and moved forward cautiously. He was still on alert, even though he felt certain the woman wasn’t lying, the possibility remained that the suspect was in that darkroom right now. On this job, one careless entry could be your last. Reid, behind Morgan with his own pistol in hand, had learned that lesson the hard way, when an UnSub had taken the young agent hostage.

  The garage sat at an angle to the long driveway with two separate doors instead of one large one, a walk-in door on the south side, closest to the house. Morgan unlocked the door and stepped into shadowy darkness. Having just come in from the bright sunlight, his eyes took a few agonizing seconds adjusting themselves to the dimness.

  Morgan strained to hear, but was greeted only by silence. His fingers found a wall switch and flipped it. Two ceiling-mounted bulbs came on to cast a pale glow. In the nearer of the two stalls sat a Ford Wind-star van. The space beyond was empty and past that a workbench stood against the north wall, tools hanging on a pegboard. To his right, a flight of stairs led up to a windowless door guarded by a hasp and padlock. Above the door, a red lightbulb (not turned on) stuck out like a big blister.