Текст книги "Killer Profile "

Автор книги: Max Collins

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

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.

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 meof Detective Denson.”

Reid handed the sheet to Morgan, who needed only a moment to recognize the face. “ Thisis 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 Drydento 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, curtains 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. “ Whatkind 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 himthese 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.”

“ Whatprofile?”

“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 anyonein 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 might 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.

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 Killby 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.”