Текст книги "Killer Profile "

Автор книги: Max Collins

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

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 waitthat 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 wetfor 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… pleasedon’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 tauntus.”

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 particularfeds—made a new challenge.

Perhaps it was time to say, “Hello, and welcome to myworld.”

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.

He did. “There are some other things we’re pretty sure about, too,” the team leader said. “He’s white. Serial killers hardly ever cross racial lines. He’s between thirty-five and fifty.”

All across the audience, pens were scribbling furiously in notebooks; here and there, mini-cassette recorders were held up.

“These are not the crimes of a young offender,” Hotchner was saying. “These murders are too sophisticated, too organized, the fantasy too well formed, to have been committed by someone who hasn’t had years to develop it. He also has patience. Some of these crimes took a long time to set up… and evidence suggests he’s even stalked some of the victims.”

Morgan said, “That’s a patient man. He’s going to have a job that allows him freedom to come and go as he pleases, as well.”

“He’s single?” one cop called out.

“Not necessarily,” Prentiss said. “It’s just as likely we’ll find that he’s married. He might even have kids too.”

Morgan nodded. “He’s not acting out the sexual aspects of the crimes on his list, and that is a major, significant omission. No sexual evidence has turned up in these crimes. So there’s no reason to think that he’s married or not. Remember Dennis Rader, the BTK killer in Wichita, Kansas? Married and with two kids.”

Reid added, “Andrei Chikatilo, the Russian serial killer, was also married and had two children.”

Taking back the reins, Hotchner said, “Also like Rader, who had a job with a security company for fifteen years, our UnSub will be a police buff or work in security or he could have applied for the police and been turned down. He could, presumably, even be a current officer.”

No mention of Detective Denson would be made today, however; Hotchner had made that clear to his team.

Rossi said, “But he is very likely to find a way to inject himself into this investigation. Further, he’s got his own car. These crimes have taken place around the city, and they’re too far away from each other for him to walk or take public transportation.”

Hotchner picked back up: “His car will be either a police-type vehicle, like a Ford Crown Victoria, or something larger, perhaps. That fifty-five-gallon drum got to Chinatown somehow. The vehicle will be nondescript and probably a dark color, navy blue, gray, maybe black. He’s moved in and out among people both at Bangs Lake and Chinatown, yet no one seems to have noticed him.”

An audience member asked, “You really think it could be a cop?”

Rossi stepped forward again. “We’re not saying it’s a cop any more than we’re saying it’s the night watchman at Navy Pier. This is a typeof person. We put all the pieces together, and we narrow down the list of suspects from everybody in the United States, to everyone in the Midwest, to men in Illinois, to white men in the greater Chicago area, to cop buffs with too much time on their hands.”

Morgan said, “Eventually, we’ll get down to one guy and the sooner, the better. We can do this, but we need your help.” He pointed at random faces in the audience and tapped his finger, bing bing bing bing. “You’re our eyes in the streets, guys. Allof you. Which is why we’re trying to help you know what to look for.”

The briefing lasted another half hour and, when they were through, a few officers and detectives hung around to ask even more questions. By the time the BAU team left the university, it was after nine at night and any reasonable person would be heading home; they, however, grabbed a quick snack at a diner, and were soon back in the field office and at work on the case.

Prentiss had hoped to go back to the hotel to get some laundry done. They’d packed for only a few days and had now been here a week. If she didn’t get some laundry done soon, all the perfume in the world wouldn’t prevent her from being mistaken for a Cubs player after an extra inning game.

She continued to work the victimology, trying to discern why one potential victim was chosen over another.

Addie Andrews and Benny Mendoza had probably been nothing more than victims of opportunity on that rainy April night. The UnSub had chosen the time and place for a reason—mimicking Berkowitz– making the identities of the victims less significant. Killer needed a necking couple and, on that particular night, few couples would have been out. The weather had seen to that.

With the two girls at Bangs Lake, the story had been different. They were two among hundreds that day. Why them?

Donna Cooper was a brown-haired, straight-A student, and a cheerleader in high school. Her friend, Casey Goddard, had also been a brunette young woman going to college part-time and working two jobs to pay for it. She, too, had been a bright girl and a good student. Of the hundreds of girls who had been at Bangs Lake throughout that sunny June day, why had these two been chosen over all the others? Certainly more than two bikini-clad brunettes had been on the beach that day.

Prentiss was still puzzling over that when a face appeared on the screen of her laptop: Penelope Garcia.

“I’ve got news,” Garcia said.

“Try to make it good news,” Prentiss said.

“You’ll have to decide that from your end. First, rain washed away any fingerprints on the outside of Bobby Edels’s car.”

“How about the interior?”

“Wiped clean. Even Bobby’s fingerprints were gone.”

Prentiss said, “The car was missing a long time– they might have just evaporated.”

“The crime scene tech I talked to said there were signs that the car had been wiped. The killer might have been in the car.”

“Or even moved it,” Prentiss suggested. “Have you come up with any good reason for the car being dumped in that neighborhood?”

“Sorry. Could be the UnSub moved the car from wherever he abducted Bobby. But this much we know: the car didn’t have plates, and was wiped clean. If the towing company hadn’t filed for the title with the Vehicle Identification Number, we still wouldn’t know where it was.”

“Meaning no offense whatsoever, to a valuable member of our team? Nothing you have said sounds even remotely like good news.”

But on the little flat screen, Garcia was smiling. “Well, I do have one more thing.…”

Noting the glee in the computer expert’s tone, Prentiss sat forward. “Spill.”

“Our friend Detective Jake Denson,” Garcia said, with triumph in her tone, “had a connection to one of the young women who disappeared.”

Prentiss felt the air go out of her. More worthless information. “Garcia, we knew that. It’s a small town, they worked at a local convenience store Denson frequented, and now he’s investigating their disappearances. End of story.”

“Here’s a brand– newstory,” Garcia said. “Casey Goddard used to babysit for Denson’s kids, before his divorce. His ex-wife and the kids? Moved away.”

“You wouldn’t tease me, would you? Make things up?”

“This is as real as real deals come. I was combing newspaper articles that were written not long after the women’s bodies were identified. Emily Goddard, Casey’s mom, gave an interview to the Lake County Witnesswhere she was quoted as saying, ‘I have faith in Detective Denson. He’s dedicated and he’s been a good friend over the years. Casey used to babysit for his children—I know he will find my daughter’s killer.’ "

Prentiss’s eyes darted around the room searching for Hotchner. Everybody else was here—where was the boss?Finally, she said, “Garcia, hang tight. I can’t find Hotch.”

Turning to the room, she asked, “Anybody know where Hotch went?”

With a vague gesture, Reid said, “He’s in one of the back offices, trying to catch an hour’s sleep.”

“Wake him,” Prentiss said.

Shaking his head, Reid said, “He doesn’t want to be disturbed. He said—”

“Whatever he said, he’s going to want to hear this. Wake him.”

Her tone carried enough weight to propel Reid out of his chair and out of the conference room.

Almost simultaneously, Morgan and Rossi turned toward her and asked, “What is it?”

Prentiss held up a steadying palm. “Hotch’ll be here in a second,” she said to them (and Garcia, still online and on screen).

Their bleary-eyed team leader came in quickly, jacket off, necktie loosened, short hair managing to look mussed, and said to Prentiss, “Please tell me this is a major break.”

“Might well be,” Prentiss said. She nodded to Garcia’s face on the flat screen.

He leaned in at Prentiss’s laptop. “What is it, Garcia?”

The zaftig blonde reiterated what she’d told Prentiss.

Hotchner’s alertness sharpened even as his irritation vanished, and ice was in his voice as he said, “Garcia, tell me you have Denson’s home address ready.”

She said nothing, just punching some keys to give him the information almost instantaneously.

Hotchner’s eyes went to Morgan. “Morgan, get hold of Lorenzon. I want the two of you to pick up Jake Denson and get him in here ASAP.”

Rossi shrugged. “I could go with Morgan.”

Hotchner shook his head. “This might be nothing, but it might also mean the apprehension of an offender who’s armed and dangerous, and knows law enforcement tactics.”

“Right,” Rossi said. “So I’ll go with Morgan.”

“No. Lorenzon’s a street cop, Dave. You’re a profiler.”

“What, I’m not up to this collar?”

“It’s not a collar yet—we’re just bringing Denson in for questioning. But I want one of the locals in on this, not just the big bad feds.”

That mollified Rossi.

Just after midnight, when they should have been asleep in their hotel rooms (or at least, Prentiss thought, back doing their laundry), the BAU team was still in the conference room as Morgan and Lorenzon came in accompanying a very pissed-off Jake Denson.

The detective with the Yul Brynner haircut wore jeans, a Cubs T-shirt and sneakers. He looked like he hadn’t shaved since morning and he still had his gun on his hip.

Hotchner, pulling his tie tight as he rose to meet them, glanced at Morgan, asking a question with his eyes.

“He wasn’t at home,” Morgan said. “He was working—caught up with him at the Wauconda PD.”

Hotchner turned to the detective and said, “You always work this late, Detective?”

“Do you?” Denson said. “What the hell is this all about?”

“Have a seat,” Hotchner said.

“I’ll take a pass,” Denson said, folding his arms. “You see, I’m not going to be here that long. So I’ll just stand.”

“We need to talk about your case—the murdered girls from Bangs Lake.” Hotchner gestured to a chair at the nearest table. “You’ll be more comfortable if you sit.”

“How many times,” Denson said, “and how many ways, do I have to tell you where to stick your task force? You’re not getting my case, boys and girls. I started it, and I’ll finish it.”

Hotchner said, “We don’t want to talk to you about yourinvestigation.”

“No?”

“No. We want to talk to you about ourinvestigation.”

“What about your investigation?” Denson asked, confused. “You think I’m gonna let you pick my brain so you can—”

“We’re investigating you, Detective Denson.”

“Me?”

Hotchner’s hands went to his hips, elbows winged. “You haven’t been entirely forthcoming with us.”

“Why should I be?”

“Thing is, in keeping things from us, Detective, you’ve helped us develop a suspect.”

“I have? Who?”

Several seconds passed before he realized that everyone in the room was staring at him. “Me?”

“You lied to us,” Hotchner said.

“Like hell I did!”

“Casey Goddard was a babysitter for your family.”

Denson swallowed. “Not telling you that doesn’t make me a liar.”

Rossi asked him, “Would you let a perp get away with that line of bull?”

Denson turned toward Rossi.

But it was Prentiss who spoke: “Didn’t your mother ever tell you a sin of omission is the same as a lie?”

Denson spun toward her.

Only Reid commented next: “Holding that back makes you seem like someone with something to hide.”

Denson swivelled to face Reid.

Then Morgan, shaking his head, said, “I can’t believe we haven’t busted your damn ass already.”

Denson’s final turn had brought him back to his initial position. No one said anything else but all of their eyes were on him and his hands went to either side of his head like he was trying to hold his skull together.

“All right, goddamnit—I lovedher!”

If Denson was expecting looks of revulsion, he didn’t get any. The profilers were studying him, yes, but clinically.

And Hotchner pulled out a chair for him and the detective finally sat.

“She wasn’t underage or anything. It wasn’t like that. We’d known her for years, she was my kids’ babysitter since she was in junior high, and was like… like one of the family. I went through a rough patch of drinking and running around, and finally my wife asked me for a divorce. Before my wife moved out, with the kids, Casey was still baby-sitting for us. This one night, I drove her home and she knew I was upset about something and we sat and talked and… I guess she’d had a secret crush on me or some such, because it… it turned into something.”

Hotchner asked, “Did your wife know?”

“No. Christ, if she had, she’d have used it to beat me up even worse in the divorce.”

“How about the girl’s parents? Did they know?”

“I don’t think so.”

Morgan moved in. “How about the other girl? How about Donna, did sheknow? Is that why you killed them both?”

“No! Hell, no.” Denson was shaking his head, furiously. “I didn’t kill either of them. I toldyou.… I loved Casey. When my wife moved out, Casey and me, we started sneaking around, because she was still in high school at the time, and her parents would’ve gone ape shit, and who could blame them? Finally she got tired of me, I guess… novelty wore off. I think I’d have stayed with her forever, if she’d’ve had me. All in all, it lasted maybe… six months.”

Hotchner said, “She didn’t love you, anymore. But you still loved her?”

Denson shook his head. “No. No, I’d moved on, too. I wasn’t some old perv stalking her, if that’s what you mean.”

“And you tried to keep us out of the Bangs Lake investigation so we wouldn’t turn this up?”

“Maybe. Maybe that was part of it.” He looked up helplessly at Hotchner, then his eyes searched out every other face. “But mostly I wanted to solve this thing, solve it myself! Why do you think I’ve been working so hard? I want to get the bastard that did this awful thing to that lovely, lovely girl.”

And he hunched over and cried. He didn’t even bother bringing up his hands to cover his face or catch the tears. He just sat there and wept.

Finally Hotchner said, “Go home.”

“What?”

“While we’re wasting our time with you, we’re losing ground to the real killer.”

“You… you believe me?”

Morgan said, “Shouldn’t we?”

But Hotchner was shaking his head. “I don’t believe you and I don’t disbelieve you. We’ll check out your story. But if you’re on the level, and all you want is Casey’s killer to be brought to justice, here’s what you’re going to do.”

“Anything,” Denson said.

“First, you’re off the case. Second, you convince your chief to share all information that you and anyone else on the Wauconda PD have gathered on this. Then your chief is to send someone over to join our task force. Not you—someone else.”

“I’m the one that knows the case!”

Hotchner’s smile was like a cut on his face that had refused to heal. “You’re still a suspect, and we have a policy here at the BAU—suspects don’t work on the investigation.”

Morgan said, “If you’re looking for a choice, we could lock you up till this thing’s over.”

Denson sighed. “I’ll do everything you said. I’ll cooperate fully. You have my word. Just… just catch the son of a bitch.”

Rossi said, “You have our word. We will.”

When Denson had gone, Hotchner wheeled to Jareau. “Get SAIC Himes to give us bumper-lock surveillance on our fellow law enforcer, Detective Denson. I want to know his whereabouts twenty-four/seven.”

Jareau nodded, cell phone out already, and headed off.

Rossi was frowning. “You think our friend from Wauconda is the UnSub?"

Hotchner breathed deep. “We’ll tail him as such. Who knows? Maybe we’ll save him from himself.”