Criminal Minds (7 page)

‘‘It’s possible,’’ Reid said. ‘‘Son of Sam shot individuals as well as couples.’’

‘‘Dr. Reid could be right,’’ Tovar said. ‘‘The weather was bad that night. Rained like hell most of the evening. I doubt if there were a lot of people out and about.’’

Reid said, ‘‘This isn’t the only house visible from the park.’’

Rossi said, ‘‘It would be easy to watch most of the street from that parking lot.’’

‘‘There’s something else,’’ Reid said.

The other two turned to him.

"Our UnSub is patient. He takes care and exercises a certain artistry, but he’s not a perfectionist—he’s willing to fudge a little on his re-creations.’’

Rossi eyed Reid skeptically. ‘‘And you’ve reached this conclusion how?’’

Reid shrugged. ‘‘He waited.’’

Rossi chewed on that momentarily. Then he said, ‘‘He sat in wait until his victims came along. Yeah.

I’ll buy that.’’

‘‘No, I think you miss my point—I mean, he waited past
midnight
.’’

The other two stared at him.

‘‘Technically,’’ Reid said, articulating something he’d discerned on first reading the report, ‘‘he missed the anniversary of the Son of Sam killing. He shot them in the early morning hours of the eighteenth.’’

‘‘What does that mean?’’ Tovar asked.

Rossi sighed, gave Reid a little smile that meant,
Nice going
, and said to the Chicago cop, ‘‘It means that even though he’s re-creating crimes, our UnSub is willing to adapt his crime so that he gets his kill . . . even if it undermines the exactness of his recreation.’’

Tovar still seemed confused. ‘‘And what does
that
tell us?’’

Rossi tilted his head just a little, then righted it. ‘‘Even though he’s patient and highly organized in his planning, he’s
going
to
kill
—that’s the priority— even if it doesn’t fall within the exact boundaries of what he’s trying to create.’’

‘‘Or rather,’’ Reid put in, ‘‘re-create.’’

Rossi nodded, then went on: ‘‘Reid used the word ‘artistry,’ and I think that’s right on point: in his own way, probably in his own mind, our UnSub is an artist. Instead of just painting or sculpting the things that inspire him, he’s acting them out.’’

‘‘It wasn’t clear until we got here,’’ Reid said, ‘‘but aren’t these jurisdictions where he committed the crimes rather far apart?’’

‘‘Yeah,’’ Tovar said, with a nod.

‘‘
How
far apart?’’ Reid asked.

Tovar gestured vaguely. ‘‘The Chinatown crime scene is about an hour from here, depending on traffic. The Wauconda crime scene is at least an hour and a half north of here.’’

Reid’s eyes tightened. ‘‘That tells us something too.’’

‘‘Which is?’’ Tovar asked.

‘‘He’s mobile,’’ Reid said.

‘‘He owns a car,’’ Rossi agreed.

‘‘What kind?’’ Tovar asked, a smile creasing his face. It was a joke.

Smiling back, Rossi said, not joking at all, ‘‘Something inconspicuous, probably an older car that would blend in. It won’t be anything too flashy and the color will be something neutral or subdued, too. He’s been spending a lot of time planning these crimes. He has to’ve spent a lot of time in the areas where they took place . . . and no one noticed him.’’

‘‘Okay,’’ Tovar said, impressed. ‘‘I can get on board with that.’’

Reid asked, ‘‘Were all the crimes committed at night?’’

‘‘This one was,’’ Tovar said. ‘‘The other two, the bodies were found well after the murders, so there’s no way to know for sure.’’

Reid turned to Rossi. ‘‘If he’s spending this much time in these places, doesn’t he have to have some job freedom?’’

Rossi nodded, once.

Tovar asked, ‘‘Why not just unemployed?’’

Rossi shook his head. He patted the SUV near where they stood. ‘‘Not likely with the distance between these crime scenes and Chicago gas prices. He’s got a job that allows him at least some freedom.’’

‘‘You’re sure of this?’’ Tovar asked.

‘‘It’s an educated guess,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘But a very educated guess.’’

The Hispanic detective mulled that. ‘‘Maybe his wife works, or he’s somebody that doesn’t have to work, ’cause his family left him money or something.’’

‘‘Possible,’’ Rossi said with a tiny smile. ‘‘Not probable.’’

Mind going a million miles an hour, Reid said, ‘‘His job doesn’t give him the satisfaction he needs, either.’’

‘‘Why do you say that?’’ Tovar asked.

‘‘These crimes are all about getting attention,’’ Reid said. ‘‘There’s no indication of any sexual aspects to the killings, so the UnSub’s doing it for two things: self-satisfaction, a twisted sense of self-worth you might say; and, again, the attention.’’

Rossi said, ‘‘You can’t be a performance artist if there’s no audience.’’

Reid and Tovar both turned to look at the goateed FBI agent, his words having hit them both fairly hard.

As Reid digested the idea, Tovar turned toward the house. Following the detective’s gaze, Reid turned as well and saw a stocky man of about five-nine striding across the yard in their direction. He had short hair, horn-rimmed glasses and a sad, pouchy face etched with a frown.

Tovar stepped forward, hand extended. ‘‘Mr. Andrews.’’

‘‘Detective Tovar,’’ Andrews said politely. He wore khakis and a tan-and-brown striped Polo shirt. ‘‘Good to see you again.’’

Reid and Rossi let the detective take the lead.

Tovar said, ‘‘Vernon Andrews, this is Supervisory Special Agent David Rossi and Supervisory Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid from the FBI.’’

‘‘We’re sorry for your loss,’’ Rossi said, shaking the man’s hand.

Andrews nodded. ‘‘Thank you.’’

‘‘For what it’s worth, we’re here to help bring the person who did this terrible thing to justice.’’

‘‘If I can help in any way, don’t hesitate.’’

Andrews was saying this as he shook Reid’s hand, the grieving man’s grasp limp and cool, a dead man’s handshake.

Reid added his condolences.

‘‘Thank you,’’ Andrews said.

‘‘Mr. Andrews,’’ Reid went on, ‘‘we’d like to ask you some questions, if that would be all right.’’

‘‘Will it help find my daughter’s killer?’’

Rossi said, ‘‘We hope so, sir.’’

‘‘Then please ask. But I’m afraid I don’t know what I can tell you that I haven’t already told Detective Tovar.’’

‘‘We know what happened,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘Right now, we’re more concerned with why it happened . . . and how.’’

‘‘I’m not sure I understand,’’ Andrews said.

Rossi said, ‘‘The police have given us a good picture of the night your daughter and her boyfriend were killed. We want to know what led up to that moment.’’

‘‘How on earth can I help with that?’’

With a small, respectful smile, Rossi asked, ‘‘Mr. Andrews, would you call yourself an observant man?’’

With a shrug, Andrews said, ‘‘I try to be.’’

‘‘Let me ask you then—did you see anyone watching your house or the neighborhood in the weeks before your daughter was shot? Someone who didn’t belong here?’’

The grief-stricken father considered that for a long moment.

Finally, he said, ‘‘You know, I never gave it a second thought before . . . but Addie told me one night, last March? That she had thought someone was watching her and Benny, when they were parked next to the house. Actually, it was a kind of accusation—she assumed it was her mother or me, spying on her. At the time, I was so worried about convincing her that she should trust us, that she must’ve just been imagining things, that I . . . I never took in account that someone might actually be watching them.’’

Reid asked, ‘‘Did Addie say
why
she’d thought you were watching her and Benny?’’

‘‘She said . . . said it felt like someone was there in the darkness when they were sitting in the car. With all the trees around the house, she assumed it was Doris—that’s her mom. Or me.’’

‘‘And it wasn’t?’’

‘‘No. I’m as protective as the next father. But we were young once, we knew the kids needed some time to themselves . . . and, anyway, we trusted Benny.
He
was a good kid, too. We liked him. I’m pretty sure Addie loved him, though she hadn’t told us that.’’ He looked at Tovar. ‘‘You’re a parent, Detective. You understand.’’

Tovar nodded gravely. ‘‘It’s a balancing act between trying to protect them and letting go.’’

‘‘Yes,’’ Andrews said, and swallowed. ‘‘I should have protected her more. Did I screw up?’’

Rossi said, ‘‘No, sir. No . . .’’

‘‘Should I have taken what Addie said more seriously, about someone watching her? I screwed up, didn’t I?’’

Gently, Rossi touched the father’s sleeve. ‘‘No. You didn’t. Let go of that thought. It’s no good.’’

Andrews swallowed again, and nodded. ‘‘But I can’t help but blame myself, Mr. Rossi.’’

‘‘We’re going to find the one to blame, Mr. Andrews,’’ Rossi said firmly. ‘‘And it’s not you.’’

As the four men stood in a loose semicircle, a short, heavyset woman in a blue T-shirt, jeans and tennis shoes emerged from around the house. The blue T-shirt was emblazoned with a white cross next to which the words St. Vincent’s Parents Association were printed. The woman’s blonde hair was trimmed short.

Reid could easily see the resemblance between mother and deceased daughter.

‘‘This is Doris,’’ Andrews said. ‘‘My wife.’’

She gave them a wan smile. She still seemed shell-shocked from the loss of her daughter, even though months had passed.

Reid also knew that the haunted look would probably never go away, not entirely. He had seen it far too many times in his relatively short tenure with the BAU. Parents never got over the loss of a child. Not really.

They asked her the same questions they had posed to her husband. She, too, shook her head when asked if she had seen anyone watching the neighborhood; she, too, commented that her daughter had accused her parents of watching her and Benny.

Frustrated, Reid turned to Rossi who shrugged. They would get the police to canvass the neighborhood again, but so much time had passed that they would be incredibly lucky if anyone remembered anything.

‘‘I’m sorry,’’ Andrews said. ‘‘It looks like we’ve let you down. And if we’ve let
you
down, we’ve let Addie down.’’

Rossi jumped in. ‘‘I know it’s natural to blame yourselves. You have to understand, you didn’t have anything to do with what happened to your daughter.’’

Andrews nodded, but it was clear he didn’t believe Rossi. His wife merely appeared dazed.

Reid looked at Rossi and wondered what had gotten into the longtime profiler. Those supportive words were what Reid would have expected from the compassionate Jason Gideon, not the more professionally impersonal David Rossi.

The three of them were about to climb into the SUV and leave what was left of this family to their grief when Mrs. Andrews said, as if to herself, ‘‘What about the gray car?’’

They all turned to her.

‘‘Pardon?’’ Rossi asked.

‘‘The gray car,’’ she said. ‘‘I remember seeing it last spring, before the . . . before what happened. I thought we were getting a new neighbor, I saw that gray car so much. I saw it around the neighborhood and in the park, oh, three or four times.’’

‘‘What kind of car?’’ Tovar asked.

She shrugged. ‘‘I don’t know cars. Four doors, boxy, gray. That’s all I remember.’’

Rossi asked, ‘‘When did you see it last?’’

‘‘After what happened . . . the car stopped coming around. I just never saw it again. Or at least I didn’t notice it.’’

Rossi turned to Tovar. ‘‘Let’s see if we can get tape from any security camera within a five-mile radius. Go back to a month before the crime.’’

‘‘That’s going to be a lot of security video,’’ Tovar said.

‘‘I hope so,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘The more video we have, the better chance that someone caught this car on screen.’’

Mrs. Andrews, vaguely apologetic, said, ‘‘It might not be anything.’’

Rossi nodded. ‘‘That’s true. Or, you might have seen the assailant stalking the neighborhood.’’

Mrs. Andrews looked stricken. ‘‘You mean . . . I could have
saved
her. . . .’’

‘‘No! You had no way to know. What’s suspicious about a gray car? And that’s the way he wanted it. This is a predator we’re dealing with. He’s made it his job to blend in . . . and he’s good at it.’’

The mother and father did not appear terribly reassured by Rossi’s words.

The profiler seemed to sense it. ‘‘Hey, it’s our job to catch this guy,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘We’re good at that, too.’’

Andrews gave Rossi a stricken look. ‘‘But what if he’s better than you?’’

Rossi gave the man a crooked smile that Reid had previously seen the older man flash only on talk shows.

‘‘Trust me,’’ Rossi said, ‘‘he’s not.’’

N
earing five o’clock that afternoon, as Rand Road turned into Main Street to curve around Bangs Lake, Supervisory Special Agent Jennifer Jareau could see, between the buildings, boats and jet skis tearing across the middle of the lake. She could also see, within section areas nearer the beach, swimmers and sunbathers.

Hotchner had the wheel while Lorenzon navigated them through the town of twelve and a half thousand souls. As they eased around to the three hundred block, Lorenzon said, ‘‘Over there, on the right. You can park in front.’’

Hotchner heeled the Tahoe to the curb in front of a one-story, flat-roofed brick building with a big window on either side of the door, a sign proclaiming it the Wauconda Police Department. They got out of the SUV, then made their way toward the building, Hotchner in the lead and Lorenzon pausing in gentlemanly fashion to allow Jareau to go in front of him.

The Midwest,
she thought.
Gotta love it. . . .