“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 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.”