Three and a half hours later, the profilers were again gathered around the table, but now with fresh copies of the composite drawing made by the forensic artist and from Grant’s description. Detective Tovar, back from running down some stray leads, had taken the bartender home and had just gotten back again. He and the other task force detective, Lorenzon, were sitting in.
“Did a copy of this sketch go to Garcia?” Hotchner asked.
Prentiss nodded. “She’s already working on the video.”
“Good. Nice work.”
“This was fast,” Rossi said appreciatively, eyebrows up, a copy of the sketch in hand. “How about the bartender’s boss? The club owner? Any fuss from him over handing over the security vids? That’s a pretty insular world.”
“Yes it is,” Prentiss said. “And a serial killer who might be targeting gay men is bad for business in that world.”
Morgan said, “If the clientele is too afraid to leave home, they won’t come to the club. No patrons, no money.”
Prentiss was nodding. “That’s what I pointed out to him. After that, the impresario behind Hot Rods couldn’t wait to hand over the videos. We got everything for the last six months.”
“Free enterprise,” Rossi said. “Gotta love it. Self-interest, the keystone to good citizenship.”
Hotchner asked, “Morgan, did you and Reid come up with anything new out of the Wauconda material?”
Tossing the file, Morgan said, “Zip. Seems for all his bluster, Denson’s investigation was stalled. For no more progress than he was making, he might as well have gone door to door asking for a confession.”
Rossi’s brow was furrowed as he stared at the suspect sketch. “In two of the crimes our UnSub has chosen to imitate, he’s gone out of his way to find gay victims. He’s duplicating crimes on a level I’ve certainly never seen.”
“Fast and loose with details,” Reid said, “but the overall scenario he mimics with exactitude.”
Hotchner asked, “And what does that tell us about him?”
“He’s obsessed,” Morgan said. “He wants the attention the original killers received. The closer he comes to replicating their crimes, the closer he comes to replicating their fame… he thinks.”
Reid said, “He believes that if he replicates what the original serial killers did, as precisely as possible, and doesn’t get caught—and they did, remember, all get caught—then he’s better than all of them.” The young profiler shook his head. “This is a massiveego.”
Rossi chuckled mirthlessly. “And yet, still an inadequate personality.”
“About the victimology,” Prentiss said, sitting forward. “How do we get out in front of this guy? There’s a hundred serial killers he could pick to imitate next. How do we figure out which one it will be, and try to protect the appropriate potential victims?”
That was a question none of them had an answer for.
Their mood, uplifted by the gay bar breakthrough, turned somewhat glum at the grim reality Prentiss had pointed out. They went back to work and the day dragged along with precious little progress. The long hours of hard work and little rest were wearing down both body and spirit.
Morgan knew they needed another breakthrough, and they were all poring over material looking for it; but Morgan was wondering if Rossi’s idea of drawing out the UnSub was not the most reasonable course, after all.
He was about to say something when Garcia’s face popped up on his computer monitor via a video link.
“You do not look like a happy man,” she said.
“Girl, tell me this isn’t just a social call.”
“It isn’t. I have a little something for you.”
He straightened. “You found something?”
“Just possibly the identity of your UnSub."
“You’re a doll.” Morgan turned and said, “Hotch! You need to hear this.”
The entire team huddled around Morgan’s laptop and gave their full attention to the genie in the box.
“I may have found him,” she said, “on the security video from the bar.”
Prentiss asked, “How could you identify him from that? Was he in the company of one or more of the victims?”
“No, but the suspect sketch gave me somebody to look for, and the face from the security video I fed into my facial recognition software, which ran those parameters against all the mug shots in the Cook County database. That’s how I came up with a less than sterling citizen named Eddie Minchell.”
“Good,” Hotchner said. “What do we know about him?”
“A thoroughgoing lowlife,” Garcia said. “Twenty-four with arrests and convictions for procurement, misdemeanor possession of marijuana, and one battery charge that got dropped when the complainant didn’t show up in court.”
His expression perplexed, Reid said, “And now he’s imitating some of the most evil serial killers in American history? He doesn’t fit our profile.”
Nodding, Morgan said, “Either we’re completely off base or this isn’t our guy.”
“One way to find out,” Hotchner said. “Garcia, do you have a current address on Mr. Minchell?”
“Last one was an apartment on Clark,” she said, “near the bus station.”
She read off the address.
“I knowthat building,” Lorenzon said, sitting up. “It’s an old hotel that devolved into a flophouse. We busted a bunch of junkies there, last few years.”
“All right,” Hotchner said. “You and Morgan go get him.”
The African-American detective nodded.
Rossi said, “I’d like to go along.”
“Fine,” Hotchner said. Then he asked Lorenzon, “Can Chicago PD provide backup?”
“No problem,” Lorenzon said.
Tovar stood up. “I’m in too.”
The two profilers and two local detectives took two vehicles: a Tahoe, with Morgan behind the wheel with Rossi riding; and Lorenzon’s unmarked, which the detectives shared.
Less than a half hour later, they pulled up and double-parked, lights flashing, at the run-down building housing Minchell’s apartment. Each man donned a bulletproof vest, Morgan’s and Rossi’s with FBI stenciled in white on front and back, while the detectives’ vests said CHICAGO POLICE. The heat today was sweltering, all four sweating profusely.
The neighborhood was busy, sidewalk heavy with pedestrian traffic going or coming from lunch. None of the four were distracted by a need for lunch: the aroma of the neighborhood was a bouquet of fried chicken, car exhaust, Burger King, cigarette smoke and urine. Of course, an old Chicagoan like Morgan felt right at home.…
As they checked their weapons, Lorenzon said, “Look, uh… you know how I told your boss backup would be a piece of cake?”
“Uh oh,” Rossi said.
“Uh oh is right,” Lorenzon said. “I radioed in on the way over and got informed SWAT is wrapped up in a hostage crisis in Wrigleyville.”
“Cubs fans out of control again?”
Lorenzon grinned. “Hey, wouldn’t surprise me; but actually I think it’s a robbery gone bad.”
“What about patrolmen?”
“Cleaning up a chain reaction accident on Lake Shore Drive.”
“There’s four of us.” Rossi shrugged. “One nonviolent offender, I think we can handle it.”
“He didhave a battery charge,” Tovar said with half a grin.
Morgan gave him the other half of the grin. “What are you saying, Hilly? Want to wait for SWAT because the guy got frisky once?”
Tovar shrugged. “What if he’s the killer?”
Rossi said, “Then we better make sure he doesn’t get away.” He made a face, eyebrows climbing. “Of course, if this really is our UnSub? Once we get back, Morgan and I can start updating our résumés.”
Tovar bit. “Why?”
“Because we’ll be looking for work once Hotchner sees out how far off we were on the profile.”
They stood at the rear of the double-parked Tahoe and discussed tactics. Morgan and Lorenzon would go in the front, Rossi and Tovar down the alley next to the ten-story brick building, to find a back entrance or a fire escape, just in case.