Shortly thereafter, Jareau came into the conference room. “I’ve got the court order! I found a federal judge who will let Garcia into the Daily World’s e-mail account.”
“Take Prentiss,” he said. “Go serve it to that editor.”
“You don’t want to go yourself?”
Shaking his head, Hotchner said, “I don’t think I can be in the same room with that defender of the freedom of press right now.”
Jareau smiled. “All right. But I intend to enjoy myself telling him to move over and let us in.”
“Enjoying yourself is allowed, if the job gets done.”
Jareau and Prentiss left.
Only Morgan remained in the room with Hotchner. Bent over his laptop, Morgan seemed deeply involved in something. Hotchner made himself put his anger aside and get back to work. Letting out a long breath, he rubbed his forehead and sat down at his computer.
This day was shaping up to be another long, bad one and he knew that the clock was ticking. With the UnSub back in business, and spreading news of his deeds to an even wider circle of the media, before long a full-blown panic would grip the nation’s Second City.
Even though Denson’s story had checked out—at least according to the cop’s ex-wife and his associates—the man had seemingly disappeared. The tail Hotchner had set up with local agents had lost Denson—hard to tail a cop, at least for long—and now no one could find the detective. In fact, no one had seen him since he’d turned over the Bangs Lake files to the BAU.
Hotchner hoped that was because Denson had taken his advice to stay away from the case, that the man was taking it easy somewhere and staying out of trouble.
Morgan looked up from his laptop screen to ask Hotchner, “Did you ever get the second picture from the forensic artist?”
Hotchner swung around in his chair. “After you left yesterday, the Demerol they gave Minchell for his broken nose kicked in, and he passed out before the artist could even get started. Artist is back over there now.”
Reid and Rossi entered, fresh from the latest crime scene. They took seats around the table and filled Hotchner and Morgan in about the new murder.
Hotchner wadded up a piece of paper, which was about as much emotion as he was willing to show. When he looked up, the others all stared at him.
“Sorry,” he said, and twitched a smile. “Frustration. We’ve been a step behind this UnSub since we got here. We still don’t know how he picks the victims, and we don’t know which killer he’s going to imitate next. How do we get out in front of him until we figure out how he’s choosing the killers and victims? He’s gone right down the line, Berkowitz, Bundy, Dahmer, Gacy, Wuornos… there’s no way to know who’s next.”
“Alphabetical order,” Reid said quickly.
All eyes went to Reid.
“Simple,” Hotchner said. “And I noticed that a long time ago, Reid; but it doesn’t help us. Obviously not every serial killer in history is on his list—we could fill in plenty of others between all of those names.…"
Very quietly, Rossi said, “He skipped a chapter.”
They all turned to him.
“What?” Hotchner asked.
“He skippeda goddamn chapter,” Rossi said, and pounded the table with a fist. “Damnit. I didn’t put it together, Aaron, till you listed them just now.”
“Put what together?”
Rossi’s laugh was bitter. “I know how he’s picking which killer to imitate next. I was fooled because he skipped a chapter. Literally.”
Frowning, Morgan said, “Dave—what are you talking about?”
“Max Ryan’s book, Serial Killers and Mass Murderers:Profiling Why They Kill. Max Ryan, Jason Gideon’s mentor, my colleague. The UnSub, he’s doing the chapters of the book… in order.” Rossi held up a forefinger. “Except for one—he skipped Herman Kotchman. That’s probably what took me so long to put this together. He’s done them all, in order of the chapters in the Ryan book… except Kotchman.”
Reid said, “Herman Kotchman was a serial killer in the early seventies infamous for abducting middle-aged men who reminded him of his sexually predatory father, and burying them in coffins in his backyard. Dubbed ‘The Premature Burialist’ by the media, he claimed innocence, since he always gave his victims a ‘fighting chance,’ burying them with a hammer, a gallon of water, and a vent pipe for air.”
“Right,” Rossi said. “I helped catch the sick bastard.”
No one said anything—not even Reid.
Quietly, Rossi said, “One of our first cases—hell, we weren’t even the BAU back then. We were just a bunch of guys who thought that if you studied enough offenders, you could learn things from their behavior. Things that would help you stop them.”
Hotchner said, “You were right.”
Rossi said, “You know, at his trial? Kotchman said, ‘They had at least a week before they died of thirst. I’m innocent. If they died, it was because they decided not to free themselves.’ We might not have caught him at all, but his last victim didget free, and led us right to Kotchman’s damn door.”
A sick feeling ran through Hotchner’s gut. “Kotchman’s crimes took time—a long time. What if he hasn’tskipped a chapter?”
Rossi frowned. “What?”
Hotchner’s intensity heightened. “What if he’s alreadycommitted the crime, and hasn’t mailed a picture because the victim is buried out there somewhere, and isn’t dead yet?”
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.”