Hotchner got out his radio and instructed Prentiss and Reid to join them.
While they waited for the other agents, Hotchner asked, “Mrs. Dryden, are your boys at home?”
“No,” she said, puzzled. “They’re at the mall with friends—why do you ask?”
“Actually, I’m relieved. We need to talk to you about some things, and it’s better done with your boys not around.”
Reid and Prentiss came in and Hotchner made brief introductions. Morgan and Reid stood while the others sat, Mrs. Dryden and Prentiss on the sofa, Hotchner in one of the swivel chairs.
“I must say you’re… frightening me,” Mrs. Dryden said. “Is it something about Danny?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid so.”
“Oh my God, is he all right?”
“As far as we know, he’s fine physically.”
“Far as you know… ? Fine physically… ? What—”
“Mrs. Dryden, I’m afraid your husband is a person of interest in an ongoing FBI investigation.”
“My husband?” Her smile was half-amused, half-horrified. “ Whatkind of person? Is this some kind of joke—you work with Danny, right?”
“You’re aware of these murders the media’s been covering lately? Really they’ve been taking place since spring.”
Mrs. Dryden nodded. “The copycat killings. Danny’s mentioned them in passing.”
“Would you happen to know if he’s worked all the crime scenes?”
“I have no idea,” she said. She was frowning. “Why aren’t you asking himthese questions?”
“We will be,” Hotchner said, “when we locate him. Mrs. Dryden, I hate to have tell you this, but he may prove to be more than just a person of interest. Right now, he’s our chief suspect.”
Mrs. Dryden’s eyes were wide though the skin around them was tight. “What? No… no, that’s not possible.”
Hotchner said, “He’s been identified by an eye witness.”
“The witness is mistaken.”
“Perhaps you can help us clear up our thinking, then,” Prentiss said quietly. “You see, in addition to this witness, Mr. Dryden strongly fits the profile we’ve developed.”
“ Whatprofile?”
“We’re part of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit,” Hotchner said. “And we’ve developed a profile of this suspect. Your husband fits it.”
“You’re wrong!” She was on her feet.
Prentiss stood, touched the woman’s shoulder, but their reluctant hostess lurched away and held up her index finger like it was a knife she could use to defend herself.
“Stay away from me!” she said.
“Mrs. Dryden,” Hotchner said, his voice calm. “I know none of this seems to make sense, but please listen to us.”
“No,” the woman said, backing away. “I… I don’t want to.…”
Hotchner asked, “Does your husband leave at all hours?”
Reid asked, “Is he secretive about his work?”
Prentiss asked, “Has he had problems with depression?”
The woman continued to back slowly away from them, her finger wilting now, tears starting to overflow.
Morgan asked, “Does he have a place he won’t let you go, no matter what? A… fiercely private place?”
Mrs. Dryden was at the front door now. She said nothing, but her eyes cut toward that door… or something beyond it.
“He does,” Morgan pressed, “doesn’t he?”
Her voice was a sort of waiclass="underline" “The… garage…”
Prentiss enfolded the woman in her arms and held her while Mrs. Dryden wept. Finally gaining a small measure of composure, the woman said, “His… his darkroom. It’s just his darkroom—upstairs, garage.”
Hotchner asked, “May we have a look?”
She frowned; for the first time, something like fear could be seen there. “Danny… he never lets anyonein his darkroom. But there’s a, you know, practical reason—you could ruin something he’s working on. Screw up a crime scene photo, you can screw up a case.”
The words were clearly an echo of what her husband had said to her.
Hotchner said, “We can get a warrant, Mrs. Dryden. But the faster we move, the sooner this will be cleared up. And if we’re wrong about your husband, all of us want to know, sooner than later. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Her face was frozen in confusion. The world had just opened up beneath her feet and she was having trouble not getting swallowed up.
Morgan said, “People will be looking to arrest your husband, Mrs. Dryden. And something could go wrong, and someone might get hurt. If there’s nothing up there to tie him to the crimes, we may be able to eliminate him as a suspect. Wouldn’t you want to help him if you could?”
She considered that for a long moment. What she decided here could be vital—one way or another, they would be getting into that garage today, yes. But getting that warrant could give Dryden just enough time to practice his deadly performance art once again.…
“If it might help clear him,” she said, as if talking to herself, “I suppose I should do it.” She gazed at Hotchner, her face streaked with tears. “But be very careful, won’t you? Danny wouldn’t want any of his work spoiled.”
I’m sure he wouldn’t,Morgan thought.
“We will,” Hotchner said. “May we have the key?”
She went to a side table near the door, picked up her purse and withdrew a ring with half a dozen keys. She singled one out and handed the key on the ring to Hotchner, who passed it on to Morgan.
“That’s to the garage,” she said. “I’m afraid I don’t have a key for the upstairs. Danny has the only one.…"
“If we have to force a door, we will,” Hotchner said. “You do understand that?”
She swallowed and nodded.
“Thank you.” He nodded to Morgan, who went outside, Reid trailing behind him. While they went through the garage, Hotchner and Prentiss would stay with Mrs. Dryden in the house.
Once outside, depending on Hotch and Prentiss to keep Mrs. Dryden away from the windows, Morgan drew his pistol, and moved forward cautiously. He was still on alert, even though he felt certain the woman wasn’t lying, the possibility remained that the suspect was in that darkroom right now. On this job, one careless entry could be your last. Reid, behind Morgan with his own pistol in hand, had learned that lesson the hard way, when an UnSub had taken the young agent hostage.
The garage sat at an angle to the long driveway with two separate doors instead of one large one, a walk-in door on the south side, closest to the house. Morgan unlocked the door and stepped into shadowy darkness. Having just come in from the bright sunlight, his eyes took a few agonizing seconds adjusting themselves to the dimness.
Morgan strained to hear, but was greeted only by silence. His fingers found a wall switch and flipped it. Two ceiling-mounted bulbs came on to cast a pale glow. In the nearer of the two stalls sat a Ford Wind-star van. The space beyond was empty and past that a workbench stood against the north wall, tools hanging on a pegboard. To his right, a flight of stairs led up to a windowless door guarded by a hasp and padlock. Above the door, a red lightbulb (not turned on) stuck out like a big blister.
Morgan holstered his weapon and moved toward the workbench, finally allowing Reid access into the garage. Shooting that lock off was not an option Morgan relished—that kind of stuff worked better in the movies. He had hoped for bolt cutters, but none presented themselves; he was granted his second wish, though: a crowbar leaning against the wall in the corner.
Morgan climbed the stairs with his new tool, and jammed the bar behind the hasp from underneath, braced himself and pulled up.
The hasp groaned but did not give.
He pulled harder, it groaned louder, but still did not give. Muscles burning, he pulled up on the bar and, finally, the hasp squealed and gave with such force, Morgan damn near went ass-over-elbows back down the stairs.