Rising slightly, the FBI agent looked through the driver’s-side window toward 2319…
... and saw the back of Dryden. The killer was only two or three steps from the front door now.
Rossi moved forward, using the car as cover, then popped up over the hood and yelled, “Daniel Dryden, freeze! FBI!”
Eyes wide, Dryden spun, a little revolver in his right hand, a hunting knife coming up from his side, in his left hand. He fired two quick rounds at Rossi, missing him, but Rossi did not return fire. The FBI man was a good shot, damn good, but didn’t relish firing when the only backstop behind Dryden was a houseful of children.
Ducking back behind the car, Rossi hoped to draw Dryden into attacking him instead of the house. Two more rounds slammed into the vehicle, making it obvious Dryden was a lot less concerned about what lay beyond his target than Rossi.
Sliding his head up a little, Rossi peeked through the driver’s side window and saw Dryden sprinting toward the car. Another round spiderwebbed the windshield and Rossi dropped and edged to the rear of the vehicle.
As Dryden crept around the car, Rossi slipped behind the back bumper. Dryden rose to see where Rossi had gone, and the FBI agent popped up, too, his pistol centered on the perp’s forehead.
No kids to worry about behind the target now.…
“Drop them or die,” Rossi said matter-of-fact. “Your choice.”
Dryden thought for a long moment, but his weapons remained at the ready.
Rossi had the bastard cold. And the agent already knew the serial killer to be a coward—although Dryden had killed or wounded nearly a dozen people, all his victims had been innocents, caught unaware, and unprepared to defend themselves.
“You don’t get a count of three, Dryden. Drop them now, or die right here, right now.”
Dryden swallowed thickly.
And the weapons clattered to the street.
“Assume the position,” Rossi said. “Against the car, feet back and spread ’em.”
The black SUV roared up and the two detectives piled out of the vehicle just in time to see Rossi hand-cuff the suspect.
Lorenzon read Dryden his rights.
Tovar asked, “How did you know he’d come back to the house?”
Rossi turned his gaze on Dryden, who stared back with small, cold, dead eyes.
“He had no choice,” the FBI agent said. “Not with hisego. You just had to prove you were smarter than us, Danny, didn’t you? Only, turns out you aren’t.”
“I amsmarter than you,” Dryden said. He was trembling but his manner remained smug.
Rossi got a half smile going. “Really? Then why were we here when you got here?”
Dryden glared at him.
“ Bothtimes,” Rossi said, twisting the knife.
“Go to hell,” Dryden said.
Lorenzon gave a quick jerk on the handcuffs. “You first, asshole.”
Rossi said, “Take Danny in. He and I need to have a little talk.”
Two hours later, Daniel Dryden sat cuffed to a table in a brightly illuminated interrogation room at the Cook County jail. In an adjacent, dimly lit viewing room, Rossi stood with Hotchner, Prentiss, Morgan, and Reid.
Hotchner said, “Nothing of note found in his car.”
The gray Crown Vic had been parked on the street a block from the Speck house.
“His revolver was a .22,” Morgan said, “consistent with Richard Speck’s weapon of choice.”
Rossi nodded. “You have the pictures from the darkroom?”
The team leader nodded.
Reid said, “And I Photoshopped that other one— they’re all in here.”
Reid handed Rossi a manila folder.
“Should you be the one to interview him?” Hotchner asked. “You captured him—and antagonized him. You really think he’ll talk to you?”
Rossi shrugged. “You can overrule me, obviously, Aaron. But when I got him pissed off, he didn’t clam up—he went back and forth with me. I think I can get him to do it again. And at length.”
Hotchner’s eyes locked with Rossi’s.
Then the team leader said, “We’re only going to get one run at this—the clock is ticking and it’s not a happy sound. Somewhere out there a man in a grave may still be alive.”
“I know,” Rossi said calmly. “Trust me, Aaron. I got this.”
Hotchner considered that, for just a moment; then nodded.
Rossi entered the interrogation room, glanced at the reflective glass behind which observers lurked, then sat down opposite the dressed-in-black suspect, Rossi’s back to the watchers. He set the folder on the table between them.
Dryden’s blandly handsome face wore a faint smug smile. “Who the hell thought that I’d ever talk to you?”
Rossi smiled. “I did.”
One eyebrow rose. “Are you the Special Agent In Charge?”
“No.”
Dryden shook his head. “I only talk to the SAIC.”
“I’m the special agent in charge of you.”
The suspect grunted a laugh. “What’s your name, anyway?”
“David Rossi.”
Dryden’s eyes, beady and a little small for his face, stared at Rossi for perhaps fifteen seconds. Then he said, “David Rossi the author?”
Shrugging, Rossi said, “I’ve been published.”
“False modesty,” Dryden said with a weird sideways grin. “Doesn’t suit you.”
Rossi gestured with open hands. “You’re right. I’ve written best sellers. I’ve been on talk shows. I’ve done the lecture circuit. I won’t fall back on false modesty.”
Dryden’s smile straightened out. “I won’t, either.”
“You won’t?”
“No?”
“Why, have you accomplished something? I’ve accomplished some things, yes… but you? You’re just another copycat. Files are full of them.”
“I’m no copycat,” Dryden said, and pounded the table as best he could, his cuffs wound through a metal ring on the table. “You wait. Before this is over, you’ll be a footnote in mystory.”
Rossi laughed. “Oh? What story is that?”
“How I killed twelve people. You’re just a glorified secretary, writing books about ‘monsters’ like me.”
Rossi gave him a look. “You’re kidding, right? I write about originals—Gacy, Speck, Bundy, Kotchman—true innovators in their chosen field. No writer, no reader, is interested in just another copycat.”
Dryden lurched forward. “I am not a copycat! I ama true original!”
Leaning back in his chair, Rossi said, “Hey, I don’t want to make you feel bad. Take some pride if you want to. But don’t kid a kidder—Danny boy, you didn’t even make double figures.”
“ Twelve!A goddamn dozen!” The little eyes had grown big. “Count ’em! Two in Chicago Heights, two in Wauconda, one each in Chinatown, one in Des Plaines, one in Aurora, three at the university, and the Kotchman kill who should be dead”—he checked the clock on the wall—“any time now.”
That only added up to eleven, but Rossi didn’t have the luxury of going down that road—he had a missing man to find.
“Yeah,” Rossi said, “he probably wouldhave been dead pretty soon… if we hadn’t found him already. And two of the nursing students you just wounded. Gonna be fine.”
Dryden eyes grew tiny again. “You didn’t find him.”
“What?”
“You couldn’t have found him. I was too careful. Always a step ahead of you chumps.”
“Right, right,” Rossi said, picking up the folder. “Like you were so far ahead of us at the Speck house. That’s why you’re here now, because you were always one up on a chump like me.”
Dryden’s mouth opened but no words came out.
Rossi got up, stepped back from the table, allowing the folder to slip from his grasp, as if accidentally, the pictures sliding out of the folder and onto the table. The fake one Reid had devised, at Rossi’s direction, was a blurry shot that showed a middle-aged man who looked vaguely like Herman Kotchman’s abusive stepfather. This man was strapped to a gurney, covered in blankets, his head just barely visible as he was loaded into an ambulance.