Eyes narrowed, Reid said, “The address? Is it in the nine hundred block of Twenty-fifth Street?”
Lorenzon stared at him for a long moment, probably about the way Moses looked at the burning bush, Hotchner thought.
Then the Chicago cop slowly shook his head. “You got the street right, but there is no nine hundred block, Dr. Reid—the street’s too short. It was in the two hundred block…”
“Two thirteen,” Reid said, unfazed.
“Now, man, that’s freaky,” Lorenzon said. “How did you know? Goddamn, is Dr. Reid here psychic?”
Hotchner said tightly, “No. He’s a profiler.” Reid, trying not to look pleased about Hotchner’s remark, said, “The apartment house where the original blue barrel was found was nine twenty-four North Twenty-fifth Street in Milwaukee, Wisconsin— the apartment number was two-thirteen. The occupant was a thirty-one year old man who had recently lost his job at a chocolate factory…”
“Oh Christ,” Lorenzon said. He swallowed thickly. “Goddamned Jeffrey Dahmer.”
His expression grave, Morgan asked, “What about the victim?”
“Male, young Caucasian, twenty, maybe— probably a runaway—haven’t identified him yet. The ME thinks he had been in the barrel for the better part of a month before he was found.”
“Did the medical examiner give you a cause of death?”
Lorenzon shook his head. “The body was nearly too decomposed… broken hyoid bone, though. Probably manual strangulation.”
Reid asked, “What about the sexual aspects of these crimes?”
“I don’t know about the Wauconda case,” Tovar said. “I haven’t seen the entire file and the photo just shows bones. I can tell you there was nosexual evidence with the shooting in the Heights.”
Reid nodded thoughtfully. “There was no direct sexual evidence in the Berkowitz killings either, though. What about the barrel?”
“Again,” Lorenzon said, “he was just too decomposed.”
Rossi said, “Berkowitz hated women, as did Bundy, while Dahmer killed gay men—a sexual aspect in each case, but this UnSub is taking two from column A and one from column B in an unusual way.”
“What does that tell us about the killer’s sexuality?” Prentiss asked. “He’s copying both straight and gay killers.”
Hotchner said, “The killer could be straight, gay, or judging by the complete lack of sexual evidence at the scenes, asexual. In fact, by avoiding the sexual aspects of the case, the UnSub might even be trying to remove his own sexuality from the equation.”
“I think that’s it,” Reid said, nodding. “He’s trying to compartmentalize his own sexuality from these crimes, which is not easy considering the extreme degree of sexual dysfunction in the crimes he’s copying.”
Rossi lifted an eyebrow and added, “That may be because he views himself as a performance artist, for whom the ultimate expression is not the murder itself, but the photographic record of that murder.”
Shaking his head, Tovar said, “So, where does that leave us—back at square one?”
“Not completely,” Reid said. “We know his signature.”
“Yeah,” Lorenzon said, “his signature is he kills people.”
“Signature?” Tovar asked. “He’s used a gun on two, cut up two, and God only knows what he did to the other.”
Rossi said, “Don’t confuse signature with MO.”
“There’s a difference?” Tovar asked.
With a nod, Rossi said, “ ‘Modus Operandi’ is how he does the crime. ‘Signature’ is what he has to do for the crime to get him where he’s going. What gets him off.”
“And what’s that?”
Rossi pointed at the picture on the flat screen. “The photos.”
Morgan twitched a frown. “Someone is re-creating murders by some of the most infamous serial killers of all time—why?”
“Simple,” Prentiss said. “This guy wants to be infamous, too.”
They all turned toward her, Hotchner noticing that Rossi gave her an encouraging nod.
“Is there any other way this pathology makes any sense?" she asked. "An UnSub who wants to make a place for himself in the Hall of Infamy?”
Nobody seemed to have an answer for that.
Raising his voice just a little, bringing the focus of the room to the oldest old pro among them, Rossi said, “He’s killed five people in three different jurisdictions—which means he’s working hard at not getting caught, even though his desire for recognition has him sending photos on ahead. He’s got to have some knowledge of police work, and even police politics—he knows these jurisdictions won’t cooperate with each other without someone like Detectives Lorenzon and Tovar pushing them.”
Hotchner nodded, adding, "The UnSub probably also knows the more places he hits, the longer it will take for people to identify his MO and ID him as a serial. Despite the photos he’s sending, he likely expected to go longer without us being brought in.”
Lorenzon looked toward Morgan. “Then you aregoing to help us?”
“Not my call,” Morgan said, and turned to Hotchner.
“Yes, Tate,” Hotchner said, “we’re going to help.”
Lorenzon nodded. “Thank you. We’re going to need it.”
No one disagreed.
“JJ,” Hotchner said, “let’s start by you telling Wauconda PD we’re coming in at the invitation of both Chicago and Chicago Heights. Tell them we’d like to oversee a joint task force among the jurisdictions involved in the case. My guess is, before this is over, it won’t be just three.”
“On it,” Jareau said.
Turning to Reid, Hotchner said, “Background history on the cases he’s copying.”
“Pleasure,” Reid said.
“Prentiss, read the police reports and start working on victimology.”
“Right.”
Hotchner sighed heavily. “All right, people, let’s get packed up. We’re wheels up at Andrews in an hour.”
Tovar said, “Thank you for coming on this.” Hotchner said, “We’ll do everything we can, Hilly.”
“Does that mean… ?”
“It means we’ll catch him.”
They all rose except Rossi, who lingered. He sat staring at the last photo.
“Damn,” he said, and then he laughed, once, harshly.
They all turned to him, with Morgan halfway out the door.
“It’s a serial killer greatest hits album,” Rossi said. “By a goddamn cover band.”
Chapter Two
July 28 Chicago, Illinois
Derek Morgan kept his eyes closed, not letting anyone know he was awake yet. They were still in the air, somewhere over the Midwest. Around him, the others were chatting quietly or working on their laptops. Always a hundred-and-ten-percent effort kind of guy, Morgan had not outslept his fellow teammates due to exhaustion or indolence. He just knew that this would be the last chance to really rest until they brought this killer to ground.
Morgan had spent part of the hour before they left calling his mother to tell her that he would be coming home on a case, promising he’d find time to see her—he just didn’t know when. His mother had just been happy to hear his voice. “Whenever you have time, son,” she had said. “I know how demanding your work is. I’m proud of you!”
Anyone who encountered the BAU team would soon identify Morgan as the resident tough guy. Nonetheless, Morgan still phoned his mother every Sunday. Family remained important to him, and that was no axiom: his had been a close, tightly knit family. That the BAU was going to Chicago to help families that weren’t that much different from his own was not lost on him. The two young women found in Lakewood Forest Preserve could have been his own sisters but for the age difference.
Someone plopped onto the seat next to him, but Morgan forced himself to not move or open his eyes.