Killer Profile

He was a chubby guy, Tom Something, who had picked “her” up in a crummy, dark bar downtown. A salesman from Peoria, Tom had been a no-sale at a factory here in Aurora before he entered the bar, where he’d been taken by the cool blonde at the end of the bar.

“I don’t normally do this sort of thing,” Tom said.

Balding, with thick-lensed wire frame glasses, Tom wore a K-mart dress shirt, a tie with a tomato sauce stain, and polyester slacks that had long since lost the battle with his ample belly.

“I do it all the time,” “she” said huskily.

Hotchner said, “Our UnSub is a chameleon, able to be different things to different people—an actor of considerable skill. The Chicago Heights murders were a blitz attack—an assassin personality. Yet, the Wauconda murders required him to charm two women into leaving with him, without anyone noticing—a sexual predator personality. The Chinatown killing could have been either, since we have yet to establish the circumstances of his death. That victim, Bobby Edels, was treated as if he simply disappeared.”

Hotchner glanced at Reid, who came forward and said, “Jeffrey Dahmer, like Ted Bundy, was a sexual predator. The difference between the two was gender of victims. The key factor here is that the UnSub displays an impressive ability to appear as whatever facilitates his gaining control of his intended victim… and reenacting the next famous murder on his list.”

“What did you say your name was?” Tom asked.

“Aileen, with an A.”

“Really,” Tom said, his speech slightly slurred from several Rob Roys (and a little something extra supplied by “Aileen” when he had been looking at “her” legs instead of his drink).

Night had fallen and traffic was thin as they moved deeper into the darkness. They were gliding west on Galena Boulevard.

Tom’s hand slid over and touched “her” knee, then slid farther up the thigh.

“Aileen” playfully slapped the hand away. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, big boy.”

“It’s just I can’t hardly wait—you’re so foxy, it’s unreal.…"

“This killer,” Hotchner said, “like many serial offenders, thrives on manipulation, domination and control. He feels that he has no control in his normal life, and this is the only way he can get it.”

“Turn right here,” “she” said.

Tom did as he was told. They now traveled north on Hankes Road, not another car in sight.

“You sure there’s a motel out this way?”

She rubbed Bob’s leg reassuringly. “Just another maybe ten miles up this road—that’s all.”

“Ten miles? I don’t know if I can waitthat long.…"

Which was exactly what Tom was supposed to say.

Smiling, “Aileen” said, “Well, if you’re in that much of a hurry, why not just pull off up there… into the forest preserve.”

“Where?”

“It’s right up on the right. To tell you the truth, lover, I don’t know if I can wait, either.”

“Really?”

“Really. Baby, baby… am I wetfor you.…”

“Even though he has an inadequate personality, don’t be fooled,” Hotchner said. “His IQ is probably well above normal.”

Hotchner glanced at Rossi, who said to the crowd, “This is a very organized offender, capable of almost anything. He’s convinced beyond a doubt that he’s superior to the police, the FBI, and of course his victims. He began by sending these photos to the police, and now he’s going to the media to gain even more attention.”

Hotchner, nodding, picked back up: “He’s certain we can’t catch him, and he’s demonstrating his arrogance.”

Following directions, Tom turned off the road onto the blacktop of the Aurora West Forest Preserve.A short distance in, a gravel parking lot loomed on the right.

Tom pulled in, killed the lights, and shut off the car.

As he turned to kiss her, “Aileen” withdrew a gun from “her” purse and leveled it at Tom, whose eyes went wide with fear.

“What the hell?”

“Oh, Tom, Tom, Tom… you’re such a fool.”

Hotchner continued: “This UnSub is cold and calculating and devoid of compassion or mercy. He is a textbook sociopath.”

“What the hell? You want money?”

“She” pulled the wig off and the “female” voice dropped to its normal, deeper timbre. “I don’t want your money, Tom.”

His face went pasty. “You… you’re a man?”

“And to think I called you a fool, when you’re clearly such a perceptive observer.”

He flicked the safety off the .22 automatic. Not a big gun, but big enough.

“Please… pleasedon’t kill me! Please, I…”

The first shot hit Tom in the face and he sagged back against the door. He groaned once and two more quick shots silenced him.

“Now you’re wet for me, Tom.”

“The UnSub," Hotchner told the assembly, “is highly organized—he plans ahead and, so far at least, he seems ready for pretty much any situation he encounters.”

Working quickly now, he got out the passenger side, came around to the driver’s side, opened the door and watched as Tom flopped out of the car into a heap on the ground.

From the purse, the killer got a handkerchief, then got back into the vehicle to wipe down everythinghe had touched. The wig, purse, and gun, he took with him. Outside, he plucked a Mini Maglite from the purse, clicked it on, and sent the beam, narrow and pointed low, out ahead as he made his way to a pile of leaves at the far end of the parking lot. After shoving the leaves aside, he pulled out a backpack he’d buried in the underbrush.

Next, he picked the corpse up under its arms and dragged the thing into the woods, where he tossed it into a shallow grave. Using the camp shovel with which he’d dug it, he filled the hole in quickly.

Changing out of his “Aileen” apparel, and into his regular clothes, took barely any time even in the near-pitch darkness of the forest. All the while he dressed, he strained to hear any sound. He knew he was in the middle of nowhere, but the possibilitythat someone had heard one of the shots, or seen the flash as they drove by, had to be considered.

“The photographs serve a couple of purposes,” Hotchner told the attentive group. “First, they function as a souvenir, giving him a way to relive the crime later. The UnSub can re-create the excitement for himself with the pictures. Secondly, they are his instrument to communicate with us… and to tauntus.”

After packing his female clothes in the backpack, he got out his camera. As he set up the first shot, he wondered if he should send it straight to the FBI. The idea amused him.

They knew about him now, these so-called “profilers.” Taunting the police was easy, almost too easy, but the feds—these particularfeds—made a new challenge.

Perhaps it was time to say, “Hello, and welcome to myworld.”

He snapped the photo, flash strobing the night; then another, then changed angles and took a few more. Then, in a burst of inspiration, he realized that a bigger, more spectacular introduction was needed for the profilers.

And he knew just what to do.

When he had finished shooting his photos, he squatted outside the passenger side of the car. Looking through the windows on each side, he could see the moon hanging just above the trees, the mark’s blood black on the driver’s side window in the moon glow.

He took a couple more photos. He loved the black blood. It took every ounce of strength he possessed not to touch it.

But a real artist knew not to touch a masterpiece when it was still damp.

A voice from the audience called out: “What he’s telling us now?”

Prentiss detected a note of sarcasm in the question, but Hotchner answered it straight.

“That he’s in control. That he’s smarter than us. That he can strike any time he wants… and there’s nothing we can do to stop him.”

Rising, he strode to the backpack and put away the camera, then swung the pack onto his shoulders.