Killer Profile

And as tentatively as someone who’d just been so served, Reid opened the newspaper—the Chicago Daily World. Not in a class with the Tribor the Sun-Times, the Daily Worldran a distant fourth in what was, essentially, a four-paper circulation race. What the paper lacked in readership and integrity, it made up for in sleaze and salaciousness.

The headline read, “Artist’s Grisly Tableau.” Then, below that, in a slightly smaller font, it said: “Serial Killer Claims Seventh Victim.”

“ Seventhvictim?” Reid asked no one in particular as he continued to read.

Under the headlines, just above the fold, was a color photo of an empty car with blood on the seat and windows.

“This is our UnSub’s work?” Reid asked.

“Seems to be,” Hotchner said.

“How did that paper get this before we did?”

“The UnSub sent it to them,” Hotch said, biting off the words. “That and the photos from the other crimes. The other three papers are cooperating and not ru

Frowning, Reid asked, “What about consideration for the families of the victims?”

Shrugging, Hotchner said, “Evidently, the Daily Worldfeels the public’s ‘right to know’ trumps that.”

Reid blew out air. “These must be all over the Internet, already.”

Until now, Jareau had done a yeoman’s job of keeping the murders off the front page and off the lead story of nightly local newscasters. The murders had been covered by the newspapers and TV, of course; but thanks to her efforts, the copycat aspect had been kept out, as part of the ongoing investigation.

That minimized citywide panic and, as Hotchner and Rossi had reasoned, put the killer on edge as the news coverage did not feed what they already knew to be a hungry massive ego. Of course, a possible downside of that strategy was that it might speed up his kills, as the UnSub sought to garner media attention through sheer volume. Now, thanks to the Daily World, that point was moot.

Reid held the paper up and pointed to the grisly photo. “Do we know where this crime scene is?”

Morgan said, “Lorenzon and Tovar are working the phones—we’re assuming the photo was sent to the local PD, as well, although if it went snail mail, it might not have shown up yet.” He gestured with open hands. “But it’s just about got to be one of the outlying suburbs—none of the nearer ones have claimed it.”

Prentiss added, “The area in the background appears to be woods, but…” She shrugged. “…there are lots of wooded areas around Chicago. Garcia’s also on the job, trying to track down the police department. This time the UnSub used e-mail to send the photos to the newspaper. That’s new.”

Morgan said, “So an area PD may have received the photos via e-mail attachment already.”

Reid frowned in thought. “Then this is a fresh kill.…”

“Probably sometime last night,” Rossi said. “Possibly the night before, but I doubt it. E-mail tells us he’s looking for more immediate gratification.”

Reid’s eyes tightened. “Do you think he’s devolving?”

“How could he not be?” Rossi asked. “He abducted the first victim in March, at least the first one we know about, and made sure that body wasn’t found until July. Now, he kills another in the last twenty-four to forty-eight hours and can’t even wait for the mailman to deliver the picture, he’s so proud of his work—for the first time, he e-mails it to speed up the process. Not only do I think the UnSub’s devolving, I think he may be in spree mode and won’t stop killing until we stop him. Every day, hell, every hourthat we don’t have him in custody puts another i

Rossi was referring, Reid knew, to notorious spree killer Andrew Cunanan, who killed five people, then himself.

In case any of the others weren’t as familiar, Reid said, “Cunanan threw himself a going away party in San Diego on April 24, 1997. His first two victims were in Mi

Rossi was smirking at Reid. “You could at least credit me with a footnote.”

“Your spree-killing book isthe standard reference,” Reid said, with a shrug.

Rossi’s eyes widened in the way they sometimes did when Reid made a point.

Then Rossi said, “Well, this guy’s not going to be aroundin three months. At the rate he’s going, he’s not going to last three weeks. I think he’s got the fever, and I think his temperature is still going up.”

Hotch nodded grimly. “No question he’s accelerating. But let’s not get too far out in front. Let’s deal with things as they come.”

Reid glanced back through the glass doors as Jareau snapped her phone shut, then came through the main lobby door and marched toward them, heels firing off like gunshots on the marble lobby floor. Her anger was so extreme it almost cancelled out her prettiness. Almost.

Hotchner asked her. “What did the editor say?”

Jareau took a deep breath, then let it out, and seemed to will herself into a more calm state. “I asked the gentleman how he thought the families of the victims would react to these photos, and he said, ‘Read tomorrow’s edition. We’ll be interviewing them all today.’ ”

Hotchner chuckled but there was no humor in it. “Did he say anything about knowing where the crime scene is, or the name of the victim?”

“If he has that,” Jareau said, “he’s not saying.”

Reid frowned. “He ran the photo of a murder victim, without knowing whether the family had been notified or not?”

Jareau, her eyes hot in her cold face, said, “I don’t think he’s the type to care.”

“All right,” Hotchner said, taking control. “Back to the office—we need to get started. He’s not slowing, so we need to speed up.”

Half an hour later, they entered their conference room to find Lorenzon and Tovar waiting, the older detective talking on the phone, while Lorenzon sat punching keys on a laptop.

Tovar wore loafers with no socks, jeans, a white shirt with a navy blue knit tie, loosened at the neck, and a gray sport coat. Even though he was balding, what little hair he had looked slept on.

Lorenzon, on the other hand, looked like a page out of the Derek Morgan fashion field manual—a black polo with a Chicago police shield over the left breast, black slacks and socks and black loafers with rubber soles and tassels.

“Anything?” Hotchner asked as they entered.

Lorenzon shrugged toward Tovar. “I think Hilly’s got something.”

“Thank you, Chief,” Tovar was saying into the phone. “We’ll have someone out to talk to you ASAP.” He clicked off.

“What?” Hotchner asked.

“That was the Aurora chief of police,” Tovar said. “Far west suburb. The crime scene is in their jurisdiction. Killer shot the victim three times in the chest, and left him in a place called the Aurora West Forest Preserve.”

Tovar rose and went to a map on the wall and stuck a push pin into the area he’d referred to, making it one of five pins, each representing a crime scene.

Reid considered the five pins—one way up north in Wauconda, another way south and east in Chicago Heights, then in Chicago’s Chinatown, on to the Gacy house also on the north side and now, this latest one, far west and on a line halfway between the two easternmost pins. He struggled to divine a pattern, mentally co