Killer Profile

“We’re not talking about reality, Tate—we’re talking about the killer’s perception.”

Lorenzon nodded, but was still frowning in thought.

“Take a hypothetical,” Rossi said. “Suppose you’re driving in Chicago traffic, and get cut off.”

“I don’t have to suppose very hard.”

“Then it happens again! Are you pissed?”

“Depends on how close the guy came, but, yeah, maybe a little.”

Nodding, Rossi said, “Pretty normal response. Our killer would go straight to anger after the first time… and furious enough to kill after the second.”

Tovar said, “That’s screwy.”

“Careful,” Rossi said with a little smile. “You’re getting into highly technical profiling terms now. Meanwhile, back in Chicago traffic, it would never occur to the killer that two separate people simply didn’t see him or weren’t paying attention. For him, this is all part of a conspiracy on the part of society to stifle him, to not recognize his talent, his brilliance. As far as he’s concerned, cops like us are out to get him, not for his crimes, rather as part of a society that’s alwaysbeen out to get him.”

Tovar said, “But this guy’s been a functioning member of society for years.…”

“Sure,” Rossi said. “Being a cold-blooded killer doesn’t rule that out.”

The two detectives gave him a look.

Rossi shrugged. “Sue me. It’s true.”

Across the street, the kids kept playing.

“You know,” Rossi said, with a nod toward the children, “we need to get them out of here—no point in handing him victims.”

Tovar said, “I thought he was after nurses.”

“He’s devolved to a ‘close enough’ state—maybe not nurses, maybe just wiping out everybody at that address.”

Traffic on One-Hundredth Street was steady but everybody knew this was a residential neighborhood and held their speed down accordingly. The profiler and the two detectives climbed down from the SUV, then strolled across the street.

They were halfway when an eastbound gray Ford Crown Victoria, an older model, slowed as it approached. They were almost across when the car picked up speed.

As the car shot by, even though its windows were tinted, Rossi recognized the driver at once. Or was he just projecting his anxieties?

Before Rossi said anything, though, Tovar nodded and pointed. “Was that fuckin’ Dryden?”

This confirmation was all Rossi needed.

He watched as the vintage Crown Vic took a right at the next corner. Sprinting toward the building, jerking his credentials from his pocket, Rossi yelled, “FBI—get these kids inside, now!”

The two women jumped up and ran to their kids, the children mesmerized by the screaming white man.

The two women were also yelling at the children, the caregivers apparently alarmed by Rossi charging at them, with Tovar and Lorenzon in his wake.

That suited Rossi just fine. Anything that got the women and children locked indoors was a good thing.

He yanked his pistol from its holster and one woman shrieked as she dashed into the house with a boy in her arms. Her friend, with two wriggling children to corral, having trouble keeping up, watched helplessly as the door shut in her face. Rossi was close enough now to hear the dead bolt slam home.

The woman outside pounded on the door. “Damn you, Laticia!”

Rossi touched the woman’s arm and she spun on him, teeth bared, eyes wide with fear, her right index finger coming around and scolding him.

“Don’t you evertouch me!”

Holding up his credentials, Rossi said, “I amwith the FBI. It’s all right, we’re here to help.”

“Help what? We haven’t done a damn thing!”

The corner of the curtains of the town house fluttered and Rossi could see the other woman looking out.

He displayed his credentials. “FBI, open the door and let this woman in.”

Laticia shook her head.

Rossi frowned. “Now!”

The woman disappeared from the window. Whether it was to open up or go hide, Rossi could not tell. He waited and, seconds later, he heard the dead bolt slide. The door opened and the woman on the stoop went inside with her two children.

From the doorway, Laticia stared at Rossi, who said, “Shut and lock this door, then call 911—tell them the FBI said you need special protection.”

Eyes wide with terror, the woman shut the door and the dead bolt snapped into place.

Turning to his colleagues, Rossi saw they both had their weapons drawn, Tovar slowly sca

Lorenzon was shouting into the radio: “Well, fucking findhim!”

“What?” Rossi asked.

Lorenzon shook his head and said, “While you got the families inside, I called for a patrol car to pull the prick over. Now, they can’t find him orthe car.”

“Not a lot of Crown Vics in this neighborhood, except maybe for police cars. And it was pristine for its age.”

Ninety percent of the cars on the street were what street cops commonly referred to as a Dodge POS or a Chevy POS or a Ford POS—piece of shit.

“Gave ’em the damn plate number,” Lorenzon said, shaking his head again. “The only good news is that the computer IDed the car as Dryden’s. Christ, he’s owned it since his fashion mag days.”

Tovar’s face was red. “Where the hell ishe then?”

Lorenzon said, “Maybe we scared him off.”

“But where to?”

Before any guess could be offered, Lorenzon’s walkie-talkie squawked to life.

“Shots fired,” the cool voice of the dispatcher said. “State University. Science building, first floor. All available officers, 9501 South King Drive, Williams Science Building.”

Rossi asked, “How far away is that?”

Lorenzon said, “Ten blocks maybe?”

“Shit!” Rossi grimaced. “Went straight to the source—nursing students.”

“Goddamnit!” Tovar said.

The three men sprinted to the SUV and climbed in, Lorenzon getting behind the wheel. The African-American detective gu

They practically leapt to the corner, turned right, and were halfway up the next block when Rossi yelled, “Stop!”

Lorenzon slammed on the brakes. “What the hell?”

Rossi opened the door and jumped out.

“What are you doing?” Lorenzon asked.

“I know how this bastard thinks,” Rossi said. “He wants to copy Speck. I think this is a diversion.”

“Three nurses shot is a diversion?”

“I think so.”

Tovar’s eyes were huge. “What if you’re wrong?”

“Then you two will nail him at the university.”

Rossi slammed the door and headed back at a trot as Lorenzon sped off toward the university.

When he got to the corner, Rossi hoped to see a squad car out front, officers at the door listening to Laticia’s tale of the three crazy men, waving guns, who had run at her, her friend, and their kids.

Unfortunately, he knew better.

The dispatcher’s call for every available officer would drop the priority of Laticia’s call to rock bottom. He made a quick 911 call himself, gave his name, FBI status and the address.

“That’s the Richard Speck murder house,” Rossi said, “and the copycat we’re all looking for may be in there.”

“Sir?”

“Just give the word.”

Rossi clicked off.

He’d be happier if he could get inside that town house, but given his last visit, that was probably impossible. Problem was, he couldn’t watch the front and back of the place from here, or anywhere else for that matter. The building was set up like a row house, eight two-story. If he went around back and Dryden came to the front, Rossi would never get inside before the killing started. The same was true if Rossi stayed in front and then Dryden came in the back.…

He had told Lorenzon he knew how the killer thought—well, now was the time to prove it. If he was wrong, more i