Reid considered that for a moment; then he put some pieces together. “Let’s suppose he was indeed stalking the couple.”

“Suppose away,” Rossi said.

“If he’s re-creating Berkowitz’s crime, it’s the street he’s most concerned with—Hutchinson Avenue. What if he was stalking more than one couple along the street, and this one, Andrews and Mendoza, was the couple that happened to show up at the right time?”

Tovar said, “Wrong time, you mean.”

Rossi was looking at Reid, hard. “You’re saying it could have been anyone along the street?”

“It’s possible,” Reid said. “Son of Sam shot individuals as well as couples.”

“Dr. Reid could be right,” Tovar said. “The weather was bad that night. Rained like hell most of the evening. I doubt if there were a lot of people out and about.”

Reid said, “This isn’t the only house visible from the park.”

Rossi said, “It would be easy to watch most of the street from that parking lot.”

“There’s something else,” Reid said.

The other two turned to him.

"Our UnSub is patient. He takes care and exercises a certain artistry, but he’s not a perfectionist—he’s willing to fudge a little on his re-creations.”

Rossi eyed Reid skeptically. “And you’ve reached this conclusion how?”

Reid shrugged. “He waited.”

Rossi chewed on that momentarily. Then he said, “He sat in wait until his victims came along. Yeah.

I’ll buy that.”

“No, I think you miss my point—I mean, he waited past midnight.”

The other two stared at him.

“Technically,” Reid said, articulating something he’d discerned on first reading the report, “he missed the anniversary of the Son of Sam killing. He shot them in the early morning hours of the eighteenth.”

“What does that mean?” Tovar asked.

Rossi sighed, gave Reid a little smile that meant, Nice going, and said to the Chicago cop, “It means that even though he’s re-creating crimes, our UnSub is willing to adapt his crime so that he gets his kill… even if it undermines the exactness of his recreation.”

Tovar still seemed confused. “And what does thattell us?”

Rossi tilted his head just a little, then righted it. “Even though he’s patient and highly organized in his planning, he’s goingto kill—that’s the priority— even if it doesn’t fall within the exact boundaries of what he’s trying to create.”

“Or rather,” Reid put in, “re-create.”

Rossi nodded, then went on: “Reid used the word ‘artistry,’ and I think that’s right on point: in his own way, probably in his own mind, our UnSub is an artist. Instead of just painting or sculpting the things that inspire him, he’s acting them out.”

“It wasn’t clear until we got here,” Reid said, “but aren’t these jurisdictions where he committed the crimes rather far apart?”

“Yeah,” Tovar said, with a nod.

“ Howfar apart?” Reid asked.

Tovar gestured vaguely. “The Chinatown crime scene is about an hour from here, depending on traffic. The Wauconda crime scene is at least an hour and a half north of here.”

Reid’s eyes tightened. “That tells us something too.”

“Which is?” Tovar asked.

“He’s mobile,” Reid said.

“He owns a car,” Rossi agreed.

“What kind?” Tovar asked, a smile creasing his face. It was a joke.

Smiling back, Rossi said, not joking at all, “Something inconspicuous, probably an older car that would blend in. It won’t be anything too flashy and the color will be something neutral or subdued, too. He’s been spending a lot of time planning these crimes. He has to’ve spent a lot of time in the areas where they took place… and no one noticed him.”

“Okay,” Tovar said, impressed. “I can get on board with that.”

Reid asked, “Were all the crimes committed at night?”

“This one was,” Tovar said. “The other two, the bodies were found well after the murders, so there’s no way to know for sure.”

Reid turned to Rossi. “If he’s spending this much time in these places, doesn’t he have to have some job freedom?”

Rossi nodded, once.

Tovar asked, “Why not just unemployed?”

Rossi shook his head. He patted the SUV near where they stood. “Not likely with the distance between these crime scenes and Chicago gas prices. He’s got a job that allows him at least some freedom.”

“You’re sure of this?” Tovar asked.

“It’s an educated guess,” Rossi said. “But a very educated guess.”

The Hispanic detective mulled that. “Maybe his wife works, or he’s somebody that doesn’t have to work, ’cause his family left him money or something.”

“Possible,” Rossi said with a tiny smile. “Not probable.”

Mind going a million miles an hour, Reid said, “His job doesn’t give him the satisfaction he needs, either.”

“Why do you say that?” Tovar asked.

“These crimes are all about getting attention,” Reid said. “There’s no indication of any sexual aspects to the killings, so the UnSub’s doing it for two things: self-satisfaction, a twisted sense of self-worth you might say; and, again, the attention.”

Rossi said, “You can’t be a performance artist if there’s no audience.”

Reid and Tovar both turned to look at the goateed FBI agent, his words having hit them both fairly hard.

As Reid digested the idea, Tovar turned toward the house. Following the detective’s gaze, Reid turned as well and saw a stocky man of about five-nine striding across the yard in their direction. He had short hair, horn-rimmed glasses and a sad, pouchy face etched with a frown.

Tovar stepped forward, hand extended. “Mr. Andrews.”

“Detective Tovar,” Andrews said politely. He wore khakis and a tan-and-brown striped Polo shirt. “Good to see you again.”

Reid and Rossi let the detective take the lead.

Tovar said, “Vernon Andrews, this is Supervisory Special Agent David Rossi and Supervisory Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid from the FBI.”

“We’re sorry for your loss,” Rossi said, shaking the man’s hand.

Andrews nodded. “Thank you.”

“For what it’s worth, we’re here to help bring the person who did this terrible thing to justice.”

“If I can help in any way, don’t hesitate.”

Andrews was saying this as he shook Reid’s hand, the grieving man’s grasp limp and cool, a dead man’s handshake.

Reid added his condolences.

“Thank you,” Andrews said.

“Mr. Andrews,” Reid went on, “we’d like to ask you some questions, if that would be all right.”

“Will it help find my daughter’s killer?”

Rossi said, “We hope so, sir.”

“Then please ask. But I’m afraid I don’t know what I can tell you that I haven’t already told Detective Tovar.”

“We know what happened,” Rossi said. “Right now, we’re more concerned with why it happened… and how.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Andrews said.

Rossi said, “The police have given us a good picture of the night your daughter and her boyfriend were killed. We want to know what led up to that moment.”

“How on earth can I help with that?”

With a small, respectful smile, Rossi asked, “Mr. Andrews, would you call yourself an observant man?”

With a shrug, Andrews said, “I try to be.”

“Let me ask you then—did you see anyone watching your house or the neighborhood in the weeks before your daughter was shot? Someone who didn’t belong here?”

The grief-stricken father considered that for a long moment.

Finally, he said, “You know, I never gave it a second thought before… but Addie told me one night, last March? That she had thought someone was watching her and Benny, when they were parked next to the house. Actually, it was a kind of accusation—she assumed it was her mother or me, spying on her. At the time, I was so worried about convincing her that she should trust us, that she must’ve just been imagining things, that I… I never took in account that someone might actually be watching them.”

Reid asked, “Did Addie say whyshe’d thought you were watching her and Benny?”