James nodded. “We’re a small department. Most of the detectives have been to crime scene class. Saves the town money and manpower.”

Jareau asked, “Is Detective Denson here?”

“Let me see,” James said. She walked back to her desk, and punched buttons on her desk phone. She waited a few seconds, then said, “Jake, it’s Ellie, out front. There’s some FBI people and a Chicago detective here to see you.”

She listened for a moment, then hung up and said to them, “He’ll be here within five minutes. Sit down if you like.”

But they chose to stand and, anyway, the wait was more like two minutes before a tall, sinewy man with a shaved head and a prominent nose came through a door to their right, moving with considerable purpose of stride. He swung open the gate at the far end of counter and approached them.

Wearing a blue work shirt, jeans, and black Rockys, Denson looked more like a construction worker than a detective—or he would have if construction workers packed nine-millimeter automatics on their right hips. He had dark eyes set in a perpetual squint and bore the thin-lipped half smirk of someone who was pretty sure he knew something you didn’t. His ears were pressed flat against his skull and he carried himself as if every move, every breath, was about something.

He picked out Jareau. “Detective Jacob Denson. What can I do for you?”

Hotchner stepped forward. “I’m Supervisory Special Agent In Charge Aaron Hotchner.”

“In charge of what exactly?” Denson asked, eyeballing Hotchner now.

“The Behavioral Analysis Unit team helping investigate.”

Denson gave a little chuckle. “Well, now. I’ve heard of you—profilers. But my understanding is you people have to be asked aboard a case. And, all due respect, I don’t remember asking.”

Hotchner smiled—Jareau knew of no one who could summon a smaller or chillier smile than her boss. “You’ve had a killing in your community that fits in with several that have been committed in other nearby jurisdictions.”

“Okay,” Denson said, and shrugged. “So?”

“We’re here to help oversee a joint task force to share information and bring this killer to justice.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Maybe you don’t understand,” Hotchner said. “We’re offering our help.”

Shaking his head, Denson said, “No, I followed you just fine. Even though you think we’re all stumbling around in the dark out here in the boonies, local cops smack dab in Flyover Country—some of us actually understand English, even if we do move our lips when we read.”

Jareau’s enthusiasm for the Midwest was fading.

“We’re getting off on the wrong foot, somehow,” Hotchner said, his hands shooting up in a stop gesture. “I didn’t mean in any way to suggest you weren’t on top of this crime. It’s just that your crime is one of a series of crimes, by the same UnSub, and—”

“Unknown Subject, right? That kind of jargon supposed to impress me, Agent Hotchner?”

“No. Not at all…”

“Right,” Denson said bitterly. “Well, here’s the reality of the situation. I don’t put up with the condescending attitude you feds take. And that’s not allyou take—you waltz in, take all our information, all our hard work, then you take something else: all the credit. Bullshit, boys and girls. Not this time. Not on my watch. This is our case, and we’ll catch the killer ourselves, thanks very much.”

Other cops behind the counter turned their way now, listening to the detective’s controlled rant. Some even smiled.

Jareau knew that many cops felt the same resentment that Denson had just articulated. This anger wasn’t reserved just for the FBI, either. She had heard similar sentiments expressed about the ATF, DEA, and the Secret Service, even the Peace Corps. No one seemed immune from the wrath of locals who felt they provided the inspiration, perspiration, and dedication, while the feds provided consternation and accepted all the congratulations.

“That’s not how we do things,” Hotchner said. “We don’t take over investigations. We consult.”

Denson’s grin couldn’t have been nastier. “Really? So then, I take it I’dbe heading up this task force you mentioned?”

Seeing that Hotchner was crashing and burning with the local detective, Jareau decided that maybe this needed a softer touch.

Quietly, smiling gently, she asked, “Detective Denson, is there somewhere more private we could talk?”

He said, “No.”

She removed the smile. “All right. Then why don’t we meet with you and your chief, and thenyou can make your decision. I left a message about this on the chief’s phone, before we flew out—he may be expecting us.”

Denson stared at her with something approaching open contempt. She was not used to having a man look at her that way—an attractive woman with considerable diplomatic skills, Jareau had to work not to be taken aback.

Denson was saying, “You want to get to my chief because you think he’llbe easier to deal with? Well, good luck.”

“That’s not it at all, Detective.”

“Isn’t it?” the detective snapped. “Let’s see. Come along.”

He returned to the short gate and went through, stopped and looked back.

The trio hadn’t moved.

“You coming?” Denson asked.

Jareau turned to Hotchner, asked the question with her eyes, and her supervisor nodded.

She led the way, Hotchner and Lorenzon close behind as they followed Denson across the bullpen and through a door leading to a short corridor.

The bald detective led them to the last door on the right, a corner office. The sign on the door said CHIEF LEONARD OLIVER.

Denson knocked, opened it and, as he entered, said, “Chief, FBI’s here.”

“What do theywant?”

“They want to talk to you. I don’t seem to be able to satisfy them. Supposedly they called ahead, left a message.”

Jareau didn’t wait for the exchange to go any further, and came on through the door.

The office was good-size, the desk on their left in front of a wide window overlooking the parking lot on the building’s east side. Two chairs sat in front of the desk. Various diplomas and other framed citations filled most of the walls, and some framed family photos sat on the desktop, but no decorative touches asserted themselves in this no-nonsense office. Jareau was not a profiler herself, but she didn’t have to be one to know that this stark space reflected the personality of its tenant.

Behind the desk sat the chief, his hands flat on the desk, his face a blank mask. The brown hair on his blocky head was parted, laser straight. His eyes were dark blue and clear and moved little as he took in his guests, a doll’s eyes. His mouth formed a thin line and he had the pallor common to gamblers and bureaucrats.

Jareau watched with interest as the chief’s eyes met Hotchner’s, the two men immediately starting to size each other up.

Though her sense of time had slowed, Jareau knew only seconds had passed before the chief rose and stretched his hand across his desk to Hotchner.

“Leonard Oliver,” their apparently reluctant host said. “Chief here in Wauconda.”

Shaking Oliver’s hand, Hotchner introduced himself, Jareau and Lorenzon, the latter having stayed mute through all of this so far. When the ceremonies were over, Oliver offered them each a chair, getting Denson to have two brought in for Lorenzon and himself. Denson’s chair ended up next to Oliver’s desk, separating him from the others. Soon they were all seated.

“What can I do for you?” Oliver asked, his smile perfunctory.

Sitting forward, Hotchner said, “We were hoping we could do something for you.”

“Really,” Oliver said, still smiling, though his tone wasn’t.

Before Hotchner could say anything, Denson jumped in. “They want to take credit for solving the murders of the two girls we found in the preserve.”

“Is that so?” Oliver asked.

Hotchner said, “Have you already solved this case, Chief Oliver?”