Finally Hotchner said, “Go home.”

“What?”

“While we’re wasting our time with you, we’re losing ground to the real killer.”

“You… you believe me?”

Morgan said, “Shouldn’t we?”

But Hotchner was shaking his head. “I don’t believe you and I don’t disbelieve you. We’ll check out your story. But if you’re on the level, and all you want is Casey’s killer to be brought to justice, here’s what you’re going to do.”

“Anything,” Denson said.

“First, you’re off the case. Second, you convince your chief to share all information that you and anyone else on the Wauconda PD have gathered on this. Then your chief is to send someone over to join our task force. Not you—someone else.”

“I’m the one that knows the case!”

Hotchner’s smile was like a cut on his face that had refused to heal. “You’re still a suspect, and we have a policy here at the BAU—suspects don’t work on the investigation.”

Morgan said, “If you’re looking for a choice, we could lock you up till this thing’s over.”

Denson sighed. “I’ll do everything you said. I’ll cooperate fully. You have my word. Just… just catch the son of a bitch.”

Rossi said, “You have our word. We will.”

When Denson had gone, Hotchner wheeled to Jareau. “Get SAIC Himes to give us bumper-lock surveillance on our fellow law enforcer, Detective Denson. I want to know his whereabouts twenty-four/seven.”

Jareau nodded, cell phone out already, and headed off.

Rossi was frowning. “You think our friend from Wauconda is the UnSub?"

Hotchner breathed deep. “We’ll tail him as such. Who knows? Maybe we’ll save him from himself.”

Chapter Eight

August 6 Chicago, Illinois

   Here and there around the conference room table, the BAU team members were lost in their individual pursuits, heads buried in evidence, reports, laptops, crime scene photos. They’d had scant sleep since their interview with Denson, but with the addition of the information from the Wauconda crimes, they should now have a bigger knowledge base to work with. And—a basic tenet of profiling—the more information you have, the more accurate your profile.

Despite these long hours, and mainlining coffee to keep going, they had renewed energy, knowing that they had more information on the two women.

Problem was, for Supervisory Special Agent Derek Morgan, this so-called new information wasn’t helping. The Wauconda police, despite Denson’s avowed constant attention to the case, appeared to know little more than the BAU team.

“I’ve read the file cover to cover,” Morgan said, shaking his head. “I’m not sure Denson isn’t still our best suspect. He hasn’t dug up anything we didn’t already know.”

Reid leaned back in his chair and gave Morgan narrow-eyed regard. “I noticed that, as well. But I had the opposite reaction.”

“How so?”

“If Denson wasthe killer? He could have planted false evidence and red herrings. He could have even used the report to build a frame for another suspect. These files, and the report he wrote up for us, are scant but accurate. I believe he’s telling the truth.”

Prentiss said, “Reid makes a good point.”

“Or,” Rossi said, “Denson could be withholding evidence.”

Morgan frowned. “Because he’s our UnSub?"

Rossi shrugged facially. “Possibly. Or because he still wants to wage this investigation himself, as a vendetta.”

But Hotchner was shaking his head. “It doesn’t mean anything one way or the other at this juncture. We’ve still got to work the case as if he’s a suspect.”

Morgan glanced at Hotch. “As if… ? Does that mean you agree with Reid that Denson’s telling the truth?”

“It means I don’t care,” Hotchner said. “We work the case. That means we read the evidence, work the victimology and study the UnSub’s behavior— nothing more, nothing less.”

Nods all around.

Then they lapsed into silence and got back to work.

Morgan knew Hotchner was right: they had a killer to find, and Denson was just another person of interest now. The only thing to do at this stage was concentrate on the work in front of them.

After another quarter hour, Lorenzon popped in, a skinny, bushy-haired white guy trailing him. The man had a long, sharp nose, even white teeth and a pointy chin. Taller than the African-American detective, he wore a blue, collarless shirt with buttons down the front, navy blue slacks with narrow maroon suspenders and black loafers. Lorenzon instructed their guest to wait by the door, and approached Hotchner, who was seated at the head of the conference-room table.

Lorenzon said softly, almost whispering, “I think you’re going to want to talk to this gentleman.”

Around the table, they all looked up.

“Why?” Hotchner asked, also sotto voce.

Lorenzon’s eyebrows rose. “Because he’s identified your John Doe… and recognized the picture of another of the victims from the newspaper.”

Hotchner said, “I think we want to talk to this gentleman.”

Lorenzon ushered the guy over, gesturing to him the way a car salesman in a showroom indicates a shiny new model. “This is Paul Grant. Mr. Grant is a bartender from a club called Hot Rods.”

“ Nota car club,” Rossi said, with a puckish smile.

“No,” Grant said, with a nervous smile in response. “It’s a gay bar.”

Hotchner stood and gestured to an open chair. “Sit down, Mr. Grant. Join us, Detective Lorenzon.”

Morgan knew his boss might have preferred a private meeting with Grant, but the field office was laid out so that conference rooms and interrogation rooms were not even on the same floor, much less near each other. And taking this witness upstairs and ushering him into a cubicle might create the wrong impression.

The chairs Lorenzon and the bartender took were near Hotchner. Reid and Prentiss slid their chairs down in the direction of Morgan, at the far end of the table, to give their boss a semblance of privacy. Rossi, however, stayed put.

Hotchner asked the bartender, “You know our John Doe?”

“I didn’t ‘know him’ know him,” the bartender said. “But I knewhim.”

Though the other agents had mostly moved down, they were all, of course, listening in on this interview. And that particular response made Prentiss’s eyes widen while Morgan tilted his head just a shade (the equivalent of anybody else rolling their eyes). Meanwhile, Rossi looked like he was trying hard to digest something, with only Reid seeming perfectly comfortable with Grant’s chasing-its-own-tail answer.

Hotchner asked, “Could you break that down?”

Grant shrugged. “Well, it wasn’t like we were friends or anything. We just both knew some of the same people.”

“You knew his name, then?”

“Yeah. Sure. Of course. Stevie.”

“Do you know Stevie’s last name?”

Grant considered that. “Pretty sure it was Darnell. Stevie Darnell.”

“You didn’t know him well.”

“No.”

“How didyou know him?”

“From the club, mostly. You work the bar, you get friendly with regulars.”

“He was a regular, then.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Was that the extent of it, your friendship?”

“ ‘Friendship’ overdoes it. I ran in to him at a couple of gay events, once or twice at the movies, but that was pretty much it. He was one of those people you know well enough to say ‘hi’ to.”

Rossi asked, “You say he was a regular. Was he in the club a lot?”

“Some.”

Hotchner asked, “How much is some?”

Grant scratched at his bushy head of hair as if that might unearth the answer. “Twice a week, maybe?”

“Pretty regular, then,” Rossi said.

“A lot of the guys are. Not Bobby though.”

Rossi said, “Bobby?”

“Bobby Edels,” Grant said, and shrugged. “The other guy that got killed. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”