Kotchman always told them, “And another of his disciples said unto him, ‘Lord, suffer me first to go and bury my father’ ”—a quote from the book of Matthew, possibly somewhat misinterpreted by the killer.
Convicted of four counts of murder and one count each of kidnapping and attempted murder, Kotchman, sixty now, was serving a life sentence in a California prison.
Morgan kept digging into Kotchman’s background (much as the FBI had earlier dug into his backyard), studying the address of Kotchman’s home, the dates of his kills—anything that might give them a leg up on locating a potential victim who had presumably been buried and was possibly still alive. He was still doing that when Reid came in with a copy of Max Ryan’s book.
Morgan asked, “How long will it take you to reread that?”
Reid sat at the conference table, smiled just a little. “I read it on the ride back from the bookstore.”
He’d been driven to and from the bookstore by local agent Kohler, who’d been doing odds and ends for the team.
Morgan asked, “And?”
Reid shrugged. “The book didn’t tell me anything we didn’t already know, per se.”
“Per se?”
“Well, it did get me thinking. What would you need to re-create one of Kotchman’s crimes?”
Morgan shrugged. “Not much—a shovel, some plywood, some PVC pipe for the vent.”
“And where would you get these things?”
“I can think of quite a few places,” Morgan said. “But I know just who can narrow the search for us.” He tapped some keys on his laptop and Garcia’s face appeared on his screen.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“We’re looking for someone who might have gone shopping—he could have gone any number of places, but he’d have a very distinct list. He would’ve bought maybe three ten-foot sheets of plywood, ten feet of PVC, and probably a shovel. Can you do your magic and see how many times that’s happened in the Chicago area in the last say… three weeks?”
“I’m on it.”
“Be sure to include that Fix-it Mate where Bobby Edels worked. In Mundelein.”
“Will do. When I know something, you will.”
And, like any good genie, she was gone, just minus the puff of smoke.
They went back to studying other aspects of the crime and, although waiting was a large part of any law enforcement job, Morgan felt about to jump out of his skin. He was about to say to hell with it, long enough to grab some lunch anyway, when Jareau entered the conference room carrying a large manila envelope.
“Got it,” she said, presenting the envelope to Hotchner.
“Got what?” the team leader asked.
“The forensic artist’s suspect drawing. Minchell says this is the guy that hired him to procure the two gay men.”
Hotchner was already studying the sketch.
“This is our suspect,” Hotchner said, handing the drawing to Prentiss, who looked at it for perhaps ten seconds, nodded, then passed it along to Reid.
The younger agent studied it and, shaking his head, said, “Doesn’t remind meof Detective Denson.”
Reid handed the sheet to Morgan, who needed only a moment to recognize the face. “ Thisis the guy?”
“According to your broken-nosed friend in the hospital bed, yes,” Jareau said cheerfully. “Evidently, Minchell told the artist that the drawing was spot on—Minchell says that’s absolutely the guy.”
Morgan shook his head. “Son of a bitch…”
Frowning, Hotchner asked, “You know him?”
“Saw him—just once, but this is the guy… a police photographer. Daniel Dryden.”
Hotchner sat up, his eyes sharp. “Where did you see him?”
“The Gacy house,” Morgan said. He gave them a smile that had little to do with the usual reasons for smiling. “He was very helpful.”
Reid’s eyebrows were up. “We called it—a police buff, or even PD employee, injecting himself into the investigation.”
“We’ve been getting crime scene photos from a crime scene photographer,” Prentiss said, and rolled her eyes. “How old is he?”
Shrugging, Morgan said, “Fortysomething. Closer to forty than fifty.”
Jareau said, “That fits the profile, too.”
“Prentiss,” Hotchner said, with coiled urgency, “get with Garcia—we need an address for Dryden. JJ, let the police in all the jurisdictions know we’re looking to talk to this guy, but make sure the PDs know we don’t want Drydento know; and get a photo of Dryden over to that hospital and have Minchell confirm that the sketch and Dryden are one in the same. Morgan, Reid, get ready—soon as we have an address, we’re going to call on Mr. Dryden.”
Within several minutes, Prentiss had the info from Garcia, and soon the four profilers loaded into an FBI Tahoe and, with Morgan driving, made their way to Oak Park, a suburb that included the Frank Lloyd Wright historical district. They were on Oak Park Avenue, heading slowly north in heavy traffic.
Reid asked, “Are you going to call Rossi and the detectives?”
“Yeah, but only to tell them that we’ve tentatively identified the UnSub. I still think they should go to the Speck scene, as a precaution if nothing else. After all, he used the Gacy house.”
Morgan turned right on Iowa, went two blocks, then turned back north. The Dryden home, a handsome brick structure vaguely in the Prairie style, sat on the east side of the 700 block of Linden Avenue, the only one-story on a block of two-stories.
As Morgan parked the SUV in front, Prentiss’s cell phone chirped.
She answered, listened for a long moment, then said, “Thanks, Garcia,” and clicked off.
“What is it?” Hotchner asked.
“Dryden’s lived here for the last fifteen years. He’s a former fashion photographer, briefly pretty successful, including some gallery shows of his more artistic efforts. But he was a flash in the pan and wound up working for the PD shooting crime scenes. He’s got a wife, Connie—one of his former models—and two boys. Dryden has no criminal record.”
Morgan said, “I wonder if his family is in danger.”
Prentiss shrugged. “Well, he’s a sociopath, so in a way that goes without saying. But do you mean something more specific?”
Reid was squinting at the house. “His list of mass murderers is finite—rather small, actually. He’s accelerating in one sense, but winding down in another.”
Prentiss was squinting, too, but at Reid. “What’s your point?”
Reid shrugged. “He’s in mass murderer mode now. Many mass murderers go on sprees, taking out their entire families and ending with their own suicides. His final photo, his last crime, could be a family portrait.”
They got out of the vehicle and stood on the sidewalk for a moment. Once again, summer’s heat gripped the city with fingers of high humidity that seemed to squeeze the very breath out of the city, leaving only car exhaust. The sun did its best to penetrate the dense foliage of the tall trees that sheltered the block, their shade the only hope of a break from the strangling heat.
Morgan asked, “Which serial killer, or rather mass murderer, would he be doing, killing his family and himself?”
Reid met Morgan’s eyes with an atypically hard stare. “Daniel Dryden.”
Prentiss’s eyes widened as she got it. “Adding himself to the list…”
“And maybe a revised edition of the book he’s following—coming right before Speck, maybe. Alphabetical order?”
The house sat sideways on the lot, driveway leading up to the front of the home, a separate two-story garage on the left side, front door facing the driveway on the north side. The west side faced the street with a large picture window, curtains open onto a long, wide great room.
Hotchner answered his cell. He said, “Yes… yes… Good.”
He clicked off and the other profilers just looked at him. “JJ says Minchell has seen Dryden’s picture and confirms his identity as the man he set up with the Hot Rods victims.”
They went up the driveway, Hotchner first, Morgan second, hand casually on his hip-holstered gun, Reid and Prentiss behind.