“Not a problem,” Hotchner said. “My friends call me Hotch.”
“And I’m Tate.” Then, turning to his companion, Lorenzon added, “Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner, meet Detective Hilario Tovar, Chicago Heights PD.”
Grinning and extending his hand, Tovar said, “It’s Hilly, and we really do appreciate your time. I mean, we know all about the BAU—you’re the first team, and you don’t waste time on the small stuff.”
“Hilly,” Hotchner said with a nod, shaking the man’s hand. “We’re happy to help, if we can.”
“That’s good to hear,” Lorenzon said. “There are plenty of cops back our way who think Hilly and me are off the rails on this one. You say ‘serial killer’ to a cop and he thinks you’ve seen too many movies.”
A needle of apprehension jabbed Hotchner. “You both know we can only enter cases where we’ve been invited.”
“You and vampires,” Lorenzon said.
The remark was one, in seemingly endless variations, that Hotchner had often heard before; he hid any irritation and said, “Be that as it may…”
Tovar held up a hand. “Listen, both our departments may think we’re gonzo, but Tate and me have pretty good track records, so to shut us up, if nothing else? They’ve agreed to extend you an invitation… ifyou think the two of us are on the right track. On the other hand, maybe they just wanted to get us out of town where you could talk some sense into us.”
“So you know what you have,” Hotchner said flatly—a statement, not a question.
“We think so,” Lorenzon said, and sighed. “But like I say, nobody else wants to believe it.”
Morgan said, “Who’d want to?”
Jareau came up to them. “Everyone’s ready.”
Introductions were made and she shook hands with both men.
“We appreciate your time,” Tovar said to her.
“It’s our job,” she said. “If this develops into anything, I’ll be working media.”
"From D.C.?"
“No, if we come to Chicago, I’ll be part of the team.”
Hotch saw Morgan smile, just a little. The two out-of-town detectives could hardly have failed to notice just how striking a young woman Jareau was, and having her around wouldn’t be the worst fate in the world.
Jareau led them into the conference room, giving Tovar and Lorenzon seats on Hotchner’s left, Rossi on his right, the rest of the team fanned out around the large mahogany table that was the room’s center-piece. Morgan and Reid sat to Rossi’s right, Prentiss to the left of Lorenzon, Jareau remaining on her feet as she made the introductions.
A picture window with venetian blinds occupied the wall immediately to the right of the door, a twin to the window in Hotchner’s office. To the left was a cupboard and counter with a copier, a fax machine in the corner beyond. The wall to the left had three narrow bulletproof windows that served only to let in light, a brown sofa under them, a potted tree beside it. A wall-mounted whiteboard had been cleaned.
The sections of corkboard on either side of the whiteboard still held tacked-up notes, photos, reports, and other detritus from their previous case. The wall opposite the door contained a HDTV flat screen on which could be displayed PowerPoint presentations and videos from cases.
“The reason these detectives came to us,” Hotchner said, “is these photos you are about to see. JJ?”
Jareau pushed a button on the remote and the first crime scene photo popped up on the HD screen. They all took a good look: a young couple in a car on a blacktop road next to a house, wadded piece of paper on the rain-soaked street under the driver’s door.
No one said a word.
Then Jareau spoke. “This photo was sent by snail mail to the Chicago Heights Police Department and turned over to Detective Tovar. Does it remind you of anything?”
Morgan, who Hotchner knew already had the answer, said nothing. The others also stayed mute, but Reid seemed focused on something in the photo and Hotchner knew the young man was close to seeing what he and Morgan had long since picked up on.
Hotchner gave Reid a hint. “Detective Tovar, could you tell us the date of the crime and intersection where it took place?”
“April seventeenth,” Tovar said, “or actually early April eighteenth, one a.m. Corner of Two-Hundred-and-Seventh Street and Hutchinson Avenue.”
Almost before the words were out of the detective’s mouth, Reid quietly said, “Berkowitz.”
“ DavidBerkowitz?” Prentiss asked, eyes and nostrils flaring.
Nodding rapidly now, Reid said, “Son of Sam. On April seventeenth, nineteen seventy-seven, two lovers— an eighteen-year-old actress, Valentina Suriani and her tow-truck driver boyfriend, twenty-year-old Alexander Esau—were necking in a parked car near the Hutchinson River Parkway in the Bronx when they were shot to death by Berkowitz. Though they were the ninth and tenth victims he shot, they were only the fifth and sixth to die. One of the police officers at the scene found a letter addressed to the lead detective on the so-called case of the .44 Caliber Killer— Captain Joseph Borelli. It was the letter where Berkowitz gave himself the name ‘Son Of Sam.’ ”
Lorenzon spoke up. “You’re talking about the guy who got his marching orders from a damn dog?”
“A Labrador retriever named Harvey,” Reid said in his lilting, matter-of-fact way. He might have been answering a question in a round of Trivial Pursuit. “Was there anything on the crumpled piece of paper?”
“No,” Tovar said.
“We’ll get it to our lab,” Hotchner said. “They might be able to find something.”
“The murder weapon,” Morgan said. “What do we know about it?”
Tovar said, “It’s a—”
“Would it be a Charter Arms Bulldog,” Reid interrupted, “.44 caliber special?”
Hotchner watched the detective sitting there open-mouthed, staring at Reid as if a two-year-old had suddenly spouted the Gettysburg Address.
“It, uh, wasa .44,” Tovar said. “What are you, kid, a witch?”
“That would be ‘warlock,’ ” Reid said.
Morgan cut in. “But he is a doctor and a supervisory special agent, so ‘kid’ may not really be appropriate.”
“Sorry, Dr. Reid,” Tovar said, flustered.
Reid waved that off, while Hotchner said, “You just want to make sure you take Dr. Reid seriously. Because he doesn’t just pull these things out of the air.”
Morgan said, “Or the other place you might assume he’s pulling it out of.”
“Point is,” Reid said, “it’s the same gun Berkowitz used.”
Jareau touched a button on the remote and the second photo came up on the screen: bones found in the Lakewood Forest Preserve.
Jareau said, “Detective Tovar got this photo from a friend on the job in Wauconda, one of the far northern suburbs in the lake counties.”
“Jake Denson,” Tovar said. “He sent me the photo when I asked him if he’d received any in the mail; but Jake thinks, because of the difference in MO? His nut and our nut are different guys.”
Reid said, “ ‘Nut’ is probably not a good way to describe this individual, and it isone individual. You’re dealing with someone intelligent and even sophisticated. Don’t underestimate him.”
The two detectives exchanged awkward glances. They had the look of minor leaguers thrust into the big time.
Rossi, whose face assumed a deceptive blankness when he concentrated, nodded toward the image of bones and asked, “What’s the story here?”
Jareau said, “Hikers found the remains of two young women in Lakewood Forest Preserve on Saturday, June twenty-first. There were two skulls, four femurs, and a jawbone. The remains were identified as Donna Cooper and Casey Goddard, two young women who disappeared from Bangs Lake in Wauconda on June fourteenth.”
Prentiss said, “Like two young women last seen with a handsome young man, with a cast on one arm, claiming he needed help getting a boat off his car.”
“Oh hell,” Morgan said.
“Ted Bundy,” Rossi said.