Criminal Minds (12 page)

Half out of his seat, Tovar said, ‘‘I’d like to go with them.’’

‘‘Fine,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘Prentiss, you work the victimology.’’

‘‘Yes, sir.’’

‘‘Morgan, you and Detective Lorenzon hit the Fix-It Mate. Interview Edels’s coworkers. See if they have security video of the parking lot that might tell us something.’’

‘‘You got it,’’ Morgan said.

‘‘JJ, try to keep the media at bay a while longer, and meantime I’ll keep going over the material we have, to see if we missed something.’’

Except for Prentiss and Hotchner, they all rose at once and emptied the conference room to work their assignments. Sneaking a glance at Hotchner, Prentiss noticed that his typically serious expression seemed even more grave.

They were going full bore now, and there would be no rest and not just for the wicked: the team would push from now until they brought the UnSub down.

It was going to be a very long day.

And probably just the first of many . . .

T
hough Supervisory Special Agent David Rossi had visited scores of families of victims, he found the task never got any easier. Unlike the first round of uniformed officers, detectives and crime scene analysts, profilers arrived after the loved ones had begun to deal with their loss, meaning wounds that were still healing or even recently healed requiring picking at.

On occasion, though, a profiler on the front line of a case could appear in the early hours, when wounds were fresh and so was the information, the latter a plus no matter how painful the former. But the distress of the families could be so severe as to cloud the inquiry, and distract even a hardened investigator.

The air-conditioned car had provided relief from the relentless Midwestern heat and humidity, but as Rossi stepped out into the punishing bright sunshine, he could almost feel his sports jacket’s dark color soaking in every ray.

Detective Tovar, who had driven the unmarked Ford, came around to the passenger side as Dr. Spencer Reid got out of the backseat and stepped up next to Rossi.

‘‘Normal middle-class neighborhood,’’ Reid said.

Tovar shook his head. ‘‘The more normal the neighborhood,’’ the Hispanic detective said, ‘‘the weirder it seems. I mean, you find somebody shot in an alley with his pockets turned inside out, where’s the surprise?’’

‘‘Every smooth rock in the world,’’ Rossi said, ‘‘has worms squirming under it.’’

Tovar thought about that. Reid just nodded.

They were poised in a quiet neighborhood whose streets were nearly deserted on this Tuesday morning. The worker bees of this middle-class enclave, with their trimmed lawns, well-maintained homes and backyard barbecues, had long since departed to go sit and wait on the freeway, enduring their daily commute to the hive. Theirs was a lifestyle that Rossi, much as he might respect the hard work and good hearts behind it, could never have maintained himself.

Rossi had craved something more, a career that made a difference, a path that included less sameness to each day. That craving had brought him here, to the front door of yet another family who had lost someone to the pointless violence. And in such moments, he could only envy the worker bees.

No police car out front. No family vehicles, either—maybe no one was home. The two-story white clapboard, with green shutters and a single car garage tucked up the driveway on the left-hand side, would have made a nice house to grow up in. A silver maple on one side and an oak on the other flanked a sidewalk that divided a freshly mowed front yard.

‘‘Another Pleasant Valley Sunday,’’ Rossi muttered.

‘‘What?’’ Tovar said. ‘‘It’s Tuesday.’’

Reid said quietly, ‘‘Monkees. Goffin and King. 1967. Got to number three on the
Billboard
chart.’’

Rossi gave Reid a sideways look that said,
Stop that.

Tovar got out his cell phone and made a quick call. He spoke for a moment, then clicked off. Turning to Rossi and Reid, he said, ‘‘The ME says the family’s been notified.’’

‘‘That’s a small blessing for us,’’ Rossi said and started up the front walk, the other two behind him. ‘‘But it still won’t be easy.’’

The house had a three-step porch up to an aluminum front screen door with an old English ‘‘E’’ embedded into scrollwork.

Rossi rang the bell.

They waited a long moment and, just as Rossi was about to press the button again, the inside door swung open and a pale, pouchy male face peered out.

The man was about Rossi’s age, somewhat taller than the FBI agent, his hair grayer, his body softer, his eyes red-rimmed from crying. His thin lips quivered as he said, ‘‘You gentlemen look official.’’

‘‘We are,’’ Rossi said and smiled just a little. ‘‘Mr. Edels?’’

‘‘Yes, sir.’’

Holding up his credentials, Rossi said, ‘‘David Rossi with the FBI. This is Supervisory Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid, and that’s Chicago Heights police detective Hilly Tovar.’’

Edels nodded at each as the introductions were made.

Rossi asked, ‘‘May we come in, sir? We need to talk to you about your son.’’

‘‘Please do.’’ Edels held the screen door open for them.

The central air was on and the house cool, the entryway dark though Rossi could easily make out stairs to the second floor, at right, beside which a hallway led to the back of the house. The law enforcement group went through the handshaking ritual with their host, then Edels led them off to the left, into the living room, which was not large but homey and inviting enough.

Against the wall to Rossi’s right was a long, well-used sofa with family photos scattered across the wall above it. The wall at left was mostly windows onto the front yard, flimsy curtains covering them now. Beneath the windows crouched a coffee table flanked by wing chairs. The wall directly before him held shelves with a television, some electronic equipment, a row of DVDs and quite a few CDs. This was no formal living room but a lived-in room.

Edels said, ‘‘Have a seat, gentlemen,’’ then sat on a recliner near the sofa, perching on its edge.

Rossi sat in a wing chair while Tovar and Reid took the sofa, sitting forward.

Their host seemed clearly in shock to Rossi, who asked, ‘‘Are you here alone, Mr. Edels?’’

‘‘No, no,’’ Edels said, wiping away a tear with the back of his hand. ‘‘My wife is in the kitchen with Karen.’’

‘‘Karen?’’

‘‘Our daughter.’’

‘‘I’m sorry to have to ask,’’ Rossi said, ‘‘but would you get them, please? We need to ask them these questions, too.’’

Edels nodded, got up and walked in zombie fashion back through the entryway. When he returned, he was followed by two women—the younger one, obviously the daughter, high school age, was rather tall and thin, wearing navy blue shorts and a gray T-shirt with NOTRE DAME in navy blue letters over a green clover leaf; her dark hair was trimmed short.

‘‘This is my daughter, Karen,’’ Edels said.

In better circumstances, the high-cheekboned girl would have been attractive; but right now her eyes were red-rimmed and her jaws clenched as she shook hands with each of them. She, too, had a zombie air.

Tovar and Reid rose and gave the sofa over so Karen Edels and her mother could sit down.

In a dark robe and slippers, Mrs. Edels—Phyllis, her husband told them—was the shortest of the three, but even so was probably five-seven. She had dark hair like her daughter, cut even shorter, and an athletic frame; the mother/daughter resemblance was strong. She twisted a handkerchief between her fingers.

‘‘We’re terribly sorry for your loss,’’ Rossi said to them, panning across their shell-shocked faces.

Mrs. Edels, in a voice knife-blade thin but with a quiver, asked, ‘‘Are you going to catch the animal that did this to Bobby?’’

‘‘We’re going to try,’’ Rossi said.

‘‘Try?’’ She stared at him, her green eyes burning.

‘‘We have a very good track record, Mrs. Edels,’’ he said. ‘‘If anyone’s going to stop this killer, it’s us.’’

That seemed to calm her slightly.

‘‘There’s no easy way to do this,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘So, with your permission, I’m just going to get into it.’’

Mr. Edels nodded and then so did his wife, and finally their daughter.

‘‘Did Bobby have trouble with anybody in his life? Someone you might call an enemy?’’ Rossi tilted his head. ‘‘Or if that’s too strong, someone he’d had a conflict with, a bad argument, for example.’’

The family exchanged glances, then Mr. Edels said, ‘‘Everybody liked Bobby. I know every parent probably says that kind of thing, but really—he was a good kid and a hard worker.’’

‘‘And he worked at the Mundelein Fix-It Mate, isn’t that right?’’

Edels nodded. ‘‘Since he was sixteen. He loved carpentry. He probably caught the bug puttering with me in the garage since he was a boy.’’

‘‘Did he go to college, or was he planning to?’’

‘‘No. He was hoping to work his way up at Fix-It Mate. And there was talk of being a contractor some day.’’

Rossi nodded. ‘‘Any trouble at work?’’

‘‘No, sir. Everybody there liked Bobby, too.’’

‘‘If I may, what do you do for a living, sir?’’

‘‘I teach school,’’ Edels said. ‘‘Wood shop.’’

‘‘And you, Mrs. Edels?’’

‘‘I teach at Lake Zurich Junior High, too,’’ she said. ‘‘English.’’

‘‘How about you two, as teachers? Any problems with staff or students for either of you?’’

They both said, ‘‘No,’’ at once.

‘‘All right,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘Did Bobby have a girlfriend?’’

‘‘Never had the time,’’ Mrs. Edels said, a little too quickly. ‘‘He worked hard. Someday the right girl might have come along, but—’’

‘‘Mother,’’
Karen said, a little too sharply considering the situation. The thin girl stared right at Rossi and said, ‘‘Bobby was gay.’’

She might have slapped her parents, judging by their stricken expressions.

Rossi said, ‘‘If that’s true, Mr. Edels . . . Mrs. Edels? We need to know. It could be significant in finding the person responsible.’’

Mrs. Edels became very interested in her hanky and Mr. Edels studied the floor for maybe fifteen seconds before slowly raising his head. Tears clung onto his eyelids like passengers on a sinking ship.

Then he said, ‘‘My daughter . . . speaks the truth.’’

The odd formality of that struck Rossi as particularly sad.

‘‘Robert,’’ Mrs. Edels gasped, and it
was
a gasp.

‘‘Phyllis,’’ her husband said, ‘‘we can’t keep something that important away from these men, something that might help them bring Bobby’s killer to justice.’’

Mrs. Edels looked at her husband for a long time, almost as if she were trying to see through him; then, slowly, she nodded.

Rossi said, ‘‘I assure you, Mrs. Edels, we’ll make every effort to keep this information confidential.’’

‘‘I appreciate that,’’ she said.

Karen Edels turned to her mother and said, ‘‘If us being open about Bobby’s sexual orientation helps their investigation . . . if people
knowing
helps some other ‘Bobby’ out there keep from being victimized . . . then, Mother, we
have
to do it.’’

‘‘I
know
!’’ her mother snapped.

Rossi took a few moments for everything—and everyone—to settle.

Then he said, as casually as he could, ‘‘Was there someone special in Bobby’s life?’’

Both parents turned to Karen, and Rossi realized at once that the sister was the only one who’d been privy to this part of Bobby’s life. These were parents who hadn’t wanted to know such things and, accordingly, had never asked.

‘‘No one in particular,’’ Karen said. ‘‘To the general public, Bobby was in the closet. He was working in what was kind of a hardware store, and that’s a pretty conservative environment. Of course, I knew, and our folks knew, but it was ‘don’t ask, don’t tell,’ around here.’’

‘‘Karen,’’ her mother said sharply.

‘‘Well, it is. It was. Mother, Dad—can you imagine Bobby bringing somebody home for you to meet?’’

They said nothing.

Rossi asked, ‘‘Did he have a lot of friends? Straight? Or gay?’’

‘‘Hardly any,’’ Karen said.

‘‘Where did he hang out?’’

‘‘Either here or at work, mostly,’’ Karen said. ‘‘If he was going anywhere else, if there was somebody or somebodies he was seeing, he kept it to himself. He knew I was supportive, and he appreciated that— but he was very private.’’

‘‘Did he have a fake ID?’’

‘‘Not that I know of. I never even saw him drink.’’ Rossi turned to the parents and asked about the fake ID and they both shook their heads. Looking past them, he glanced at Reid, standing on the periphery with Tovar. The younger man’s eyes held a silent question and Rossi gave him the barest hint of a nod.

Reid took a half step into the room. To Rossi, the young man always looked as if he was about to raise his hand and ask permission to go to the bathroom. And yet this eternal nerd also happened to be one of the smartest men Rossi had ever met. If not
the
smartest . . .

Tentatively, Reid asked, ‘‘Would it be all right if we looked at Bobby’s room?’’

Mr. Edels nodded, but Mrs. Edels asked, ‘‘Why?’’

Reid said, ‘‘The more we know about your son? The more information we have to try to understand how he came to be singled out by this UnSub."

‘‘Unknown subject,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘The killer.’’

Frowning, working the hanky in her hands furiously, Mrs. Edels asked, ‘‘Shouldn’t you be learning about this monster instead of Bobby?’’

‘‘Everything we learn about Bobby,’’ Rossi said, ‘‘tells us something about that monster.’’

Any reservations the woman had melted away and she rose, to lead them up the stairs to the second floor. The hallway was long, the bedrooms of the kids on the left, the bathroom and the master bedroom on the right. The corridor contained a few more family photos on either side wall: Bobby in Little League, Karen in a cheerleading uniform (probably junior high), a family portrait of the four when the kids were still in elementary school. They passed Karen’s bedroom and she opened the door for them to enter Bobby’s.