Criminal Minds (18 page)

Prentiss felt the air go out of her. More worthless information. ‘‘Garcia, we knew that. It’s a small town, they worked at a local convenience store Denson frequented, and now he’s investigating their disappearances. End of story.’’

‘‘Here’s a brand-
new
story,’’ Garcia said. ‘‘Casey Goddard used to babysit for Denson’s kids, before his divorce. His ex-wife and the kids? Moved away.’’

‘‘You wouldn’t tease me, would you? Make things up?’’

‘‘This is as real as real deals come. I was combing newspaper articles that were written not long after the women’s bodies were identified. Emily Goddard, Casey’s mom, gave an interview to the
Lake County Witness
where she was quoted as saying, ‘I have faith in Detective Denson. He’s dedicated and he’s been a good friend over the years. Casey used to babysit for his children—I know he will find my daughter’s killer.’ "

Prentiss’s eyes darted around the room searching for Hotchner.
Everybody else was here—where was the boss?
Finally, she said, ‘‘Garcia, hang tight. I can’t find Hotch.’’

Turning to the room, she asked, ‘‘Anybody know where Hotch went?’’

With a vague gesture, Reid said, ‘‘He’s in one of the back offices, trying to catch an hour’s sleep.’’

‘‘Wake him,’’ Prentiss said.

Shaking his head, Reid said, ‘‘He doesn’t want to be disturbed. He said—’’

‘‘Whatever he said, he’s going to want to hear this. Wake him.’’

Her tone carried enough weight to propel Reid out of his chair and out of the conference room.

Almost simultaneously, Morgan and Rossi turned toward her and asked, ‘‘What is it?’’

Prentiss held up a steadying palm. ‘‘Hotch’ll be here in a second,’’ she said to them (and Garcia, still online and on screen).

Their bleary-eyed team leader came in quickly, jacket off, necktie loosened, short hair managing to look mussed, and said to Prentiss, ‘‘Please tell me this is a major break.’’

‘‘Might well be,’’ Prentiss said. She nodded to Garcia’s face on the flat screen.

He leaned in at Prentiss’s laptop. ‘‘What is it, Garcia?’’

The zaftig blonde reiterated what she’d told Prentiss.

Hotchner’s alertness sharpened even as his irritation vanished, and ice was in his voice as he said, ‘‘Garcia, tell me you have Denson’s home address ready.’’

She said nothing, just punching some keys to give him the information almost instantaneously.

Hotchner’s eyes went to Morgan. ‘‘Morgan, get hold of Lorenzon. I want the two of you to pick up Jake Denson and get him in here ASAP.’’

Rossi shrugged. ‘‘I could go with Morgan.’’

Hotchner shook his head. ‘‘This might be nothing, but it might also mean the apprehension of an offender who’s armed and dangerous, and knows law enforcement tactics.’’

‘‘Right,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘So I’ll go with Morgan.’’

‘‘No. Lorenzon’s a street cop, Dave. You’re a profiler.’’

‘‘What, I’m not up to this collar?’’

‘‘It’s not a collar yet—we’re just bringing Denson in for questioning. But I want one of the locals in on this, not just the big bad feds.’’

That mollified Rossi.

Just after midnight, when they should have been asleep in their hotel rooms (or at least, Prentiss thought, back doing their laundry), the BAU team was still in the conference room as Morgan and Lorenzon came in accompanying a very pissed-off Jake Denson.

The detective with the Yul Brynner haircut wore jeans, a Cubs T-shirt and sneakers. He looked like he hadn’t shaved since morning and he still had his gun on his hip.

Hotchner, pulling his tie tight as he rose to meet them, glanced at Morgan, asking a question with his eyes.

‘‘He wasn’t at home,’’ Morgan said. ‘‘He was working—caught up with him at the Wauconda PD.’’

Hotchner turned to the detective and said, ‘‘You always work this late, Detective?’’

‘‘Do you?’’ Denson said. ‘‘What the hell is this all about?’’

‘‘Have a seat,’’ Hotchner said.

‘‘I’ll take a pass,’’ Denson said, folding his arms. ‘‘You see, I’m not going to be here that long. So I’ll just stand.’’

‘‘We need to talk about your case—the murdered girls from Bangs Lake.’’ Hotchner gestured to a chair at the nearest table. ‘‘You’ll be more comfortable if you sit.’’

‘‘How many times,’’ Denson said, ‘‘and how many ways, do I have to tell you where to stick your task force? You’re not getting my case, boys and girls. I started it, and I’ll finish it.’’

Hotchner said, ‘‘We don’t want to talk to you about
your
investigation.’’

‘‘No?’’

‘‘No. We want to talk to you about
our
investigation.’’

‘‘What about your investigation?’’ Denson asked, confused. ‘‘You think I’m gonna let you pick my brain so you can—’’

‘‘We’re investigating
you
, Detective Denson.’’

Hotchner’s hands went to his hips, elbows winged. ‘‘You haven’t been entirely forthcoming with us.’’

‘‘Why should I be?’’

‘‘Thing is, in keeping things from us, Detective, you’ve helped us develop a suspect.’’

‘‘I have? Who?’’

Several seconds passed before he realized that everyone in the room was staring at him. ‘‘Me?’’

‘‘You lied to us,’’ Hotchner said.

‘‘Like hell I did!’’

‘‘Casey Goddard was a babysitter for your family.’’

Denson swallowed. ‘‘Not telling you that doesn’t make me a liar.’’

Rossi asked him, ‘‘Would you let a perp get away with that line of bull?’’

Denson turned toward Rossi.

But it was Prentiss who spoke: ‘‘Didn’t your mother ever tell you a sin of omission is the same as a lie?’’

Denson spun toward her.

Only Reid commented next: ‘‘Holding that back makes you seem like someone with something to hide.’’

Denson swivelled to face Reid.

Then Morgan, shaking his head, said, ‘‘I can’t believe we haven’t busted your damn ass already.’’

Denson’s final turn had brought him back to his initial position. No one said anything else but all of their eyes were on him and his hands went to either side of his head like he was trying to hold his skull together.

‘‘All right, goddamnit—I
loved
her!’’

If Denson was expecting looks of revulsion, he didn’t get any. The profilers were studying him, yes, but clinically.

And Hotchner pulled out a chair for him and the detective finally sat.

‘‘She wasn’t underage or anything. It wasn’t like that. We’d known her for years, she was my kids’ babysitter since she was in junior high, and was like . . . like one of the family. I went through a rough patch of drinking and running around, and finally my wife asked me for a divorce. Before my wife moved out, with the kids, Casey was still baby-sitting for us. This one night, I drove her home and she knew I was upset about something and we sat and talked and . . . I guess she’d had a secret crush on me or some such, because it . . . it turned into something.’’

Hotchner asked, ‘‘Did your wife know?’’

‘‘No. Christ, if she had, she’d have used it to beat me up even worse in the divorce.’’

‘‘How about the girl’s parents? Did they know?’’

‘‘I don’t think so.’’

Morgan moved in. ‘‘How about the other girl? How about Donna, did
she
know? Is that why you killed them both?’’

‘‘No! Hell, no.’’ Denson was shaking his head, furiously. ‘‘I didn’t kill either of them. I
told
you. . . . I loved Casey. When my wife moved out, Casey and me, we started sneaking around, because she was still in high school at the time, and her parents would’ve gone ape shit, and who could blame them? Finally she got tired of me, I guess . . . novelty wore off. I think I’d have stayed with her forever, if she’d’ve had me. All in all, it lasted maybe . . . six months.’’

Hotchner said, ‘‘She didn’t love you, anymore. But you still loved her?’’

Denson shook his head. ‘‘No. No, I’d moved on, too. I wasn’t some old perv stalking her, if that’s what you mean.’’

‘‘And you tried to keep us out of the Bangs Lake investigation so we wouldn’t turn this up?’’

‘‘Maybe. Maybe that was part of it.’’ He looked up helplessly at Hotchner, then his eyes searched out every other face. ‘‘But mostly I wanted to solve this thing, solve it myself! Why do you think I’ve been working so hard? I want to get the bastard that did this awful thing to that lovely, lovely girl.’’

And he hunched over and cried. He didn’t even bother bringing up his hands to cover his face or catch the tears. He just sat there and wept.

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.’’

H
ere 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
was
the 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.’’