Criminal Minds (24 page)

‘‘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
me
of Detective Denson.’’

Reid handed the sheet to Morgan, who needed only a moment to recognize the face. ‘‘
This
is 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
Dryden
to 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.

As they neared the door, Hotchner said, ‘‘Prentiss, you and Reid go around back. Make sure no one gets by you.’’

They nodded and trotted off.

Morgan and Hotchner gave them thirty seconds, then went to the front door and Hotchner rang the bell.

They waited quietly for an endless moment before the door swung open and they were greeted by a strikingly pretty woman of thirty-five or so. Her eyes were bright blue, her smile wide and friendly, her cheekbones high, her nose straight. Her blonde-highlighted brown hair curled softly onto the shoulders of her a sleeveless blue blouse; she also wore jeans and open-toed sandals, and was both slender and shapely.

Former model is right,
Morgan thought.

‘‘May I help you?’’ she asked.

Hotchner displayed his credentials. ‘‘Mrs. Dryden?’’

‘‘Yes,’’ she said, her voice rather musical.

‘‘I’m Special Agent In Charge Hotchner, and this is Supervisory Special Agent Morgan.’’

‘‘With the FBI, yes,’’ she said, the smile fading. ‘‘You must want Daniel. Something to do with his work? But I’m afraid he’s not here.’’

Hotchner said, ‘‘Would you know where he is?’’

‘‘I’m sorry, no, not exactly where. He’s on the job.’’

The team leader nodded. ‘‘May we come in?’’

Her head tilted to one side, giving Hotchner an odd look; but nonetheless she said, ‘‘Of course,’’ and stepped aside to allow them in.

Morgan followed Hotch.

The entryway was Spanish tile but the carpeting began almost immediately, the great room stretching out to the right, the kitchen straight ahead, the dining room just to the left.

‘‘I’m sorry,’’ Morgan said. ‘‘May I use your bathroom?’’ The request was one he assumed the middle-class housewife could not refuse.

‘‘Why, of course,’’ she said. ‘‘Down the hall, first door on the right.’’

He made the trip quickly, doing his best to see into the other rooms and listening intently for any sound that indicated they were not alone. He ducked into the bathroom, counted to twenty and flushed the toilet. He washed his hands quickly so she could hear the sink running, then rejoined her and Hotchner near the door.

He flashed his patented smile. ‘‘Thank you.’’

Mrs. Dryden gave him a half smile, a quick nod, and waved a hand for them to enter the great room.

The picture window dominated the west wall, and an entertainment center complete with a plasma TV engulfed the north wall. Along the south wall was a long beige sofa with two brown swivel rockers set out on either end as if standing guard, a small coffee table in front.

Hotchner got out his radio and instructed Prentiss and Reid to join them.

While they waited for the other agents, Hotchner asked, ‘‘Mrs. Dryden, are your boys at home?’’

‘‘No,’’ she said, puzzled. ‘‘They’re at the mall with friends—why do you ask?’’

‘‘Actually, I’m relieved. We need to talk to you about some things, and it’s better done with your boys not around.’’

Reid and Prentiss came in and Hotchner made brief introductions. Morgan and Reid stood while the others sat, Mrs. Dryden and Prentiss on the sofa, Hotchner in one of the swivel chairs.

‘‘I must say you’re . . . frightening me,’’ Mrs. Dryden said. ‘‘Is it something about Danny?’’

‘‘Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid so.’’

‘‘Oh my God, is he all right?’’

‘‘As far as we know, he’s fine physically.’’

‘‘Far as you know . . . ? Fine
physically
. . . ? What—’’

‘‘Mrs. Dryden, I’m afraid your husband is a person of interest in an ongoing FBI investigation.’’

‘‘My husband?’’ Her smile was half-amused, half-horrified. ‘‘
What
kind of person? Is this some kind of joke—you work with Danny, right?’’

‘‘You’re aware of these murders the media’s been covering lately? Really they’ve been taking place since spring.’’

Mrs. Dryden nodded. ‘‘The copycat killings. Danny’s mentioned them in passing.’’

‘‘Would you happen to know if he’s worked all the crime scenes?’’

‘‘I have no idea,’’ she said. She was frowning. ‘‘Why aren’t you asking
him
these questions?’’

‘‘We will be,’’ Hotchner said, ‘‘when we locate him. Mrs. Dryden, I hate to have tell you this, but he may prove to be more than just a person of interest. Right now, he’s our chief suspect.’’

Mrs. Dryden’s eyes were wide though the skin around them was tight. ‘‘What? No . . . no, that’s not
possible
.’’

Hotchner said, ‘‘He’s been identified by an eye witness.’’

‘‘The witness is
mistaken
.’’

‘‘Perhaps you can help us clear up our thinking, then,’’ Prentiss said quietly. ‘‘You see, in addition to this witness, Mr. Dryden strongly fits the profile we’ve developed.’’

‘‘
What
profile?’’

‘‘We’re part of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘And we’ve developed a profile of this suspect. Your husband fits it.’’

‘‘You’re
wrong
!’’ She was on her feet.

Prentiss stood, touched the woman’s shoulder, but their reluctant hostess lurched away and held up her index finger like it was a knife she could use to defend herself.

‘‘Stay away from me!’’ she said.

‘‘Mrs. Dryden,’’ Hotchner said, his voice calm. ‘‘I know none of this seems to make sense, but please listen to us.’’

‘‘No,’’ the woman said, backing away. ‘‘I . . . I don’t want to. . . .’’

Hotchner asked, ‘‘Does your husband leave at all hours?’’

Reid asked, ‘‘Is he secretive about his work?’’

Prentiss asked, ‘‘Has he had problems with depression?’’

The woman continued to back slowly away from them, her finger wilting now, tears starting to overflow.

Morgan asked, ‘‘Does he have a place he won’t let you go, no matter what? A . . . fiercely private place?’’

Mrs. Dryden was at the front door now. She said nothing, but her eyes cut toward that door . . . or something beyond it.

‘‘He does,’’ Morgan pressed, ‘‘doesn’t he?’’

Her voice was a sort of wail: ‘‘The . . .
garage
. . .’’

Prentiss enfolded the woman in her arms and held her while Mrs. Dryden wept. Finally gaining a small measure of composure, the woman said, ‘‘His . . . his darkroom. It’s just his darkroom—upstairs, garage.’’

Hotchner asked, ‘‘May we have a look?’’

She frowned; for the first time, something like fear could be seen there. ‘‘Danny . . . he never lets
anyone
in his darkroom. But there’s a, you know, practical reason—you could ruin something he’s working on. Screw up a crime scene photo, you can screw up a case.’’

The words were clearly an echo of what her husband had said to her.

Hotchner said, ‘‘We can get a warrant, Mrs. Dryden. But the faster we move, the sooner this will be cleared up. And if we’re wrong about your husband, all of us want to know, sooner than later. Wouldn’t you agree?’’

Her face was frozen in confusion. The world had just opened up beneath her feet and she was having trouble not getting swallowed up.

Morgan said, ‘‘People will be looking to arrest your husband, Mrs. Dryden. And something could go wrong, and someone might get hurt. If there’s nothing up there to tie him to the crimes, we may be able to eliminate him as a suspect. Wouldn’t you want to help him if you could?’’

She considered that for a long moment. What she decided here could be vital—one way or another, they would be getting into that garage today, yes. But getting that warrant could give Dryden just enough time to practice his deadly performance art once again. . . .

‘‘If it might help clear him,’’ she said, as if talking to herself, ‘‘I suppose I should do it.’’ She gazed at Hotchner, her face streaked with tears. ‘‘But be very careful, won’t you? Danny wouldn’t want any of his work spoiled.’’