Criminal Minds (26 page)

‘‘But where to?’’

Before any guess could be offered, Lorenzon’s walkie-talkie squawked to life.

‘‘Shots fired,’’ the cool voice of the dispatcher said. ‘‘State University. Science building, first floor. All available officers, 9501 South King Drive, Williams Science Building.’’

Rossi asked, ‘‘How far away is that?’’

Lorenzon said, ‘‘Ten blocks maybe?’’

‘‘Shit!’’ Rossi grimaced. ‘‘Went straight to the source—nursing students.’’

‘‘Goddamnit!’’ Tovar said.

The three men sprinted to the SUV and climbed in, Lorenzon getting behind the wheel. The African-American detective gunned the engine to life, hit the siren and flashing lights, then—as he dropped the SUV into gear—mashed the gas pedal.

They practically leapt to the corner, turned right, and were halfway up the next block when Rossi yelled, ‘‘Stop!’’

Lorenzon slammed on the brakes. ‘‘What the hell?’’

Rossi opened the door and jumped out.

‘‘What are you
doing
?’’ Lorenzon asked.

‘‘I know how this bastard thinks,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘He wants to copy Speck. I think this is a diversion.’’

‘‘Three nurses shot is a diversion?’’

‘‘I think so.’’

Tovar’s eyes were huge. ‘‘What if you’re wrong?’’

‘‘Then you two will nail him at the university.’’

Rossi slammed the door and headed back at a trot as Lorenzon sped off toward the university.

When he got to the corner, Rossi hoped to see a squad car out front, officers at the door listening to Laticia’s tale of the three crazy men, waving guns, who had run at her, her friend, and their kids.

Unfortunately, he knew better.

The dispatcher’s call for every available officer would drop the priority of Laticia’s call to rock bottom. He made a quick 911 call himself, gave his name, FBI status and the address.

‘‘That’s the Richard Speck murder house,’’ Rossi said, ‘‘and the copycat we’re all looking for may be in there.’’

‘‘Sir?’’

‘‘Just give the word.’’

Rossi clicked off.

He’d be happier if he could get inside that town house, but given his last visit, that was probably impossible. Problem was, he couldn’t watch the front and back of the place from here, or anywhere else for that matter. The building was set up like a row house, eight two-story. If he went around back and Dryden came to the front, Rossi would never get inside before the killing started. The same was true if Rossi stayed in front and then Dryden came in the back. . . .

He had told Lorenzon he knew how the killer thought—well, now was the time to prove it. If he was wrong, more innocent people would die.

Think
, Rossi told himself.

Dryden was normally organized, highly so. He had deviated from his plan when he’d seen Rossi and the detectives. The thing was, Dryden was devolving so fast, he couldn’t bring himself to cancel his performance. Dryden had, instead, decided to open fire on nursing students at the university.

Speck had strong-armed his way in through the front door, hadn’t he? So Rossi took a calculated risk. The killer wanted to copy the murders at this address; therefore, Dryden would want to go in the front way. . . .

After ducking into a doorway across the street opposite 2319, Rossi got out his weapon, checked to make sure a round was in the chamber, then lowered it along his leg, barrel down.

His cell phone chirped and he responded. ‘‘Rossi.’’

‘‘It’s Lorenzon. SOB’s in the wind. One student dead, two wounded.’’

‘‘Damnit.’’

Ten minutes later, the sun setting, his patience wearing thin as he started to wonder if he was wrong about Dryden, Rossi was just about to holster his weapon and step out of the shadowy doorway when he saw something move across the street.

A vehicle crossed his line of vision, and Rossi wondered if his eyes were playing tricks on him.

Then, from behind a car parked two doors down from 2319, Dryden—all Johnny Cash in black T-shirt, black jeans and black running shoes—crept out, crossed the yard slowly, his head on a swivel, looking for cops. A bulge in his pocket might be a small camera, and Rossi was almost sure a black knife sheath was on his left hip and a black holster on his right.

Rossi slipped back into the doorway, counted to five, then peered out again. Dryden was mere yards from the front door now. Stepping forward, Rossi could see a bus coming eastward; the agent used the bus for cover to get to the middle of the street, then took three quick steps and ducked down on the driver’s side of a parked car Dryden had just passed.

Rising slightly, the FBI agent looked through the driver’s-side window toward 2319 . . .

... and saw the back of Dryden. The killer was only two or three steps from the front door now.

Rossi moved forward, using the car as cover, then popped up over the hood and yelled,
‘‘Daniel Dryden, freeze! FBI!’’

Eyes wide, Dryden spun, a little revolver in his right hand, a hunting knife coming up from his side, in his left hand. He fired two quick rounds at Rossi, missing him, but Rossi did not return fire. The FBI man was a good shot, damn good, but didn’t relish firing when the only backstop behind Dryden was a houseful of children.

Ducking back behind the car, Rossi hoped to draw Dryden into attacking him instead of the house. Two more rounds slammed into the vehicle, making it obvious Dryden was a lot less concerned about what lay beyond his target than Rossi.

Sliding his head up a little, Rossi peeked through the driver’s side window and saw Dryden sprinting toward the car. Another round spiderwebbed the windshield and Rossi dropped and edged to the rear of the vehicle.

As Dryden crept around the car, Rossi slipped behind the back bumper. Dryden rose to see where Rossi had gone, and the FBI agent popped up, too, his pistol centered on the perp’s forehead.

No kids to worry about behind the target now. . . .

‘‘Drop them or die,’’ Rossi said matter-of-fact. ‘‘Your choice.’’

Dryden thought for a long moment, but his weapons remained at the ready.

Rossi had the bastard cold. And the agent already knew the serial killer to be a coward—although Dryden had killed or wounded nearly a dozen people, all his victims had been innocents, caught unaware, and unprepared to defend themselves.

‘‘You don’t get a count of three, Dryden. Drop them now, or die right here, right now.’’

Dryden swallowed thickly.

And the weapons clattered to the street.

‘‘Assume the position,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘Against the car, feet back and spread ’em.’’

The black SUV roared up and the two detectives piled out of the vehicle just in time to see Rossi hand-cuff the suspect.

Lorenzon read Dryden his rights.

Tovar asked, ‘‘How did you know he’d come back to the house?’’

Rossi turned his gaze on Dryden, who stared back with small, cold, dead eyes.

‘‘He had no choice,’’ the FBI agent said. ‘‘Not with
his
ego. You just had to prove you were smarter than us, Danny, didn’t you? Only, turns out you aren’t.’’

‘‘I
am
smarter than you,’’ Dryden said. He was trembling but his manner remained smug.

Rossi got a half smile going. ‘‘Really? Then why were we here when you got here?’’

Dryden glared at him.

‘‘
Both
times,’’ Rossi said, twisting the knife.

‘‘Go to hell,’’ Dryden said.

Lorenzon gave a quick jerk on the handcuffs. ‘‘You first, asshole.’’

Rossi said, ‘‘Take Danny in. He and I need to have a little talk.’’

Two hours later, Daniel Dryden sat cuffed to a table in a brightly illuminated interrogation room at the Cook County jail. In an adjacent, dimly lit viewing room, Rossi stood with Hotchner, Prentiss, Morgan, and Reid.

Hotchner said, ‘‘Nothing of note found in his car.’’

The gray Crown Vic had been parked on the street a block from the Speck house.

‘‘His revolver was a .22,’’ Morgan said, ‘‘consistent with Richard Speck’s weapon of choice.’’

Rossi nodded. ‘‘You have the pictures from the darkroom?’’

The team leader nodded.

Reid said, ‘‘And I Photoshopped that other one— they’re all in here.’’

Reid handed Rossi a manila folder.

‘‘Should you be the one to interview him?’’ Hotchner asked. ‘‘You captured him—and antagonized him. You really think he’ll talk to you?’’

Rossi shrugged. ‘‘You can overrule me, obviously, Aaron. But when I got him pissed off, he didn’t clam up—he went back and forth with me. I think I can get him to do it again. And at length.’’

Hotchner’s eyes locked with Rossi’s.

Then the team leader said, ‘‘We’re only going to get one run at this—the clock is ticking and it’s not a happy sound. Somewhere out there a man in a grave may still be alive.’’

‘‘I know,’’ Rossi said calmly. ‘‘Trust me, Aaron. I got this.’’

Hotchner considered that, for just a moment; then nodded.

Rossi entered the interrogation room, glanced at the reflective glass behind which observers lurked, then sat down opposite the dressed-in-black suspect, Rossi’s back to the watchers. He set the folder on the table between them.

Dryden’s blandly handsome face wore a faint smug smile. ‘‘Who the hell thought that I’d ever talk to you?’’

Rossi smiled. ‘‘I did.’’

One eyebrow rose. ‘‘Are you the Special Agent In Charge?’’

‘‘No.’’

Dryden shook his head. ‘‘I only talk to the SAIC.’’

‘‘I’m the special agent in charge of you.’’

The suspect grunted a laugh. ‘‘What’s your name, anyway?’’

‘‘David Rossi.’’

Dryden’s eyes, beady and a little small for his face, stared at Rossi for perhaps fifteen seconds. Then he said, ‘‘David Rossi the author?’’

Shrugging, Rossi said, ‘‘I’ve been published.’’

‘‘False modesty,’’ Dryden said with a weird sideways grin. ‘‘Doesn’t suit you.’’

Rossi gestured with open hands. ‘‘You’re right. I’ve written best sellers. I’ve been on talk shows. I’ve done the lecture circuit. I won’t fall back on false modesty.’’

Dryden’s smile straightened out. ‘‘I won’t, either.’’

‘‘You won’t?’’

‘‘No?’’

‘‘Why, have you accomplished something? I’ve accomplished some things, yes . . . but you? You’re just another copycat. Files are full of them.’’

‘‘I’m no copycat,’’ Dryden said, and pounded the table as best he could, his cuffs wound through a metal ring on the table. ‘‘You wait. Before this is over, you’ll be a footnote in
my
story.’’

Rossi laughed. ‘‘Oh? What story is that?’’

‘‘How I killed twelve people. You’re just a glorified secretary, writing books about ‘monsters’ like me.’’

Rossi gave him a look. ‘‘You’re kidding, right? I write about originals—Gacy, Speck, Bundy, Kotchman—true innovators in their chosen field. No writer, no reader, is interested in just another copycat.’’

Dryden lurched forward. ‘‘I am not a copycat! I
am
a true original!’’

Leaning back in his chair, Rossi said, ‘‘Hey, I don’t want to make you feel bad. Take some pride if you want to. But don’t kid a kidder—Danny boy, you didn’t even make double figures.’’

‘‘
Twelve!
A goddamn dozen!’’ The little eyes had grown big. ‘‘Count ’em! Two in Chicago Heights, two in Wauconda, one each in Chinatown, one in Des Plaines, one in Aurora, three at the university, and the Kotchman kill who should be dead’’—he checked the clock on the wall—‘‘any time now.’’

That only added up to eleven, but Rossi didn’t have the luxury of going down that road—he had a missing man to find.

‘‘Yeah,’’ Rossi said, ‘‘he probably
would
have been dead pretty soon . . . if we hadn’t found him already. And two of the nursing students you just wounded. Gonna be fine.’’

Dryden eyes grew tiny again. ‘‘You didn’t find him.’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘You couldn’t have found him. I was too careful. Always a step ahead of you chumps.’’

‘‘Right, right,’’ Rossi said, picking up the folder. ‘‘Like you were so far ahead of us at the Speck house. That’s why you’re here
now
, because you were always one up on a chump like me.’’

Dryden’s mouth opened but no words came out.

Rossi got up, stepped back from the table, allowing the folder to slip from his grasp, as if accidentally, the pictures sliding out of the folder and onto the table. The fake one Reid had devised, at Rossi’s direction, was a blurry shot that showed a middle-aged man who looked vaguely like Herman Kotchman’s abusive stepfather. This man was strapped to a gurney, covered in blankets, his head just barely visible as he was loaded into an ambulance.

‘‘Excuse,’’ Rossi said, gathering up the photos and stuffing them back into the folder.

He had given Dryden only a second or two to glimpse the picture, but Rossi knew that was enough. The killer’s fallen face said they’d made a sale: Dryden seemed convinced they’d rescued his premature burial victim.

‘‘How the hell . . .’’ Dryden began. The little eyes burned in their sockets. ‘‘It took me fucking
weeks
to find just the right farm!’’

‘‘Either we’re not as dumb as you think we are,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘Or you’re not as smart . . .’’

Forehead clenched, Dryden sat forward. ‘‘Let me see the photo again.’’

Rossi hesitated.

‘‘Ha! I knew it—you dummied the thing, didn’t you? Photoshop bullshit!’’

Rossi took the photo from the folder and handed it to Dryden, who studied it. The photographer only needed a moment.

‘‘I was right,’’ Dryden said, and laughed. ‘‘You didn’t even get the goddamn state right on the ambulance’s license plate, let alone the town.’’