Criminal Minds (27 page)

‘‘Good to know,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘In fact, you’ve just told me everything I need to find the guy.’’

‘‘Yeah, right.’’

Rossi leaned in. ‘‘If you’ll pardon me, Danny, I’m going to go help my team prove whether the chump here is me . . . or you.’’

‘‘If you
do
find him?’’ Dryden said with a sneer. ‘‘He’ll be dead.’’

‘‘I don’t think so,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘And after we save him, you’ll get to see him again, alive and well and on the witness stand.’’

Dryden had nothing to say to that.

Rossi went out and met the rest of the team in the corridor.

Hotchner asked, ‘‘What just happened?’’

Rossi half smiled. ‘‘We got the answer.’’

Hands on hips, frowning, Morgan asked, ‘‘How do you figure that?’’

‘‘Victim’s in Indiana.’’

Hotchner squinted at Rossi, as if trying to bring him into focus. ‘‘And how do you arrive at that?’’

But it was Reid who answered: ‘‘Because the ambulance had Illinois plates.’’

Morgan’s eyes widened. ‘‘You figure because the ambulance had Illinois plates, and this whack job said that was the wrong state, the vic is in Indiana?’’

‘‘Yeah,’’ Rossi said with a shrug. ‘‘Don’t you?’’

Shrugging back, Morgan said, ‘‘How the hell should I know?’’

‘‘You really should know,’’ Rossi said, ‘‘because you interviewed his wife. Has her husband been gone overnight?’’

‘‘No,’’ Prentiss said. ‘‘She said he worked all night once back in April—and that was the night he killed Andrews and Mendoza.’’

Rossi asked, ‘‘What was the latest he got home?’’

Hotchner thought for just a moment. ‘‘In the last few weeks,’’ he said, ‘‘the latest Dryden got in was about two thirty a.m., according to his wife.’’

‘‘All right,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘Now, has Garcia looked into missing middle-aged men in the area?’’

Hotchner nodded. ‘‘Three disappearances reported in the last two weeks. One’s turned up already, and another is a husband who apparently left his wife for his secretary.’’

Prentiss said, ‘‘The third one was a businessman, Grant Shuler, in from Atlanta. Associates he was calling on reported him missing on July twenty-ninth. They say they dropped him off at his motel the night before, just after ten p.m., and haven’t seen him since.’’

‘‘All right,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘Our time span is between ten p.m. and two thirty a.m. Our search grid will be an area that Dryden could drive to and back from in the allotted time.’’

‘‘He’s on to something,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘Let’s get back to the office.’’

Forty minutes later, in the field office’s conference room, they huddled over a map of the area.

Rossi said, ‘‘Even if Dryden had everything ready at the site—plywood coffin waiting in its hole— and with no traffic at all, it’s over an hour to get to Indiana from Shuler’s motel, and the better part of another to get home from the border. If we figure a minimum of a half hour at the grave site, that only leaves him an hour each way into the state. How far is that?’’

Reid drew a circle that included an area bordered by extreme southern Michigan on the north, South Bend on the east, south to Fair Oaks, and Illinois on the west.

Morgan’s eyebrows were up. ‘‘That’s still a lot of ground.’’

‘‘Don’t forget,’’ Hotchner said, ‘‘he’s imitating Kotchman.’’

‘‘Get Garcia,’’ Rossi said, nodding. ‘‘We need a little magic.’’

Prentiss made a video connection via her laptop.

‘‘Garcia,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘Match anything you can between Indiana and Modesto, California. Highways, town names, county names, anything that might resonate.’’

Garcia asked, ‘‘How soon do you need it?’’

‘‘Yesterday.’’

‘‘No problem.’’

On the little flat screen, she turned away and fingers danced gracefully over the keys of her keyboard. She was back in less than five minutes, but looking glum.

‘‘Nothing,’’ she said.

‘‘Anything even close?’’ Rossi asked, determined to keep any desperation out of his voice.
Had he gottentoo cocky and cost Grant Shuler his life?

‘‘There’s a Highway 120 near Modesto,’’ Garcia said, ‘‘and a Highway 20 in the area of Indiana you’re looking at. Best I can come up with.’’

‘‘Good job,’’ Rossi told her, happy to have a straw to grasp at.

The genie on the screen asked, ‘‘What now?’’

‘‘We’re looking for vacant farms for sale along Highway 20.’’

Prentiss asked, ‘‘Why farms along Highway 20?’’

‘‘Kotchman lived on a farm,’’ Reid said. ‘‘Dryden has been trying to re-create the crimes in as much detail as possible.’’

Rossi said, ‘‘He’ll have found a vacant farm. Shuler will be in the backyard.’’

‘‘I wish we had more,’’ Hotchner said.

‘‘It’s what we’ve got.’’

Reid seemed more confident: ‘‘No, it all makes sense—let’s go with it.’’

That was when Garcia piped in to say, ‘‘There’s three vacant farms on Highway 20 within your search grid.’’

Hotchner leaned in. ‘‘Give us addresses and directions.’’

Prentiss went with Hotchner in a Tahoe, Reid with the two detectives in an unmarked, while Morgan and Rossi in another SUV went to the third farm. Using their cell phones, they stayed in constant communication. Morgan and Rossi had the farm farthest away.

Hotchner had summoned a medivac chopper to be in the area. If they found Shuler alive, the man would need immediate medical attention.

Lights flashing, sirens wailing, they sped through the muggy night into Indiana. They crossed the border, still flying, getting off the expressway and hurtling down Highway 20. Hotchner and Prentiss were the first to peel off, then twenty miles later, Reid and the detectives went their way.

As they rode, Morgan behind the wheel, the cloudless night bright with stars and a nearly full moon, Rossi could only hope they weren’t too late.

Morgan said, ‘‘You know, you alter that timeline by as little as an hour, and we could still be in the wrong state. The victim could just as easily be buried in Wisconsin— that’s only a little over an hour away from that motel, too.’’

‘‘If the timeline is wrong,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘But it isn’t.’’

‘‘Sound pretty sure of yourself.’’

‘‘When I joined this team, the knock on me was that I was too much of a loner, too used to doing things my own way. Now, that we’ve solved something as a team, you’re second-guessing my role? I been doing this a long time, Morgan, and here’s a tip you didn’t ask for but are going to get: you have to learn to trust your talent."

"I do trust it."

‘‘You think you do, but you really need to
believe
that you’re right.’’

‘‘And you,’’ Morgan said, ‘‘need to learn to trust the team.’’

‘‘I’m working on that,’’ Rossi said, nothing negative in his voice.

Morgan slowed as they approached a driveway on the left roadside. ‘‘I think this is it. . . .’’

As if to confirm his belief, a FOR SALE sign came into view beyond a small hill. Morgan turned in and followed the gravel road toward a dilapidated white house and faded red barn that stood at the top of a hill.

Rossi’s cell phone chirped. He pulled it off his belt and answered.

‘‘Hotchner. We got nothing at our site, and Reid just called to say they struck out too. How are you two doing?’’

‘‘Just pulling in,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘Let you know.’’ He clicked off, then said to Morgan, ‘‘Down to us now.’’

Obviously vacant, the house was a tall, two-story box that looked hadn’t seen a coat of paint since the sixties. The barn looked little better. Off to the left of the house, across a side yard, a path worn through it between the buildings, one door hung slightly open.

‘‘Let’s check there first,’’ Morgan said.

Rossi nodded.

They got out of the SUV, crossed the yard and stood on either side of the open door, their guns drawn. The suspect was in custody, but an unknown accomplice was always a possibility. They nodded to each other, then went in low and fast, each fanning their guns around looking for a threat.

When each was sure his side was clean, he said, ‘‘Clear.’’

The only thing left in the barn was a navy blue Ford Bronco, locked up tight. They checked in the windows and saw nothing.

Rossi asked, ‘‘Where the hell did this vehicle come from?’’

Morgan checked the plate. ‘‘Illinois. I can get Garcia to run it.’’

‘‘Do it.’’

Morgan made the call, short and sweet.

They moved behind the house and, using their Maglites in the darkness, quickly found the PVC pipe sticking up out of the dirt.

‘‘Bingo!’’ Morgan said.

Rossi’s eyes flared. ‘‘We might have thought to bring a goddamn shovel. . . .’’

But Morgan spotted the handle sticking out from behind a bush and then they did have a shovel, Dryden’s shovel most likely.

Without a word, Morgan grabbed it and started digging near the pipe. The night was hot and it didn’t take long until his face and bare arms glistened with sweat. He threw dirt over his shoulder, Rossi watching. When Morgan was down a couple of feet, they changed places and Rossi took over, his pace slower but more steady.

The sun was coming up now, the shadow of the house still making it hard for them to see.

Before long, the shovel touched something harder than dirt, but considerably less sturdy than plywood.

‘‘Something,’’ Rossi said.

They used their hands now, pushing dirt out of the way until they uncovered a shoe with a foot in it connecting to a still mostly buried leg.

‘‘Hell!’’ Morgan said. ‘‘Son of a bitch didn’t even use a box!’’

Rossi said, ‘‘Wait a minute. The shoe is a Rocky.
Cop
shoe. This isn’t the victim. . . .’’

They dug faster now, uncovering the rest of the body until they were looking down at a man dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, his head shaved clean, exit wound in his back.

‘‘Denson,’’ Morgan said.

Rossi grunted. ‘‘Poor bastard
did
find the killer before we did. . . .’’

And now Dryden’s math made more sense: this was his twelfth victim.

Morgan’s cell phone rang and both profilers jumped a little.

‘‘Yeah,’’ Morgan said into it. ‘‘. . . thanks.’’ He clicked off. ‘‘Garcia says the Bronco belongs to a Jacob Denson.’’

Any sense that this was a crime scene was obviously secondary, since saving a life took precedence over preserving evidence. With care and something near reverence, they lifted the deceased detective’s body out of the grave and laid him carefully on the ground. Morgan did the digging as they went back to work. He had gone another half foot down when he hit something that
clunked
.

The box.

They dug even more quickly, Rossi pitching in with his hands as they uncovered the top of the box. When its lid was fairly well cleared, Morgan used the shovel to pry a corner loose and—with all the strength of both men—tore the nailed lid off.

Inside lay a figure curled in a fetal position, clad only in white boxers and a sleeveless white undershirt.

‘‘Mr. Shuler,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘Mr. Shuler!’’

The figure did not move.

Morgan gingerly lifted the man out of the box, handing him up to Rossi, who lay him out on the ground and checked for a pulse.

‘‘Faint,’’ Rossi said, ‘‘but it’s there. . . .’’

Morgan whipped out his cell phone.

‘‘Hotch! We’ve got him, but we need the medivac
now
!’’

Half an hour later, with Shuler stabilized but in serious condition, the chopper took off for the nearest hospital. The rest of the team had caught up with them. They all stood over the body of Jake Denson, waiting for the coroner’s wagon that would haul the detective to the morgue.

Rossi said, ‘‘He couldn’t let go of the case.’’

Hotchner gave him a look. ‘‘Could you have?’’

‘‘Probably not.’’

Prentiss asked, ‘‘How did he end up out here?’’

Hotchner said, ‘‘Most likely he held back some information from us.’’

Reid said, ‘‘Something convinced him Dryden was the killer—must have followed him out here somehow.’’

Morgan gave Rossi a grim smile. ‘‘See what happens to loners, Dave?’’

Rossi said, ‘‘I see what happens when a decent detective lets emotion take over. If Denson had come to us with whatever he had, other people would still be alive.’’

‘‘Including,’’ Hotchner said, ‘‘Denson.’’

‘‘Take hope from the heart of man,’’
the novelist Ouida wrote,
‘‘and you make him a beast of prey.’’

August 8
Learjet

T
he plane banked to the east to glide through the night, the lights of Chicago receding. They’d bid Lorenzon and Tovar quick good-byes at the airport and felt the bittersweet pang of leaving behind others who’d fought with them in the trenches. Now they were all whipped, the cabin silent, everyone asleep except Rossi and Reid. The young man played chess, spinning the small board on the table in front of him after every move.

Rossi rose and hovered over the table. Reid seemed to not notice his presence.

The older man asked, ‘‘Who’s winning?’’

Ignoring the question Reid said, ‘‘Gideon and I used to play after a case, sometimes.’’

‘‘Ah,’’ Rossi said.

‘‘You play?’’

‘‘A little.’’

Reid waved for him to sit and Rossi accepted. The young man reset the board and said, ‘‘Black or white?"

"You choose."

‘‘You can go first,’’ Reid said, spinning the board so the white pieces faced Rossi.

Rossi eased a pawn forward.

Reid countered.

Rossi asked, ‘‘You’re not tired?’’

‘‘Sure. I don’t sleep much.’’

‘‘Don’t need it?’’

‘‘I can get by on just a few hours.’’