Killer Profile by Max Allan Collins

Author:Max Allan Collins [Collins, Max Allan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group USA, Inc.
Published: 2008-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

August 5 Chicago/Aurora, Illinois

Six days had passed since the last murder and— although the BAU team had been working sixteen-hour days, and sometimes longer—they were no closer to finding, and stopping, the UnSub.

As for the UnSub, he seemed to have taken a very long weekend after re-creating the Gacy murder. While he rested, they had worked. And worked.

For her part, Supervisory Special Agent Emily Prentiss was exhausted. They had already put in eight hours, and now as she stood with Hotchner and the rest, before an expectant audience, she could only wonder if her teammates felt as spent as she did. They were about to present the profile they had developed over the last week.

Their audience consisted of not only the officers from the task force and the affected jurisdictions, but representatives of neighboring communities, as well. So many had been invited (and so many more had asked to attend) that the conference room in the FBI building on West Roosevelt Road would not hold them. Instead, the BAU had borrowed a lecture hall at the University of Chicago.

Three quarters of the seats were filled as the five members of the BAU team gathered on a low stage, Hotchner at the lectern, the others fanned out around him. As usual, the team leader wore an immaculate dark suit. Rossi, to Hotch’s right, wore a charcoal sport coat over a light blue dress shirt with a navy tie and jeans. Beyond him, Jareau wore gray also, a business suit with sensible shoes. To Hotch’s left, Prentiss wore one of her classiest dark business suits and to her left Morgan wore a white button-down with dark tie and slacks, but no jacket. Even Reid, next to Morgan, had his tie snugged in place.

They were the top professionals in the profiling field, and they looked it.

They were all such imbeciles.

The cops, the FBI, the pathetic public, none of them had any idea about him and who he was and what made him tick. The public feared him, but they still didn’t respect him. That would change, as the media fueled the fire. The cops knew only what he wanted them to know, and the FBI even less. And none of them could touch him.

As for the individual citizens who made up this city, they were so goddamn dim that, right now, one of their pitiful ilk was driving him away from a downtown bar, thinking he was a woman.

Oh, he had the requisite attire, a black dress, naturally.His freshly shaven legs looked even better than he had anticipated. Once upon a time, he had created beautiful women from lesser material than this. His wig had been appropriated from home, a prop from that past life, and the makeup had been applied perfectly (tricks of his former trade) in the motel room he had taken for the night—he explained to his wife that he would be at a conference.

His mark was now, ostensibly, driving him to another motel, one that catered to clients who might not necessarily need the room for the whole night.

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