When they walked in, Jareau thought the place looked more like a renovated post office than a modern day police station, noting in particular the long black counter dividing the room: most other departments across the country had erected bulletproof glass to separate the police from the populace. This memo had not reached Wauconda.
Behind the counter, several desks were spread out in open bullpen fashion, some with uniformed cops sitting at them, some not. Occasional doors around the perimeter of the bullpen indicated offices, though others obviously led to other parts of the building.
A diminutive brunette wearing a Wauconda PD uniform rose from a desk and approached the counter, planting herself opposite Jareau. The officer, whose name tag read JAMES, asked, ‘‘May I help you?’’ The woman, younger even than Jareau, had her hair tied up and regarded them skeptically with big brown doe eyes that dominated her face.
Jareau flashed her credentials. ‘‘I’m SSA Jennifer Jareau with the FBI’s behavioral unit. This is Supervisory Special Agent In Charge Hotchner, and that’s Detective Lorenzon from Chicago PD.’’
‘‘The murders,’’ Officer James said, and while her voice had a typical cop matter-of-factness, something hushed was in there, too.
‘‘That’s right,’’ Jareau said, keeping it friendly. ‘‘How did you know that’s why we were here?’’
‘‘I’ve been on the job in Wauconda for over two years, Agent Jareau, and I’ve never so much as sniffed the FBI. Two girls die, and now I’m looking at two agents and a Chicago PD detective, no less. I don’t need a gold shield to do the math on that equation. You’ll want Denson.’’
‘‘Denson?’’ Jareau asked.
‘‘Jake Denson. He’s the lead detective and crime scene analyst on the case.’’
‘‘He does both jobs?’’
James nodded. ‘‘We’re a small department. Most of the detectives have been to crime scene class. Saves the town money and manpower.’’
Jareau asked, ‘‘Is Detective Denson here?’’
‘‘Let me see,’’ James said. She walked back to her desk, and punched buttons on her desk phone. She waited a few seconds, then said, ‘‘Jake, it’s Ellie, out front. There’s some FBI people and a Chicago detective here to see you.’’
She listened for a moment, then hung up and said to them, ‘‘He’ll be here within five minutes. Sit down if you like.’’
But they chose to stand and, anyway, the wait was more like two minutes before a tall, sinewy man with a shaved head and a prominent nose came through a door to their right, moving with considerable purpose of stride. He swung open the gate at the far end of counter and approached them.
Wearing a blue work shirt, jeans, and black Rockys, Denson looked more like a construction worker than a detective—or he would have if construction workers packed nine-millimeter automatics on their right hips. He had dark eyes set in a perpetual squint and bore the thin-lipped half smirk of someone who was pretty sure he knew something you didn’t. His ears were pressed flat against his skull and he carried himself as if every move, every breath, was about something.
He picked out Jareau. ‘‘Detective Jacob Denson. What can I do for you?’’
Hotchner stepped forward. ‘‘I’m Supervisory Special Agent In Charge Aaron Hotchner.’’
‘‘In charge of what exactly?’’ Denson asked, eyeballing Hotchner now.
‘‘The Behavioral Analysis Unit team helping investigate.’’
Denson gave a little chuckle. ‘‘Well, now. I’ve heard of you—profilers. But my understanding is you people have to be asked aboard a case. And, all due respect, I don’t remember asking.’’
Hotchner smiled—Jareau knew of no one who could summon a smaller or chillier smile than her boss. ‘‘You’ve had a killing in your community that fits in with several that have been committed in other nearby jurisdictions.’’
‘‘Okay,’’ Denson said, and shrugged. ‘‘So?’’
‘‘We’re here to help oversee a joint task force to share information and bring this killer to justice.’’
‘‘Thanks, but no thanks.’’
‘‘Maybe you don’t understand,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘We’re offering our help.’’
Shaking his head, Denson said, ‘‘No, I followed you just fine. Even though you think we’re all stumbling around in the dark out here in the boonies, local cops smack dab in Flyover Country—some of us actually understand English, even if we do move our lips when we read.’’
Jareau’s enthusiasm for the Midwest was fading.
‘‘We’re getting off on the wrong foot, somehow,’’ Hotchner said, his hands shooting up in a stop gesture. ‘‘I didn’t mean in any way to suggest you weren’t on top of this crime. It’s just that your crime is one of a series of crimes, by the same UnSub, and—’’
‘‘Unknown Subject, right? That kind of jargon supposed to impress me, Agent Hotchner?’’
‘‘No. Not at all . . .’’
‘‘Right,’’ Denson said bitterly. ‘‘Well, here’s the reality of the situation. I don’t put up with the condescending attitude you feds take. And that’s not
all
you take—you waltz in, take all our information, all our hard work, then you take something else: all the credit. Bullshit, boys and girls. Not this time. Not on my watch. This is our case, and we’ll catch the killer ourselves, thanks very much.’’
Other cops behind the counter turned their way now, listening to the detective’s controlled rant. Some even smiled.
Jareau knew that many cops felt the same resentment that Denson had just articulated. This anger wasn’t reserved just for the FBI, either. She had heard similar sentiments expressed about the ATF, DEA, and the Secret Service, even the Peace Corps. No one seemed immune from the wrath of locals who felt they provided the inspiration, perspiration, and dedication, while the feds provided consternation and accepted all the congratulations.
‘‘That’s not how we do things,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘We don’t take over investigations. We consult.’’
Denson’s grin couldn’t have been nastier. ‘‘Really? So then, I take it
I’d
be heading up this task force you mentioned?’’
Seeing that Hotchner was crashing and burning with the local detective, Jareau decided that maybe this needed a softer touch.
Quietly, smiling gently, she asked, ‘‘Detective Denson, is there somewhere more private we could talk?’’
He said, ‘‘No.’’
She removed the smile. ‘‘All right. Then why don’t we meet with you and your chief, and
then
you can make your decision. I left a message about this on the chief’s phone, before we flew out—he may be expecting us.’’
Denson stared at her with something approaching open contempt. She was not used to having a man look at her that way—an attractive woman with considerable diplomatic skills, Jareau had to work not to be taken aback.
Denson was saying, ‘‘You want to get to my chief because you think
he’ll
be easier to deal with? Well, good luck.’’
‘‘That’s not it at all, Detective.’’
‘‘Isn’t it?’’ the detective snapped. ‘‘Let’s see. Come along.’’
He returned to the short gate and went through, stopped and looked back.
The trio hadn’t moved.
‘‘You coming?’’ Denson asked.
Jareau turned to Hotchner, asked the question with her eyes, and her supervisor nodded.
She led the way, Hotchner and Lorenzon close behind as they followed Denson across the bullpen and through a door leading to a short corridor.
The bald detective led them to the last door on the right, a corner office. The sign on the door said CHIEF LEONARD OLIVER.
Denson knocked, opened it and, as he entered, said, ‘‘Chief, FBI’s here.’’
‘‘What do
they
want?’’
‘‘They want to talk to you. I don’t seem to be able to satisfy them. Supposedly they called ahead, left a message.’’
Jareau didn’t wait for the exchange to go any further, and came on through the door.
The office was good-size, the desk on their left in front of a wide window overlooking the parking lot on the building’s east side. Two chairs sat in front of the desk. Various diplomas and other framed citations filled most of the walls, and some framed family photos sat on the desktop, but no decorative touches asserted themselves in this no-nonsense office. Jareau was not a profiler herself, but she didn’t have to be one to know that this stark space reflected the personality of its tenant.
Behind the desk sat the chief, his hands flat on the desk, his face a blank mask. The brown hair on his blocky head was parted, laser straight. His eyes were dark blue and clear and moved little as he took in his guests, a doll’s eyes. His mouth formed a thin line and he had the pallor common to gamblers and bureaucrats.
Jareau watched with interest as the chief’s eyes met Hotchner’s, the two men immediately starting to size each other up.
Though her sense of time had slowed, Jareau knew only seconds had passed before the chief rose and stretched his hand across his desk to Hotchner.
‘‘Leonard Oliver,’’ their apparently reluctant host said. ‘‘Chief here in Wauconda.’’
Shaking Oliver’s hand, Hotchner introduced himself, Jareau and Lorenzon, the latter having stayed mute through all of this so far. When the ceremonies were over, Oliver offered them each a chair, getting Denson to have two brought in for Lorenzon and himself. Denson’s chair ended up next to Oliver’s desk, separating him from the others. Soon they were all seated.
‘‘What can I do for you?’’ Oliver asked, his smile perfunctory.
Sitting forward, Hotchner said, ‘‘We were hoping we could do something for you.’’
‘‘Really,’’ Oliver said, still smiling, though his tone wasn’t.
Before Hotchner could say anything, Denson jumped in. ‘‘They want to take credit for solving the murders of the two girls we found in the preserve.’’
‘‘Is that so?’’ Oliver asked.
Hotchner said, ‘‘Have you already solved this case, Chief Oliver?’’
‘‘No. Of course not.’’
‘‘Then perhaps Detective Denson could explain how it is we’re taking credit for something that hasn’t happened yet.’’
Not liking where this was heading, Jareau smiled and spoke up. ‘‘Chief Oliver, if I might? I’m the police liaison here.’’
Oliver turned to her, his expression slightly amused. Such condescending looks were something Jareau
was
used to. More than one cop, and criminals too for that matter, had made the mistake of underestimating young, pretty Jennifer Jareau; she no longer felt annoyed about such attitudes, knowing they provided her with an advantage.
She stared at the chief as the man gaped goofily at her. Men, she knew, could at times act like little boys, even men in power like the chief here; and she didn’t have to have children of her own to know the look a disgusted parent gave a misbehaving child. Seated across from Chief Oliver, she focused that look on him.
Hotchner, for his part, sat silently, letting his agent establish control so she would be able to do her job when he wasn’t present.
Finally, the smile slipped from Oliver’s face and his eyes met hers squarely. ‘‘Police liaison, yes. Go on, Miss, uh . . .’’
‘‘Supervisory Special Agent Jareau. But you can call me Agent Jareau. Or JJ, once we start working together.
If
we start working together. Could I outline what we have in mind?’’
The chief swallowed. ‘‘Go ahead.’’
‘‘What we propose,’’ she said, ‘‘is to help you and your police force join in with other police entities in greater Chicago to bring to ground a vicious killer who has killed elsewhere in the area.’’
Hotchner said, ‘‘And this is a killer who will continue killing, if we don’t join together to stop him.’’
Oliver nodded. ‘‘With all due respect, Agent Jareau, Agent Hotchner . . . we’ve heard all this before— you scratch our back, we’ll scratch yours and so on. What we’ve gotten out of such collaborations is an extremely itchy back.’’
Jareau said, ‘‘We’re sorry you’ve had bad experiences cooperating with federal agencies before but—’’
‘‘You’re different,’’ he interrupted.
‘‘We are,’’ she said, the words sounding more defensive than she meant them to. ‘‘The BAU operates in an advisory capacity. We don’t steal credit. We’re not interested in credit, just results.’’
‘‘That we’ve also heard before, Agent Jareau. You have to understand, we’re a small force and our political decisions must be made on a basis of—’’
‘‘This is
not
a political decision,’’ she cut in. ‘‘This is about stopping a killer.’’
Oliver bestowed a patient smile, as if he were the parent now, and dealing with a very slow child. ‘‘Agent Jareau, as I’m sure Agent Hotchner would tell you,
every
decision is a political decision.’’
She glanced at Hotchner, whose expression might have been carved out of a chunk of wood.
‘‘I would think,’’ Hotchner said softly, with no inflection whatsoever, ‘‘that it would be politically advantageous for you to catch the killer of the two girls in your town.’’
‘‘You make my point, Agent Hotchner,’’ Oliver said. ‘‘It would be politically advantageous for
us
to catch the killer.’’
‘‘That’s why you don’t want our support?’’ Jareau asked. ‘‘So you can do this yourself?’’
‘‘You don’t seem to understand,’’ Oliver said.
‘‘No I don’t,’’ Jareau said flatly. ‘‘Neither will the family and friends of the next victims.’’
The chief ignored that. ‘‘We’re a small department in a small town. Our budget is a tenuous thing. If the feds solve local crimes, the budget goes down. If we solve them, the budget goes up.’’
Jareau frowned. ‘‘This is about money?’’
‘‘Most everything is, Agent Jareau.’’
She shook her head. ‘‘The lives of potential victims can’t be measured in dollars and cents, Chief Oliver. Are you prepared to let a serial killer run free over fiscal issues?’’
Oliver’s face reddened and his eyes narrowed as he rose. ‘‘We’re not idiots here. We’re not ‘letting him run free.’ We’re going to catch this bastard, and when we do, the community will thank
us
, not
you
. When this perp’s been caught, whether you do it or we do it, you’re outa here—back to D.C. or wherever the hell you come from. We, on the other hand, will still be right here in Wauconda.’’