the edges with her flashlight beam.
‘‘What are you up to?’’ he asked.
She stopped and turned to face him. ‘‘One thing that wasn’t in the report was how the UnSub got inside. The door wasn’t jimmied and that barrel got in here somehow.’’
Morgan nodded. ‘‘Right. He had to either have a key or he came in through a window and unlocked the door, so he could wheel the barrel in.’’
They were already referring to the UnSub as ‘‘he’’—these murders seemed a man’s crime, nothing about it indicated a rare female serial killer, although the lack of sexual assault left that open.
‘‘If the UnSub had a key,’’ Prentiss said, forehead creased with thought, ‘‘where did he get it?’’
‘‘Or if he came in through one of the windows,’’ Morgan said, gesturing toward one, ‘‘why didn’t anybody see him?’’
She put both shoulders into a shrug. ‘‘Late at night, probably. But with that barrel, he had to have it somewhere nearby.’’
‘‘The cops haven’t explained it?’’
Prentiss shook her head. ‘‘I know it’s not supposed to be up to us to gather the evidence, but how this UnSub got into the place might tell us something about him.’’
‘‘Agreed,’’ Morgan said. ‘‘You keep looking here— I want to check something out.’’
He went into the kitchen, where he turned the knob on a door he thought might adjoin the middle apartment; but he found a short hallway with the middle apartment’s door on the right, at the far end, and nearer, on the left, a stairway leading down.
Shining his light ahead of him, he descended ten steps into a dank basement redolent of urine and mildew.
No wonder nobody checked down here, he thought.
Cobwebs drooped everywhere but in the stairwell itself, where they had been removed. A thick layer of dust coated the floor, the furnace, and a few scraps of worthless furniture. He shone his light on the floor and saw footprints in the dust.
He used the light to follow them back to a half window on the far wall. One of two panes had been broken and the latch opened from there. The window was only about twelve inches high and twenty inches across.
Now they knew something about their UnSub: he was a lot of things, but overweight wasn’t one of them.
Morgan went back upstairs, told Prentiss what he’d found, and told her not to step on the floor. He had left the door open just in case, by some miracle, prints might turn up on the basement side.
He got out his cell phone and called Hotchner and detailed to the team leader what they had found, and suggested Lorenzon get his crime scene team back right away.
July 28 Chicago Heights, Illinois
Dr. Spencer Reid felt a little bit like the kid who had been dumped on his older brother for the day. He rode in back of the SUV with Rossi and Tovar up front. The Chicago Heights detective was behind the wheel, even though it was an FBI vehicle.
Up front, the two men were discussing baseball, the Chicago Cubs in particular, an area of expertise not among Reid’s skill set.
Rossi was saying, ‘‘You really think this is the year?’’
Tovar nodded as he drove them south. ‘‘They won the division last year, didn’t they?’’
‘‘Then got spanked by Arizona.’’
‘‘Yeah, but the pitching’s better now.’’
Rossi shrugged. ‘‘Believe it when I see it.’’
From the backseat, Reid watched the neighborhood change as they cruised farther south from mostly Caucasian to mostly Hispanic to mostly African-American. By the time they reached their destination, however, the neighborhood had become a middle-class melting pot of variant homes and blacktop streets with no curbs and no apparent storm sewers.
Tovar drove through a neighborhood of well-tended homes that varied from ordinary single-story boxes to brick-faced two-stories that looked like they had fallen off the mansion truck and landed beside the road in the wrong neighborhood.
‘‘Odd mix of
‘‘What are you up to?’’ he asked.
She stopped and turned to face him. ‘‘One thing that wasn’t in the report was how the UnSub got inside. The door wasn’t jimmied and that barrel got in here somehow.’’
Morgan nodded. ‘‘Right. He had to either have a key or he came in through a window and unlocked the door, so he could wheel the barrel in.’’
They were already referring to the UnSub as ‘‘he’’—these murders seemed a man’s crime, nothing about it indicated a rare female serial killer, although the lack of sexual assault left that open.
‘‘If the UnSub had a key,’’ Prentiss said, forehead creased with thought, ‘‘where did he get it?’’
‘‘Or if he came in through one of the windows,’’ Morgan said, gesturing toward one, ‘‘why didn’t anybody see him?’’
She put both shoulders into a shrug. ‘‘Late at night, probably. But with that barrel, he had to have it somewhere nearby.’’
‘‘The cops haven’t explained it?’’
Prentiss shook her head. ‘‘I know it’s not supposed to be up to us to gather the evidence, but how this UnSub got into the place might tell us something about him.’’
‘‘Agreed,’’ Morgan said. ‘‘You keep looking here— I want to check something out.’’
He went into the kitchen, where he turned the knob on a door he thought might adjoin the middle apartment; but he found a short hallway with the middle apartment’s door on the right, at the far end, and nearer, on the left, a stairway leading down.
Shining his light ahead of him, he descended ten steps into a dank basement redolent of urine and mildew.
No wonder nobody checked down here, he thought.
Cobwebs drooped everywhere but in the stairwell itself, where they had been removed. A thick layer of dust coated the floor, the furnace, and a few scraps of worthless furniture. He shone his light on the floor and saw footprints in the dust.
He used the light to follow them back to a half window on the far wall. One of two panes had been broken and the latch opened from there. The window was only about twelve inches high and twenty inches across.
Now they knew something about their UnSub: he was a lot of things, but overweight wasn’t one of them.
Morgan went back upstairs, told Prentiss what he’d found, and told her not to step on the floor. He had left the door open just in case, by some miracle, prints might turn up on the basement side.
He got out his cell phone and called Hotchner and detailed to the team leader what they had found, and suggested Lorenzon get his crime scene team back right away.
July 28 Chicago Heights, Illinois
Dr. Spencer Reid felt a little bit like the kid who had been dumped on his older brother for the day. He rode in back of the SUV with Rossi and Tovar up front. The Chicago Heights detective was behind the wheel, even though it was an FBI vehicle.
Up front, the two men were discussing baseball, the Chicago Cubs in particular, an area of expertise not among Reid’s skill set.
Rossi was saying, ‘‘You really think this is the year?’’
Tovar nodded as he drove them south. ‘‘They won the division last year, didn’t they?’’
‘‘Then got spanked by Arizona.’’
‘‘Yeah, but the pitching’s better now.’’
Rossi shrugged. ‘‘Believe it when I see it.’’
From the backseat, Reid watched the neighborhood change as they cruised farther south from mostly Caucasian to mostly Hispanic to mostly African-American. By the time they reached their destination, however, the neighborhood had become a middle-class melting pot of variant homes and blacktop streets with no curbs and no apparent storm sewers.
Tovar drove through a neighborhood of well-tended homes that varied from ordinary single-story boxes to brick-faced two-stories that looked like they had fallen off the mansion truck and landed beside the road in the wrong neighborhood.
‘‘Odd mix of
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