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it his job to blend in . . . and he’s good at it.’’
    The mother and father did not appear terribly reassured by Rossi’s words.
    The profiler seemed to sense it. ‘‘Hey, it’s our job to catch this guy,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘We’re good at that, too.’’
    Andrews gave Rossi a stricken look. ‘‘But what if he’s better than you?’’
    Rossi gave the man a crooked smile that Reid had previously seen the older man flash only on talk shows.
    ‘‘Trust me,’’ Rossi said, ‘‘he’s not.’’

Chapter Three

July 28 Wauconda, Illinois
    N earing five o’clock that afternoon, as Rand Road turned into Main Street to curve around Bangs Lake, Supervisory Special Agent Jennifer Jareau could see, between the buildings, boats and jet skis tearing across the middle of the lake. She could also see, within section areas nearer the beach, swimmers and sunbathers.
    Hotchner had the wheel while Lorenzon navigated them through the town of twelve and a half thousand souls. As they eased around to the three hundred block, Lorenzon said, ‘‘Over there, on the right. You can park in front.’’
    Hotchner heeled the Tahoe to the curb in front of a one-story, flat-roofed brick building with a big window on either side of the door, a sign proclaiming it the Wauconda Police Department. They got out of the SUV, then made their way toward the building, Hotchner in the lead and Lorenzon pausing in gentlemanly fashion to allow Jareau to go in front of him.
    The Midwest, she thought. Gotta love it. . . .
    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,