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pushed a button on the remote and the first crime scene photo popped up on the HD screen. They all took a good look: a young couple in a car on a blacktop road next to a house, wadded piece of paper on the rain-soaked street under the driver’s door.
    No one said a word.
    Then Jareau spoke. ‘‘This photo was sent by snail mail to the Chicago Heights Police Department and turned over to Detective Tovar. Does it remind you of anything?’’
    Morgan, who Hotchner knew already had the answer, said nothing. The others also stayed mute, but Reid seemed focused on something in the photo and Hotchner knew the young man was close to seeing what he and Morgan had long since picked up on.
    Hotchner gave Reid a hint. ‘‘Detective Tovar, could you tell us the date of the crime and intersection where it took place?’’
    ‘‘April seventeenth,’’ Tovar said, ‘‘or actually early April eighteenth, one a.m. Corner of Two-Hundred-and-Seventh Street and Hutchinson Avenue.’’
    Almost before the words were out of the detective’s mouth, Reid quietly said, ‘‘Berkowitz.’’
    ‘‘ David Berkowitz?’’ Prentiss asked, eyes and nostrils flaring.
    Nodding rapidly now, Reid said, ‘‘Son of Sam. On April seventeenth, nineteen seventy-seven, two lovers— an eighteen-year-old actress, Valentina Suriani and her tow-truck driver boyfriend, twenty-year-old Alexander Esau—were necking in a parked car near the Hutchinson River Parkway in the Bronx when they were shot to death by Berkowitz. Though they were the ninth and tenth victims he shot, they were only the fifth and sixth to die. One of the police officers at the scene found a letter addressed to the lead detective on the so-called case of the .44 Caliber Killer— Captain Joseph Borelli. It was the letter where Berkowitz gave himself the name ‘Son Of Sam.’ ’’
    Lorenzon spoke up. ‘‘You’re talking about the guy who got his marching orders from a damn dog?’’
    ‘‘A Labrador retriever named Harvey,’’ Reid said in his lilting, matter-of-fact way. He might have been answering a question in a round of Trivial Pursuit. ‘‘Was there anything on the crumpled piece of paper?’’
    ‘‘No,’’ Tovar said.
    ‘‘We’ll get it to our lab,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘They might be able to find something.’’
    ‘‘The murder weapon,’’ Morgan said. ‘‘What do we know about it?’’
    Tovar said, ‘‘It’s a—’’
    ‘‘Would it be a Charter Arms Bulldog,’’ Reid interrupted, ‘‘.44 caliber special?’’
    Hotchner watched the detective sitting there open-mouthed, staring at Reid as if a two-year-old had suddenly spouted the Gettysburg Address.
    ‘‘It, uh, was a .44,’’ Tovar said. ‘‘What are you, kid, a witch?’’
    ‘‘That would be ‘warlock,’ ’’ Reid said.
    Morgan cut in. ‘‘But he is a doctor and a supervisory special agent, so ‘kid’ may not really be appropriate.’’
    ‘‘Sorry, Dr. Reid,’’ Tovar said, flustered.
    Reid waved that off, while Hotchner said, ‘‘You just want to make sure you take Dr. Reid seriously. Because he doesn’t just pull these things out of the air.’’
    Morgan said, ‘‘Or the other place you might assume he’s pulling it out of.’’
    ‘‘Point is,’’ Reid said, ‘‘it’s the same gun Berkowitz used.’’
    Jareau touched a button on the remote and the second photo came up on the screen: bones found in the Lakewood Forest Preserve.
    Jareau said, ‘‘Detective Tovar got this photo from a friend on the job in Wauconda, one of the far northern suburbs in the lake counties.’’
    ‘‘Jake Denson,’’ Tovar said. ‘‘He sent me the photo when I asked him if he’d received any in the mail; but Jake thinks, because of the difference in MO? His nut and our nut are different guys.’’
    Reid said, ‘‘ ‘Nut’ is probably not a good way to describe this individual, and it is one individual. You’re dealing with someone intelligent and even