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sophisticated. Don’t underestimate him.’’
    The two detectives exchanged awkward glances. They had the look of minor leaguers thrust into the big time.
    Rossi, whose face assumed a deceptive blankness when he concentrated, nodded toward the image of bones and asked, ‘‘What’s the story here?’’
    Jareau said, ‘‘Hikers found the remains of two young women in Lakewood Forest Preserve on Saturday, June twenty-first. There were two skulls, four femurs, and a jawbone. The remains were identified as Donna Cooper and Casey Goddard, two young women who disappeared from Bangs Lake in Wauconda on June fourteenth.’’
    Prentiss said, ‘‘Like two young women last seen with a handsome young man, with a cast on one arm, claiming he needed help getting a boat off his car.’’
    ‘‘Oh hell,’’ Morgan said.
    ‘‘Ted Bundy,’’ Rossi said.
    Reid said, ‘‘The date is off by exactly one month, but it matches the disappearance of Janice Ott and Denise Naslund in Washington state. Their bones were found later in Lake Sammamish State Park.’’
    ‘‘Damnit,’’ Tovar said, and pounded a fist into a palm. ‘‘I never put that together . . . but yeah, that fits what Denson told me. He just included so much extra crap I never saw the pieces for what they were.’’
    Lorenzon said, ‘‘Then mine’s a copycat too.’’ Taking the hint, Jareau switched to the third photo, the plastic barrel in the vacant apartment. ‘‘On July twenty-second, this was found by policemen following up on an anonymous tip about a domestic dispute in an apartment building in Chinatown.’’
    Eyes narrowed, Reid said, ‘‘The address? Is it in the nine hundred block of Twenty-fifth Street?’’
    Lorenzon stared at him for a long moment, probably about the way Moses looked at the burning bush, Hotchner thought.
    Then the Chicago cop slowly shook his head. ‘‘You got the street right, but there is no nine hundred block, Dr. Reid—the street’s too short. It was in the two hundred block . . .’’
    ‘‘Two thirteen,’’ Reid said, unfazed.
    ‘‘Now, man, that’s freaky,’’ Lorenzon said. ‘‘How did you know? Goddamn, is Dr. Reid here psychic?’’
    Hotchner said tightly, ‘‘No. He’s a profiler.’’ Reid, trying not to look pleased about Hotchner’s remark, said, ‘‘The apartment house where the original blue barrel was found was nine twenty-four North Twenty-fifth Street in Milwaukee, Wisconsin— the apartment number was two-thirteen. The occupant was a thirty-one year old man who had recently lost his job at a chocolate factory . . .’’
    ‘‘Oh Christ,’’ Lorenzon said. He swallowed thickly. ‘‘Goddamned Jeffrey Dahmer.’’
    His expression grave, Morgan asked, ‘‘What about the victim?’’
    ‘‘Male, young Caucasian, twenty, maybe— probably a runaway—haven’t identified him yet. The ME thinks he had been in the barrel for the better part of a month before he was found.’’
    ‘‘Did the medical examiner give you a cause of death?’’
    Lorenzon shook his head. ‘‘The body was nearly too decomposed . . . broken hyoid bone, though. Probably manual strangulation.’’
    Reid asked, ‘‘What about the sexual aspects of these crimes?’’
    ‘‘I don’t know about the Wauconda case,’’ Tovar said. ‘‘I haven’t seen the entire file and the photo just shows bones. I can tell you there was no sexual evidence with the shooting in the Heights.’’
    Reid nodded thoughtfully. ‘‘There was no direct sexual evidence in the Berkowitz killings either, though. What about the barrel?’’
    ‘‘Again,’’ Lorenzon said, ‘‘he was just too decomposed.’’
    Rossi said, ‘‘Berkowitz hated women, as did Bundy, while Dahmer killed gay men—a sexual aspect in each case, but this UnSub is taking two from column A and one from column B in an unusual way.’’
    ‘‘What does that tell us about the killer’s sexuality?’’ Prentiss asked. ‘‘He’s