Free Criminal Minds by Max Allan Collins

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