Finishing School (10 page)

Hotchner said sharply, ‘‘Mr. Silvan, we need anything you hear to stay in this room. Do you understand? This is an ongoing federal investigation.''

Nodding vigorously, Silvan said, ‘‘I understand completely. I'm sorry to have jumped to a conclusion. It's just that I . . . I've never been around anything like this before.''

Prentiss nodded her encouragement to him as the little man's eyes lighted on her for a second, then flew away.

Reid repeated, ‘‘Can you think of any reason for the UnSub to have chosen this place?''

Silvan considered the question. ‘‘Well, it's never been an Indian burial ground.''

Reid's expression changed from quizzical to slightly disappointed.

‘‘That area was harvested six years ago,'' Silvan said. ‘‘The site might have been chosen simply because your . . . UnSub . . . thought that very few folks would be in that forest for another forty years, at least.''

Prentiss asked, ‘‘As the chief forester, aren't you in there regularly?''

Silvan nodded. ‘‘Either your UnSub didn't know that a forester regularly inspects the area, or he counted on us not checking that particular spot. There are nearly one hundred acres in that forest alone. It's a lot of ground to cover, and we don't study every single tree, every single time. Mostly, we monitor growth and make sure that insects, poisons, and even weeds are not interfering with the growth of the wood. In that way, forestry is little different than running a farm that grows corn or soybeans.''

Hotchner glanced at the two agents. ‘‘Any other questions?''

Reid and Prentiss shook their heads.

Hotchner said, ‘‘Thank you for your time, Mr. Silvan. Do you have a card?''

The forester withdrew one from his jacket pocket. ‘‘The front has my contact information at the company, my cell number's on the back. Feel free to call any time.''

‘‘Thanks,'' Hotchner said. ‘‘We appreciate your company's help . . . and yours.''

Rising, Silvan flashed a tiny, awkward smile, and said, ‘‘No problem, no problem at all.''

When the man was gone, Hotchner turned to Prentiss, and went back to what they'd been discussing.

‘‘We need to find out how long the UnSub keeps the girls,'' Hotch said. ‘‘The Davison girl disappeared ten years ago. How much of that time did she spend with the UnSub? The same is true of the others too. Did he only keep
one
for a long period, or all of them?''

Reid said, ‘‘That would seem inconvenient for a single man.''

‘‘That's right. And we know he's got to have a reasonably well-paying job, which means he probably isn't jumping job to job with great frequency. Does he work out of the house so he can keep the girls from escaping? Does he have a partner? Does he keep the girls at a remote location?''

Prentiss jotted notes as the boss spoke. Inside, her gut churned. They knew so little and had so many questions and at the same time, out there, somewhere, their UnSub might be getting ready to bury another teenage girl in the woods.

On his own, more leisurely but very deadly timetable.

Bemidji, Minnesota

A
n hour or so after lunch, Rossi and Morgan finally returned with Detective Garue, who had a box of evidence in tow, which the local cop set down on the conference room table, and removed the lid.

Prentiss and Reid were still bent over the table, hard at it, Prentiss on her laptop, Reid poring over reports from the Davison kidnapping in Georgia. JJ was off dealing with both the media and the new tip hotline.

The group leader, Hotchner, was trying to figure out how best to utilize his people—he had an idea that might not go over well. But, then, that was the luxury of being the boss.

‘‘Found the firearm,'' Rossi said matter-of-factly, holding up the bag that held the shotgun.

Brandishing a plastic evidence bag, Garue said, ‘‘And we also came up with about half an ounce of weed''—he nodded toward the box—‘‘not to mention a championship smut collection.''

‘‘What we didn't find,'' Morgan said rather glumly, ‘‘was any sign that those girls—or
any
children, for that matter—ever set foot in Rohl's house.''

‘‘Nothing at all?'' Prentiss asked.

Finding a seat at the table, Rossi shook his head. ‘‘If this is our guy, he's been holding the girls somewhere else. And that was definitely not a dwelling where some mastermind had surgically removed the evidence.''

‘‘If he's our bad guy, he's good,'' Morgan said, also taking a seat (as had Garue). ‘‘Didn't even find so much as a key that didn't fit some lock or other we ran across.''

Rossi picked up: ‘‘If he had the girls somewhere else, either they weren't under lock and key or he has that key hidden somewhere else, too . . . because it is sure as hell
not
in that house. Which, by the way, is a dump.''

Prentiss smirked. ‘‘We gathered.''

Hotchner asked, ‘‘So—do you still think he's the UnSub?''

‘‘Not out of the question,'' Rossi said, with an eyebrow shrug. ‘‘We definitely have more digging to do.''

Hotchner gestured toward the nearest laptop. ‘‘I'll get Garcia to contact Arkansas and see what else we can learn on that end.''

Garue said, ‘‘With the weapons and drugs charges? He's not going anywhere for a while.''

Morgan lifted a forefinger. ‘‘Don't forget he assaulted a federal officer.''

Garue nodded. ‘‘He's definitely going to be a guest of the county for a while.''

Rossi asked, ‘‘Anything go down here at the fort while we were out doing God's work?''

Hotchner filled them in on the visits by Abner and Lawrence Silvan.

Rossi's eyebrows were up and he seemed vaguely amused. ‘‘Cookies, Aaron? And of course you sent them to the crime lab.''

Hotchner said nothing.

Rossi told his old friend, ‘‘Generous of you. You
do
know we haven't eaten since breakfast?''

With no apparent recognition that he was being kidded, Hotchner said, ‘‘There's food in the vending machine in the break room.''

Rossi chuckled and shook his head. Garue was looking at Morgan, with an expression that asked,
Is your boss for real?
But Morgan offered no help.

Hotchner filled them in on the identity of the Davison girl and what they knew about that case, so far.

Rossi, dead serious now, said, ‘‘Georgia's a long way from Minnesota.''

‘‘It's a long way coming
or
going,'' Morgan said. ‘‘Was the Davison girl registered in school anywhere around here?''

Hotchner shook his head. ‘‘Not that we know, but it's early on that score. We haven't had time to put together a digital aging photo.''

Such a photo would show what the victim might look like today.

‘‘And,'' Hotchner continued, ‘‘we'll get a forensics sculptor to do a 3-D representation, but the truth is, that's going to take a while.''

‘‘So,'' Rossi said, ‘‘what's next?''

Before Hotchner could answer, JJ came into the room in a rush.

‘‘Victim number two has been identified,'' she said. ‘‘Lee Ann Clark, kidnapped from a park near her family's residence in Heflin, Alabama.''

‘‘When?'' Hotchner asked.

‘‘Ten years ago,'' JJ said, ‘‘within just two weeks of Heather Davison.''

‘‘Nice work. How did you manage it?''

‘‘Credit Garcia—she just got notified there was another DNA hit.''

Hotchner swung his attention toward Reid. ‘‘Let's get Garcia on the linkup and find out more.''

In a few seconds, Reid had made that happen.

‘‘Garcia,'' Hotchner said.

‘‘Sir?''

‘‘What have you found out about our second victim?''

‘‘She was three and a half at the time of her abduction—which was less than two weeks after the kidnapping of Heather Davison. Lee Ann Clark was playing in a park not even three blocks from her house when the abduction went down.''

‘‘Certainly a child that age hadn't been left alone . . . ?''

‘‘No, both her parents and a slightly older brother were there. They were distracted for just a moment and when they turned back, Lee Ann was gone.''

Hotchner frowned. ‘‘Distracted by what?''

‘‘The brother, five at the time, was on the monkey bars. He slipped and both Mom and Dad turned when they heard him yell in pain. That was all it took.''

Reid asked, ‘‘And no one else on the scene saw anything?''

‘‘No.''

Hotchner said, ‘‘No surprise. People in a park tend to be focused on their own activities. . . . Keep digging.''

‘‘Will do.''

‘‘And, Garcia—see what progress has been made on the third victim. Plus, start running down missing blonde girls from the South who disappeared around ten years ago.''

‘‘Yes, sir.''

‘‘And expand your search to the corridor between Bemidji and Atlanta.''

‘‘Right,'' Garcia said, then disappeared to do her work.

Rossi asked, ‘‘You're thinking the UnSub may have lived in the Atlanta area?''

Hotchner said, ‘‘I'm thinking it's a place to start. Both girls disappeared from a hundred-square-mile area, so I'm guessing our UnSub spent some time there. There's one sure way to find out.''

Rossi, ahead of him, said, ‘‘You really want to split the team up like that?''

Hotchner said, ‘‘You'll be as close as the nearest phone or laptop.''

Frowning, Prentiss asked, ‘‘What I am missing?''

Hotchner said to her, ‘‘You and Rossi take the jet to the Atlanta field office and see what you can find out at that end. The rest of us will work the case from here.''

Prentiss said to Rossi, ‘‘How did you know us going to Atlanta was what Hotch was thinking?''

Deadpan, Rossi said to her, ‘‘Haven't you heard? I'm a profiler.''

 
Atlanta, Georgia

 
David Rossi was well and truly used to not waking up in his own bed.

Life on the road was part of not only his BAU job, but his role as writer and lecturer, which kept him frequently away from home as well. Waking up in his second city on one case, however, was not the norm. Still, he wouldn't miss the Arctic Circle temperatures of Minnesota, and had no problem with waking in the more temperate climes of Atlanta.

The flight into Hartsfield International Airport had been both uneventful and late. He and Prentiss had not left until the afternoon, which meant the pair didn't land at Hartsfield until nearly ten p.m. local time. Having skipped lunch and losing an hour entering the eastern time zone, Rossi was starving by the time they landed.

He and Prentiss had shared a late dinner in the hotel restaurant, a typically mediocre dining experience, and he relished every forkful. Scotty Carlyle, the rangy African-American agent who'd picked them up at the airport, kept them company, not joining them, just sipping on a Diet Coke.

Built like a linebacker, Carlyle had close-clipped hair, wide, clear brown eyes, and a mellow baritone touched with a Southern accent.

Carlyle asked, ‘‘What brings you to Atlanta to investigate a ten-year-old kidnapping?''

Rossi and Prentiss brought the agent up to speed on their case.

‘‘Hell of a thing,'' Carlyle said. ‘‘You think you have a serial killer, operating undetected over a long period like this? Is that unusual?''

‘‘I wish it were,'' Rossi said. ‘‘This is probably the worst kind of serial killer to identify and track—on the move, striking periodically.''

‘‘Even in these days of computers and DNA?''

‘‘Less tough, sure, but yeah. Even the most sophisticated computer systems provide cracks a killer like this can fall through.''

Carlyle shook his head, sipped his Diet Coke. ‘‘So . . . what do you have in mind for tomorrow?''

Rossi told him.

Now, having slept, showered and shaved—and after a light breakfast with Prentiss—Rossi felt ready to face the day and find out what connected Bemidji, Minnesota, to Summerville, Georgia, and Heflin, Alabama.

Prentiss—in gray slacks, a navy blue blouse, and dark shoes, her weapon on her hip under a gray jacket—stepped out into the sunshine at the hotel's entrance. Rossi—as usual in jeans, with a blue work shirt and a red tie full of geometric shapes under a navy sport coat, his gun on his right hip—enjoyed the warmth, lifting his face toward the sky.

Prentiss smiled at him. ‘‘Not so terrible, trading this in for Minnesota.''

‘‘Doesn't suck,'' he admitted.

Carlyle pulled up in a black Tahoe. When they commented on the lovely day, he didn't seem to know what they were talking about, clearly not nearly as impressed with the local weather as the visitors were.

With Rossi in the front seat and Prentiss in back, Carlyle drove them north on I-75, getting off at the Adairsville exit. From there it was two-lane roads, state 140 and U.S. 27 through the edge of the Chattahoochee National Forest and onto the east side of Summerville in Chattooga County, only a few miles from the Alabama border.

A sleepy little berg, home to around five thousand, Summerville had no police department and a handful of stoplights. The sheriff's office—a small one-story building—was just off Commerce Street, the main drag, at 35 W Washington.