Finishing School (24 page)

Sitting forward, Prentiss asked, ‘‘What if he was going to leave anyway, and our getting the case was just a coincidence?''

‘‘You know I hate that word.''

‘‘Yes, but listen—ten years ago, he buried three girls, then kidnapped one.''

Rossi nodded. ‘‘Because the flood washed the last body out into the open.''

‘‘What if he was planning on leaving anyway?''

‘‘Go on.''

‘‘If he ran because of the body turning up, leaving ‘abruptly' as Mrs. Pilson put it, then Jason Fryman is our best suspect. But what if he had already put in his notice, already made the plan to leave, and the body being discovered just sped up his departure?''

‘‘Then,'' Rossi said, ‘‘we have a scenario very much like what's happening in Bemidji . . . and we have an UnSub with a plan—a plan that would include having a job lined up already.''

‘‘Yes,'' Prentiss said with a tight smile. ‘‘He had a job ready last time. That case would make
Lawrence Silvan
the better suspect.''

‘‘Yes it would, and I might know how to find out for sure.'' He got out his cell phone and punched a number on the speed dial. ‘‘Garcia?''

‘‘Yes, sir.''

‘‘I'm going to give you two names. Can you tell me if either one has been online trolling employment sites in the last several months?''

‘‘That doesn't sound hard,'' she said.

And she was gone.

 
Bemidji, Minnesota

 
Going west on Third, he pulled up at the stop sign at Beltrami. On his right was the Trattoria Florentine, a fine Italian restaurant where he occasionally brought His Beloved. He rolled through the intersection, and drove slowly to the next corner, the next stop sign. As he slowed, he turned on his right blinker. The car almost seemed to be driving itself. He turned right onto Minnesota and drove north. He still had two blocks to turn away, but knew he wouldn't, the compulsion simply too strong.

 
Bemidji, Minnesota

 
In the living room of Jason Fryman's home, Derek Morgan stood at a window looking out on the street. Behind him, Hotch and Reid were in chairs facing the sofa, where Fryman and his wife perched nervously. Garue stood next to Morgan, but with his attention on the couple.

The agents had already been to the Silvan residence and found no one home. They were in the process of trying to finesse a warrant to search the premises, but—in the meantime—they had come to interview the Frymans.

The thin blond Fryman, who'd been nervous in the interview room, was even jumpier now, a skittish pigeon flitting around his stoic, steady wife, Amy, a pretty, chubby, brown-eyed brunette. Fryman was in the same blue work shirt, jeans, and boots as in the interview room, while Amy Fryman wore a long, floral skirt, a brown blouse, and wire-frame bifocals—she seemed vaguely hippieish to Morgan.

The couple had been fully cooperative and Fryman had answered every question, the interview almost over now. When Morgan had interviewed Fryman before, the little man had seemed their best suspect. Now Morgan was convinced Silvan was the UnSub.

A blue Ford Taurus slowed in front of the Fryman house, the driver possibly looking in this direction, but in the gray of dusk, Morgan couldn't be sure. Then the car continued on.

Hotchner was saying, ‘‘So you have no plans for getting a new job out of state?''

‘‘No,'' Fryman said, his voice small, wounded.

‘‘You do know we'll check into this.''

Mrs. Fryman said, fairly shrill, ‘‘We have done
nothing
but cooperate. We've said you can search our home, top to bottom, without a warrant. What else do you want from us?''

Hotchner twitched a fairly ghastly smile. ‘‘We appreciate that. But we have to check every lead.''

‘‘There are no children here, there never have been any children!'' She began to weep, then to sob.

Morgan was about to make sure the woman was all right when the corner of his eye caught the blue Taurus going by again, slowing as it went.

‘‘Someone knows we're here,'' Morgan said, as the car pulled away again.

All eyes went to him.

‘‘The same car has gone by twice,'' Morgan said, ‘‘once in each direction, and slowing down both times.'' He asked Fryman, ‘‘Do you know anyone with a blue Ford Taurus?''