Finishing School (6 page)

‘‘He didn't use a tape measure,'' Garue said, ‘‘but for eyeballing it, yeah, I'd say pretty goddamn precise.''

Morgan asked, ‘‘Was this spot marked in any way?''

Shaking his head, Garue said, ‘‘Not that we could find.''

Rossi was squinting in the sunlight as he looked all around. ‘‘How the hell did he find this very spot three times? All this terrain looks the same.''

‘‘Not to someone who knows what he's looking for,'' Garue said. ‘‘Agent Rossi, you're pretty good with people.''

‘‘I like to think so.''

‘‘You don't even have to talk to them. You study them, their behavior, and even before you meet someone, you know them.''

Rossi gave up a one-shoulder shrug. ‘‘To a point.''

‘‘That's the way this killer—your UnSub—that's how he is with trees. He studies them; he knows them.'' Garue sought out the eyes of each profiler, first Rossi, then Morgan. ‘‘Either of you fellas hunt?''

Morgan shook his head, but Rossi nodded.

‘‘Ducks, pheasants, quail, I suppose?''

‘‘Mostly,'' Rossi admitted, obviously a little perplexed. ‘‘How do you know that?''

The Native American detective granted his guests a grin. ‘‘Because, if you hunted deer, you'd be better in the woods.''

Rossi grinned back. ‘‘Detective Garue, I'm not used to getting profiled myself.''

‘‘Well,'' Garue said, ‘‘let me take a shot at the UnSub, then.''

Morgan said, ‘‘Be our guest.''

‘‘By all means,'' Rossi said.

‘‘Let's start,'' Garue said, ‘‘with this: He knows his way around the forest.''

‘‘In this part of the world,'' Morgan said, ‘‘that doesn't narrow the suspect list much, does it?

‘‘Sure it does,'' Garue said with a sharp, mirthless laugh. ‘‘Down to all the foresters, lumberjacks, and sylviculturists who work for Bassinko Industries or any other lumber company in the area, plus the state DNR guys and the Forest Service employees . . . or any deer hunter in the upper Midwest.''

‘‘DNR?'' Morgan asked.

‘‘Department of Natural Resources,'' Garue said. ‘‘They issue hunting and fishing licenses and take care of, what else, natural resources.''

Morgan cocked his head. ‘‘What was that other term? Silver something?''

Garue said the word syllable by syllable as if to a child, though Morgan took no offense. ‘‘Syl-vi-cultur-ist—they're people who grow trees.''

Morgan said, ‘‘I thought that was an arborist.''

Garue shook his head. ‘‘Sylviculturists grow forest trees commercially.''

‘‘So we have a hell of a long list of suspects.''

Rossi said, ‘‘Let's start to narrow that down, then.''

Garue's eyes tightened. ‘‘How do we do that?''

‘‘We start with what we know.''

‘‘Which is what?''

‘‘We know the UnSub is someone familiar with the forest. Probably comfortable in any forest, but specifically
this
forest.''

‘‘Okay,'' Garue granted, ‘‘what else?''

Morgan's sigh was visible in the chill air. ‘‘The way in here is off the beaten path—not only does the UnSub know the forest, he knows the area. Probably a local.''

Garue was shaking his head. ‘‘You really think so?''

The detective seemed to doubt anyone native to his community could be capable of crimes like these. Morgan didn't know where to start with how wrong
that
assumption was. . . .

Rossi said to the local cop, ‘‘Could you find this place if you didn't live around here? Three separate times?''

Garue considered that. Then he said, ‘‘I see your point, Agent Rossi, but I just can't imagine anybody in our little community would be capable—''

Rossi cut him off with an upraised palm; Morgan smiled to himself, as he automatically thought of the clichéd ‘‘how'' the old movies gave to Indians.

‘‘Just because you say hi to someone at the Sip N Go,'' Rossi was saying, ‘‘or have a beer at the bar with them after work? That doesn't mean that person can't have a darker, secret side. You've been on the job long enough to know that.''

Now Garue issued a visible sigh. ‘‘Yeah, yeah, you're right. I got kids—you try to tell yourself that no matter how much bad shit you see on the job, none of it can touch you, or them.''

‘‘Only,'' Rossi said flatly, ‘‘it can.''

Changing the subject, Morgan asked, ‘‘How much farther do these woods go?''

Garue shrugged. ‘‘Couple of miles, anyway.''

Morgan pointed. ‘‘There's a little rise here, but if you look through those trees to our right, you can see a small piece of the service road.''

The others looked and nodded.

Garue thought about what Morgan had said, then shook his head again. ‘‘I see your point, son, but it'd be harder than hell to see anybody way in here.''

‘‘Granted, but not impossible,'' Morgan insisted. ‘‘And if that's the case, if the UnSub is burying bodies, why not go deeper into the forest?''

‘‘Maybe he didn't notice that little piece of service road,'' the detective said. ‘‘Maybe he lugged the body and got a little tired and figured this was far enough. Or, if he dug the grave before he brought the body, then it's all a moot point. 'Cause the process would be a hell of a lot quicker and less likely for somebody way the hell in the distance to notice.''

Morgan said, ‘‘That could be true, but, remember—if he digs the grave on a separate visit, he's doubling the risk that someone will see him.''

Garue's eyes were slits in the weathered face.

‘‘I think Morgan's onto something,'' Rossi said. ‘‘They're buried here because our UnSub wasn't strong enough to get the bodies any farther. He took great care with how he packed the corpses, and took similar care with the graves and their placement from each other. So why would he be careless about where he places the secret cemetery?''

Morgan cut in: ‘‘And why would he increase his risk by making two trips for each body?''

Rossi continued, ‘‘Because if he predug the grave for one, it would make sense that he did it for all three. There's an almost ritualistic pattern to these burials. And not only does he risk being seen, he's risking someone finding the open grave. Way too iffy for a guy who's been this careful with everything else.''

Garue looked at the tiny piece of the access road visible through the trees and thoughtfully said, ‘‘He's gone over a quarter of a mile, over uneven ground, carrying a body. He gets this far, he's worn out, and if he hasn't dug the grave ahead of time, he still needs to do that. If he goes any farther in, he risks not having the strength to dig the hole.''

‘‘Right,'' Morgan and Rossi said together.

‘‘The holes are important too,'' Garue said. ‘‘The oldest two were deep, a hell of a lot deeper than I would bury something in the woods. He really didn't want these bodies found. The third one was shallower. Why?''

Rossi said, ‘‘Something spooked him, maybe.''

Garue's eyes widened. ‘‘Hell. Do you think someone
saw
him?''

Shrugging, Morgan said, ‘‘Something must have made him nervous, or else why is that grave shallower than the other two?''

Garue shook his head glumly. ‘‘Finding what spooked him is going to be goddamn impossible. . . .''

‘‘Not necessarily,'' Rossi said. ‘‘If we can determine when the bodies were buried, we can start figuring out what might have been the stressor that caused him to deviate from his pattern. Who would normally come in here?''

Garue thought about that. ‘‘This time of year, hunters. Also, the forester in charge of inspecting this area . . . although that can rotate, and there could be more than one forester in the picture. Hell, Bassinko has a bunch of foresters.''

Rossi pressed. ‘‘Anybody else?''

‘‘Some people might use the area for hiking in the summer, although, technically, they would be trespassing.''

Morgan asked, ‘‘Why here?''

Garue frowned. ‘‘Pardon?''

‘‘Why
this
place?'' Morgan said, pointing at the ground. ‘‘Of all the places in and around town, why this
particular
place?''

‘‘Random?'' Garue asked with a shrug.

Shaking his head, Rossi said, ‘‘This is not a place of convenience. It's out of town, it's off the beaten path—no, he came here for a reason. If not convenience, then more likely it was comfort. The UnSub came here because, for some reason, he was
comfortable
here.''

Morgan was looking all around them. ‘‘What's different about this part of this forest?''

After taking several moments to turn in a complete circle to study their surroundings and consider Morgan's question, Garue finally said, ‘‘Nothing. Nothing sets this part of the forest off from the rest of it. Of course, this
is
different than most of the forests in the area.''

Rossi asked, ‘‘How's that?''

‘‘You see how the trees are thinner here than that area over there?'' Garue asked, gesturing toward where the three hunters' blinds were.

Both agents nodded.

‘‘That's because this area has been harvested. Judging by the growth, I'd say about ten years ago.''

Morgan asked, ‘‘Who would know that for sure?''

‘‘And,'' Rossi added, ‘‘who would feel comfortable here because of that?''

Garue shrugged. ‘‘All the same people we've been talking about—hunters, foresters, sylviculturists. Plus, most anybody who grew up around here knows the difference between harvested forests, and ones that haven't been cut down for a while.''

Rossi twitched a frown. ‘‘We're going in circles.''

Morgan studied their surroundings. ‘‘Tell me about the hunters.''

Garue squinted at the profiler. ‘‘The ones who found the graves, you mean?''

‘‘Yeah. Were they just walking around out here?''

‘‘No. They were tracking a buck one of them shot with a bow.''

Morgan considered that. ‘‘Deer are hunted from blinds, right?''

‘‘Stands,'' Rossi corrected him.

‘‘Yeah, but the hunter stays in one place and the deer come to them.''

‘‘That's right,'' Garue said. ‘‘They hunt the edge line, the area between harvested and unharvested forests. That's where the deer like to eat. You see this ground around us? Lots of different plants here. The trees aren't big enough to keep the sun out yet. When that happens, the smaller plants die off. These other plants are the deer's favorites, so they feed in the recently harvested areas. But since they're cautious animals, they live in the thicker woods . . . like over there. That's where the three hunters' stands are.''

‘‘If you knew these graves were here,'' Rossi said, ‘‘you could sit up there and see them?''

Garue shrugged. ‘‘Probably. If you had binoculars, easy.''

Morgan asked, ‘‘When does hunting season start?''

‘‘Gun season, last Saturday. Muzzle-loader season starts at the end of the month, and bow season has been going on since middle of September.''

Rossi and Morgan traded a look.

‘‘If the last body,'' Morgan said, ‘‘was buried in September or later . . .''

‘‘Maybe
hunters
spooked our UnSub,'' Rossi said. ‘‘There might be a deer hunter out there who saw something and doesn't even know it.''

‘‘Oh, hell,'' Garue said. ‘‘There's a lot of bow hunters, but Daniel Abner leases this land from Bassinko. He would've probably led any hunters in here. We need to talk to him, more than before.''

‘‘Good place to start, anyway,'' Rossi said. ‘‘Let's get back to civilization.''

On the drive in, Garue phoned into the office and asked that someone call Abner and have the guide come around to the law enforcement center.

When they got back to the conference room, Hotchner told the trio that a deputy had come in to say that Daniel Abner, the hunting guide, was already waiting in interview room one.

‘‘Before you interview him,'' Garue said, ‘‘there's something you should know about Dan Abner.''

‘‘What's that?'' Morgan asked.

‘‘He had a ten-year-old daughter who was kidnapped, raped, and killed.''

Hotchner stepped forward. ‘‘Why weren't we told about this right away?''

Garue looked perplexed. ‘‘I didn't see the relevance.''

‘‘A similar crime to this,'' Hotchner snapped, his temper showing through, ‘‘and you didn't see the relevance?''

‘‘I'm telling you about it now,'' Garue said, keeping his cool. ‘‘It was fifteen years ago. Cost him a daughter and a marriage. He was never a suspect—well, not really anyway, no more than any family member is in such a situation—and the suspected killer disappeared before we could arrest him. In the fifteen years since, not one other girl has disappeared from the area. Abner's
not
your UnSub. He's another victim. Which is why I'm telling you this. He's got ghosts—we all do—but this is going to wake his.''