Finishing School (7 page)

Calmly, Hotchner said, ‘‘We need all the facts, that's all. You needn't worry—we'll handle him with care. Morgan, you do the interview.''

‘‘You got it, Hotch.''

Garue led the parade to the interview room. He, Hotchner, and Rossi went into the observation booth next door while Morgan took a deep breath, then went on in.

The balding man at the table puffed on a cigarette, an ashtray handy. Evidently, Bemidji either didn't have a city ordinance against smoking in public buildings or someone had cut Abner some slack. Morgan guessed option number two.

Morgan smiled more to put the man at ease. Abner did not return the smile, but did nod.

‘‘Mr. Abner, I'm Supervisory Special Agent Derek Morgan.''

Abner nodded again, said nothing, and stamped out his cigarette in the ashtray. Morgan sat opposite the man, the two silently studying each other. Abner wore a flannel shirt, jeans and ankle-length boots; his mostly bald head bore patches of halfhearted gray the color of the stubble on his chin. Dull gray eyes lurked behind wire-frame glasses, and his expression seemed a little lost.

Still, Abner had not said a word and Morgan could only wonder if Garue had also left out the fact the hunting guide was mute.

‘‘I'd like to talk to you,'' Morgan said evenly, ‘‘about what you found in the woods over the weekend.''

Abner nodded.

‘‘What did you find?''

Abner just sat for a long moment.

Morgan was fighting irritation when the man lit up another smoke and, finally, looked him in the eye.

‘‘It was sickening,'' Abner said.

This, though something of a non sequitur, was at least an answer. Morgan prompted, ‘‘Sickening?''

Abner sighed smoke, nodded. ‘‘In one goddamn second, I went from having a fun time with some buddies to knowing exactly what the guy who found my daughter must've felt like. Man, I thought I was going to puke, made me so sick to my stomach.''

‘‘We were told about your daughter,'' Morgan said. ‘‘I'm very sorry for your loss.''

Abner said, ‘‘It was a long time ago. But . . .'' He shrugged, sighed smoke again. ‘‘It's not the kind of thing you get over, really.''

‘‘I know it's difficult, sir, but I need to hear your story.''

The guide thought for a moment. Morgan was about to prompt him again, when he said, ‘‘I was hired by Billy Kwitcher and Logan Tweed to take them on a deer hunt.''

‘‘Both locals?''

He nodded. ‘‘I've known Logan all his life. He was almost ten years behind me in school, but I knew his older brothers.''

‘‘What about Kwitcher?''

‘‘Him, I don't really know that well. Just a friend of Logan's. Him and Logan went deer hunting last year, with another guide.''

‘‘Do you know what guide? Would you have a name for him?''

‘‘Nope. Sorry.''

‘‘Do you know anything at all about Kwitcher?''

‘‘I'm pretty sure he works construction with Logan.''

‘‘Not a lifetime Bemidji resident?''

‘‘Naw. Billy told me he moved here a couple of years ago from . . .'' Abner shook his head. ‘‘All I can remember is somewhere down South. Arkansas, Missouri, Oklahoma, something like that.''

‘‘All right,'' Morgan said, never having heard a more vague rendering of Southern states. ‘‘Tell me the rest of the story. I'll try not to interrupt.''

Ten minutes later, his face ashen, the pain of his own daughter's disappearance obvious there, Abner wrapped up his account.

Morgan leaned forward. ‘‘You had no idea that anyone had been in the forest?''

Abner shrugged. ‘‘I can't go that far, Agent Morgan. There's no way to keep people out—not to mention that Bassinko folks are in and out of there, now and then. After all, they own the land, what's to stop 'em? If I went in there and saw new tire tracks? I wouldn't think a thing of it.''

Morgan mulled this for a moment before asking the next question. If he asked all three hunters the same question, perhaps the three answers together would provide the team with something helpful. This was important; an adage gleaned from their evidence-gathering colleagues said,
First on the scene, first suspects
.

‘‘You've told me how you reacted to finding the skeletal hand,'' Morgan said. ‘‘Now I'd like your impression of Kwitcher's reactions, and Logan's.''

‘‘Their reactions?'' Abner said, almost sputtering. ‘‘The same as mine! We were all freaked out as hell. Jesus, what do you think?''

Holding up both hands, Morgan said, ‘‘Whoa, slow down a little.''

Abner ground out his cigarette and immediately started up another.

‘‘You were all surprised,'' Morgan said. ‘‘Granted. Think about it for a few seconds . . . then tell me what they were doing while you were making the 911 call on your cell.''

The hunting guide puffed away on his cigarette as if the act of inhaling fueled new thoughts.

‘‘They were both pretty worked up,'' Abner said, at last. ‘‘In different ways, though. You're right, when I think about it, all our reactions were at least a little different.''

‘‘How so?''

‘‘Like I said, it made me sick to my stomach. All those memories . . . but the others, well . . .''

‘‘Yes?''

Abner met Morgan's eyes. ‘‘Logan was . . . I'd call it . . .
curious
, you know?''

‘‘I'm not sure I get that.''

The guide tried again: ‘‘He almost reached out and
touched
the thing a couple of times.'' Abner shuddered. ‘‘I mean, I had to
stop
him. It was like he wanted to hold those bony fingers. I don't know, maybe he thought . . . Shit, I don't
know
what he thought. But I had to tell him the cops wouldn't want the scene disturbed, or I swear he would've touched that hand. Hell, he might even have pulled it out of the ground! Like a goddamn flower he was plucking.''

‘‘And Kwitcher?''

Sighing smoke again, Abner said, ‘‘His reaction was somewhere between Logan's and mine. Billy stayed away from the hand, but let me tell you—he couldn't stop staring at it. The weird thing, though?''

‘‘Yeah?''

‘‘When I looked in Billy's eyes, it was like he was . . . somewhere else. He was staring at the hand, but he wasn't really seeing it. He was looking
through
it. Seeing something else. It was like he'd just seen a damn ghost or something.''

Morgan nodded. He scooted the chair out and stood. ‘‘I don't have any more questions for you, sir. Thank you for your time.''

‘‘Glad to help.''

‘‘We may need to talk again. This can be a long process. So don't be alarmed if you hear from us.''

‘‘Okay.'' Then, his eyes burning into Morgan's, he said, ‘‘You find this son of a bitch, you give me five minutes with him alone, and save yourself the cost of a trial.''

From the look in the guide's eyes, Morgan knew the man spoke the truth.

‘‘I understand the sentiment,'' Morgan said with a grim little smile. ‘‘But you might in future want to keep thoughts like that to yourself.''

Back in the conference room, Hotchner gathered the group around and filled them in on the interview.

Morgan said, ‘‘Well, Abner's big enough to have moved the bodies.''

Detective Garue said, ‘‘You consider him a suspect?''

Hotchner said, ‘‘We consider everyone connected with the crimes to be at least a person of interest . . . until they're not.''

Reid asked, ‘‘Was he serious about that threat he made?''

Morgan nodded. ‘‘If it's an act, it's a damn good one. He had me convinced that if he and the UnSub are left alone together ... the UnSub won't walk away.''

Prentiss, eyes tight, asked, ‘‘Could he be covering his tracks? Talking big to make us look somewhere else?''

‘‘Possible, of course,'' Morgan said with a shrug. ‘‘My gut is to believe him . . . but on the other hand, no one in this town would ever question Dan Abner's vehicle being on that forest service road.''

Garue looked stricken. ‘‘I can't believe you're considering Dan,'' the local lawman said. ‘‘After what he's been through? When does a guy get cut a break from you people?''

‘‘When he or she is no longer a person of interest,'' Hotchner said, voice calm. ‘‘Look at the profile that's emerging. Abner's comfortable in that forest. He knows it as well as or better than anyone. No one would question his being there. He's had major stressors in his life, with the loss of his daughter and his wife leaving him. When was the crime?''

Garue said, ‘‘I told you, fifteen years ago.''

‘‘No—what month, what time of year?''

The detective had to think, but he finally said, ‘‘She disappeared in April. Found her body the following June.''

‘‘When did his wife leave him?''

Garue thought some more. ‘‘September of the next year, I think it was 1993.''

‘‘So,'' Reid said, ‘‘two months ago was the fifteenth anniversary.''

‘‘Guys,'' Garcia said from the speakers and screen of a laptop.

Morgan turned and saw the curly-haired blonde smiling at him from the monitor.

‘‘Hey, girl,'' Morgan said.

She kept their usual jokey flirtation to a minimum with Hotchner and Rossi standing on either side of Morgan. ‘‘Hi, everybody,'' she said. ‘‘I finally got a background on your hunter, Billy Kwitcher.''

‘‘Good,'' Hotchner said. ‘‘By your high standards, that took a while.''

‘‘Well,'' Garcia said, ‘‘William R. Kwitcher only showed up on the radar two years ago.''

Garue asked, ‘‘Where was he before that?''

‘‘Living in Arkansas as William K. Rohl.''

Hotchner asked, ‘‘You're sure it's the same guy?''

‘‘Mr. Kwitcher's middle name is Rohl and Mr. Rohl's middle name was Kwitcher, when he fell off the world two years ago. Not surprisingly, they also share the same birthday.''

‘‘He changed his name,'' Rossi said. ‘‘Any idea why?''

The normally upbeat Garcia's expression was solemn. ‘‘Until he disappeared just over two years ago, William Kwitcher Rohl was a registered sex offender in Arkansas.''

This news turned the room silent as suddenly and utterly as if Garcia had hit the MUTE button on her end.

The detective, Garue, found his voice first. ‘‘Sex offender, huh?''

Morgan said, ‘‘Abner said he looked like he had seen a ghost—no wonder.''

Not even waiting for Garcia to fill in the details, Garue said, ‘‘We're going to want to talk to him. I'll bring him in, no problem.''

The detective was already heading out the door when Hotchner said, ‘‘Morgan, Prentiss! Go with him.''

They both followed Garue out the door, Morgan thinking that if Kwitcher had been spooked before, that would be nothing compared to how Billy would feel seeing the fire in Detective Garue's eyes.

Bemidji, Minnesota

S
SA Derek Morgan, SSA Prentiss, and the local detective left the conference room to bring in Billy Kwitcher, aka Rohl. JJ was with the sheriff, while Rossi and Hotchner were poring over reports from the case.

In the meantime, Dr. Spencer Reid sat at his laptop computer, looking at the image on the screen—the pretty, ever-pleasant face of digital intelligence analyst Penelope Garcia.

‘‘Can you tell me anything about William Kwitcher,'' Reid asked, ‘‘before Morgan and Garue get back with him?''

Garcia's eyes shifted to another monitor as she read. ‘‘William Kwitcher Rohl, Billy, was arrested on two counts of sexual assault, which is of course a class A felony, on January 23, 2003. In August of the same year, he pled guilty to sexual indecency with a child—a class D felony. Served two years at the Tucker Unit of the Arkansas Department of Corrections—that's twenty-five miles outside of Pine Bluff. When he got out, in 2005, he registered with the state as a sex offender, then before long fell off the grid.''

Reid asked, ‘‘Do you have the details of the crime?''

Garcia read silently for a moment, then looked at Reid. ‘‘Seems that Billy Rohl—Kwitcher is his mother's maiden name—had a threesome with two young ladies he met at a Pine Bluff convenience store. Plying them with cheap beer was apparently his method of operation.''

Reid already knew where this was headed, but he waited for Garcia to say it.

‘‘Both girls were fourteen.''

The young profiler had been at this long enough not to be outraged or even shocked, though he wasn't proud of that. ‘‘Anything else?''

‘‘Well, our boy Billy is in violation for leaving Arkansas without informing the state he was moving to Minnesota. Likewise, he's in violation in Minnesota for not registering with the local PD when he became a resident.''

‘‘No wonder he was nervous when he was questioned at the scene,'' Reid said. ‘‘What can you tell me about the two girls in Arkansas?''

‘‘Understandably, their parents tried to keep this quiet. The girls didn't have spotless records themselves—underage drinking already on the books. That's why nobody complained when Rohl pled to a lesser charge.''