Finishing School (11 page)

The front door was off to the right, the remainder of the building's facade a huge picture window. As with many small-town departments, this was not the most secure building in the world. They entered, Rossi in the lead, followed by Prentiss and Carlyle.

The waist-high wall ran the width of the lobby, a single deputy behind it on a chair-back stool. The broad-shouldered young deputy—with the kind of crew cut you saw mostly on military bases—greeted them with a professional smile. ‘‘May I help you?''

Rossi flashed his credentials, introduced himself and the others, as the deputy got to his feet and regarded them, agape.

‘‘Truth is,'' the deputy said with a Barney Fife- worthy grin, ‘‘I never met an FBI agent before.''

‘‘And now you have,'' Rossi said pleasantly. ‘‘Is the sheriff in?''

‘‘Sheriff Burke?''

Rossi felt he was showing considerable restraint by not asking if this county had more than one sheriff. ‘‘Yes, thanks. Sheriff Burke will be fine.''

The deputy signaled for them to pass through the gate and they did, and led them to a glass-enclosed office in the left-rear corner behind the bull pen area. He knocked and the sheriff—at his desk, on the phone—glanced up and waved him inside.

Rossi took the liberty of following the deputy in, and so did Prentiss and Carlyle.

The sheriff said, ‘‘There's some folks here, Sam—I'll talk at ya later.''

He cradled the phone and rose, a man about Rossi's height and weight, and maybe five years younger. His hair was a short mop of curly brown and he was summer-tanned in November.

The deputy said, ‘‘These folks are from the FBI.''

Unhesitatingly sticking out his hand, the sheriff said, ‘‘Ted Burke.''

‘‘Supervisory Special Agent David Rossi.'' The profiler displayed his credentials with one hand and shook hands using the other, then introduced Prentiss and Carlyle, who also shook hands with the friendly, no-nonsense sheriff.

‘‘Bring us in another chair, will you, son?''

‘‘Yes, sir,'' the deputy said, and went out.

The office wasn't spacious but they weren't particularly crowded, three visitors and the sheriff. A big blond desk dominated with an oxblood-colored leather chair behind it. File cabinets lined a side wall, and a table stacked with circulars and other paper was opposite. Behind the sheriff was a window with drawn blinds and, all around it, framed diplomas and citations.

Rossi and Prentiss took the two visitor chairs and then the deputy was back with another chair for Carlyle.

Rossi said, ‘‘We understand we're going back a few years. But we'd like to talk to you about the Heather Davison disappearance.''

Burke's friendly expression darkened. ‘‘What a terrible, sad deal that was.''

‘‘You were sheriff then?''

‘‘No,'' Burke said, ‘‘but I was here, all right—a deputy back then.''

‘‘Did you work the case?''

‘‘I did. I was lead investigator, in fact.''

That was a nice break, Rossi thought.

‘‘We haven't told the parents yet,'' Rossi said, sitting forward. ‘‘But we've identified Heather Davison's remains from a grave near Bemidji, Minnesota.''

Burke closed his eyes. Several seconds passed; then the sheriff said, ‘‘I was afraid of that when I was asked to pass along those DNA samples. Been waitin' for the shoe to drop, ever since.''

Rossi asked, ‘‘Do her parents still live locally?''

‘‘Yeah—Davison family's been here since the place was called Selma, back in the 1830s.''

‘‘Before we inform them,'' Rossi said, ‘‘we'd appreciate it if you'd tell us about the case.''

The sheriff's smile was melancholy. ‘‘No fun, bein' the messenger of such news, huh? You folks wouldn't be stallin', would you?''

‘‘Well, this is information we need,'' Rossi said. ‘‘But you may be right—I've had to tell too many parents that their child is never coming home.''

‘‘I hear that,'' he said, and sighed. ‘‘Davisons are good people. I've known their families since we were all just little kids. Jim manages a warehouse down in Rome, and Kelly is a stay-at-home mom . . . least she was back then. Those two doted on that little girl. They had a lot of trouble havin' a child.''

Rossi cocked his head. ‘‘You were close enough to know something that intimate?''

‘‘Hell, Agent Rossi—it's a small town and everybody knows everybody else's business.''

‘‘I understand,'' Rossi said, but he didn't really, never having lived in a hamlet like this one.

‘‘Anyway,'' the sheriff was saying, ‘‘everybody thought it was a blessing when little Heather showed up, after Jim and Kelly tried so hard for so long. Then to have
this
tragedy happen . . .''

‘‘What can you tell us about the investigation?''

Sheriff Burke leaned back in his chair and mulled that for a while. Rossi could tell the man had his own pace, and prodding him would be useless.

Finally the sheriff said, ‘‘As investigations go, it was by-the-numbers, every step of the way. We even had some of your FBI boys down here, helping out. . . .''

The sheriff's accent made that sound like ‘‘hepping.''

‘‘But it was like that little girl, she just wandered to the edge of the planet and fell off. If you'd come here today to tell me you had proof she'd been abducted by aliens, I don't know that I wouldn't have believed you.''

‘‘No physical evidence?''

‘‘All we had was one small piece of a taillight on a muddy shoulder in front of the house—that was all she wrote. Bastard—pardon my French, ma'am—must've backed into the tree near the street. Nobody saw a damned thing that day, though.''

Prentiss asked, ‘‘No one saw anything suspicious at all?''

Burke shook his head. ‘‘One minute that precious child was in the yard, next she was gone. My gut always told me it was someone from out of town, some predator just swung through trollin' . . . but, like I say, there were no clues, beyond that piece of taillight, the size of a quarter.''

Prentiss asked, ‘‘What makes you think it was someone from out of town?''

‘‘Again, you know everybody in a town this size. That means you also know the ones that are goddamn child molesters, too. . . . Again, pardon my French. . . .''

‘‘It's okay,'' Prentiss said with a smile. ‘‘I speak the language.''

The sheriff liked that and smiled back at her; but then he grew serious again as he said, ‘‘There's a couple of those types in town, and I knew them as well then as I do now. If they'da done it . . . well, let's just say we'd have found out.''

Rossi watched as Prentiss's face went from perplexed to disapproving. He shot her a look and she wiped her expression clean.

But Burke had caught it. ‘‘You have to understand, ma'am, down here? There's legal, and then there's justice—especially when it comes to crimes against children.''

‘‘I understand,'' Prentiss said.

Rossi nodded at her and gave her a small smile—she didn't have to condone the sheriff's point of view to fathom it. And this man seemed helpful, so slack would be cut. . . .

‘‘That little girl coulda become any darn thing when she grew up,'' Burke said, and his voice caught for a moment. ‘‘Pretty little thing might've been Miss Georgia, and she was a smart little thing, too—maybe she woulda been the doctor cured cancer, or president someday, only this evil son of a bitch took any kind of possibility away from her.''

Carefully, Rossi said, ‘‘You took this personally.''

‘‘Hell, man, we all did. Town like this, she's not just another little girl. I don't mean to suggest she's just a statistic to you people. I know you do good work and you try to help out, but when you've investigated a hundred kidnappings, the kids tend to blur together—that's understandable; that's human nature. Here, though, something like a little girl getting kidnapped just doesn't happen, only when it does, that one girl becomes a very big damn deal. So, no offense, but other than being the ones to tell those nice people they're never going to see their daughter again? I'm not sure how much you can help.''

‘‘I understand where you're coming from, Sheriff,'' Rossi said. ‘‘But we're part of a small unit of investigators who make a point of getting to know the victims. They are in no way statistics to us.''

‘‘I said I meant no offense. It's just, this has to be one damn cold case at this point. . . .''

‘‘It's warming up, sir, or we wouldn't be here.''

‘‘Well, that is a point, isn't it?''

‘‘Yes, it is. And here's another point—something that goes along with investigating hundreds of kidnappings—we are also really, really good at this.''

Burke nodded, but whether he was convinced remained a mystery.

‘‘We'll help you here,'' Rossi said. ‘‘There wasn't much to go on back then, but we've got more now.''

‘‘I'll take any help I can get,'' Burke said, ‘‘but after all this time, I just don't know what there is to do.''

Prentiss leaned forward. ‘‘Let's start with your notion that the perpetrator had to be someone from outside Summerville. That has to come from more than just you knowing who the local sex offenders are.''

The sheriff shifted in his chair. ‘‘Well, no one in the neighborhood saw out-of-state plates around the time Heather was abducted. Around here, out-of-state plates stick out like sore thumbs. If somebody saw a car they didn't recognize, or was from somewhere's else? They woulda said something, after Heather went missing.''

Rossi nodded and asked, ‘‘What about out-of-
county
plates?''

‘‘That mighta slipped by, especially if it was a county on the plate that looks similar to Chatooga—Chattahoochee and Catoosa counties don't look all that much different, if you only catch 'em for a second, or from a distance. Chattahoochee is down south by Columbus.''

Rossi looked at Carlyle.

‘‘Southwest of Atlanta,'' the big agent said.

Burke said, ‘‘On the other hand, Catoosa County is right up by Chattanooga. That's not far away at all.''

These nonsense names were starting to sound like a Dr. Seuss story to Rossi.

‘‘This car would be nondescript,'' Rossi said. ‘‘The Unknown Subject has successfully abducted at least three girls, and left nothing substantial behind but one busted taillight.''

‘‘That taillight, though—it's not from a car.''

‘‘Really?'' Rossi asked. ‘‘You sent the piece of taillight to the FBI lab?''

‘‘Sure we did, and what we got back was it belonged to a 1993 Ford Aerostar.''

‘‘Your basic soccer-mom van.''

Burke nodded. ‘‘Hell, even then they were everywhere.''

Rossi said, ‘‘Nondescript enough to blend in.''

‘‘Wish I had something for you more distinctive,'' Burke said. ‘‘But the bad guys aren't that cooperative around here.''

Prentiss smiled. ‘‘Not around anywhere.''

Rossi said, ‘‘You knew there was another abduction not far away from here.''

It was not a question.

The sheriff nodded. ‘‘Lee Ann Clark, over in Heflin, Alabama. We swapped information . . . but hell, they had even less to go on than we did.''

‘‘Did you consider going in together? On a task force?''

Burke's eyes went wide and he smiled. ‘‘Uh . . . do we look like a task-force-type operation, Agent Rossi?''

‘‘Sorry,'' Rossi said, smiling back. ‘‘Anyway, we'll be digging deeper now. We'll find this Unknown Subject—trust us. This is what we do, and we do it well.''

‘‘I like your confidence,'' Burke said.

‘‘Thanks.''

‘‘Of course, some confident people are full of crap.''

‘‘True. Now . . . you want to show us where the Davisons live? We have some bad news to deliver....''

Ten minutes later, Carlyle was pulling up in front of a well-kept bungalow in a quiet residential neighborhood only blocks from the sheriff's office. Light blue with pale yellow shutters, the house stood out among the many white houses lining the street. The elm tree that had provided the only clue in the girl's kidnapping was considerably taller now and provided shade.

Automatically, Rossi profiled the neighborhood. Almost noon on a sunny November weekday, and the street was Sunday quiet—not so much as a dog barking. Very few cars parked in front of homes or in driveways—this lower-middle-class neighborhood would be made up mostly of families where both spouses worked. Children would be in school and the rest either in preschool or day care. Avoiding the fifteen minutes the postman was on the block, the UnSub had a better than fifty-fifty chance that not a single person would have thought anything of a minivan with Georgia plates.

Rossi turned toward the Davison house and tried to see what the kidnapper saw. Had this house been stalked, staked out, cased? Or had this been a snatch-and-grab job, a crime of opportunity? Right now he didn't have enough information. And he knew what they had to do next.

He hated this part of the job. There was never an easy way to break this kind of loss to a family. A spouse or sibling, or even a parent, that was one thing, but to tell a mother and/or a father they would never see their child again, that was the worst of the worst, not only wounding the recipients, but the messenger as well—and Rossi already had his share of scars.