Finishing School (12 page)

Burke led them up to the door, and Rossi knocked. They only had to wait for a moment before the door opened and a woman in her early thirties filled the frame.

She had short curly brown hair and wide blue eyes behind large, circular wire-frame glasses. Petite, she wore jeans and a red University of Georgia T-shirt.

‘‘Why, Sheriff Burke,'' she said, voice trembling.

‘‘Hi, Kelly—these folks are from the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. They'd like to talk to you. Might we come in?''

Her face turned white as a blister. Then she stepped aside, letting them into a small living room. An entertainment center was along a wall, but the DVD player or the big-screen TV wasn't what caught Rossi's interest. One shelf of the big, Mission-style cabinet was given over to pictures of Heather Davison—an altar of framed photos charting her life from adorable infant to the bubbly three-year-old she'd been when she disappeared.

A floral sofa took one wall; a beige recliner was at an angle by the picture window. Another wall was home to a table, a wing chair and framed photos, friends and relatives, but Heather wasn't in any of these shots.

The agents and the sheriff remained standing, getting out of Mrs. Davison's way as she went to the sofa. ‘‘Won't you all sit down, please?''

Prentiss took the wing chair, Sheriff Burke perched on the recliner, and Carlyle stood near the door. Rossi sat beside Mrs. Davison on the sofa, but gave her plenty of room.

‘‘Jim won't be home from work,'' she said, ‘‘for several hours. . . .''

Burke nodded, his expression somber. ‘‘I've sent two fellas over to Rome to make sure he gets home all right.''

‘‘This isn't good news, is it? You didn't send deputies for him so he could be here when you bring Heather home . . . did you?''

Rossi leaned forward. ‘‘Mrs. Davison, my name is David Rossi, this is Agent Emily Prentiss and that's Agent Scotty Carlyle.''

Mrs. Davison nodded numbly, a tear trickling. Prentiss got a tissue from her purse for the woman.

Rossi said, ‘‘You provided a DNA sample. So did your husband, and we had hair from your daughter's brush.''

Rocking gently now as she wept, Mrs. Davison bit her lower lip.

Stomach churning, Rossi wanted to rise and flee from this house and never look back. Not an option. Not an option. Nor could he just stop and remain silent and let the woman cry herself out. She knew, she already knew, everyone in this room knew. So did the neighbors, seeing the police car out front, and in a town this size, by the end of lunch hour every citizen would know.

Yet Rossi still had to say it. The loss would not be completely real to this woman until spoken out loud.

‘‘Three hunters found Heather buried in a grave in the woods near Bemidji, Minnesota, last Saturday. Yesterday we were able to confirm her identity.''

The wail that came out of the woman was like an animal dying. Rossi sat mute, something dying in him, too, in a much smaller way, but dying. Finally, the profiler managed to touch her hand, finding it cold, as if all the blood had drained out. Ineffectually, he patted her shoulder as she covered her face with her hands and wept as though she would never stop.

They sat that way for nearly half an hour, three silent strangers and an equally silent acquaintance trying to console a woman who had lost the most important part of herself ten years ago and now, after a decade of aching, of having to bear that emptiness echoing through every nanosecond, she had just been informed that her loss was permanent, her grief terminal.

After thirty-some minutes that seemed forever to Rossi, the deputies arrived home with Mr. Davison. Normally, he would have seemed a good-looking young man—close-cropped brown hair, wide-set, earnest brown eyes; in a well-tailored brown suit with a tan shirt and a brown-and-tan-striped tie.

Right now, at this terrible moment, his face was red and his eyes bloodshot, a deputy staying close to him as the husband crossed to his wife. Rossi rose and made room so the grieving parents could share the sofa.

At least now the Davisons knew the truth.

Rossi would want to interview them again, but not today. Their grief was too raw, their pain too deep.

For that, Rossi had no solution. All he could do now was catch the UnSub who had maimed this family, and stop him from doing this again.

 
Bemidji, Minnesota

 
He adored His Beloved.

But when she was in the throes of melancholia, as she was now, it sapped his very soul and made him every bit as sad as she. He had a head start this time. He had loved Paula, the name they'd given the blonde girl when she came into their lives ten years ago. Paula being sent to
‘‘
finishing school,'' as they called it, had been a crushing blow for him.

Bemidji, Minnesota

W
ith Prentiss and Rossi in Georgia, the rest of the BAU team was working longer hours, the leads growing colder as their patience wore thin even as they dug deeper and deeper, always coming up empty.

Although they still had Billy Rohl (aka Kwitcher) in custody for violating his sexual predator status in Arkansas and Minnesota (as well as his pot stash, plus assault on Prentiss), no evidence had been turned up tying the sex offender to the murders of the three girls—other than Billy being the one who'd found the bodies. Or anyway, the first body.

As far as Derek Morgan was concerned, the only good news in the last twenty-four hours was that the cookies brought in by Daniel Abner had proved to be both unpoisoned and delicious. The downside was the local crime lab techs had gobbled up most of them, perhaps to fully confirm the cookies were truly safe.

Still, the rotund hunting guide who'd generously contributed the sweets remained a suspect, if not a good one in Detective Garue's opinion; but Hotchner had Reid checking into the man's background, anyway.

Most disturbing—and promising—was the status of the third member of the hunting party, Logan Tweed, who had dropped out of sight. They'd been to his home, but no one answered the door. They'd phoned his house and received no answer—ditto with his cell phone—and someone at the construction company where Tweed worked informed Morgan that ‘‘Lowg'' was off on vacation, and they had no idea where he was. So far, at least, Tweed was just another dead end.

This afternoon, Morgan was charged with interviewing Rohl. Though their suspect would've been only around twenty when the girls disappeared, Rohl had lived seven and a half hours from Heflin, Alabama, and less than eight and a half hours from Summerville, Georgia. Not exactly right across the street, but hardly an insurmountable distance—not more than a day's drive for a dedicated sexual predator.

Plus, after exploring the evidence from Rohl's house—and after a quick update from Garcia concerning the taillight evidence in Georgia—Morgan had some new questions for the child molester.

Rohl was already in the visitors' room of the Beltrami County Jail. Wearing an orange jumpsuit, his hands cuffed through a ring welded to the metal table, Rohl looked like hell, his beard a scraggly mess. And he had the red-rimmed eyes of someone who had not slept very well on his first night in jail.

The prisoner looked up at Morgan and rolled his eyes. ‘‘Not
you
again. . . .''

Morgan flashed his killer grin. ‘‘Billy, I'm hurt—aren't you happy to see me?'' The profiler took the seat across from his suspect, setting a manila folder on the table between them.

Rohl nodded toward the empty chair next to him. ‘‘Does my lawyer know you're here?''

‘‘Sure he does,'' Morgan said. ‘‘The thing about public defenders is, they're busy. Still, you'd think he'd be here, since I told him what time we were meeting. And I'm pretty sure he knows how serious this all is.''

Rohl frowned. His reply was as pouty as a child's, ironic considering his favorite pastime. ‘‘You can't talk to me without my lawyer present.''

‘‘I can, if you're in the mood to talk.''

‘‘Well, I'm not!''

Morgan grinned and shrugged, his voice pleasant as he said, ‘‘Well, then, we'll wait. I don't know about you, Billy, but I have nothing else planned.''

Rohl rolled his eyes.

As the two men sat mutely across from each other, Morgan nonchalantly tapped the manila folder, fingers gently drumming. Rohl glanced up now and then, but mostly stared at the cuffs at his wrists.

Morgan had no intention of violating Rohl's civil rights—that simply wasn't the way the agent operated. But, if he sat here long enough without saying anything, he had a hunch Rohl would be unable to resist blabbing. And, as a profiler, Morgan found his hunches often panned out.

And after ten minutes, sure enough, Rohl cleared his throat and was obviously just about to speak when the door behind Morgan opened and someone came in.

The agent didn't even have to turn around. The relief on Rohl's face told Morgan that Tim Staten, the suspect's attorney, had entered.

Anger edging his voice, Staten demanded, ‘‘What the hell is this?''

‘‘You knew when the meeting was scheduled, counselor,'' Morgan said. ‘‘Just waiting for you.''

Staten went around the table to stand beside his client, and glared down at Morgan. Despite his lack of height and soft-around-the-waist build, Staten was an imposing man; bald, and with metal-frame glasses that intensified the glare of steel gray eyes, he reminded Morgan of a human pit bull. Staten's brown double-breasted suit, white shirt and brown tie with tan stripes said
money
to the profiler, who guessed the court-appointed attorney must have been doing pro bono work in addition to a prosperous practice.

Turning to Rohl, Staten said, ‘‘Did he ask you any questions?''

Rohl thought about that.

‘‘I asked Billy if he was happy to see me,'' Morgan said. ‘‘He didn't answer—I think he realized it was a rhetorical question.''

‘‘He didn't answer,'' Staten said flatly, ‘‘because he has nothing to say to you.'' He gave his client a fatherly smile. ‘‘It's nice to have a client who actually listens to his attorney.''

‘‘I'm sure it is,'' Morgan said.

‘‘Then why are we here? There's already been an interview
without
Mr. Rohl's counsel present.''

‘‘Which we stopped when he requested representation.''

‘‘Very generous of you. Again—why are we
here
, Agent Morgan?''

‘‘I've got a few new questions.''

Staten took the seat next to his client, glancing from Rohl to Morgan. ‘‘Such as?''

Morgan addressed the suspect. ‘‘When you lived in Arkansas, Billy, did you ever take trips?''

Rohl looked to his attorney, who nodded.

‘‘Everybody takes trips,'' Rohl said.

‘‘Ever been to Georgia?''

The suspect shook his head.

‘‘You're sure? Little town named Summerville?'' Morgan watched for any sign from Rohl that the name of the town had resonance.

Rohl said, ‘‘Never even heard of it.''

‘‘What about Heflin?''