Finishing School (23 page)

‘‘Has to be a couple,'' Reid said, as if to himself.

‘‘What?'' Hotchner asked.

‘‘A
couple
,'' Reid said. ‘‘A childless couple who wanted children, girls specifically, but for some reason, after they reach puberty, they become, what, obsolete? Or dangerous?''

‘‘Or,'' Rossi said from the screen, ‘‘they become competition.''

Morgan's eyes tightened. ‘‘Competition how?''

‘‘Not ‘how'—
who
,'' Rossi said. ‘‘For the mother. She sees them as her competition with the father . . .
sexually
, once they reach puberty.''

‘‘Acting out,'' Hotchner said, ‘‘from abuse she probably received herself as a young woman.''

‘‘Probably,'' Rossi said, ‘‘from her father.''

Hotchner twitched a frown. ‘‘Are we sure this is the right direction?''

Rossi said, ‘‘Makes sense to me. First time the pieces have seemed to fit.''

Garue asked, ‘‘Could a woman like that have anything like a normal relationship with a man?''

‘‘If she did,'' Reid said, eyes slits, ‘‘wouldn't the characteristics of that man be nonthreatening? Insufficient personality? Avoids confrontation? Despises violence? And aren't these the characteristics we've already applied to our UnSub?''

They were all staring at him now, and if he'd been forced to answer, Reid would admit that he enjoyed the respect he saw in their eyes.

‘‘Let's get the locals in,'' Hotchner said. ‘‘Let's not waste any more time—let's give them the profile.''

The detectives, deputies, and city patrolmen who crowded into the conference room that had served as the team's home for this week were loud as they chattered among themselves. Hotchner, Morgan, and Reid stood up front with Detective Garue. JJ was off dealing with the media, trying to keep the story from blowing up nationally on the cable news outlets—in the long run, they all knew, that would be a vain attempt.

Stepping forward, Hotchner cleared his throat and the cops straightened up and quieted down. ‘‘I'm sure by now you've all heard that this case is not just a local one. This UnSub has killed at least six girls in two states over the last ten years, and abducted them over an even longer period.''

The surprised officers glanced at each other, some shook their heads, some mumbled epithets.

Again Hotchner waited for quiet, then said, ‘‘The media will try to play this case up as a sex crime and the UnSub as a pedophile.''

Some cops nodded. The rumors had already started.

‘‘We don't believe this to be the case.''

They looked at him skeptically.

A uniform asked, ‘‘How is this guy not some kind of perv?''

The profilers all winced at the word choice, but no one said anything—they were guests here. Hotchner turned to Reid, who explained about pedophiles, and how these girls had been held much longer than was typical.

When Reid finished, a detective asked, ‘‘Then what the hell
is
going on here?''

Hotchner said, ‘‘Kidnappings happen for three reasons: profit, perversity, and to gain a child. No victims' parents ever received a ransom note here, so profit was not the motive. We believe, as we've already explained, that sexual abuse was also not the motive. That leaves only one—to replace or gain a child.''

The skepticism in the officers' faces faded a little.

‘‘We think we're looking for a married, or at least long-term, couple. He will be nonconfrontational and believe himself to be less than most men. Physically, he will not be imposing and will have trouble maintaining eye contact, especially with figures of authority. We believe he works for Bassinko Industries. We have, in fact, narrowed the field of suspects to four. Two of them moved well after the crimes in Georgia. We'll have some of you go interview them just to be sure. The other two suspects, Jason Fryman and Lawrence Silvan, both fit the profile in most every aspect. Both are married and childless, both left Georgia within one month of the discovery of the first body there.''

The officers were all taking notes now and Morgan was passing out photos of the two main suspects.

‘‘As for the wife of the UnSub, she is probably a victim of child abuse, and may well be the dominant partner. We expect she is the one committing the murders while the more submissive partner—the husband—abducts the victims, then, when the time has come, disposes of the bodies.''

The officers were all attentive now.

‘‘Another thing,'' Morgan said, getting to the back of the room and forcing the policemen to turn their heads. ‘‘Just because we've painted this male UnSub as Casper P. Milquetoast, don't for a second believe he's not dangerous. If he thinks we're threatening his family, or his dominant partner, he will fight to protect them. He will
kill
to protect them. So don't be deceived.''

‘‘That's right,'' Hotchner said. ‘‘And—''

He was interrupted by a knock at the conference room door. Before he could stop her, a Bemidji police dispatcher burst into the room. ‘‘There's been another abduction! The AMBER Alert just came out.''

‘‘Where?'' Hotchner asked.

‘‘Itasca County. Cohasset.''

Reid swung toward Detective Garue.

‘‘East of here,'' Garue said, ‘‘near Grand Rapids.''

‘‘Let's get to it,'' Hotchner said over the sudden din of chatter and squeaking chairs as they were pushed back and the officers rose. ‘‘Get your assignments from your superiors.''

The officers rushed out, as Morgan came over to join Reid, Garue, and Hotchner.

Hotchner said, ‘‘Let's find Fryman and Silvan now.''

Morgan shook his head, growling, ‘‘Damnit, I knew we should have tailed them.''

Shrugging, Hotchner said, ‘‘That was my call. I thought it was premature.''

‘‘Well, it wasn't.'' Then Morgan seemed embarrassed. ‘‘Sorry, Hotch. . . .''

‘‘No, you're right. But even now we don't have enough agents to do it, and these locals don't have the experience to not be made. Someone had to make the decision. I'll carry the weight of it.''

Reid had never been jealous of command, and even less so now. As he studied Hotchner, his boss seemed to be aging before his eyes. The stress level of their job, always high, had just tripled. A second child abducted within twenty-four hours.

But enough of self-recrimination.

Time for the BAU team to earn their paychecks.

Brunswick, Georgia

R
ossi and Prentiss had interviewed a number of employees at Clenteen Enterprises who'd worked with Lawrence Silvan and Jason Fryman ten years ago. They had learned very little.

Now they sat with Clenteen's human resources director, Dorothy Pilson, a middle-aged woman with gray-flecked brunette hair, who might have been someone's kindly aunt, albeit one who guarded information about her employees like a pit bull.

Rossi was getting fed up. ‘‘You know, Mrs. Pilson, this
is
a federal investigation.''

She smiled as if trying to explain to a slow child. ‘‘Please understand my position, Agent Rossi. My job is to preserve the privacy of our employees, past and present.''

‘‘Understand
my
position,'' Rossi said. ‘‘We're trying to catch a murderer who has killed at least six teenage girls.''

They endured a tense silence for a while. Next to Rossi, Prentiss sat quietly and, standing behind her, Carlyle might have been a statue.

‘‘Fryman and Silvan,'' Rossi said, his voice neutral, if not calm. ‘‘When did they give notice?''

Mrs. Pilson eyed him suspiciously, as if Rossi were after valuable Clenteen company secrets. Finally, she glanced at a folder on her desk.

‘‘Mr. Silvan,'' she said with exaggerated formality, ‘‘gave his notice in May and left in June. Mr. Fryman''—she indicated another folder—‘‘left somewhat more abruptly. He gave notice on June tenth, and was gone on the seventeenth.''

‘‘Thank you,'' Rossi said. With a half smile, he said, ‘‘That wasn't so hard, was it?''

‘‘Agent
Rossi
,'' Mrs. Pilson said, offended.

Rossi's cell phone rang, signaling the end of the round.

While Prentiss and Carlyle made polite good-byes to Mrs. Pilson, Rossi adjourned to the corridor to take the call from Hotchner, who briefed him on the changing situation in Minnesota. Rossi thanked God they'd packed their stuff, which was already in back of the Tahoe.

Soon, in the SUV—Carlyle speeding them north on I-95 to the Brunswick Golden Isles Airport, red lights flashing, siren wailing—Rossi filled Prentiss in.

‘‘
Another
kidnapping?'' she asked, eyes wide. ‘‘In less than twenty-four hours?''

‘‘Hotch thinks the UnSubs are getting ready to bolt.''

‘‘What set them off?''

Frowning, Rossi said, ‘‘Us, probably.''

‘‘You think?''

‘‘I think,'' Rossi said. ‘‘We're getting too close.''

‘‘If we're a stressor,'' Prentiss said, ‘‘maybe that will get him to make a mistake.''

‘‘Maybe.''

‘‘Skeptical?''

Rossi shrugged a shoulder. ‘‘He's been planning for this day. If we're right, and I'm pretty sure we are, this UnSub has been preparing for years, ever since he abducted the last of those girls. He knew this day was coming, just like it did a decade ago. That first time may have blindsided him, but he seems pretty ready this time around. If he's abducted two blonde girls matching the description of the previous abductees—and he's done it within twenty-four hours—what does that tell you?''

Unhesitatingly, Prentiss said, ‘‘He's been shopping for replacements.''

‘‘That's it,'' Rossi agreed. ‘‘He's been shopping—and what happened the last time he changed locations?''

‘‘The third girl he picked up, he was already on the road.''

Rossi nodded glumly.

Prentiss asked, ‘‘What did you tell Hotch about our meeting with the HR director at Clenteen?''

‘‘Fryman and Silvan were considered professional but private by their fellow employees. Nobody remembers whether either man ever mentioned having children. Neither ever attended company functions outside of work, and neither hung out with other employees. ‘He was a quiet loner that we never thought would hurt anyone. . . .'''

Like every neighbor on every cable news network who was stunned to find out Ted Bundy or the BTK killer was living next door.

Prentiss asked, ‘‘Is Hotchner picking up Fryman and Silvan?''

‘‘Trying, but having a hard time finding either one.''

‘‘Hotch wasn't having them followed?''

‘‘That's a sore point—seemed premature to him. Didn't want to tip his hand too much and he didn't trust the locals to tail them.''

Prentiss said, ‘‘We're going back because we can be more help there now.'' It wasn't a question.

Rossi nodded. ‘‘With the UnSub maybe on the run, none of this down here is going to help fast enough. We need to get back and lend a hand. Maybe we can at least figure out which direction the UnSub's going.''

‘‘Five minutes,'' Carlyle said as he swung the wheel right and sped down the ramp at the airport exit of I-95.

In less than half an hour, they had parked, bade Carlyle a friendly farewell, loaded their gear onto the plane and were buckling their seat belts as the copilot closed and sealed the outer door. Moments later, they were in the air.

The Learjet was getting a lot of mileage on this trip. Rossi couldn't imagine the fuel bills, given the price of oil these days. This sure beat back when he and Gideon and Max Ryan and the rest had been forced to fly commercial—and coach at that.

After they'd been in the air awhile, Prentiss, at her laptop, turned to him. ‘‘Do you think he'll try to stay in the lumber industry?''

Though they didn't know which man was their UnSub, they felt certain the killer was one of the two foresters.

‘‘He managed to do it last time,'' Rossi said. ‘‘No reason to think he's thinking different now—why?''

‘‘I've been studying locations where lumbering is major enough to afford our man an opportunity.''

‘‘What have you found?''

‘‘Where were the two recent kidnappings?''

‘‘Hibbing and some little town . . . Co-something.''

Prentiss brought up a map of Minnesota on her laptop and narrowed in around Bemidji. ‘‘Cohasset?'' she asked.

‘‘Yeah, that's it.''

‘‘Both east of Bemidji.''

Rossi considered that. ‘‘Canada?''

Prentiss shrugged.

‘‘What else is that direction? Is there an interstate?''

‘‘I-35 in Duluth. That's southeast. If he gets to that, he could go most anywhere in the country.''

‘‘Both are possible,'' Rossi said. ‘‘So is the possibility he wants us to believe he's going east while he doubles back, and heads for Washington or Oregon or somewhere out that way.''

‘‘How do we narrow it down?''

‘‘This guy is a planner. He probably doesn't go to the grocery store without researching all parameters. So, if you were planning on leaving, and just waiting for a wake-up call—what would
you
do?''