Finishing School (13 page)

‘‘Georgia?''

‘‘Alabama.''

‘‘. . . No.'' Rohl's brow knit in thought. ‘‘I was in
Mississippi
once, though.''

This felt like the truth to Morgan, who didn't think Rohl likely to be that good an actor—the man didn't seem bright enough. ‘‘Let's stick with Arkansas, Billy.''

Staten and Rohl both sat silently.

‘‘Let's take it back to 1998,'' Morgan said. ‘‘Do you remember what kind of car you drove?''

Rohl frowned in confusion. Staten appeared skeptical, but did not interrupt.

‘‘Say what?'' the suspect asked.

Morgan repeated the question.

‘‘I had an 'eighty-six Cavalier,'' Rohl said before his lawyer could stop him. ‘‘That's a Chevy.''

‘‘Just the one vehicle?'' Morgan asked.

‘‘Just the one.'' The subject of automobiles seemed to lubricate Rohl's memory and his mouth. ‘‘That Cavalier was a piece of shit, but I had it from when I was in high school until 2005. Didn't get much use when I was locked up, so I just hung on to the puppy. Mileage was pretty low. Anyway, once I got a job and got some money, I picked up a cherry used 'oh two Grand Am. I still got that—why?''

‘‘He's trying,'' Staten said to his client, with strained patience, ‘‘to ascertain if you kidnapped those children.''

‘‘Your counsel's right,'' Morgan admitted. ‘‘But that's not the only reason I ask.''

Rohl looked at his lawyer, who was studying Morgan suspiciously.

Withdrawing a series of photos from the folder, Morgan said, ‘‘We found your secret smut collection in its hidey-hole in your bedroom closet.''

Rohl paled and Staten's expression turned stricken.

‘‘Nude pictures of girls from the Internet, magazines, and videos—most of the girls appear to be underage.''

Staten started to protest, but Morgan cut him off.

‘‘You'll want to know about this, counselor.'' To Rohl, he said, ‘‘From our perspective, the most interesting find was the photos you apparently took yourself, Billy—of teenage girls in front of the Bemidji Middle School and High School. Harmless amateur photography, in and of themselves, until we remember that you, Billy, are a sex offender.''

Rohl bowed his head in silence—in what might have been prayer. If Rohl was praying, Morgan hoped the creep got a busy signal.

Staten began a blustering response, but Morgan paid him scant attention. What they had of the profile, so far, fit Rohl in several respects. Billy was still their best suspect; but Morgan would have been happier had Rohl admitted to at some point owning a van.

Morgan, his voice not unfriendly, asked, ‘‘You want to tell me something, Billy, and do yourself some good?''

Staten frowned, but Rohl nodded rapidly.

The attorney asked, ‘‘What kind of help would that be, Agent Morgan . . . and what's it worth to my client?''

‘‘It's worth a word to the judge that he cooperated . . . but I'll need concrete information.''

Staten shrugged. ‘‘Well, that's weak. He helps you out, he walks.'' The attorney seemed to once again feel on firmer ground.

Morgan replaced the photos in the folder, and rose. ‘‘No way he walks, counselor. Besides, what I wanted isn't really worth even a word to the judge. I was just trying to be helpful.''

Morgan was about to knock to get the guard's attention when Staten said, ‘‘A word to the judge
could
be helpful, Agent Morgan. Let's hear what you want.''

Slowly, the profiler turned. ‘‘I have only one question. Where is Logan Tweed?''

Rohl frowned and shrugged. ‘‘How the hell would
I
know?''

Staten didn't miss a beat. ‘‘I expect you to be as good as your word. My client has been entirely forthcoming.''

‘‘If he has been truthful about Tweed,'' Morgan said, ‘‘I'll stick to what I said. But if we turn Tweed up, and find out Billy knew where the man was but lied about it? . . . Well, draw your own conclusion, counselor.''

Then Morgan knocked for the guard, who, in a few seconds, came and let him out.

Ten minutes later, having stopped for a cup of coffee on the way back, Morgan entered the conference room to find JJ, Reid, and Hotchner working on different aspects of the case. The pieces of the profile were coming together, but since going over the crime scenes, they had learned little. He hoped Rossi and Prentiss were having better luck in Georgia.

Morgan asked, ‘‘Did I miss anything?''

Hotchner shook his head.

Reid lifted his eyebrows and said, ‘‘Victimology would be a lot easier, if we actually knew something about these girls. Problem is, they were kidnapped nearly a decade ago, but was their abductor the same person who killed them? And if so, why does he keep them ten years, and then kill them?''

No one had an answer for that.

‘‘The hotline is being flooded,'' JJ said, and her eyes widened in ‘‘here we go again'' fashion. ‘‘The media will break the names of the two identified victims by tonight. The hotline will
really
be inundated, once people find out how far away from here the victims originally lived . . . and how much time has passed since their disappearance.''

Morgan was just about to take a seat facing the door when he saw Daniel Abner getting ready to knock on the frame.

‘‘Mr. Abner,'' Morgan said. ‘‘May I help you?''

The human fireplug wore his usual flannel shirt and jeans with brown work boots. He'd been intent enough on knocking that he stopped just short of the frame and jumped a little when Morgan spoke.

Abner said, ‘‘I just wanted to stop and see how you folks are getting along.''

Hotchner, just short of cold, said from his seat at the table, ‘‘We're still working hard on the case.''

Entering, Abner asked, ‘‘Did you like the cookies?''

JJ rose and intercepted the hunting guide before he got too deep into the room.

‘‘They were delicious,'' she said. ‘‘We shared them with others around here, and everyone wants to thank you again for them.''

She had a hand on his shoulder now, trying to herd him back out. He managed to put on the brakes. Morgan started around the table, just in case, and Abner turned and faced him, the man's face as gray as concrete, but his eyes burning.

‘‘Word is,'' he said, ‘‘you got Billy Kwitcher locked up for this—is that true?''

Morgan said, ‘‘An unrelated charge. He assaulted a federal officer.''

Trembling with barely controlled rage, Abner said, ‘‘You need him to talk, you give
me
five minutes with the boy. Nobody ever need know.''

Hotchner rose and came around. His voice hard now, the BAU leader said, ‘‘Mr. Abner, we have this under control. If you don't mind, my people and I need to get back to work.''

With a quick nod, Abner said, ‘‘I understand. I'm just saying, if you need anything, don't hesitate to call.''

The ice in his voice apparent now, Hotchner said, ‘‘
Thank
you.''

Having a thought, Morgan said, ‘‘Just one moment, before you go, Mr. Abner—would you happen to have any idea where Logan Tweed is?''

‘‘Well . . . over at that construction outfit, I suppose. Why?''

Morgan shook his head, and gave the time-honored
Dragnet
response: ‘‘Just a routine part of the investigation.''

Hotchner said, ‘‘JJ—a word?''

She came over.

Whispering, her boss said, ‘‘Tell these locals to at least warn us when he's in the building.''

She nodded.

Abner was frowning when JJ took him by the arm and walked him out, making innocuous conversation.

When the pair was down the hall, out of earshot, Hotchner turned to Reid. ‘‘Get Garcia. I want to know everything about our helpful Mr. Abner before the end of business today.''

Reid said he'd get right on it, and—in less than a minute—they were gathered around Reid's laptop, Garcia smiling at them. ‘‘So, how are things in Twin Peaks?''

That got several smiles from the profilers, with the exception of Hotchner, who either didn't understand the pop culture reference or didn't care, and just crisply explained what information he wanted about Daniel Abner.

‘‘I'll get on that,'' she said, and her usual cheery smile disappeared and her demeanor darkened, ‘‘but first I should pass along some information I just received from the lab. They've identified the third victim—Abigail Mathis. She was kidnapped from her home in Jesup, Georgia, as her parents slept in the next room.''

Hotchner asked, ‘‘When was the crime?''

Garcia's eyes darted to another screen; then she was facing them again. ‘‘June of 1998—less than a week before Heather Davison was abducted across the state in Summerville.''

Morgan frowned.
Why were these kidnappings clustered like this?

Hotchner asked, ‘‘How old was the Mathis girl?''

‘‘Time of the abduction, not quite four.''

The faces surrounding the laptap were grave.

Hotchner asked, ‘‘Any clues?''

Garcia shook her head. ‘‘Not much. A man's size-ten work boot in the backyard, under the girl's bedroom window. The ground was soft because it rained the day before. The screen was cut, the window open, because it was a warm night. Then the little girl was gone.''

Hotchner asked, ‘‘Anything on the boot?''

‘‘A Wolverine, very popular. Popular size, as well. Both the locals and the bureau tried to run it down, but got nowhere with it.''

‘‘Thanks, Garcia,'' Hotchner said. ‘‘We appreciate the good, hard work. Don't be shy about sending us updates.''

‘‘I won't be, sir,'' she said, then clicked off.

Turning to Morgan and Reid, Hotchner said, ‘‘Both the other crimes seem more spontaneous—smash and grab—but this one, he had to plan a little at least.''

Morgan said, ‘‘Plus, he broke into an occupied home and stole a child without alarming anyone else in the house.''

Hotchner nodded somberly. ‘‘Our UnSub has skills we were unaware of. Let's incorporate this information into the profile. Also, let's get on the phone to Rossi and Prentiss, and get them up to speed.''

 
Heflin, Alabama

 
The black SUV bearing SSA's Rossi and Prentiss, with SA Carlyle at the wheel, made its way west, chasing the afternoon sun, rolling into Alabama to finish the second half of their mission. The trip, roughly seventy-five miles, took them about an hour and a half, mostly on two-lane roads. At the state line, Georgia 114 had turned into Alabama 68, and at Centre they turned onto Alabama 9, which would take them the rest of the way to Heflin.

They weren't far from their destination when Prentiss clicked her cell phone off. Even though Rossi and Carlyle only heard her side of the conversation, she could tell both men had been able to follow the conversation.

Rossi asked, ‘‘What was the victim's name?''

‘‘Abigail Mathis,'' Prentiss said. ‘‘Actually, she was taken before the other two.''

‘‘From where?''

‘‘Jesup, Georgia.''

‘‘Hell,'' Carlyle said. ‘‘That's the other side of the state—clear over by Savannah.''

Rossi asked Prentiss, ‘‘Same timetable?''

‘‘Less than a week before Heather Davison.''

Rossi asked Carlyle, ‘‘How far is Jesup from Atlanta?''

With a slow shrug, the big African-American agent said, ‘‘Two hundred thirty, maybe two hundred forty miles.''

Prentiss said, ‘‘That's a long way from here.''

Nodding, Rossi said, ‘‘Our UnSub's charted a pretty big hunting area. I'm thinking he started somewhere down that way, then came up here on his way north. He didn't just increase his hunting area, he moved. Maybe he was even on a spree as he headed north.'' He shook his head. ‘‘Still, there's got to be a way to narrow that area. It's time for a geographical profile.''

Prentiss said, ‘‘Hotchner mentioned he had Reid doing one.''

‘‘Good.''

‘‘Hotch also said Abby Mathis was stolen from her house while she was asleep, and that her folks were asleep in the next room. Awfully bold.''

Rossi made a sour face. ‘‘And another derivation.''

Carlyle glanced a question at Rossi; then his eyes returned to the road.

Rossi said, ‘‘Anybody can make a bad decision and grab something that's out in the open—in this case, Heather Davison and Lee Ann Clark. Breaking into a house, that takes planning, that takes more than just
one
bad decision.''

Prentiss said, ‘‘And look at it the other way around—going from planning an assault on a house to snatching victims of opportunity points to a spree, too.''

‘‘Yeah,'' Rossi said, eyebrows flicking up and down, ‘‘
if
there's a stressor in that area, around Savannah, that set him off. Might have caused the derivation.''

Carlyle asked, ‘‘What kind of stressor?''

‘‘That's what we need to find out,'' Rossi said. ‘‘Before we worry about that, though, let's get back to MO. When these kids disappeared, each was treated as a separate horrific crime, right?''

Carlyle nodded.

‘‘Well, the cops in Summerville and Heflin had similar crimes, and not that much distance between them. They might well have compared notes, because they were looking for the same ‘type' of criminal. Even though Jesup was only a week earlier, there would have been some synergy over the crimes, but, even just ten years ago, we didn't think there would be overlap in criminal types. We weren't nearly as adept at understanding the subtle link the victims play in crimes like these.''