Finishing School (14 page)

Prentiss said, ‘‘Three blonde girls of approximately the same age disappearing from two states.''

‘‘Right. Now we look for the similarities in the victims and why they were chosen over all the other three-year-old blonde girls in the same two-state area. Back then, we would have looked at the crime in Jesup and automatically assumed it was perpetrated by a different UnSub, because the only similarity to the other two crimes was that the victim was a blonde girl—everything else was different.''

Prentiss, nodding, said, ‘‘That crime happened hundreds of miles away and was a break-in, while the others were children grabbed from public places.''

Rossi shrugged. ‘‘At the time, we would have automatically assumed it was a coincidence.''

Carlyle grunted. ‘‘I thought the manual said that we don't believe in coincidence.''

‘‘I absolutely don't believe in coincidence,'' Rossi said with a little chuckle, ‘‘except when one happens. Our problem now is to figure out this UnSub's signature in two kinds of crimes.''

Carlyle said, ‘‘Hey, sorry, but I'm not following. You want me to just drive and shut up?''

‘‘Hell no,'' Rossi said. ‘‘We can use the prodding. Let's start with MO—how our UnSub operates.''

‘‘Right.''

‘‘Assuming he's keeping these girls for that long a period of time, he's committing two types of crimes. First he kidnaps them, then much later he kills them. The MO on the three murders is exactly the same, nearly ritualistic.''

‘‘All right,'' Carlyle said, obviously getting it.

‘‘But in the kidnappings, he's changed MOs—
why
?''

‘‘No idea,'' Carlyle admitted.

‘‘Something changed,'' Prentiss said. ‘‘That's the stressor Rossi mentioned.''

‘‘Okay,'' Carlyle said, ‘‘I can see that. . . .''

‘‘Now,'' Rossi said, ‘‘here's the reason we're here. This UnSub also has a signature. It's not how he does the crime, it's what he
needs
to do for the crime, to give him what he's after.''

‘‘Girls,'' Carlyle said. ‘‘He needs girls.''

‘‘Not just any girls,'' Prentiss said.

‘‘That's right,'' Rossi said. ‘‘Little girls, little
blonde
girls, toddlers, and why? And why those particular blonde girls over all the others in Georgia?''

Carlyle said, ‘‘Again, no idea.''

‘‘We don't know either,'' Rossi admitted, almost cheerfully. ‘‘But we will, we will.''

The seat of Cleburne County, Heflin was home to 2,906 souls, according to the sign they passed as they rolled into town on Alabama 9 from the west. The highway turned into Ross Street and when they got to 405, Carlyle pulled into the parking lot of the Heflin Police Department.

Once inside, they repeated the process they'd gone through with Sheriff Burke up in Summerville. This time, their audience was a detective named Paul Wentworth, an athletic-looking young man in his early thirties with close-clipped brown hair, clear blue eyes and an easy smile. Dressed in jeans and a blue open-collar work shirt, Wentworth might well have been Rossi's son, and he paid respectful close attention as the senior FBI agent laid out what they had so far.

They were in a cramped office, Wentworth sitting on the corner of a messy desk looking down at Rossi and Prentiss in the visitors' chairs while Carlyle leaned on a file cabinet near the door.

‘‘Am I right,'' Prentiss said, ‘‘in assuming you're too young to have worked on the original case?''

‘‘That's right. It's fallen to me.''

Rossi, his frustration evident (to Prentiss at least), asked, ‘‘Could we talk to the detective who worked the case?''

‘‘Sorry, no—the investigating detective was a good cop, Clint Anderson.'' The young man's voice tightened with emotion. ‘‘We lost him to a heart attack, three years ago.''

‘‘Sorry,'' Rossi said. ‘‘This job can do that.''

‘‘Yes, it can,'' Wentworth said. He shifted gears. ‘‘I've read the file and I've even tried to dig around a little, but I'm afraid I haven't gotten anywhere.''

They spoke for another ten minutes, but when they were finished, Prentiss hadn't learned a thing.

Wentworth led them across town, past the small park where Lee Ann had been abducted. This late in the day, school had already been dismissed—with the temperature in the fifties, a few children were playing, wearing coats, playground equipment set off to one side, parents or babysitters sitting on nearby benches.

Prentiss figured when the abduction took place, the park would have been fairly crowded. A June day would have meant families with smaller children near the playground, older kids playing baseball, and traffic gliding by. Still, someone had been able to snatch Lee Ann Clark without being noticed.

As had been the case with Summerville, Prentiss figured the locals would likely have noticed a stranger. If the kidnapper was the same person who had grabbed Heather Davison, what state's plates were on the Aerostar?

Or was it possible that the kidnapper had changed vehicles? Instead of helping build a profile, each crime scene seemed only to add questions. Were they getting closer or farther away from their quarry? She still did not know.

This neighborhood was only slightly more well-to-do than the Davisons' in Summerville. Like that block, very few cars were on the street; people were getting home from work now, so there was some traffic—but Prentiss would bet that most of these homes belonged to families where both parents worked and were away during the day.

The Clark home—a two-story clapboard house painted a faded maroon that almost looked like brick from a distance—had a gravel driveway that led to a new garage. Wentworth had phoned ahead, so they were expected. The local detective made the introductions at the front door, and then the Clarks invited the little group inside.

In a modest but immaculate living room, the Clarks shared a couch to the wall at the right; opposite, a flat-screen TV perched on a stand, electronic equipment on lower shelves. Potted plants covered a long table under the front picture window. No family photos were on display—no altar, this time, to a missing little girl. Several folding chairs were set up, waiting for their guests.

The three FBI agents took those while Wentworth occupied a wing chair next to the table of plants.

Prentiss didn't take long before profiling Brian and Michelle Clark as a kind, hardworking couple. Their son, five when his sister disappeared, had sprouted into a gangly teenager who made an appearance for introductions, then disappeared when his parents sat down to talk with the federal agents.

Like her deceased daughter, Michelle was a pretty blonde, with wavy tresses spilling down over her shoulders, bright brown eyes and porcelain skin. She wore jeans and a V-necked T-shirt with a small gold cross. Her husband—in a drab gray suit and dark tie, having just gotten home from work—was a broad-shouldered man with a blond crew cut and a guileless expression belied by sharp blue eyes.

This meeting did not prove to spark the emotional devastation Prentiss had witnessed in the Davison home. Rather, the Clarks seemed almost relieved, finally knowing they could surrender that final shred of hope of seeing their daughter alive again. Tears came, but relatively few.

‘‘If we could,'' Rossi said, ‘‘we'd like to ask you a few questions.''

The couple shared a look, then silently nodded consent. To Prentiss, they seemed of one mind—to survive their tragedy, a bond special even for a husband and wife had been formed.

Rossi said, ‘‘I know you've been over this again and again, but we need to hear it. So I'm afraid you're going to have to go through it one last time.''

‘‘We understand,'' Brian Clark said. He sighed, traded brave smiles with his pretty wife, then began: ‘‘We had taken the kids down to the park. It was a Saturday.''

‘‘Beautiful day,'' Michelle Clark said. Her voice carried a soft Southern lilt.

‘‘Michelle was on a blanket reading,'' Clark said, ‘‘and I was watching the kids. Lee Ann had been on the swings and Brandon was climbing the monkey bars. Lee Ann started chasing something, a butterfly, or maybe a moth. I was watching her, but she was running away from us, and when Brandon slipped on the monkey bars, he squealed, and Michelle and I both just rushed to him. He'd fallen, but he was okay. A scuffed knee, was all. Then, when we turned around, Lee Ann was . . . she was just gone.''

Rossi frowned. ‘‘There
were
other people in the park, right?''

‘‘Quite a few, actually,'' Michelle said. ‘‘That's always frustrated us. Thing was, we had just moved to town a couple of months before, when Brian got a job selling insurance. We both grew up down the road, in Anniston, but when Brian got the chance to become a partner in the insurance company here . . . well . . . we just jumped at it. Anyway, we didn't know hardly anybody, and nobody knew us. They might've thought the kidnapper was with us, even. That's one of the hardest things to bear.''

Prentiss asked, ‘‘What is?''

‘‘Knowing that if we'd lived in Heflin all our lives, Lee Ann might still be here.''

Prentiss was thinking that the UnSub must be an unthreatening presence—if the other people there hadn't thought to intercede, and if the little girl had gone off willingly, then he wasn't some brute with a sack who stuffed the little girl in it and bounded off.

Rossi asked, ‘‘How long between Lee Ann's disappearance and when you called the police?''

The couple looked at each other again.

His wife shrugged and so did Clark, whose answer was a question, ‘‘About half an hour?''

Prentiss asked, ‘‘What did you do for that half hour?''

‘‘We looked all over the park together, and talked to almost everyone who was there. No one saw anything.''

‘‘Not even a friendly-looking man talking to your daughter?''

‘‘No. Not even that. Then, finally, Michelle took Brandon home. Even though Lee Ann wasn't quite four, and she had been taught not to cross the street without one of us with her, we hoped that she'd for some reason tried to find her way home by herself.''

‘‘When I got here,'' Michelle said, picking up the narrative, ‘‘Lee Ann wasn't anywhere around. Still, I looked through every room in the house before I called the police.''

‘‘Mr. Clark,'' Prentiss said, ‘‘where were you at that time?''

‘‘Walking every block of this neighborhood,'' he said, shaking his head in a frustration that would never die, ‘‘calling Lee Ann's name. I searched everywhere.'' The stoic husband's eyes were filling with tears.

Abruptly, Rossi said, ‘‘Thank you for your time. We'll not intrude on you any longer.''

‘‘Thank you,'' Clark said.

His wife said the same thing.

Rising, Rossi said, ‘‘We're sorry for your loss, truly.''

‘‘Thank you,'' Clark repeated, rising as well.

The man of the house walked them outside. On the front porch, Rossi turned back to the grieving man. ‘‘Mr. Clark, for what it's worth, I'll tell you this—we'll do everything we can to catch whoever did this to your daughter.''

‘‘I saw you on TV.''

Rossi blinked, as this momentarily felt like a non sequitur. ‘‘Yes . . . I wrote some books.''

‘‘I read one of them. I believe Michelle and I are lucky to have you on the case.''

‘‘Thank you. But I can assure you that everyone on my team is the best the FBI has to offer. Again, for what that's worth.''

When Clark went back inside the house, the agents bade farewell to Detective Wentworth and thanked him for his assistance. Rossi promised to keep him informed.

On the road, heading back to Atlanta, Prentiss said, ‘‘You ended that pretty quickly.''

Shrugging with one shoulder, Rossi turned to her in the backseat. ‘‘That half hour they spent searching for their daughter gave the UnSub a thirty-minute head start getting out of town. You figure the local police wasted another hour or more searching around town. Even if the locals called the state police as soon as the Clarks called them, the UnSub still had over a thirty-minute lead. Everything that happened in Heflin after the girl disappeared was about chasing a ghost. The UnSub was long gone.''

Carlyle asked, ‘‘Do you think the UnSub picked them because they were new in town?''

‘‘Maybe,'' Rossi said. ‘‘But more likely, pure dumb luck. Otherwise, he drove across Georgia into Alabama, to case this particular park? Very doubtful. I think this whole series of crimes started even before the kidnapping in Jesup. That one was planned. These other two, why come clear across the state to stalk families over here? No, this was part of a spree.''

‘‘What's next?'' Carlyle asked, but Prentiss already knew.

‘‘Tomorrow,'' Rossi said, ‘‘we'll go to Jesup. The beginning is there, and the beginning always holds the answer.''

Hibbing, Minnesota