Finishing School (15 page)

 
Bemidji, Minnesota

 
Frustration was an emotion with which Dr. Spencer Reid was of course familiar, but rarely in his work, which was after all his refuge.

Dealing with his schizophrenic mother had obviously been, and continued to be, a frustrating experience—she was still housed in the Bennington Sanitarium in their hometown of Las Vegas. Being eighteen years old and forced to deal with his mother's illness had matured him fast (Reid's father had been MIA since the young man's youth). He had been among older kids from very early on, jumping grades, graduating from high school at twelve, always doing his best to seem older than his age.

But the truth was, he'd always felt younger than his age, until the day his mother had been committed, anyway. That day, at eighteen, he'd been a man. He had to be.

Even with all his extensive reading, his three doctoral degrees, and the benefit of an IQ of 187, he had still not been able to help his mother. That frustration had never been quelled. Work helped him hold his frustration at bay—usually.

This particular case, however, was frustration squared, holding a plethora of suspects who fit different aspects of their profile, but none fitting
every
aspect of the profile. Did this mean the BAU team was on the right track, just not quite there? Or did it mean their profile was wrongly skewed?

Another question nagged at Reid—had they overlooked a suspect, while centering in on Billy Rohl and the other members of the hunting party?

He recalled sylviculturist Lawrence Silvan saying several inspectors spent a good deal of time in that forest. The profilers should probably be interviewing those inspectors, both as suspects and possible witnesses. Though the UnSub was clearly careful, one of the inspectors might have seen something, and not realized its significance.

After running this past Hotchner and Morgan, Reid got out Silvan's card and phoned the cell number on the back. With evening settling over Bemidji, Reid did not expect to find the forester in the office. He was wrong.

Silvan answered on the first ring. ‘‘Lawrence Silvan.''

‘‘Mr. Silvan, this is Dr. Spencer Reid, with the FBI?''

‘‘Yes, Dr. Reid, I remember. How can I help you?''

‘‘When we spoke yesterday, you told us forest number four had more than one inspector—am I remembering correctly?'' Of course, he knew he was.

‘‘Yes, three of us, on a rotating basis.''

‘‘May I have their names and contact information?''

Silvan complied: The other inspectors were Randy Beck and Jason Fryman. Phone numbers and home addresses were provided as well.

‘‘Thank you, sir. Can you also come in for an interview?''

‘‘Well, certainly, Dr. Reid. But you must understand that we all travel extensively. I doubt any of us could get in before Friday—although if you're going to be at the law enforcement center at this time tomorrow night, I might make it.''

‘‘Let's say Friday morning, then,'' Reid said. ‘‘Thanks for your help.''

They signed off, and Reid set about getting Fryman and Beck in for interviews. Both men agreed to come in first thing Friday morning. With that done, Reid thought about calling it a day. He was tired, frustrated, and wondering where to turn next when Hotchner said, ‘‘The crime lab guy is on his way back with Garue.''

Reid and Morgan managed to pull themselves up a little straighter in their chairs and JJ, who seemed impervious to long hours, simply pulled her chair a little closer to the others.

The Native American detective entered, his gray hair hanging lank; he looked as fatigued as Reid felt. With Garue was a tall, muscular man with close-cropped brown hair, a wide forehead, tight brown eyes, and a face that looked like it doled out smiles only sparingly.

Garue introduced the agents, then said, ‘‘This is Fletcher Keegan from the regional office of the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.''

Eyeing the big man, who wore work boots, jeans, and (beneath a Windbreaker) a navy Polo shirt with the state BCA logo, Reid had a feeling of déjà vu.

He said, ‘‘We've met before, Mr. Keegan.''

Keegan managed a twitch of a smile. ‘‘I didn't think you'd remember, Dr. Reid,'' he said, his voice a rich baritone. ‘‘You sat in on a lecture Jason Gideon gave when I attended the National Academy.''

‘‘That's right,'' Reid said. ‘‘And you know Rossi.''

Nodding, Keegan said, ‘‘I do, but I notice he's not here.''

Hotchner said, ‘‘When we got word about the victims having originally been abducted in the South, Rossi and SSA Prentiss went down there to investigate from that end.''

‘‘Good idea,'' Keegan said. ‘‘But maybe I have some information that will help you at this end.''

‘‘Glad to hear it.''

Hotchner gestured for the man to sit, and he did, the team leader, too. Garue followed suit.

‘‘First,'' Keegan said, ‘‘now that we've had more time to study the bodies, we can state with surety that the girls were all in good health at the time of their murders.''

Hotchner frowned. ‘‘Could you define ‘good health' more precisely?''

‘‘Certainly. Good health as in not so much as a cavity among the three of them. Their teeth were perfect. One would have benefited from some orthodontic work, but her teeth were healthy and strong. Just as the others' were.''

‘‘Which tells you what?''

‘‘The UnSub fed them well. You would have to say he nourished them. None had so much as a broken fingernail. For lack of a better phrase, if I can wander into your territory of profiling . . . ?''