Finishing School (21 page)

‘‘Divided how?''

‘‘I work the south, Cass County, mostly. Silvan has the area north, around Blackduck? And Fryman, he has the eastern territory, around Grand Rapids.''

‘‘And whose territory would include Hibbing?''

‘‘That's east. Fryman.''

‘‘Thank you, sir.''

Beck left and was replaced in the interview room by Lawrence Silvan. The bespectacled forester seemed out of place in jeans, work boots, and long-sleeved work shirt with BASSINKO over the left breast.

Morgan asked Silvan the same questions as Beck and received largely the same answers.

Morgan asked, ‘‘Are you married?''

‘‘Yeah,'' Silvan said, his look slightly quizzical over the sudden turn in the conversation.

‘‘Were you married when you moved up here from Georgia?''

Silvan studied Morgan for a long moment. ‘‘How did you know I moved here from Georgia?''

‘‘Routine background check on Bassinko employees from the list you gave us. Were you married when you moved up here?''

‘‘Yeah,'' Silvan said. ‘‘College sweethearts. Why is that important?''

‘‘We're asking certain questions of everyone involved,'' Morgan said vaguely. ‘‘For profiling purposes. Why did you leave Georgia?''

‘‘I got the chance to make more money. Better opportunity than staying in Brunswick.''

Theories abounded on how to tell if a person was lying. Profilers like Morgan built up pretty good bull-shit detectors, but he'd had people lie right to his face and still had no idea. Sociopaths were masters at this.

‘‘We liked Georgia,'' Silvan was saying. ‘‘Weather was great, and of course up here it's colder than a witch's you-know-what in winter. But, still, there's been far more opportunity in Bemidji.''

‘‘Did you know Jason Fryman in Brunswick?''

Nodding, Silvan said, ‘‘Sure, Jason and I've been going after the same jobs at the same time our whole career. He graduated from Kent State same time I came out of Iowa State. Both started at Clenteen, same time. When MRST bought Clenteen and Bassinko, that made more opportunities for a lot of people. Some took early retirement, and that made openings for Jason and me, up here.''

‘‘You two close?''

Silvan shrugged. ‘‘Not really. More like friendly acquaintances.''

‘‘What do you know about his family life?''

‘‘Not much.''

‘‘What
do
you know, Mr. Silvan?''

‘‘Well, he's married.''

‘‘Kids?''

‘‘Not that I know of.''

‘‘How about you?''

‘‘Kids aren't really for us,'' Silvan said. ‘‘Between my job and my wife's career, well, there's just never been time.''

‘‘What does your wife do?''

‘‘She works out of the house. She's a teacher.''

‘‘How is it a teacher works out of the house?''

‘‘She works with homeschoolers.''

Morgan talked to Silvan a while longer, for all the good it did.

Blond, sallow-faced, with sad blue eyes, Jason Fryman looked like he'd been the skinny kid who regularly got his ass kicked by the school bully. In his early forties, Fryman wore the same uniform as the others—blue work shirt with company crest, jeans, and boots—and yet even the smaller Silvan had seemed more imposing than Fryman.

As he had with the other two, Morgan went through the questions about their jobs. Fryman's answers were pretty much what Morgan had already heard.

‘‘Married?'' Morgan asked.

Fryman nodded. ‘‘You?''

Morgan smiled. ‘‘Haven't found the right one yet.''

‘‘You will,'' Fryman said. He smiled, too. ‘‘Nothing like it.''

‘‘So I've heard. How long?''

‘‘Twenty-two wonderful years.''

‘‘You got kids?''

Fryman's smile faded. ‘‘No. My wife miscarried with what would have been our first, twenty years ago. There were . . . complications.''

‘‘Sorry.''

Fryman shrugged. ‘‘Life isn't easy for anybody, is it?''

‘‘Not really. Why did you leave Georgia?''

The forester mulled that, eyes on the table, fingers busy worrying the button on a ballpoint pen. ‘‘Too many bad memories, I guess. That was where Amy lost the baby. We just had to get out of there. When the opportunity came, to come up here? Why, I jumped on it.''

‘‘And your marriage survived all of that?''

‘‘Don't get me wrong. We had our ups and downs.''

‘‘Did you ever think about adoption?''

Fryman clicked the ballpoint even faster now, caught himself, looked down at the pen and managed to let it drop on the table. ‘‘My wife has always been . . . particular.''

Morgan wondered if he was about to hear a confession. This wouldn't be the first time that an UnSub confessed at the first hint of pressure. Instead of exerting more, Morgan decided to let Fryman pressure himself.

‘‘When Amy found out we couldn't adopt just the right child''—the little man shrugged—‘‘that was the end of that.''

Morgan waited for the other shoe to drop.

Picking up the pen, its pull too much for him, Fryman clicked the ballpoint. ‘‘So . . . we've never had children.''

Morgan decided to try a nudge. ‘‘Hibbing's in your territory, isn't it?''

‘‘Yeah.''

‘‘You hear about what happened there yesterday?''

Looking up, still clicking away, Fryman said, ‘‘It was on the news. Terrible, terrible thing.''

‘‘Were you in Hibbing yesterday?''

Fryman shook his head. ‘‘I called in sick yesterday. Larry covered for me.''

‘‘Was
he
in Hibbing yesterday?''

‘‘You'll have to ask Larry.''

Morgan, arching an eyebrow, said, ‘‘You didn't exactly jump to his defense to say he couldn't have done it.''

‘‘Why, would you have taken my word for it?''

Allowing himself a small smile, Morgan said, ‘‘No, no, I wouldn't.''

‘‘That's what I thought. So why waste my breath telling you that neither one of us would do something terrible like that?''

‘‘You understand, we have to look into the possibility where both of you are concerned.''

Rising, Fryman said with understated but nonetheless surprising defiance, ‘‘Look away. Do whatever you want. You'll be wasting your time, though. Somewhere out there's a kidnapper . . . and instead of looking for him, you're going to be wasting your time looking into Larry and me. A couple of good, upstanding citizens. Is that how the three girls here fell through the cracks?''

As Fryman strode out of the room, Morgan could only wonder if he had just been taunted by a serial killer.

Brunswick, Georgia

L
ife spent continually on the road, without a bag big enough to check at the airport, made packing for a long trip a challenge that rivaled finding something healthy to eat in a break-room vending machine. Anyone who thought the lives of the BAU team were glamorous—thanks to high-profile cases and the hero-making best sellers by Max Ryan, John Douglas and David Rossi himself, among others—were sadly misinformed.

The BAU members might be away from home for as much as a month at a time. They had to find Laundromats, places to eat that weren't simply fast food (though there was plenty of that), and lodging within the bureau's less than generous budget, to accompany the long hours spent in police stations or field offices around the country.

A saving grace of this trip had been the excellent laundry facilities inside the hotel in Bemidji. Since then, however, an itinerary of Minnesota to Georgia to Alabama, and presumably back again, had given Emily Prentiss no chance to do her laundry.

And with the all-nighter at the grave sites last night, Prentiss hadn't even had time to change her clothes or brush her teeth. Thankfully, a breath strip and her pocket hand sanitizer kept her from feeling terminally gross.

Rossi had planned to get them checked into a motel to clean up and catch a quick nap, but events had conspired against them.

First, they'd attended hastily scheduled autopsies of the two new bodies the crime lab team had unearthed. The smell had been minimal compared to an ordinary autopsy, the bodies having been buried for so long that the soft tissue was gone, and the aroma with it.

Some things had survived the prolonged interment, including tufts of the girls' blonde hair; also present were shreds of clothing. Like the three girls in Minnesota, these victims had been buried in nice clothes, wrapped in blankets and sheets of plastic—much of the plastic and some of the blankets had survived as well.

The clothes, like those in Minnesota, had no tags and appeared homemade. The most surprising discovery was a little pink purse, inside of which were a stubby pencil, a comb, and a tampon still in its plastic applicator.

Rossi held up the plastic evidence bag containing the tampon. ‘‘Half the girls had these and the other half were of an age when they'd be getting their first period. Significant?''

Prentiss frowned in thought and nodded. ‘‘I think it might be. . . .''

‘‘Me, too,'' Rossi said. ‘‘Me, too . . .''

 
Cohasset, Minnesota

 
Things were moving fast now. Possibly too fast.