Finishing School (25 page)

The little man shook his head.

Hotchner asked Morgan, ‘‘What are you thinking?''

‘‘Might be Lawrence Silvan.''

Fryman, surprised, frowning, asked, ‘‘Why would
he
be here?''

Amy, through her sobbing, managed near hysterically, ‘‘Does he want to
kill
us?''

Silvan's name had come up enough in the questioning for the Frymans to figure out Jason's co-worker was a suspect.

Morgan held up a hand. ‘‘No, but if he's the guilty party, he's going to want to cover his tracks. He's got a new life set up somewhere. As close as we are, he's going to have to find a way to get us off his trail.''

Reid said, ‘‘He'll try to frame someone.''

‘‘Could be,'' Morgan said.

Fryman was looking from agent to agent, tennis-match style. ‘‘What are you talking about?''

Ignoring Fryman, Hotchner said to the other profilers, ‘‘He knows we're closing in—he's a planner. He's always had a plan to cover his tracks in case of an emergency. He has to feed us someone who is a credible enough suspect that we'll leave him alone.''

The Frymans looked absolutely perplexed.

‘‘There's only one person that would fit that bill,'' Reid said, looking at Jason Fryman. ‘‘You.''

Flummoxed, Fryman asked, ‘‘Why me?''

Still at the window, watching, Morgan said, ‘‘With the growing media attention, he's figured out we've tied these crimes to the ones in Georgia. Like they used to say in the old movies, he needs a patsy, a fall guy . . . and whoever he blames has to be someone who's here in Bemidji now, but who was also in Georgia at the time of the murders there.''

Reid said, ‘‘Only two people that fit that bill, Mr. Fryman—Lawrence Silvan and you.''

Fryman shook his head, eyes wild, a man trying to wake from a bad dream.

Hotchner got to his feet and pressed their host. ‘‘Has Silvan given you something lately?''

‘‘No.''

‘‘Something just to . . . hold for him, maybe?''

Fryman shook his head. ‘‘Nothing.'' Then, frowning, he added, ‘‘Well . . . he did sell me his car. Real good price, too. Way under Blue Book. He said he was getting a new one to go with his new job.''

The three agents traded looks.

‘‘What?'' Garue asked.

Reid said, ‘‘He's probably planted evidence.''

Alarmed, Fryman blurted, ‘‘Of
what
?''

Hotchner said, ‘‘Something from the two recent kidnappings, most likely—
when
did you buy the car from him?''

‘‘Not quite a week ago.''

More to himself than Fryman, Hotchner said, ‘‘
Before
the kidnappings . . .''

The Fryman house was just beyond the city limits on a two-lane road with woods on either side and out back, too. That knowledge told Morgan what Silvan had been looking for.

‘‘He was coming to plant the evidence now,'' Morgan said. ‘‘Only
we
were here.''

Mrs. Fryman, more composed now but still afraid, asked, ‘‘Does that mean he's gone?''

From the window Morgan could see the woods on either side of the property, running almost to the road, framing the view. ‘‘Can he get into the woods in his car?''

‘‘Oh yes,'' Fryman said. ‘‘There's a Bassinko service road less than a quarter mile that way.''

He pointed in the direction the Taurus had disappeared.

Looking at Hotchner, Morgan said, ‘‘He's been planning this all along. The only thing that went wrong was we were too quick, jumping on Mr. Fryman here as a suspect. For all the trouble we've been having with this case, from Silvan's point of view? We were actually
too
good.''

Fryman asked, ‘‘
Now
what?''

Hotchner's eyes were on Morgan. ‘‘You have a plan, don't you?''

Morgan nodded. ‘‘Mr. Fryman, does this house have a basement?''

‘‘Yeah, why?''

‘‘Take your wife, and get down there now. Don't come out until you hear us give an all-clear.''

The Frymans rose off the couch and moved toward the kitchen.

Hotchner asked, ‘‘Derek, what're you thinking?''

‘‘Hotch, you have to leave.''

That halted Fryman and his wife in their tracks, and the husband blurted,
“What?''

But Hotchner was on track with Morgan.

Reid was, too, and said, ‘‘He knows the FBI is here. What he doesn't know is how many of us there are.''

‘‘Right,'' Morgan said. ‘‘Hotch, you, Reid and Garue go. Silvan's going to hide in the woods until he thinks the FBI has moved on—his whole new life depends on his planting this evidence. If he fails, he's had it. He
has
to do this. But he's not going to risk it while the FBI is here.''

Hotchner was nodding. ‘‘Mr. and Mrs. Fryman, come back here, please—you need to walk us to the door. When we leave, you get down into the basement, just as Agent Morgan said.''

Fryman nodded. So did his wife.

Turning to Garue, Hotchner asked, ‘‘You familiar with this service road Mr. Fryman mentioned?''

‘‘Sure.''

‘‘We'll pull out, and we'll go there. Then we'll come through the woods to back up Morgan.''

‘‘That,'' Garue said with a smile that cracked his leathery face, ‘‘is a plan.''

While the others went out the front, performing their ruse, Morgan slipped out the back, leaving his parka behind despite the cold, moving along the old two-story house, his pistol in his hand, barrel down. He hugged the outer wall and hoped that Silvan had stayed in the woods on the east side, the direction Morgan had seen him take. The car Silvan had sold Fryman was parked nose-in in the gravel driveway on this side, in front of a freestanding two-car garage with its door down.

Morgan couldn't be sure from what direction Silvan might approach. His guess was the car would be the suspect's destination—that Silvan would be ready to plant something in the trunk, using a spare key he'd kept. That meant the UnSub's most likely avenue was not from behind the house, nor on its west, but on the east, where the car waited.

If Morgan was wrong, and Silvan came up in back, the profiler would make a good target should the UnSub have a gun. But if their profile was correct, Silvan would likely not be armed—this UnSub would do everything he could to avoid confrontation. A gun would hardly be this killer's first option. And even if Silvan did resort to a firearm, Morgan felt confident he'd be a hell of a lot more comfortable with his weapon than the other way round.

Still, lucky shots happened, and Morgan did not intend to be the victim of one. He slipped into the grassy space between the house and the garage and, at the front corner of the latter, peeked to see the SUV driving off.

The Frymans were not on the front porch. He hoped they were back inside and beating a hasty retreat for the basement about now.

The sun was almost down, the light fading fast. If Silvan didn't make his move soon, darkness might prevent Morgan from seeing the suspect until the guy got to the car. But Silvan had the other half of the same problem: Wait too long, and he'd be finding his way in darkness back to his own car.

The UnSub must have come to the same conclusion, because within moments Morgan saw the suspect slink out of the woods, in a Bassinko Company Windbreaker no less, moving low and slow across the yard, something in his hands—something made of cloth—his eyes glued to the front of the house . . . looking to see if Fryman might not come back out, Morgan realized, to put the car away in the garage.

The closer Silvan got, the faster the man moved, then made a sudden stop at the rear of the car. Morgan heard the click of a key in a lock. The trunk lid came up, blocking the suspect from the profiler's view.

Staying low, Morgan made the short distance to the front of the car. They were at opposite ends of the vehicle now, each out of the other's sight. Morgan was low, next to a headlight, any slight sound he'd made having been covered by Silvan messing about in the trunk.

The killer was planting his evidence.

But to keep it from being too obvious, Silvan was burying it under the spare tire in the bottom of the trunk, from the sound of things, anyway.

When the trunk lid closed quietly, Morgan jack-in-the-boxed and pointed his gun across the length of the vehicle. ‘‘Freeze it right there!''

The bespectacled man couldn't have looked more stunned if Morgan had slapped him. The man's latex-gloved hands were on the trunk lid, and held no weapon.

The snout of his gun trained on Silvan's chest, Morgan said, ‘‘Lawrence Silvan, you're under—''

That was all he got out before Silvan bolted, sprinting for the woods.

‘‘No!'' Morgan yelled.
“Freeze!''

Silvan kept running, Morgan in pursuit now, having been slowed a few seconds by navigating around the parked vehicle for the grass beyond the gravel.

On the run, the little man—
damn
, he was fast—fished something out of his pocket. Morgan thought it might be a gun, but it seemed too small for that, and anyway Silvan didn't raise his hand and aim whatever-it-was back at Morgan, whose own weapon was trained on the man, ready to shoot if Silvan gave him the slightest provocation.

As they neared the woods, Silvan kept going, his arms pumping, his head down. He was getting close to their darkening shelter when another voice yelled, ‘‘
Freeze!
''

Garue stepped from the edge of the forest, his gun trained on Silvan.

Who, finally, damnit, froze.

But he didn't entirely freeze, really, pressing a button on whatever was in his hand and bringing it up to his ear.

‘‘You were right, dear!'' he said into it just as Morgan hit him with a flying tackle from behind. The phone went sailing into the trees as Silvan screamed, Morgan on top of him.

Morgan was cuffing and Mirandizing their suspect as Hotchner emerged from the woods with the cell phone in hand.

‘‘He ended the call,'' Hotchner said.

‘‘Where is she?'' Morgan asked, jerking the cuffed Silvan to his feet.

‘‘Who?''

‘‘Your
wife
.''

Silvan shrugged. ‘‘I don't know what you're talking about. I left something in my old car and just came around to get it.''

‘‘Wearing latex gloves?''

Silvan said nothing.

‘‘Where are the girls you've abducted the last two days?''

‘‘What girls?''

Reid was at Morgan's elbow. ‘‘He called his wife to warn her. She'll be on the run.''

‘‘We need to get Garcia on this,'' Hotchner said. ‘‘We need a new profile. This time for
Mrs.
Silvan.''

Garue said, ‘‘I'll get an APB out,'' and moved away, getting on his own cell.

The forester's eyes were huge. ‘‘
I
did this, all right? But you need to know I was in this by myself. I killed them—killed them all. Suzanne had
nothing
to do with it. She doesn't even know the girls are dead. She didn't know they were stolen—she thought we were a foster home. This is
all
me.''

As he led Silvan away, Morgan said, ‘‘You must be a hell of a forester, Silvan.''

‘‘What?''

‘‘You sure know how to spread the fertilizer.''

Darkness was on them now.

Bemidji, Minnesota

I
n the interview room, Lawrence Silvan sat, small and smiling, across the table from SAC Aaron Hotchner. Uncuffed, the bespectacled man reminded Hotchner of a comic actor from his childhood television viewing, but he couldn't recall the name. Why did Silvan seem so smug, so pleased with himself, under these circumstances?

In front of Hotchner was a closed folder; his only goal in this session was to get those girls back, unharmed—nothing else mattered.

‘‘Where are they, Lawrence?''

Silvan shrugged, his tiny smile ever present. This had been his response to every question he'd been asked since they were in the Frymans' yard and he'd blurted that absurd ‘‘confession.''

Finally, in a small yet not really timid voice, the suspect spoke.

‘‘I told you,'' Silvan said. Shrug, smile. ‘‘I killed them. I killed them all.''

Wally Cox.
That was the actor's name. Wally Cox.

‘‘All right,'' Hotchner said, resigned.

The BAU team leader had hoped not to have the blatantly false confession as their starting point. Having to break that down, before getting to the truth, would cost time, and who knew how much time those girls had? How could they know Silvan's wife wouldn't dispose of the children on her way to disappear?

This was mitigated by Silvan knowing every bit as well as Hotchner that the forester would be spending the rest of his life in prison, without any possible hope of parole. This gave Hotchner absolutely nothing with which to bargain.

If the husband wanted to bear the entire weight of the crimes committed by him and his wife, Hotchner could do nothing to stop him, at least not with the evidence they had now.

‘‘How did you kill them?''

Silvan eyed his inquisitor suspiciously. After a moment, he said, ‘‘I gave them an overdose.''