Finishing School (4 page)

‘‘Wayne Williams,'' Reid said as if on autopilot. He didn't need to explicate—they all knew the Atlanta child killer from the eighties, one of the BAU's first big cases and a cornerstone of their reputation. Williams had been convicted with the help of both fiber evidence and the BAU's profiling skills.

Looking from team member to team member, Rossi said, ‘‘I know we don't have much to go on yet. And I also know we don't play favorites. But the forensics guy on this was a student of mine. I'd like it if we could help out. But I'll understand if we take a pass, at least till we have more.''

‘‘Three girls whose descriptions are nearly identical,'' Hotchner said, ‘‘buried in three nearly identical ways, in three adjacent graves. Anybody think this is a case we shouldn't be investigating?'' He was greeted with silence as his eyes slowly scanned the room, landing on Jareau. ‘‘Call the sheriff in Bemidji,'' he told her. ‘‘Say we're on our way.''

She nodded.

‘‘Now,'' Hotchner began, ‘‘I don't mean to sound like a mother hen . . .''

‘‘Then don't,'' Rossi said.

That earned a grin from Hotchner, a fairly rare occurrence. ‘‘Just the same—it's going to be cold. Pack appropriately. We're wheels up in two hours.''

 
Bemidji, Minnesota

 
Between not leaving until late afternoon and the length of the flight, they didn't land in Bemidji until evening. The regional airport looked like a hundred other small-town airports, with little foot traffic inside, and when they went outside, the first thing everyone noticed was that mother-hen Hotchner had been right—the wind seemed to be blowing straight down from the North Pole.

As the team stood on the sidewalk with their breath pluming, Jareau was wondering where the hell their SUVs were. The vehicles were to be brought up by agents from the Minneapolis field office, which was admittedly over four hours from here, but the field office had received plenty of notice to get up here on time.

Jareau tugged the drawstrings on her parka tighter. The chill reminded her of early winters in the Pennsylvania town she grew up in. She was about to punch the number of her contact into her cell phone when two Beltrami County Sheriff's four-by-fours rolled up.

Stepping out of the driver's door of the lead vehicle was a tall, sinewy, middle-aged Native American. He had gray-white wavy hair, pouchy cheeks and a small bulge just above his waistline that said he probably didn't work out regularly. Still, as he approached, his gait was just short of a swagger and, even with the biting wind, he still wore only a flannel shirt and jeans—and had considerable presence.

A younger deputy, in uniform, got out of the other Durango and came around to the passenger side, but stayed with the vehicle.

The plainclothes officer walked up to the group, and stopped in front of Hotchner as if he'd known the agent for years. Most people, when confronting the team for the first time, approached Rossi as the leader, and before that, the assumption had usually been made about Jason Gideon—something about their age, Jareau figured. This man did not do that. He went like a heat-seeking missile to Hotchner.

‘‘Detective Lewis Garue,'' the man said, extending his hand.

‘‘Special Agent in Charge Aaron Hotchner,'' Hotch said, and they shook.

‘‘Thanks for coming in,'' Garue said. ‘‘I know the facts are a little sketchy, but you took us serious and we appreciate it.''

‘‘That's our job,'' Hotchner said. ‘‘Let me introduce the team. . . .''

Garue stepped to his right, facing Rossi. ‘‘You're SSA David Rossi.''

Rossi shook hands with the detective.

‘‘Your reputation precedes you, Agent Rossi. I've read your books, seen you on TV. Thought you were a bigger man.''

‘‘I don't seem to be,'' Rossi said with a grin.

Morgan, hands on hips, was grinning, too. ‘‘So it's true—you do have fans.''

‘‘One or two,'' Rossi said.

Garue had half a smile going himself. ‘‘I'm gonna wanna book signed.''

‘‘We can make that happen. But let's find out who's burying bodies in your woods, first.''

‘‘Fine by me.''

Hotchner made the rest of the introductions, ending with Prentiss, who asked, ‘‘Lewis Garue?'' A smile tickled the corners of her mouth. ‘‘As in, Lew Garue?''

The detective nodded, straight-faced. None of the others were following.

The detective said, ‘‘But my parents
did
change the spelling.''

Hotchner asked, ‘‘What am I missing?''

‘‘A phonetic game,'' Garue said. ‘‘Agent Prentiss speaks French, obviously.''

‘‘She speaks a bunch of languages,'' Morgan said. ‘‘But how did you know she speaks French?''

‘‘I'm a detective, son. Phonetically, ‘Lew Garue' sounds very much like a French phrase—‘loup-garou. ' ''

‘‘Which means what?''

But Rossi answered: ‘‘Werewolf.''

Garue chuckled. ‘‘Very good, Agent Rossi. A little favor my parents did for me—thought it would make me tougher.''

‘‘Must have worked,'' Rossi said. ‘‘You look like you can handle yourself.''

‘‘I'm still here,'' Garue said with a shrug.

Rossi seemed to like that response. Then he asked, ‘‘What band are you?''

‘‘Bear clan of the Red Lake Band of the Chippewa Nation.''

The two men stared at each other for a long moment and Jareau wondered what was going on.

Very softly, and evenly, Rossi said, ‘‘That wasn't us, you know.''

Garue waved a dismissive hand. ‘‘There's still a lot of bad blood about the feds on the rez, but here in town? You guys will be welcomed as heroes.''

‘‘The rez?'' Prentiss asked. ‘‘You mean, reservation?''

For once Rossi, not Reid, was spouting facts: ‘‘On March 21, 2005, Jeffrey Wiese, a troubled sixteen-year-old, killed his grandfather, the grandfather's girl-friend, then entered Red Lake High School and in three minutes fired off forty-five rounds. He killed five students, a teacher, and a security guard. He wandered the grounds of the school for another six or seven minutes and randomly wounded five more students before killing himself. Since the tragedy happened on the Red Lake Reservation, the FBI came in to investigate, and many people were unhappy with the way the case was handled. They thought the FBI overstepped.''

‘‘In some cases,'' Garue said mildly, ‘‘they did.''

Rossi continued. ‘‘Some people thought the FBI was out to get the Chippewas, when Louis Jourdain—the son of Floyd ‘Buck' Jourdain, Jr., the tribal chairman—was charged with conspiracy, because he knew about Wiese's plan and didn't tell anyone. Some believed the FBI was guilty of conspiracy, trying to get Jourdain out.''

Garue and Rossi were again locked in a mutual stare. ‘‘Some did,'' the Native American said.

Hotchner was taking this in with narrowed eyes. ‘‘Are we going to have a problem here?''

Jareau was thinking,
Some fan . . .

But Garue shook his head. ‘‘Not with me. When Keegan said he was going to call Agent Rossi, I was all for it. You federal guys and gals may not be much at Indian affairs, but you're a hell of a lot better at this sort of thing than we local cops are.''

‘‘Thanks for that much,'' Rossi said.

‘‘There's some crazy shit going on around here, and we need your kind of help.'' Garue shrugged. ‘‘Anyway, I really do want a book or two signed.''

The two men shared a respectful if guarded smile; then their stare-down concluded.

‘‘We could get started,'' Hotchner said, looking around with frank irritation, ‘‘if we knew where our vehicles were.''

Garue faced Hotchner. ‘‘That's why Deputy Swenson and I are here. Your SUVs are downtown, at the law enforcement center. Sheriff figured it would be easier for us to chauffeur you, some—just till you get the lay of the land.''

‘‘Considerate,'' Hotchner said. ‘‘Thank you.''

Garue looked from face to face. ‘‘Any of you been to Bemidji before?''

They all shook their heads.

‘‘We figured as much. Better you ride with us awhile.''

No one argued the point.

With the help of Garue and Deputy Swenson, the team loaded their gear into the patrol vehicles. They split up as they got into the SUVs, Morgan, Prentiss, and Reid riding with Deputy Swenson while Hotchner, Rossi, and Jareau accompanied Detective Garue.

Hotchner sat up front with Garue while Jareau and Rossi shared the rear. Even though wire mesh separated front and back, the inside of the Durango was toasty warm—Jareau found that a soothing relief, after their windy entrance to what seemed to be the southernmost tip of the polar ice cap.

They had only gone fifty yards or so toward the airport's entrance when Garue said, ‘‘The building on the right there is the regional crime lab, a division of the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.''

Rossi asked, ‘‘That's Keegan's office?''

‘‘Yeah,'' Garue said.

The one-story glass-and-brick building was mostly dark, though Jareau could see some fluorescent lights on in the rear part of the lab.

‘‘That's probably his light in the back,'' Garue was saying. ‘‘He's been working full tilt on this one since Saturday.''

On the other side of the road, a two-story motel sat vacant, its windows boarded shut.

Rossi asked, ‘‘What happened there?''

‘‘Northern Inn,'' Garue said. ‘‘Too many other choices—the land was sold for a new Ford dealership and the motel lost its lease.''

From the airport, Garue turned left. On the right side of the road, a pine forest ended right before an overpass for Highway 71 north to International Falls, less than two hours away.

As they passed under the highway, someone might have thrown a switch—the landscape changed from rural forest to urban sprawl, strip malls, big box stores, restaurants, and gas stations lining the four-lane thoroughfare into town.

Hotchner asked, ‘‘How many people in Bemidji?''

‘‘Almost fifteen thousand,'' Garue said. ‘‘Growing more every day. Nearly seven thousand students at Bemidji State University.''

Jareau asked, ‘‘Crime problem at all?''

‘‘Mostly petty stuff. Certainly nothing like what you folks are here for. Some burglaries and so on. The usual meth freaks you find anywhere. With poverty so high on the reservations, you get some B and Es, people trying to get by however they can.''

Rossi said, ‘‘That was plural—‘reservations'?''

Garue nodded, eyes on the road. ‘‘Three. I grew up on the Red Lake Reservation, north of here. The Leech Lake Reservation is to the east, the White Earth Reservation, west.''

‘‘Things are tough for them,'' Rossi said, not a question.

‘‘Yeah,'' Garue agreed glumly. ‘‘The White Earth Band is doing the best, unemployment rate only twenty-five percent. At Leech Lake, it's over thirty, and nearly forty percent at Red Lake.''

‘‘That's a lot of people,'' Rossi said, ‘‘with a lot of time and not many worthwhile ways to fill it.''

‘‘Got that right,'' Garue said. He shook his head. ‘‘Desperation makes people do things they might not otherwise.''

‘‘This UnSub,'' Jareau said, thinking it time to steer the conversation back toward the case at hand, ‘‘seems to have done just what he wanted to with these girls.''

Garue turned right onto Irvine Avenue and the retail strip was left behind for rows of well-kept older homes, mostly two-story clapboards.

For a couple of blocks, their driver said nothing and they lapsed into silence.

Finally breaking it, Garue said, ‘‘You know, you do this job long enough, you think you've seen everything.''

‘‘Yeah,'' Hotchner said, years of experience coloring that single word.

‘‘We had a case a few years ago,'' Garue said, ‘‘crazy bastard stabbed his wife thirteen times. Then went into the bedroom, woke his three-year-old and slit the kid's throat. Woke him
up
first—Jesus.''

Despite the heater, a chill settled over the car's interior.

‘‘When we got to the scene,'' Garue was saying, ‘‘Daddy had propped the dead kid on the counter so the corpse could ‘watch' as he made cutlets out of Mommy with a meat cleaver.''

No one said anything.

‘‘That was bad enough. Thought I'd never see any crime scene that could get to me again.'' He grimaced. ‘‘But after what I saw in the woods the other day . . .''

Garue turned left onto Eighth Street. A parking lot spread out before them on their right and beyond that sat a cluster of matching buildings.

Rossi asked, ‘‘What did you see in the woods?''

Another block passed in silence before Garue turned right onto Minnesota Avenue.

Finally, Garue said, ‘‘They looked so peaceful lying there. The coats, the blankets, the plastic, they were prepared by someone who . . . who loved them.''

No one said anything. On the right, Jareau saw the first of the matching redbrick buildings. This one had the legend COUNTY ADMINISTRATION over its entrance.

‘‘In the end,'' Garue said, ‘‘it was the complete lack of violence at the scene that got to me most. The last grave was shallower than the first two. Like maybe the perp . . . what did you call him? The UnSub?''