Finishing School (9 page)

‘‘I want to lawyer up.''

‘‘I would, too, Billy, if I were in as much trouble as you.''

While Garue got Rohl booked, the others went back to the conference room. Prentiss plopped into a chair, as she rubbed absently at the mud stain on her right knee. She hoped it would come out—at least the fabric had held up.

Rossi poured himself a cup of coffee while Reid and Morgan found places at the table on either side of Prentiss. Hotchner went to the head of the table and sat. Rossi was just pulling out a chair to join them when JJ entered, holding several sheets of paper.

She said, ‘‘Judge just faxed the search warrant.''

Hotchner asked, ‘‘Who's going to serve it?''

JJ said, ‘‘The sheriff's sending Detective Garue, the police chief's providing one of his guys, and I told them we'd have someone go along as well.''

‘‘Good,'' Hotchner said. Turning to Morgan, he said, ‘‘You and Rossi up for that?''

‘‘Sure,'' Morgan said.

Both agents rose and headed for the door, Morgan taking the warrant from JJ as he passed.

Then, still in the doorway, the slim blonde said to the rest of them, ‘‘We have another issue.''

‘‘What's that?'' Hotchner asked.

‘‘There was only a small piece in the local Sunday paper. But a longer article ran yesterday, and that went statewide. Now the wire services have the story and it'll go national. The PD and the sheriff's office both have phones ringing off the hook.''

‘‘From the media?'' Reid asked.

‘‘Some of it is,'' JJ said. ‘‘Most of the calls are every other law enforcement branch in the country trying to figure out if one of the girls is from their jurisdiction.''

Hotchner said, ‘‘That's not a bad thing, though there may be a lot to sort through. Are we getting leads from those calls?''

‘‘As you say, we'll have to sort them out, but there could be. I'm going to help the locals set up a hotline.'' She sighed and smiled the smile of someone resolved to take on a major task. ‘‘We'll get this under control before the end of the day.''

‘‘Good,'' Hotchner said.

JJ nodded good-bye and was gone.

Getting more comfortable in his chair, Hotchner said to Reid and Prentiss, ‘‘Let's go over what we know so far.''

‘‘Three dead girls,'' Reid said. ‘‘Ages twelve to fifteen, victims of barbiturate overdose.''

‘‘All buried in the same area of the woods,'' Prentiss said. ‘‘Wrapped in plastic, blankets, a coat, and each had on what were probably nice clothes before decomposition. Interesting thing about the clothes—no tags.''

‘‘Torn out?'' Hotchner asked.

‘‘Could be,'' Prentiss said. ‘‘They could be homemade, too. The clothes seem nice. That might be a tip to the UnSub's economic level.''

‘‘Middle class?''

‘‘Possibly,'' Prentiss said. ‘‘And, remember, it would take gas to get out there three times—nobody lives nearby. The clothes, the plastic, the blankets, that all costs money. Even the blankets were reasonably nice. It's not like he got them at Goodwill.''

‘‘Tags on those?''

‘‘Removed as well, but it's certain that the blankets weren't homemade.''

Hotchner asked, ‘‘What about abuse to the girls?''

Reid shrugged. ‘‘The bodies were too decomposed for us to know.''

They all knew that signs of abuse faded quickly once decomposition began.

‘‘According to the autopsy protocols,'' Prentiss said, ‘‘the victims all seemed well cared for, well nourished. With none of the girls having been abducted from the area, I begin to wonder if this UnSub didn't keep them with him for a while.''

‘‘That's worth looking into,'' Hotchner said. ‘‘How are we doing with identifying the victims?''

Reid said, ‘‘We haven't heard from Garcia on that yet.''

Hotchner said, ‘‘Probably time to check in with her again. Emily?''

‘‘Right away,'' Prentiss said.

Hotchner's expression was grim even for this fairly humorless man. ‘‘Something's not right,'' he said. ‘‘Rohl fits some of the aspects of the profile, but not others. He's certainly not middle class and doesn't seem to have a lot of money. So how do we explain the nice clothes?''

‘‘They would cost less,'' Reid said, ‘‘if they were homemade.''

‘‘Yes, but does that mean Rohl has those skills . . . or did he have someone do it for him? And if so, isn't that an expense itself? He doesn't have a spouse or significant other.''

An interruption came by way of a knock on the frame of the conference room door. They all turned and Prentiss found herself looking at a squat, spherical man with a scraggly beard and short, patchy gray hair on a balding skull. He wore glasses that seemed almost molded into a puffy nose, and carried a plastic ice cream bucket with a lid on it.

Hotchner gave their guest a curious but not unfriendly glance. ‘‘Mr. Abner?''

‘‘Yes. I haven't really met anybody but Agent Morgan, and I can see he isn't here. But I wanted to say hello.''

Hotchner said, ‘‘Well, that's fine, Mr. Abner. Let me make the introductions,'' and he did. The hunting guide shook everybody's hand, then returned to his position near the door.

Hotchner, with no particular grace, asked, ‘‘May we help you?''

To Prentiss the subtext was:
What the hell are you doing here, anyway?

Abner gave them a half smile and took a tentative step in. ‘‘I think what you people are doing is really fine, and I just wanted to bring you this as a token, you know, of my thanks.'' He held out the plastic bucket, taking off the lid.

Reluctantly, Hotchner accepted both the bucket and the lid.

‘‘It's cookies,'' Abner said as if Hotch had suddenly gone blind.

‘‘Well, thank you,'' Hotchner said.

The aroma of the freshly baked cookies seemed to permeate the room. Prentiss suddenly realized she was starving.

Abner said, ‘‘You should try one. They're pretty damn good, if I do say so.''

‘‘No, thank you,'' Hotchner said, and gave their guest a smile. ‘‘We just got off break and we all had something then, but we appreciate the gift. Really, we do.''

‘‘You're welcome,'' Abner said. ‘‘Nothing's too good for you people. It's a thankless job, what you do, but we're damn glad you're here to do it.''

Hotchner's smile was looking more and more strained. ‘‘Thank you again.''

‘‘Well, I guess I'll be going,'' Abner said, growing as uncomfortable as Hotchner. ‘‘I guess if you'd found the guy, we'd know about it, right? You haven't found him, have you?''

‘‘We're working on it,'' Hotchner said.

‘‘Good, good. Can't ask for more. Well, guess I'll be going.''

And, with a little wave, he was gone.

‘‘What was that?'' Prentiss asked.

‘‘I'm not quite sure,'' Hotchner said.

Reid reached toward the container.

Hotchner said, ‘‘I hope you're after a sample to take to the crime lab.''

‘‘Unfortunately, yes,'' Reid said. ‘‘You don't have to remind me that Daniel Abner hasn't been cleared as a suspect . . . and that some UnSubs like to inject themselves into the investigation.''

Hotchner nodded. ‘‘He was one of the men who found the bodies of our
poisoning
victims; then he came in for questioning, now this. Yep—the cookies go to the lab first.''

Taking the plastic container, Reid said glumly, ‘‘I'll do the deed.''

He left the room with the cookies, staring at them in his grasp.

The aroma of the treats lingered, though, and Prentiss's stomach growled a little.

She considered going to the cop's break room for a snack (Hotch had been fibbing about them just having come off break). With any luck, there might be a banana or an apple in one of the vending machines. She had just pushed her chair back from the table when Garcia's face popped up on the screen.

Prentiss pulled the chair back in. ‘‘Do you have something?''

Garcia nodded excitedly. ‘‘We've identified one of the girls.''

‘‘Excellent.''

Hotch leaned in.

Garcia was saying, ‘‘The most recent victim was a thirteen-year-old . . . well, she was thirteen at the time of her death, three when she disappeared. Her name was Heather Davison.''

‘‘Disappeared when she was
three
?'' Prentiss asked, eyes wide. ‘‘Ten
years
ago?''

Garcia smirked humorlessly and nodded once. ‘‘Playing in her front yard. The phone rang in the house, her mother stepped inside for less than a minute, she said . . . and when Mommy came back out, little Heather was gone.''

‘‘Where did this happen?''

‘‘Summerville, Georgia.''

Prentiss frowned. ‘‘Where's that exactly?''

‘‘Northwest of Atlanta, in the corner. Just east of Alabama and south of Chattanooga.''

Prentiss was shaking her head. ‘‘The child was kidnapped ten years ago in Summerville, Georgia, and turns up dead and buried in Bemidji, Minnesota? How does that happen?''

With a wry little smile, Garcia said, ‘‘That I can't tell you. That's where you come in.''

Prentiss sighed. ‘‘What else do you have on this?''

‘‘Law enforcement did all they could. The AMBER Alert network wasn't in place yet, and no one would have thought of calling in the BAU back then, so they did things the old-fashioned way—followed a few clues until they petered out, and the case went cold. Heather's parents tried to keep it active, but there just weren't the resources that we have today. They did have DNA taken from themselves and a hairbrush that Heather had used. That was where the match came from.''

Hotchner said, ‘‘Fine work, Garcia.''

‘‘Thank you, sir.''

He turned to Prentiss. ‘‘All right, you look into the Davison girl and victimology. Reid, start trying to figure out what sort of occupation this UnSub has. We know he needs money, and if he's had at least one of these girls for ten years, he's probably not pumping gas somewhere.''

Prentiss looked up to see another man standing in the doorway—small, wiry, in his early to mid-forties, dark hair parted, glasses thick within clear plastic frames.

‘‘Excuse me,'' the man said.

‘‘Yes?'' Hotchner asked.

‘‘My name is Lawrence Silvan. I work for Bassinko Industries. The company asked me to stop by and offer our assistance.''

‘‘Come in, Mr. Silvan,'' Hotchner said, waving the man to an empty chair at the conference table.

Silvan nodded to Reid and Prentiss as he sat. He wore a gray suit with a white shirt and navy blue tie with gray stripes, not inexpensive attire but certifiably drab.

Hotchner asked, ‘‘Are you with the PR department, Mr. Silvan?''

The little man seemed surprised by that, then with a modest smile, said, ‘‘Oh no—I'm a forester.''

‘‘A lumberjack, you mean?'' Prentiss asked. She would have made him for an accountant, given the man's stature and dress.

‘‘No, no, a lumberjack
cuts down
trees—I
grow
them.''

‘‘A sylviculturist,'' Reid said.

‘‘Yes—I got my degree from Iowa State in 1988. But most people just call us foresters.''

Hotchner's face remained a blank mask, but his voice was somewhere between skeptical and curious. ‘‘If you're not in public relations, Mr. Silvan, may I ask why you're here?''

‘‘As I said, to assist in your investigation, if you might find that helpful. Bassinko Industries is appalled that such a thing would happen on land we own. The company wants to do everything it can to assist in your catching this murderer.''

Hotchner asked, ‘‘How do you think you can assist us?''

‘‘The company thought you might have questions about the forest and forestry that I could answer. Things that would make your job easier in the long run.''

‘‘That could be very helpful,'' Hotchner said. ‘‘Thank you.''

‘‘There are three of us who inspect that particular forest from time to time, but it is predominantly my territory, which is why the company sent me to you.'' Silvan's eyes wandered around the room and the pictures and other posted materials on the walls. ‘‘It looks as though you have quite a bit going on already.''

‘‘Yes, we do,'' Hotchner said.

Reid said, ‘‘I do have a forestry question for you, sir.''

Silvan turned toward him.

‘‘We're operating on the grounds that this particular area means something to the UnSub. . . .'' Reid explained the contraction, then went on. ‘‘As I said, we think the area may have some special meaning or connection to the UnSub. Can you think of anything that might fit into that theory?''

Silvan was shaking his head before Reid had finished speaking.

‘‘Indian burial ground?'' Reid asked. ‘‘Some sort of hallowed ground to the Native Americans?''

The forester could not contain his surprise. ‘‘You think someone from one of the reservations did this?''

‘‘No, no,'' Reid said. ‘‘We're just trying to learn why the UnSub chose this particular place to bury the victims.''