Finishing School

by Max Allan Collins

  Hotchner said, ‘‘Looks fairly new.’’

  ‘‘Nineteen ninety-eight,’’ Garue said. ‘‘All three buildings. The county decided to do it all at once and consolidate everything. Actually’s made life easier.’’

  Rossi asked, ‘‘Any closer on the cause of death?’’

  Garue shook his head. ‘‘Tomorrow, if we’re lucky. The coroner had to send material off to the lab. You want to go in and get set up, or just wait for morning?’’

  A part of Jareau hoped that Hotchner would let them check into their hotel and catch one last good night’s sleep, because she could anticipate what kind of hours were coming; but she knew better.

  Predictably, Hotchner said, ‘‘We might as well get started right away.’’

  Garue raised a finger. ‘‘One more thing, while I’m thinking about it—Bassinko Industries likes to consider itself a part of this community. So don’t be surprised if they send someone around to talk. The bodies were found on Bassinko land, and that’s the sort of press they don’t want. I wouldn’t be surprised if they send you a sort of . . . liaison. Or maybe envoy is more like it.’’

  Hotchner nodded. ‘‘JJ here usually handles that kind of thing.’’

  Jareau—who had dealt with cops, media, angry parents, and a thousand things worse than a company hack—said brightly, ‘‘I’ll gladly meet with him or her.’’

  Inside, the tiny lobby held a bulletproof-glass-enclosed cubicle with a door on either side. One was marked BEMIDJI PD, the other SHERIFF’S OFFICE. The uniformed policewoman behind the glass waved at Garue and pressed the button unlocking the latter door.

  Only a couple officers were working at desks in the outer bull pen; the light was off in the sheriff’s office and the chief deputy’s. Garue led them into a conference room, flipped on the switch and fluorescent lights in the ceiling flickered to life.

  ‘‘Let’s get our equipment set up,’’ Hotchner said, ‘‘make sure everything’s ready for tomorrow—want you all to get a good night’s sleep, and then tomorrow, we’ll hit the ground running.’’

  They all knew their jobs, and in less than an hour, the conference room resembled their own back at Quantico. A white board on one wall was filled with questions written by Rossi and Hotchner, Prentiss and Jareau had set up the laptops and established contact with Garcia to make sure their computer communications were up, Reid was using a bulletin board on another wall to display the crime scene photos. While they all did that, Morgan added equipment to what had already been provided in the SUVs.

  Once Hotchner was satisfied, they climbed into their Tahoes and followed Garue’s Durango to a chain motel, a four-story building overlooking Lake Bemidji, the reason the town sprang up here in the first place.

  In her room, after she’d unpacked, Jareau stared out across the black lake, four stories below, stars glinting off its choppy surface as windblown waves worked the water.

  Beyond the far shore, she could see lights from the east side of town. Somewhere here, among all these peaceful houses with their glittery little lights and drawn curtains, lurked a killer.

  The BAU team would get a good night’s sleep, have breakfast, then begin the hunt.

  Chapter Two

  Bemidji, Minnesota

  You could not work at the FBI without getting used to seeing a lot of white people.

  Supervisory Special Agent Derek Morgan had long since grown accustomed to that. But the short time he had spent in Bemidji, Minnesota—at the sheriff’s office, in the hotel lobby, and going for a five-mile run this morning—had convinced him that he now found himself in the whitest place on the planet.

  And according to some Internet research he’d done on returning from his run, the town turned out to be nearly eighty-five percent white. The dominant minority, Native Americans (everyone around here called them Indians), made up another thirteen percent. That meant that only three percent of the population, or about 450 souls if Garue’s census figures were right, were African-American, Latino, Jewish, Asian, Arabic or Klingon, for that matter. Certainly not the racial mix of Washington, D.C., or Chicago, where Morgan grew up. . . .

  Up here, snow wasn’t the only thing that seemed to be all white. On his trek through the aptly named Paul Bunyan Park, the only individual of color he’d encountered was a statue of Babe the blue ox, standing next to a sculpture of the park’s legendary lumberjack namesake.

  To their credit, none of the people of Bemidji had been anything but nice to him, and none had given him so much as a second glance. In fact, while he’d been running through the park, just north of the motel, a few had even smiled and wished him good morning. Several had waved.

  That, too, was certainly different from D.C. and Chicago—in parts of the Second City, ‘‘Good morning’’ was grounds to dump you in Lake Michigan. Particularly before a first cup of coffee.

  After showering and getting dressed in a gray mock turtleneck and black slacks, Morgan had checked his pistol, put one in the pipe, clicked on the safety, then holstered the weapon. Wearing a light jacket over the pistol, he carried his parka with him. He had no idea when he would get back to his hotel room and its snug and comfy bed, so he took everything he might need with him.

  Down in the lobby, he found everyone else already there. At one table, Prentiss sat working a crossword puzzle, a morning habit passed along by Jason Gideon, while Hotchner and Rossi sat together having coffee, the older agent nibbling at a bagel. At a separate table, Reid and JJ were each working on a light breakfast; for her, a banana, a bran muffin, and orange juice; for Reid, a bowl of cereal and juice.

  They all gave Morgan a nod or a wave as he passed on his way to the breakfast buffet. He grabbed a doughnut, a banana, two boiled eggs and a cup of coffee. He pulled out a chair and sat at the table with Reid and JJ.

  ‘‘Did you get some sleep?’’ she asked.

  He nodded. ‘‘Some.’’ The two eggs and the banana disappeared almost instantly. The doughnut and coffee, he savored.

  Looking over at Prentiss, he saw her shaking her head at him over the top of her crossword.

  ‘‘What?’’ he asked, wondering if he had spilled something.

  ‘‘Doughnuts?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘What?’’ he repeated, wounded now. ‘‘It’s only one doughnut.’’

  She was shaking her head again, eyes wide. ‘‘How in God’s name do you eat junk like that and stay in such good shape?’’

  Morgan grinned. ‘‘Maybe God just likes me . . . or maybe I got up this morning, did one hundred push-ups, two hundred sit-ups, and ran five miles.’’

  They were all looking at him now, and with more suspicion than their average suspect warranted.

  ‘‘What?’’ Morgan asked again.

  ‘‘I realize I’m a little older than you,’’ Rossi said, lifting one eyebrow, ‘‘but I’m pretty sure I sprained something drying off after my shower this morning.’’

  That drew a chuckle from everybody, Morgan included.

  He popped the last of the doughnut in his mouth, chewed, swallowed, then took a deep, satisfying drink from his coffee. ‘‘Health food,’’ he said. ‘‘You can’t beat it.’’

  ‘‘Gloat while you can,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘Next thing you know, you’ll be fifty, gaining two pounds from just being in the same room with a doughnut.’’

  Prentiss joined in. ‘‘There ought to be ordinances against secondhand fat.’’

  Morgan laughed along with the rest of them, but did decide to skip a second doughnut.

  The town wasn’t that big, so—even though his only trip through had been last night—Morgan had driven back to the police station this morning like a native. Soon the FBI agents were in the conference room of the Beltrami County Law Enforcement Center, Hotchner on the computer linkup with Garcia.

  ‘‘Any progress?’’ Hotchner asked.

  ‘‘Not yet, sir,’’ Garcia answered.

  The zaftig blonde with the black-framed glasses always seemed cheerful
through the computer link. Morgan knew her chirpy attitude was in part a facade and a defense mechanism, as their digital intelligence analyst carried the weight of what the BAU team encountered as much as they did . . . if not more.

  ‘‘Keep at it,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘COD and the victims’ identities will give us a big step forward.’’

  ‘‘I’m on it, sir,’’ Garcia said, and was gone.

  They turned to greet Detective Garue as the middle-aged Indian entered the room in jeans, an open-collar button-down blue work shirt and Rockys.

  Hotchner asked, ‘‘Any news on the local front?’’

  Garue shook his head. ‘‘Nothing yet.’’

  ‘‘All right,’’ Hotchner said. His head swung toward the team. ‘‘Reid, I want you and Prentiss to work victimology. I know it’s sketchy so far, but do your best. JJ, introduce yourself to the sheriff and the chief of police. Let’s get them on our side.’’

  Garue offered, ‘‘I can introduce her.’’

  ‘‘No, thanks,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘I need you to go to the crime scene with Rossi and Morgan. You know this area and we don’t, so they’ll need someone to answer their questions.’’

  Garue’s shrug said, Okay.

  As they were going out, Hotchner turned to Morgan and said, ‘‘Don’t be a stranger.’’

  Morgan nodded.

  Both Rossi and Morgan grabbed their parkas and threw them into Garue’s unmarked Durango. The detective drove south, back past their hotel, then out of town. Before long, the cityscape gave way to fewer clustered houses; then the two-lane highway was bordered only by the white-barked aspens.

  The farther into the forest Garue drove, the more Morgan was struck that whoever had buried the three girls out here in the middle of godforsaken nowhere had to be either a local or someone who visited the place regularly. No one was going to be able to find the exact same spot on three separate occasions unless he or she knew the area extremely well.

  Morgan asked, ‘‘Lot of traffic on this road?’’ ‘‘Some,’’ Garue said. ‘‘Mostly locals, but it runs into Highway Two, which goes east to the Leech Lake Rez, and that runs into Seventy-one—the road south to Akeley and St. Cloud. So this stretch sees a share of traffic every day. Plus, the lumber trucks are going through here all day long.’’

  Rossi asked, ‘‘What about at night?’’

  Garue shook his head. ‘‘Mostly a ghost town.’’ He turned right onto a well-worn dirt road.

  Rossi asked, ‘‘This is it?’’

  ‘‘We’re getting there,’’ Garue said. ‘‘This is the service road for Bassinko Industries forest number four.’’

  ‘‘Bassinko,’’ Morgan said. ‘‘You mentioned them last night—I’ve heard of them. They’re huge.’’

  With a nod, Garue said, ‘‘Own ninety percent of the forest in this area.’’

  Rossi asked, ‘‘What were hunters doing in here, then?’’

  ‘‘People can lease land from the company for hunting.’’

  Morgan frowned in thought. ‘‘Who has the lease for this part of the forest?’’

  ‘‘Daniel Abner. He hires himself out as a guide to pay his lease.’’

  Rossi said, ‘‘We know that name, don’t we?’’ Another nod from Garue. ‘‘He’s the one made the 911 call.’’

  Rossi was staring out his window. ‘‘We’ll need to speak with him, of course, and the hunters with him.’’

  And another nod from Garue. ‘‘I’ll set it up soon as we get back.’’

  The detective braked the Durango to a stop. They all got out, and the two profilers got into their parkas. Morgan let his hood flop while Rossi cinched his up tight. To Morgan, the November air smelled clean and crisp, just as it had this morning, only out here in the forest, even more so.

  Garue gestured vaguely. ‘‘We walk from here,’’ he said.

  They hiked five minutes or so into the woods until they came over a low rise, from which Morgan could see the crime scene tape that marked the three graves—all in a row—and (from where the agents stood) each seemed roughly equidistant.

  Morgan asked, ‘‘All the graves were the same?’’

  ‘‘Pretty much,’’ Garue said. ‘‘Each girl was buried with her head to the north.’’

  Rossi’s hands were on the hips of his parka. ‘‘Graves look pretty precise.’’

  ‘‘He didn’t use a tape measure,’’ Garue said, ‘‘but for eyeballing it, yeah, I’d say pretty goddamn precise.’’

  Morgan asked, ‘‘Was this spot marked in any way?’’

  Shaking his head, Garue said, ‘‘Not that we could find.’’

  Rossi was squinting in the sunlight as he looked all around. ‘‘How the hell did he find this very spot three times? All this terrain looks the same.’’

  ‘‘Not to someone who knows what he’s looking for,’’ Garue said. ‘‘Agent Rossi, you’re pretty good with people.’’

  ‘‘I like to think so.’’

  ‘‘You don’t even have to talk to them. You study them, their behavior, and even before you meet someone, you know them.’’

  Rossi gave up a one-shoulder shrug. ‘‘To a point.’’

  ‘‘That’s the way this killer—your UnSub—that’s how he is with trees. He studies them; he knows them.’’ Garue sought out the eyes of each profiler, first Rossi, then Morgan. ‘‘Either of you fellas hunt?’’

  Morgan shook his head, but Rossi nodded.

  ‘‘Ducks, pheasants, quail, I suppose?’’

  ‘‘Mostly,’’ Rossi admitted, obviously a little perplexed. ‘‘How do you know that?’’

  The Native American detective granted his guests a grin. ‘‘Because, if you hunted deer, you’d be better in the woods.’’

  Rossi grinned back. ‘‘Detective Garue, I’m not used to getting profiled myself.’’

  ‘‘Well,’’ Garue said, ‘‘let me take a shot at the UnSub, then.’’

  Morgan said, ‘‘Be our guest.’’

  ‘‘By all means,’’ Rossi said.

  ‘‘Let’s start,’’ Garue said, ‘‘with this: He knows his way around the forest.’’

  ‘‘In this part of the world,’’ Morgan said, ‘‘that doesn’t narrow the suspect list much, does it?

  ‘‘Sure it does,’’ Garue said with a sharp, mirthless laugh. ‘‘Down to all the foresters, lumberjacks, and sylviculturists who work for Bassinko Industries or any other lumber company in the area, plus the state DNR guys and the Forest Service employees . . . or any deer hunter in the upper Midwest.’’

  ‘‘DNR?’’ Morgan asked.

  ‘‘Department of Natural Resources,’’ Garue said. ‘‘They issue hunting and fishing licenses and take care of, what else, natural resources.’’

  Morgan cocked his head. ‘‘What was that other term? Silver something?’’

  Garue said the word syllable by syllable as if to a child, though Morgan took no offense. ‘‘Syl-vi-cultur-ist—they’re people who grow trees.’’

  Morgan said, ‘‘I thought that was an arborist.’’

  Garue shook his head. ‘‘Sylviculturists grow forest trees commercially.’’

  ‘‘So we have a hell of a long list of suspects.’’

  Rossi said, ‘‘Let’s start to narrow that down, then.’’

  Garue’s eyes tightened. ‘‘How do we do that?’’

  ‘‘We start with what we know.’’

  ‘‘Which is what?’’

  ‘‘We know the UnSub is someone familiar with the forest. Probably comfortable in any forest, but specifically this forest.’’

  ‘‘Okay,’’ Garue granted, ‘‘what else?’’

  Morgan’s sigh was visible in the chill air. ‘‘The way in here is off the beaten path—not only does the UnSub know the forest, he knows the area. Probably a local.’’

  Garue was shaking his head. ‘‘You really think so?’’

  The detective seemed to doubt anyone native to his community could be ca
pable of crimes like these. Morgan didn’t know where to start with how wrong that assumption was. . . .

  Rossi said to the local cop, ‘‘Could you find this place if you didn’t live around here? Three separate times?’’

  Garue considered that. Then he said, ‘‘I see your point, Agent Rossi, but I just can’t imagine anybody in our little community would be capable—’’

  Rossi cut him off with an upraised palm; Morgan smiled to himself, as he automatically thought of the clichéd ‘‘how’’ the old movies gave to Indians.

  ‘‘Just because you say hi to someone at the Sip N Go,’’ Rossi was saying, ‘‘or have a beer at the bar with them after work? That doesn’t mean that person can’t have a darker, secret side. You’ve been on the job long enough to know that.’’

  Now Garue issued a visible sigh. ‘‘Yeah, yeah, you’re right. I got kids—you try to tell yourself that no matter how much bad shit you see on the job, none of it can touch you, or them.’’

  ‘‘Only,’’ Rossi said flatly, ‘‘it can.’’

  Changing the subject, Morgan asked, ‘‘How much farther do these woods go?’’

  Garue shrugged. ‘‘Couple of miles, anyway.’’

  Morgan pointed. ‘‘There’s a little rise here, but if you look through those trees to our right, you can see a small piece of the service road.’’

  The others looked and nodded.

  Garue thought about what Morgan had said, then shook his head again. ‘‘I see your point, son, but it’d be harder than hell to see anybody way in here.’’

  ‘‘Granted, but not impossible,’’ Morgan insisted. ‘‘And if that’s the case, if the UnSub is burying bodies, why not go deeper into the forest?’’

  ‘‘Maybe he didn’t notice that little piece of service road,’’ the detective said. ‘‘Maybe he lugged the body and got a little tired and figured this was far enough. Or, if he dug the grave before he brought the body, then it’s all a moot point. ’Cause the process would be a hell of a lot quicker and less likely for somebody way the hell in the distance to notice.’’

  Morgan said, ‘‘That could be true, but, remember—if he digs the grave on a separate visit, he’s doubling the risk that someone will see him.’’