‘‘Your counsel’s right,’’ Morgan admitted. ‘‘But that’s not the only reason I ask.’’
Rohl looked at his lawyer, who was studying Morgan suspiciously.
Withdrawing a series of photos from the folder, Morgan said, ‘‘We found your secret smut collection in its hidey-hole in your bedroom closet.’’
Rohl paled and Staten’s expression turned stricken.
‘‘Nude pictures of girls from the Internet, magazines, and videos—most of the girls appear to be underage.’’
Staten started to protest, but Morgan cut him off.
‘‘You’ll want to know about this, counselor.’’ To Rohl, he said, ‘‘From our perspective, the most interesting find was the photos you apparently took yourself, Billy—of teenage girls in front of the Bemidji Middle School and High School. Harmless amateur photography, in and of themselves, until we remember that you, Billy, are a sex offender.’’
Rohl bowed his head in silence—in what might have been prayer. If Rohl was praying, Morgan hoped the creep got a busy signal.
Staten began a blustering response, but Morgan paid him scant attention. What they had of the profile, so far, fit Rohl in several respects. Billy was still their best suspect; but Morgan would have been happier had Rohl admitted to at some point owning a van.
Morgan, his voice not unfriendly, asked, ‘‘You want to tell me something, Billy, and do yourself some good?’’
Staten frowned, but Rohl nodded rapidly.
The attorney asked, ‘‘What kind of help would that be, Agent Morgan . . . and what’s it worth to my client?’’
‘‘It’s worth a word to the judge that he cooperated . . . but I’ll need concrete information.’’
Staten shrugged. ‘‘Well, that’s weak. He helps you out, he walks.’’ The attorney seemed to once again feel on firmer ground.
Morgan replaced the photos in the folder, and rose. ‘‘No way he walks, counselor. Besides, what I wanted isn’t really worth even a word to the judge. I was just trying to be helpful.’’
Morgan was about to knock to get the guard’s attention when Staten said, ‘‘A word to the judge could be helpful, Agent Morgan. Let’s hear what you want.’’
Slowly, the profiler turned. ‘‘I have only one question. Where is Logan Tweed?’’
Rohl frowned and shrugged. ‘‘How the hell would I know?’’
Staten didn’t miss a beat. ‘‘I expect you to be as good as your word. My client has been entirely forthcoming.’’
‘‘If he has been truthful about Tweed,’’ Morgan said, ‘‘I’ll stick to what I said. But if we turn Tweed up, and find out Billy knew where the man was but lied about it? . . . Well, draw your own conclusion, counselor.’’
Then Morgan knocked for the guard, who, in a few seconds, came and let him out.
Ten minutes later, having stopped for a cup of coffee on the way back, Morgan entered the conference room to find JJ, Reid, and Hotchner working on different aspects of the case. The pieces of the profile were coming together, but since going over the crime scenes, they had learned little. He hoped Rossi and Prentiss were having better luck in Georgia.
Morgan asked, ‘‘Did I miss anything?’’
Hotchner shook his head.
Reid lifted his eyebrows and said, ‘‘Victimology would be a lot easier, if we actually knew something about these girls. Problem is, they were kidnapped nearly a decade ago, but was their abductor the same person who killed them? And if so, why does he keep them ten years, and then kill them?’’
No one had an answer for that.
‘‘The hotline is being flooded,’’ JJ said, and her eyes widened in ‘‘here we go again’’ fashion. ‘‘The media will break the names of the two identified victims by tonight. The hotline will really be inundated, once people find out how far away from here the victims originally lived . . . and how much time has passed since their disappearance.’’
Morgan was just about to take a seat facing the door when he saw Daniel Abner getting ready to knock on the frame.
‘‘Mr. Abner,’’ Morgan said. ‘‘May I help you?’’
The human fireplug wore his usual flannel shirt and jeans with brown work boots. He’d been intent enough on knocking that he stopped just short of the frame and jumped a little when Morgan spoke.
Abner said, ‘‘I just wanted to stop and see how you folks are getting along.’’
Hotchner, just short of cold, said from his seat at the table, ‘‘We’re still working hard on the case.’’
Entering, Abner asked, ‘‘Did you like the cookies?’’
JJ rose and intercepted the hunting guide before he got too deep into the room.
‘‘They were delicious,’’ she said. ‘‘We shared them with others around here, and everyone wants to thank you again for them.’’
She had a hand on his shoulder now, trying to herd him back out. He managed to put on the brakes. Morgan started around the table, just in case, and Abner turned and faced him, the man’s face as gray as concrete, but his eyes burning.
‘‘Word is,’’ he said, ‘‘you got Billy Kwitcher locked up for this—is that true?’’
Morgan said, ‘‘An unrelated charge. He assaulted a federal officer.’’
Trembling with barely controlled rage, Abner said, ‘‘You need him to talk, you give me five minutes with the boy. Nobody ever need know.’’
Hotchner rose and came around. His voice hard now, the BAU leader said, ‘‘Mr. Abner, we have this under control. If you don’t mind, my people and I need to get back to work.’’
With a quick nod, Abner said, ‘‘I understand. I’m just saying, if you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.’’
The ice in his voice apparent now, Hotchner said, ‘‘Thank you.’’
Having a thought, Morgan said, ‘‘Just one moment, before you go, Mr. Abner—would you happen to have any idea where Logan Tweed is?’’
‘‘Well . . . over at that construction outfit, I suppose. Why?’’
Morgan shook his head, and gave the time-honored Dragnet response: ‘‘Just a routine part of the investigation.’’
Hotchner said, ‘‘JJ—a word?’’
She came over.
Whispering, her boss said, ‘‘Tell these locals to at least warn us when he’s in the building.’’
She nodded.
Abner was frowning when JJ took him by the arm and walked him out, making innocuous conversation.
When the pair was down the hall, out of earshot, Hotchner turned to Reid. ‘‘Get Garcia. I want to know everything about our helpful Mr. Abner before the end of business today.’’
Reid said he’d get right on it, and—in less than a minute—they were gathered around Reid’s laptop, Garcia smiling at them. ‘‘So, how are things in Twin Peaks?’’
That got several smiles from the profilers, with the exception of Hotchner, who either didn’t understand the pop culture reference or didn’t care, and just crisply explained what information he wanted about Daniel Abner.
‘‘I’ll get on that,’’ she said, and her usual cheery smile disappeared and her demeanor darkened, ‘‘but first I should pass along some information I just received from the lab. They’ve identified the third victim—Abigail Mathis. She was kidnapped from her home in Jesup, Georgia, as her parents slept in the next room.’’
Hotchner asked, ‘‘When was the crime?’’
Garcia’s eyes darted to another screen; then she was facing them again. ‘‘June of 1998—less than a week before Heather Davison was abducted across the state in Summerville.’’
Morgan frowned. Why were these kidnappings clustered like this?
Hotchner asked, ‘‘How old was the Mathis girl?’’
‘‘Time of the abduction, not quite four.’’
The faces surrounding the laptap were grave.
Hotchner asked, ‘‘Any clues?’’
Garcia shook her head. ‘‘Not much. A man’s size-ten work boot i
n the backyard, under the girl’s bedroom window. The ground was soft because it rained the day before. The screen was cut, the window open, because it was a warm night. Then the little girl was gone.’’
Hotchner asked, ‘‘Anything on the boot?’’
‘‘A Wolverine, very popular. Popular size, as well. Both the locals and the bureau tried to run it down, but got nowhere with it.’’
‘‘Thanks, Garcia,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘We appreciate the good, hard work. Don’t be shy about sending us updates.’’
‘‘I won’t be, sir,’’ she said, then clicked off.
Turning to Morgan and Reid, Hotchner said, ‘‘Both the other crimes seem more spontaneous—smash and grab—but this one, he had to plan a little at least.’’
Morgan said, ‘‘Plus, he broke into an occupied home and stole a child without alarming anyone else in the house.’’
Hotchner nodded somberly. ‘‘Our UnSub has skills we were unaware of. Let’s incorporate this information into the profile. Also, let’s get on the phone to Rossi and Prentiss, and get them up to speed.’’
Heflin, Alabama
The black SUV bearing SSA’s Rossi and Prentiss, with SA Carlyle at the wheel, made its way west, chasing the afternoon sun, rolling into Alabama to finish the second half of their mission. The trip, roughly seventy-five miles, took them about an hour and a half, mostly on two-lane roads. At the state line, Georgia 114 had turned into Alabama 68, and at Centre they turned onto Alabama 9, which would take them the rest of the way to Heflin.
They weren’t far from their destination when Prentiss clicked her cell phone off. Even though Rossi and Carlyle only heard her side of the conversation, she could tell both men had been able to follow the conversation.
Rossi asked, ‘‘What was the victim’s name?’’
‘‘Abigail Mathis,’’ Prentiss said. ‘‘Actually, she was taken before the other two.’’
‘‘From where?’’
‘‘Jesup, Georgia.’’
‘‘Hell,’’ Carlyle said. ‘‘That’s the other side of the state—clear over by Savannah.’’
Rossi asked Prentiss, ‘‘Same timetable?’’
‘‘Less than a week before Heather Davison.’’
Rossi asked Carlyle, ‘‘How far is Jesup from Atlanta?’’
With a slow shrug, the big African-American agent said, ‘‘Two hundred thirty, maybe two hundred forty miles.’’
Prentiss said, ‘‘That’s a long way from here.’’
Nodding, Rossi said, ‘‘Our UnSub’s charted a pretty big hunting area. I’m thinking he started somewhere down that way, then came up here on his way north. He didn’t just increase his hunting area, he moved. Maybe he was even on a spree as he headed north.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘Still, there’s got to be a way to narrow that area. It’s time for a geographical profile.’’
Prentiss said, ‘‘Hotchner mentioned he had Reid doing one.’’
‘‘Good.’’
‘‘Hotch also said Abby Mathis was stolen from her house while she was asleep, and that her folks were asleep in the next room. Awfully bold.’’
Rossi made a sour face. ‘‘And another derivation.’’
Carlyle glanced a question at Rossi; then his eyes returned to the road.
Rossi said, ‘‘Anybody can make a bad decision and grab something that’s out in the open—in this case, Heather Davison and Lee Ann Clark. Breaking into a house, that takes planning, that takes more than just one bad decision.’’
Prentiss said, ‘‘And look at it the other way around—going from planning an assault on a house to snatching victims of opportunity points to a spree, too.’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ Rossi said, eyebrows flicking up and down, ‘‘if there’s a stressor in that area, around Savannah, that set him off. Might have caused the derivation.’’
Carlyle asked, ‘‘What kind of stressor?’’
‘‘That’s what we need to find out,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘Before we worry about that, though, let’s get back to MO. When these kids disappeared, each was treated as a separate horrific crime, right?’’
Carlyle nodded.
‘‘Well, the cops in Summerville and Heflin had similar crimes, and not that much distance between them. They might well have compared notes, because they were looking for the same ‘type’ of criminal. Even though Jesup was only a week earlier, there would have been some synergy over the crimes, but, even just ten years ago, we didn’t think there would be overlap in criminal types. We weren’t nearly as adept at understanding the subtle link the victims play in crimes like these.’’
Prentiss said, ‘‘Three blonde girls of approximately the same age disappearing from two states.’’
‘‘Right. Now we look for the similarities in the victims and why they were chosen over all the other three-year-old blonde girls in the same two-state area. Back then, we would have looked at the crime in Jesup and automatically assumed it was perpetrated by a different UnSub, because the only similarity to the other two crimes was that the victim was a blonde girl—everything else was different.’’
Prentiss, nodding, said, ‘‘That crime happened hundreds of miles away and was a break-in, while the others were children grabbed from public places.’’
Rossi shrugged. ‘‘At the time, we would have automatically assumed it was a coincidence.’’
Carlyle grunted. ‘‘I thought the manual said that we don’t believe in coincidence.’’
‘‘I absolutely don’t believe in coincidence,’’ Rossi said with a little chuckle, ‘‘except when one happens. Our problem now is to figure out this UnSub’s signature in two kinds of crimes.’’
Carlyle said, ‘‘Hey, sorry, but I’m not following. You want me to just drive and shut up?’’
‘‘Hell no,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘We can use the prodding. Let’s start with MO—how our UnSub operates.’’
‘‘Right.’’
‘‘Assuming he’s keeping these girls for that long a period of time, he’s committing two types of crimes. First he kidnaps them, then much later he kills them. The MO on the three murders is exactly the same, nearly ritualistic.’’
‘‘All right,’’ Carlyle said, obviously getting it.
‘‘But in the kidnappings, he’s changed MOs—why?’’
‘‘No idea,’’ Carlyle admitted.
‘‘Something changed,’’ Prentiss said. ‘‘That’s the stressor Rossi mentioned.’’
‘‘Okay,’’ Carlyle said, ‘‘I can see that. . . .’’
‘‘Now,’’ Rossi said, ‘‘here’s the reason we’re here. This UnSub also has a signature. It’s not how he does the crime, it’s what he needs to do for the crime, to give him what he’s after.’’
‘‘Girls,’’ Carlyle said. ‘‘He needs girls.’’
‘‘Not just any girls,’’ Prentiss said.
‘‘That’s right,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘Little girls, little blonde girls, toddlers, and why? And why those particular blonde girls over all the others in Georgia?’’
Carlyle said, ‘‘Again, no idea.’’
‘‘We don’t know either,’’ Rossi admitted, almost cheerfully. ‘‘But we will, we will.’’
The seat of Cleburne County, Heflin was home to 2,906 souls, according to the sign they passed as they rolled into town on Alabama 9 from the west. The highway turned into Ross Street and when they got to 405, Carlyle pulled into the parking lot of the Heflin Police Department.
Once inside, they repeated the process they’d gone through with Sheriff Burke up in Summerville. This time, their audience was a detective named Paul Wentworth, an athletic-looking young man in his early thirties with close-clipped brown hair, clear blue eyes and an easy smile. Dressed in jeans and a blue open-collar work shirt, Wentworth might well have been Rossi’s son, and he paid respectful close attention as the senior FBI agent laid out what they had so far.
They were in a cramped office, Wentworth sitting on the corner of a m
essy desk looking down at Rossi and Prentiss in the visitors’ chairs while Carlyle leaned on a file cabinet near the door.
‘‘Am I right,’’ Prentiss said, ‘‘in assuming you’re too young to have worked on the original case?’’
‘‘That’s right. It’s fallen to me.’’
Rossi, his frustration evident (to Prentiss at least), asked, ‘‘Could we talk to the detective who worked the case?’’
‘‘Sorry, no—the investigating detective was a good cop, Clint Anderson.’’ The young man’s voice tightened with emotion. ‘‘We lost him to a heart attack, three years ago.’’
‘‘Sorry,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘This job can do that.’’
‘‘Yes, it can,’’ Wentworth said. He shifted gears. ‘‘I’ve read the file and I’ve even tried to dig around a little, but I’m afraid I haven’t gotten anywhere.’’
They spoke for another ten minutes, but when they were finished, Prentiss hadn’t learned a thing.
Wentworth led them across town, past the small park where Lee Ann had been abducted. This late in the day, school had already been dismissed—with the temperature in the fifties, a few children were playing, wearing coats, playground equipment set off to one side, parents or babysitters sitting on nearby benches.
Prentiss figured when the abduction took place, the park would have been fairly crowded. A June day would have meant families with smaller children near the playground, older kids playing baseball, and traffic gliding by. Still, someone had been able to snatch Lee Ann Clark without being noticed.
As had been the case with Summerville, Prentiss figured the locals would likely have noticed a stranger. If the kidnapper was the same person who had grabbed Heather Davison, what state’s plates were on the Aerostar?
Or was it possible that the kidnapper had changed vehicles? Instead of helping build a profile, each crime scene seemed only to add questions. Were they getting closer or farther away from their quarry? She still did not know.
This neighborhood was only slightly more well-to-do than the Davisons’ in Summerville. Like that block, very few cars were on the street; people were getting home from work now, so there was some traffic—but Prentiss would bet that most of these homes belonged to families where both parents worked and were away during the day.
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