He had done it.
He had the perfect present for His Beloved and he just couldn’t wait to show her.
Chapter Seven
Jesup, Georgia
They had left Atlanta early, before eight, and gotten caught up in rush hour traffic. Special Agent Scotty Carlyle once again drove the SUV with Rossi riding shotgun and Prentiss in back. The trip was 230 miles and Rossi had planned on four hours, letting them get to Jesup before lunch. The Atlanta traffic had killed that idea before they were even out of town.
Carlyle had taken I-75 south out of town. Eighty miles later, where I-475 veered south around Macon and hooked up with I-75S again, Carlyle stayed on his easterly route that became I-16E headed for Savannah.
At Dublin, Carlyle cut south again, taking U.S. 331 to McRae and then turning onto U.S. 341 for the last long easterly leg of the trip to Jesup. As they entered Wayne County, they were greeted by a sign that read SOUTHEAST GEORGIA’S BEST KEPT SECRET. Rossi hoped that wasn’t true, at least as far as their investigation was concerned. When they got into Jesup, Carlyle took a right onto Sunset Boulevard.
‘‘All right, Mr. DeMille,’’ Rossi said, ‘‘I’m ready for my close-up.’’
‘‘Say what?’’ Carlyle asked.
Prentiss said, ‘‘You’ve never seen Sunset Boulevard? Classic film? Billy Wilder?’’
Glancing over, Carlyle asked, ‘‘Any brothers in it?’’
‘‘No,’’ Rossi said, with half a smile, ‘‘just William Holden and Gloria Swanson.’’
‘‘Never heard of it.’’ Then, tapping himself on the chest, Carlyle said, “‘I am big—it’s the pictures that got small.’ ”
Rossi and Prentiss laughed.
Carlyle said, ‘‘You think the only movies I ever saw had Fred Williamson in ’em?’’
Rossi shook his head. ‘‘Just figured you were too damn young.’’
‘‘Maybe so,’’ Carlyle said, ‘‘but I took a film class when I was an undergrad at Ball State. And, anyway, Turner Classic Movies comes with basic cable.’’
From Sunset Boulevard, Carlyle made the left onto Orange Street and rolled into downtown Jesup, though that was a grandiose way to put it for this home to a shade over ten thousand people. The business district had a small-town feel with mom-and-pop businesses interspersed with occasional vacant storefronts.
Soon they were pulling up across the street from a newish-looking brick building with the words JESUP POLICE DEPARTMENT in granite above the door, to the left of which was a picture window bearing the department’s logo.
They parked and got out, Rossi noticing no meters to feed. People on sidewalks on either side were split between those who ignored the visitors and others who frankly studied with good-natured suspicion the strangers with the government plates on their vehicle. As the trio of FBI agents crossed in the middle of the block, a pickup driven by a greasy-haired young man slowed down for him to eyeball them.
A wooden bench under the big window of the police station was the current location of a lanky African-American in a gray suit and an open-collar white shirt, eating a candy bar, as if to bulk up some. With his short black hair and a full goatee, he probably appeared older than he was, and Rossi made him for no more than thirty. His warm brown eyes brightened and he smiled and rose as they neared.
‘‘Detective Tim Mickerson,’’ he said, extending his hand.
Carlyle shook the man’s hand and made the introductions.
Mickerson squinted and put on a sideways grin. ‘‘Not the writer David Rossi?’’
‘‘Guilty as charged,’’ Rossi said with a nod. ‘‘About ten years ago, the White Sox had a bonus baby named Mickerson, I believe.’’
The detective’s grin straightened. ‘‘Also guilty. A Sox fan?’’
‘‘Baseball fan,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘Cubs, though.’’
Mickerson made a face. ‘‘Dirty job, but I guess somebody’s gotta do it.’’
‘‘That doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate talent. Are you the Mickerson in question?’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ Mickerson said, trying to rotate his shoulder. ‘‘And a baby no more—not after a torn labrum. Damn thing never healed right. I came back here and became a cop.’’
Rossi said, ‘‘Nothing wrong with that, except the paycheck.’’
Shrugging, the detective said, ‘‘Hey, cost of living’s low down here, and I like the work just fine. It’s not baseball, but I’ve still got a little nest egg.’’
‘‘A lot of guys don’t,’’ Rossi said, shaking his head. ‘‘Sign a ball for me?’’
‘‘For a Cubs fan?’’ Mickerson asked, rubbing his chin. ‘‘Maybe, if the famous writer signed a book for me . . .’’
‘‘We could do a trade,’’ Rossi said with a grin, and the two men shook on it.
‘‘Now,’’ Mickerson said, the candy bar wrapper disappearing into a jacket pocket, ‘‘let’s talk about why you’re here.’’
Prentiss said, ‘‘Abigail Mathis.’’
Mickerson’s expression went sober. ‘‘June 1998. Biggest crime this town ever saw.’’
Rossi asked, ‘‘Were you here yet?’’
‘‘Naw. Still playin’ ball back then. I’ll introduce you to Malcolm Henry—he was the investigator then, retired now. So, you want to meet the family first or look at the evidence?’’
‘‘Well, we’re here,’’ Rossi said, glancing at the police station. ‘‘Let’s look at the evidence.’’
Mickerson reached in an inside jacket pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it and handed it over to Rossi.
Rossi studied the photograph of a boot print in the mud. ‘‘What’s this?’’
‘‘That’s the evidence,’’ Mickerson said. ‘‘Unless you want the window screen the killer cut. He cut it with a serrated knife.’’
Prentiss said, ‘‘He wasn’t a killer then.’’
Shrugging, Mickerson said, ‘‘He is now.’’
‘‘Well,’’ Rossi said, ‘‘now that we’ve gone over the evidence, let’s meet the family.’’
As they rode along—Mickerson up front navigating, as Carlyle drove, Rossi now in the back with Prentiss—the senior profiler couldn’t help but think about the number of people this case had touched. Not just the three victims, but their parents, family and friends, and God only knew who else. He’d seen some of these monsters get famous, sometimes in part because of him, while their many victims (a list not limited to just the actual murder victims) languished in anonymity.
It stunk.
He had made calls on victims’ families many times in the old days. Although he had come back to the BAU for his own reasons, he wondered how much longer he could continue to immerse himself in the rivers of despair these human monsters created, and not come away as broken as Jason Gideon or Max Ryan or Elle Greenaway. The latter he didn’t know, but he had heard—Prentiss was her replacement.
The profilers all guarded themselves against burnout as best they could; still, the threat was always there. Other personal damage could be inflicted by the job, like the marital trouble that had crept up on Hotchner, who in part saw himself as fighting for all families like his and along the way lost his wife and was now struggling to maintain a decent relationship with his son. Chalk up another family ripped apart by these monsters.
The Mathises lived in a rambling story-and-a-half clapboard on Charleston Street, west and a little south of the police station. The white house looked like every other house on the block. The driveway might be on the other side here and there, and one yard’s tree might be taller than another’s, but essentially the house and yard were interchangeable with their neighbors.
Somehow, out of this sameness, the UnSub had chosen the little girl who perfectly fit his psychotic need.
How?
Why?
At the front door of the house, Mickerson made the introductions and the agents were invited inside. The living room of the Mathis home was small and
devoid of family photos of any kind.
No television in the room, either, the furnishings plain, simple—a gray couch against one wall, two chairs divided by a picture window, a midroom plain brown table bearing the day’s neatly folded newspaper and a Bible. No magazines, no electronic devices, not so much as a cell phone set down anywhere—the electric lamps on the sofa’s end tables seemed the family’s only acquiescence to modern technology.
Blond, blue-eyed Ansen Mathis would not have been out of place on a recruiting poster for the Aryan Nation, with his wide shoulders and muscular arms. Mathis—in a denim jacket over a navy blue T-shirt and jeans—had pale skin for such a sunny clime, and a smile as narrow and straight as a razor slash.
His wife, Ashley, had shoulder-length blonde hair, green eyes, a rosy complexion and a slender build. She wore a lightweight brown jacket over a scoop-neck blue shirt. She too wore jeans. They looked to Rossi like a countrified version of the bride and groom from atop a wedding cake.
The Mathises each took a chair, the picture window between them, while the three federal agents squeezed onto the small couch and Mickerson remained standing.
At least Rossi had been spared the notification job this time—the family had been informed of their daughter’s death as soon as she was identified. But judging from the somber expressions and red-rimmed eyes of Ansen and Ashley Mathis, the wound remained raw.
When everyone had settled, Rossi met Mathis’s blue eyes. ‘‘Tell us about that day, sir, if you’re up to it.’’
Mathis let out a long breath. ‘‘That night was like any other, I’d have to say. We read Abby a story, kissed her good night, and went to bed ourselves. Wasn’t till we got up, next morning, we realized she was gone. Ashley called 911 right away, and I went door to door in the neighborhood, but it was too late.’’
Rossi nodded politely. Mrs. Mathis was using a tissue to dab at tears.
‘‘I wonder if we could back up,’’ Prentiss said, sitting forward. ‘‘Could we hear about your whole day that day?’’
Ansen and Ashley Mathis traded a confused look.
‘‘You can widen that,’’ Rossi said, ‘‘to the several days before.’’
Bewildered, Mathis asked, ‘‘Why, Agent Rossi?’’
Rossi sighed. ‘‘The Unknown Subject who abducted your daughter did not pick her at random. As I believe you were informed, this individual has abducted other children, all of whom share your daughter’s basic description. So a little dark-haired girl down the block wouldn’t do, and neither would a redheaded boy or girl two streets over. Whoever took Abby did so because she fit his unique needs . . . and because he knew she would be here—here, in this house, not any of the other houses in this neighborhood. So the question I come up with, as an investigator, is: How did he know which house the blonde girl lived in?’’
Mrs. Mathis shrugged and her husband frowned in thought.
Rossi said, ‘‘I know you went over all this, time and again, ten years ago. But if there’s something . . .’’
No one said anything for a long moment.
He tried again: ‘‘Whoever took your child knew where to look—and we just have to figure out how he knew.’’
‘‘I’m sorry,’’ Mathis said, wide-eyed, shaking his head. ‘‘But other than our friends at church, we hardly see anybody. We keep to ourselves and a small circle.’’
Prentiss asked, ‘‘Did Abby go to preschool?’’
Mrs. Mathis said, ‘‘Yes—at the church.’’
Rossi asked, ‘‘Which church?’’
Mathis said, ‘‘New Kingdom Worship Church.’’
‘‘How long have you been members?’’
‘‘Twenty years for me,’’ Mrs. Mathis said. ‘‘A couple years less for Ansen.’’
Rossi asked, ‘‘Is the membership steady, or is there turnover? Do people come and go?’’
Mathis allowed some teeth to show through the razor-blade smile. ‘‘Not a lot of turnover anywhere in Jesup, Mr. Rossi. I bet we haven’t lost five families at our church in all the time we’ve been there.’’
Rossi asked them more questions, including whether they’d seen any out-of-state vehicles or suspicious individuals near the house or even just in town, but neither parent could come up with anything.
Finally Rossi nodded. ‘‘Thank you for your time—and we are truly sorry for your loss.’’
‘‘Thank you,’’ Mathis said. ‘‘And God bless you.’’
‘‘God bless you,’’ his wife said.
Coming from these two, the words were not a rote farewell; Rossi sensed the genuine depth of their thanks for the law enforcers’ efforts.
Outside, Rossi said, ‘‘We need to check out that church. Who left and when they left. For now, though, let’s go talk with your detective. Excuse me, what was his name?’’
‘‘Malcolm Henry,’’ Mickerson said.
‘‘Let’s go meet Detective Henry.’’
Bemidji, Minnesota
The team had come in early this morning and had already been hard at work for several hours when Special Agent in Charge Aaron Hotchner got himself a cup of coffee from the break room. When Hotchner returned to the conference room, he found Reid poring over maps trying to put together a geographic profile. Morgan was on the laptop with Garcia, the two going over the backgrounds of their suspects against the pieces of the profile that were slowly falling into place, like a jigsaw puzzle assembling itself in slow motion.
The BAU members didn’t know much, admittedly; but they were sure of a few things.
The UnSub was comfortable in the woods.
On the other hand, he was uncomfortable with confrontation.
He was nonviolent, in his way, despite being a murderer. (Those two facts Hotchner had gleaned from the UnSub poisoning his victims.)
Seemed to be no sign of hatred or anger in his murders.
The use of poison also made Hotchner think that the UnSub was not only uncomfortable with confrontation, but with people in general. This was a person who would avoid confrontation at all cost as well as try to not interact with people any more than necessary.
Hotchner further figured that the UnSub would have a job that would minimize contact with people. That did not, however, make Hotchner believe that the killer might not try to insinuate himself into the investigation to try to find out what the police knew.
Some serial killers would inject themselves into an investigation to gain a feeling of power from being close to the police and knowing that the very people tracking him were unaware of his nearby presence. This UnSub, however, would insinuate himself strictly for intelligence gathering.
The UnSub was smart. The use of barbiturates required at least some education to give the correct dosage, including providing an overdose. If he merely made the victim sick, or gave the victim too severe a dosage, that person might grow suspicious or even vomit. And he would fail.
As both a kidnapper and murderer, the UnSub was highly organized. No one had seen anything of him at any of the crime scenes, and after three abductions, three murders, and three burials, no witnesses at all had come forward. The UnSub had cased at least the first victim of what appeared to be a kidnapping spree.
Granted, the environment had been different when the UnSub started, no AMBER Alerts and the like; but still the UnSub had managed to abduct three girls in a relatively small area, then disappeared for ten years. No small feat, Hotchner allowed.
The more Hotchner thought about it, the more likely it seemed they might well be dealing with multiple UnSubs. A female seemed out of the question, simply because the girls were buried deeper into the woods than a normal-sized woman could possibly have carried them. The lack of witnesses of any kind indicated the UnSub had the ability to be all but invisible.
Since a normal-sized woman could not have carried the girls so far from the road—and since a larger woman probably would have been noticed somewhere along the line—to Hotchner it seemed highly improbable that the Un
Sub was female.
Which did not mean that the UnSub was a man. That is, the unlikelihood of the UnSub being a woman did not mean that a man and a woman weren’t involved in this together. They might be, as Reid had surmised, dealing with accomplices—a couple.
Hotchner also felt they were narrowing in on the age of the UnSub. The last two kidnappings could have been done by a young person, except that even for a snatch job, these were pulled off with enough care that no one had seen the kidnapper. The abduction of Abigail Mathis was well thought out—had taken planning and nerve. The murders and disposals of the bodies were done with extreme care, as well.
Well organized, Hotchner thought again, showing the patience of an older perpetrator.
The pieces were coming together, but not fast enough. Getting ready to dig further, Hotchner looked up in surprise as Garue and JJ rushed in. The blonde agent was a pretty cool customer and her grave expression told Hotchner something major had gone down.
He asked, ‘‘What?’’
‘‘AMBER Alert,’’ Garue said.
Morgan and Reid looked up from their work.
Jareau said, ‘‘A three-year-old blonde girl was just abducted from the back of her mother’s SUV in Hibbing. Grabbed right out of her car seat in broad daylight.’’
Reid asked, ‘‘Where’s Hibbing?’’
Garue said, ‘‘Hundred ten miles east of here.’’
Morgan asked, ‘‘Is it our guy?’’
‘‘Only one way to find out,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘You and Garue get there now.’’
‘‘On it,’’ Morgan said, rose, and tossed on his jacket.
Turning to Jareau, Hotchner said, ‘‘Call Rossi and Prentiss and tell them the clock may be ticking even faster.’’
‘‘Yes, sir.’’
‘‘Reid, tell Garcia what’s going on. Get her on this, too. If this is our UnSub, we’re closer than we’ve ever been. Let’s move!’’
Finishing School Page 13