Finishing School

by Max Allan Collins

  Morgan gave the detective a curt nod. ‘‘I am. He staked them out, starting at the day care.’’

  ‘‘For how long?’’

  With half a wry grin, Morgan said, ‘‘I’m a profiler, not a mystic. Now, let’s figure out how he got the girl.’’

  Morgan pointed out the cameras mounted on the roof, pointed toward the gas pumps—plain as the ass on a goat, like his old man used to say.

  ‘‘The UnSub would have seen the security cams too,’’ Morgan said to Garue, ‘‘and known not to park here. Cameras inside the store would catch the parking places near the front . . . difficult to tell, without going inside, whether they might catch other spots or not.’’

  ‘‘Would our guy risk going inside to check?’’

  ‘‘Probably not. Going inside, he’d definitely get caught on camera, and this UnSub’s just too careful for that.’’

  ‘‘Grabbing a kid in broad daylight is careful?’’

  ‘‘In this instance, yes. Tell Detective Hauser to gather the security vids for the week preceding the abduction, just in case.’’

  Garue went off and did that, and Morgan kept prowling the exterior of the store, thinking, thinking. . . .

  If the UnSub didn’t park on the property, where had he parked? For the UnSub to disappear so completely, so quickly, he couldn’t have done this on foot, not on a street as busy as Twenty-fifth.

  The UnSub had a vehicle.

  A ghost vehicle, Morgan reminded himself. Something so bland and ‘‘normal’’ it would go unnoticed.

  The side street west of the convenience store was less congested with traffic, but far from deserted. On the corner opposite was a gas station, with pumps on this side. Probably security cameras aimed this way, too, Morgan thought—another possibility to pass on to Detective Hauser, though Morgan figured the UnSub would likely have considered the same possibility.

  As Morgan watched the gas station, his view was suddenly obstructed by a city bus that pulled up next to the convenience store, brakes whining, black exhaust affronting Morgan’s nostrils. A bus stop on the corner—yet another reason not to park there; too much chance of a witness.

  Morgan turned and saw, down the block, beyond the convenience store, a restaurant—a steak joint called Romano’s. Nodding to himself, Morgan headed in that direction, along Twenty-fifth. The four-lane road had plenty of traffic. Crossing it, especially with a squirming, scared child, would be impossible without someone seeing the UnSub.

  The restaurant was the only place that made sense.

  The back of the restaurant faced the east side of the convenience store. As Morgan rounded the north side of the dark-wood-paneled exterior, he studied the perimeter of the building for any sort of security cameras. To his displeasure, he found nothing.

  As he made his way around to the east side, Morgan saw a parking lot big enough for fifty cars. Was there a set of tire tracks here, belonging to the UnSub, taking off quickly with his prize?

  The double glass doors into the restaurant were locked, the interior dark. The hours, listed on the glass, were four p.m. to eleven, and midnight Friday /Saturday.

  Morgan went around front where the sign tried for elegance, ROMANO’S in red script, and below that, FOR THE BEST IN FINE DINING. Detracting from these upscale notions was a message board stating SATURDAY—ALL THE PRIME RIB YOU CAN EAT $19.99. Again, no cameras or security devices.

  Hauser and Garue approached.

  ‘‘Find anything?’’ the detective asked.

  Morgan made his suggestion about the videos from the gas station across the street.

  ‘‘Good idea,’’ Hauser agreed. ‘‘Can we send those to your digital intelligence analyst, too?’’

  ‘‘You bet,’’ Morgan said. ‘‘If there’s anything there, she’ll find it. You’re going to want to lift tire prints from the parking lot of the restaurant next door.’’

  ‘‘Why?’’

  ‘‘Because that’s where he parked during the crime.’’

  ‘‘How in hell can you know that?’’

  ‘‘It’s what I do.’’

  The Abe Lincoln look-alike frowned. ‘‘What makes you so sure?’’

  Morgan explained why that was the only place that made sense.

  ‘‘Okay, Agent Morgan,’’ Hauser said. ‘‘You sold me. I’ll see that’s done right away.’’

  ‘‘Thank you.’’

  Next they’d gone to the day care, where a series of interviews with the staff provided no help, and a short walk around the place revealed half a dozen vantage points from which the UnSub could have inconspicuously staked out the place. Morgan knew where Mrs. Scheckel had parked to pick up Sophie, and could narrow those hiding places down to about three; but could get no closer than that.

  Thursday had been a long, hard day, and he and Garue had put in four more hours after they got back to Bemidji. The first had been spent briefing the team on what they’d found in Hibbing. The next three had been spent responding to a neighbor’s report that Logan Tweed was back home, which finally allowed an interview with the last hunter in the original discovery party.

  When they had the lanky hunter in an interview room, Garue and Morgan went in together. Per Morgan’s instructions, the detective stayed mum after introducing Morgan.

  A skinny, hawk-nosed man with an unruly shock of brown hair, Tweed wore jeans and a blue and gray plaid flannel shirt over a white T-shirt.

  Morgan got right to the point. ‘‘Where have you been, Mr. Tweed?’’

  He shrugged. ‘‘I was on vacation. Everybody knew I was going on vacation.’’

  ‘‘Detective Garue, here, didn’t. And hadn’t Detective Garue told you to stay around? Didn’t you know it was inappropriate to leave town when you were involved in a murder case?’’

  Tweed’s eyes went to the detective, whose face might have been cut from stone. ‘‘I wasn’t involved! I just came up, after Billy found the skeleton. Look, I don’t get a vacation every day. I was supposed to go see my brother, so I went and saw my brother. Sue me.’’

  ‘‘This isn’t really a civil matter, Mr. Tweed,’’ Morgan said, unconvinced. ‘‘And where does your brother live?’’

  Without hesitation, Tweed said, ‘‘Virginia.’’

  ‘‘A deputy at a murder scene tells you to stay put, and you travel halfway across the country?’’

  Looking confused, Tweed said, ‘‘Halfway where?’’

  Garue piped up. ‘‘Agent Morgan, Virginia is a town about two hours east of here.’’

  Morgan nodded sourly.

  Tweed looked pleased with himself.

  Eyes unblinking, Garue said to Morgan, ‘‘It’s on the other side of Hibbing.’’

  Now it was Morgan’s turn to smile and Tweed’s to look uncomfortable.

  Tweed said, ‘‘So it’s on the other side of Hibbing—so what?’’

  Morgan ignored that. ‘‘When did you get back from Virginia?’’

  With a little shrug, Tweed said, ‘‘Late last night.’’

  ‘‘Tell me about it.’’

  ‘‘I drove home, got the message you guys left on my machine, and was going to come in tomorrow, if my neighbors hadn’t got nosy.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘That’s pretty much it.’’

  Morgan asked, ‘‘What route did you take on your return?’’

  ‘‘One Sixty-nine to Grand Rapids, then Highway Two home. Why?’’

  Ignoring that as well, Morgan asked, ‘‘So that took you through Hibbing?’’

  ‘‘Yeah, I guess, sure—I drive that route all the time.’’

  ‘‘Interesting,’’ Morgan said. ‘‘Would you happen to know what went down in Hibbing yesterday?’’

  ‘‘No. What?’’

  ‘‘A little blonde girl was kidnapped,’’ Morgan said, his voice hard and cold. ‘‘Victim the same age and general appearances as the girls you found, when they were abducted.’’

  ‘‘Those . . . those were grown girls, weren’t they?’’
r />   ‘‘Little girls when they were abducted, Mr. Tweed. Grown girls when they were murdered.’’

  Tweed sat there for maybe thirty seconds, saying nothing, as Morgan just stared at him, the way a snake regards a bug.

  Finally, the hawk-nosed man looked up. ‘‘You can’t think I had something to do with this?’’

  Morgan said, ‘‘You’re pals with Rohl, aren’t you?’’

  ‘‘Who?’’

  ‘‘Kwitcher, Billy Kwitcher. You didn’t know his real name was Rohl? And that he’s a sex offender from Arkansas?’’

  ‘‘That twerp?’’ Tweed held his hands up in surrender. ‘‘I had no damn idea!’’

  ‘‘You boys both fit the profile we’ve been developing about this killer.’’

  Tweed had a clubbed-baby-seal expression.

  ‘‘Was the burial site part of the plan,’’ Morgan pressed, ‘‘so you two could gaze across your conquests while you were hunting? And revel in your shared secret?’’

  Aghast, Tweed said, ‘‘No! No goddamn way! I never knew that side of Billy—to me he was just this sad-sack loser, and I sure as hell ain’t into kiddie porn. I don’t want any part of that shit, or any part of Billy, neither.’’

  Morgan studied the man. Either he was telling the truth or Logan Tweed was a world-class liar. Still, Rohl/Kwitcher had lived within driving distance of the original abductions, and even though Billy had done time in Arkansas, that didn’t preclude Tweed from somehow having had custody of the girls before they all moved up here.

  Morgan asked, ‘‘When did you meet Billy Rohl?’’

  ‘‘Billy Kwitcher, you mean? Not long after he moved up here, I guess. Late 2005, maybe?’’

  ‘‘Are you asking me or telling me?’’

  ‘‘I’m telling you. . . . Do I need a lawyer?’’

  ‘‘Do you?’’

  ‘‘I’m not answering another question without a lawyer!’’

  With a dismissive shrug, Morgan said, ‘‘You can go.’’

  Tweed reared back, startled. Then he jumped to his feet and made a beeline for the exit.

  When Tweed’s hand had just grasped the door-knob, Morgan said, ‘‘There is one more thing, Mr. Tweed.’’

  Tweed looked petrified to have come so close to freedom and then be stopped. He turned toward Morgan, ashen. ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Stay close. We might want to talk to you again.’’

  ‘‘Sure,’’ Tweed said. ‘‘Understood.’’

  Morgan’s voice was sharp. “ ‘Stay close’ means in town. Not at your brother’s. Not in Mexico. Not in Canada. If we have to hunt you down, Mr. Tweed—you have my personal guarantee it will not be pleasant.’’

  Tweed swallowed, nodded, and ducked out.

  Garue, frowning, asked, ‘‘Is there a reason you’re letting him go?’’

  ‘‘Let’s start with, we’ve got nothing to hold him on. Anyway, when we first arrived, you told us that he and Dan Abner were lifelong residents, right?’’

  ‘‘Right.’’

  ‘‘Well,’’ Morgan said, ‘‘unless we can tie Tweed to Rohl prior to ’oh five, we can’t tie him to the original three abductions. He could have helped with the homicides, but neither Billy nor Logan seems to have the dominant personality it’d take to kill those girls.’’

  ‘‘So you think he’s innocent?’’

  ‘‘I do,’’ Morgan admitted. ‘‘That’s got nothing to do with it, though—we’ll get Garcia to find a connection if there is one, but I’d be surprised if Tweed knew Rohl before 2005.’’

  With the Tweed interview under his belt, Morgan still had three more waiting—the foresters from Bassinko Industries: Lawrence Silvan, Randy Beck, and Jason Fryman.

  The trio sat in chairs lining the hall outside the conference room. Before Morgan could ask which wanted to go first, Reid stuck his head out the door.

  ‘‘Better get in here,’’ Reid said. ‘‘Rossi’s online with some information that Hotchner wants us all to hear.’’

  Morgan shut the conference room door behind him. JJ was at her laptop with Reid and Hotchner peering over her shoulders. When he joined them to look at the screen, Rossi—courtesy of Garcia, no doubt—was waiting.

  ‘‘Okay,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘We’re all here, Dave—what have you got?’’

  ‘‘Three more dead girls,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘Same UnSub—he killed three down here before moving to Minnesota.’’

  Hotchner asked, ‘‘Do we know where these girls are from?’’

  ‘‘Garcia’s working on that now, along with the Georgia Bureau of Criminal Investigation.’’

  ‘‘Details?’’

  ‘‘Three teenage girls buried next to each other just as in Bemidji.’’

  Reid said, ‘‘It’s not like blonde girls buried in threes is something that comes up regularly—how did we not know about them?’’

  Rossi explained how only one death had been known about, and how he and Prentiss had led the team that unearthed the other two.

  ‘‘Dave,’’ Hotchner said, clearly impressed, ‘‘good work.’’

  ‘‘The land the bodies were buried in,’’ Rossi said, ‘‘is owned by Clenteen Industries—a lumber company.’’

  Reid and Morgan traded glances at this significant news, but Hotchner didn’t even have to think about it.

  ‘‘Let’s get Garcia going,’’ the team leader said, ‘‘on tracking employees who left Clenteen Industries, and went to work for Bassinko over the last ten years.’’

  Garcia popped up, her smaller image next to Rossi’s, as she did her magic with conference video.

  She said perkily, ‘‘Already have the list, sir.’’

  Hotchner asked, ‘‘How many names on it?’’

  ‘‘Seven.’’

  ‘‘That seems high.’’

  ‘‘Clenteen and Basinko are both owned by a huge holding company, the MRST Corporation. This allows employees who might be laid off at one plant to transfer to another, depending on where needed and, of course, seniority. Over the same period, six employees went in the other direction.’’

  Morgan said, ‘‘We need to narrow the list.’’

  Garcia said, ‘‘Three of the seven moved up there within the last year.’’

  Rossi said, ‘‘If I’m right, and the UnSub made a run for it ten years ago, we can eliminate those three. I think the flood causing the first body to be found was the stressor that forced the UnSub to run.’’

  Hotchner said, ‘‘In that case, we only need the transfers that happened ten years ago. . . . Garcia, how many of the employees transferred ten years ago?’’

  Garcia rolled out of view to check another screen, then rolled back. ‘‘Two—Lawrence Silvan and Jason Fryman.’’

  ‘‘Let’s concentrate on them,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘Rossi, you and Prentiss keep working with Garcia to identify the bodies of the Georgia victims.’’

  ‘‘Already on it,’’ Rossi said.

  His image disappeared, and then so did Garcia’s.

  Hotchner passed out instructions to Reid and JJ, who were charged with putting the final pieces of the profile together, to brief the local police once Morgan was finished.

  ‘‘Morgan,’’ Hotchner said, ‘‘interview all three foresters.’’

  ‘‘Not just Silvan and Fryman?’’

  Beck was a burly guy, easily capable of carrying any of the victims halfway across Minnesota. He would not have had to bury the girls that close to the road. A lifelong Bemidji resident who’d worked for Bassinko for twenty years, he couldn’t fit into the profile with a shoehorn.

  ‘‘No,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘Use Beck as a sort of control, to try to gain insight into the other two.’’

  ‘‘Got ya.’’

  Randy Beck—a hulk of fifty with a blond brush cut going to gray, in jeans, a blue work shirt, and boots—seemed to fill the corridor as they walked to the interview room.

  When they were seated, Morgan led the fores
ter through some preliminary background questions. Married, with two kids, Beck had gotten a summer job with Bassinko right out of high school and worked there every summer through college. Once he graduated, he started working his way up.

  Morgan said, ‘‘Tell me about your job.’’

  ‘‘Inspecting new growth, mostly,’’ Beck said. ‘‘We go to different forests across Minnesota, all owned by Bassinko, and we count new stems, take soil samples, measure the new growth, that sort of thing.’’

  ‘‘Do you have designated areas?’’

  Beck shrugged. ‘‘We get grids from the office, and those are the areas we work.’’

  ‘‘So—any of you could end up in forest four?’’

  ‘‘Yeah, I guess, but we tend to stay with places we already worked. So, sort of by default, it winds up being kind of territorial.’’

  ‘‘Which of you spends the most time in forest four?’’

  Another shrug. ‘‘All of us do—it’s eighty acres and there’s plenty of work. That one’s an exception. It’s also the closest to home. The other forests, those we sort of divvy up on our own.’’

  ‘‘Divided how?’’

  ‘‘I work the south, Cass County, mostly. Silvan has the area north, around Blackduck? And Fryman, he has the eastern territory, around Grand Rapids.’’

  ‘‘And whose territory would include Hibbing?’’

  ‘‘That’s east. Fryman.’’

  ‘‘Thank you, sir.’’

  Beck left and was replaced in the interview room by Lawrence Silvan. The bespectacled forester seemed out of place in jeans, work boots, and long-sleeved work shirt with BASSINKO over the left breast.

  Morgan asked Silvan the same questions as Beck and received largely the same answers.

  Morgan asked, ‘‘Are you married?’’

  ‘‘Yeah,’’ Silvan said, his look slightly quizzical over the sudden turn in the conversation.

  ‘‘Were you married when you moved up here from Georgia?’’

  Silvan studied Morgan for a long moment. ‘‘How did you know I moved here from Georgia?’’

  ‘‘Routine background check on Bassinko employees from the list you gave us. Were you married when you moved up here?’’

  ‘‘Yeah,’’ Silvan said. ‘‘College sweethearts. Why is that important?’’