‘‘We’re asking certain questions of everyone involved,’’ Morgan said vaguely. ‘‘For profiling purposes. Why did you leave Georgia?’’
‘‘I got the chance to make more money. Better opportunity than staying in Brunswick.’’
Theories abounded on how to tell if a person was lying. Profilers like Morgan built up pretty good bull-shit detectors, but he’d had people lie right to his face and still had no idea. Sociopaths were masters at this.
‘‘We liked Georgia,’’ Silvan was saying. ‘‘Weather was great, and of course up here it’s colder than a witch’s you-know-what in winter. But, still, there’s been far more opportunity in Bemidji.’’
‘‘Did you know Jason Fryman in Brunswick?’’
Nodding, Silvan said, ‘‘Sure, Jason and I’ve been going after the same jobs at the same time our whole career. He graduated from Kent State same time I came out of Iowa State. Both started at Clenteen, same time. When MRST bought Clenteen and Bassinko, that made more opportunities for a lot of people. Some took early retirement, and that made openings for Jason and me, up here.’’
‘‘You two close?’’
Silvan shrugged. ‘‘Not really. More like friendly acquaintances.’’
‘‘What do you know about his family life?’’
‘‘Not much.’’
‘‘What do you know, Mr. Silvan?’’
‘‘Well, he’s married.’’
‘‘Kids?’’
‘‘Not that I know of.’’
‘‘How about you?’’
‘‘Kids aren’t really for us,’’ Silvan said. ‘‘Between my job and my wife’s career, well, there’s just never been time.’’
‘‘What does your wife do?’’
‘‘She works out of the house. She’s a teacher.’’
‘‘How is it a teacher works out of the house?’’
‘‘She works with homeschoolers.’’
Morgan talked to Silvan a while longer, for all the good it did.
Blond, sallow-faced, with sad blue eyes, Jason Fryman looked like he’d been the skinny kid who regularly got his ass kicked by the school bully. In his early forties, Fryman wore the same uniform as the others—blue work shirt with company crest, jeans, and boots—and yet even the smaller Silvan had seemed more imposing than Fryman.
As he had with the other two, Morgan went through the questions about their jobs. Fryman’s answers were pretty much what Morgan had already heard.
‘‘Married?’’ Morgan asked.
Fryman nodded. ‘‘You?’’
Morgan smiled. ‘‘Haven’t found the right one yet.’’
‘‘You will,’’ Fryman said. He smiled, too. ‘‘Nothing like it.’’
‘‘So I’ve heard. How long?’’
‘‘Twenty-two wonderful years.’’
‘‘You got kids?’’
Fryman’s smile faded. ‘‘No. My wife miscarried with what would have been our first, twenty years ago. There were . . . complications.’’
‘‘Sorry.’’
Fryman shrugged. ‘‘Life isn’t easy for anybody, is it?’’
‘‘Not really. Why did you leave Georgia?’’
The forester mulled that, eyes on the table, fingers busy worrying the button on a ballpoint pen. ‘‘Too many bad memories, I guess. That was where Amy lost the baby. We just had to get out of there. When the opportunity came, to come up here? Why, I jumped on it.’’
‘‘And your marriage survived all of that?’’
‘‘Don’t get me wrong. We had our ups and downs.’’
‘‘Did you ever think about adoption?’’
Fryman clicked the ballpoint even faster now, caught himself, looked down at the pen and managed to let it drop on the table. ‘‘My wife has always been . . . particular.’’
Morgan wondered if he was about to hear a confession. This wouldn’t be the first time that an UnSub confessed at the first hint of pressure. Instead of exerting more, Morgan decided to let Fryman pressure himself.
‘‘When Amy found out we couldn’t adopt just the right child’’—the little man shrugged—‘‘that was the end of that.’’
Morgan waited for the other shoe to drop.
Picking up the pen, its pull too much for him, Fryman clicked the ballpoint. ‘‘So . . . we’ve never had children.’’
Morgan decided to try a nudge. ‘‘Hibbing’s in your territory, isn’t it?’’
‘‘Yeah.’’
‘‘You hear about what happened there yesterday?’’
Looking up, still clicking away, Fryman said, ‘‘It was on the news. Terrible, terrible thing.’’
‘‘Were you in Hibbing yesterday?’’
Fryman shook his head. ‘‘I called in sick yesterday. Larry covered for me.’’
‘‘Was he in Hibbing yesterday?’’
‘‘You’ll have to ask Larry.’’
Morgan, arching an eyebrow, said, ‘‘You didn’t exactly jump to his defense to say he couldn’t have done it.’’
‘‘Why, would you have taken my word for it?’’
Allowing himself a small smile, Morgan said, ‘‘No, no, I wouldn’t.’’
‘‘That’s what I thought. So why waste my breath telling you that neither one of us would do something terrible like that?’’
‘‘You understand, we have to look into the possibility where both of you are concerned.’’
Rising, Fryman said with understated but nonetheless surprising defiance, ‘‘Look away. Do whatever you want. You’ll be wasting your time, though. Somewhere out there’s a kidnapper . . . and instead of looking for him, you’re going to be wasting your time looking into Larry and me. A couple of good, upstanding citizens. Is that how the three girls here fell through the cracks?’’
As Fryman strode out of the room, Morgan could only wonder if he had just been taunted by a serial killer.
Chapter Nine
Brunswick, Georgia
Life spent continually on the road, without a bag big enough to check at the airport, made packing for a long trip a challenge that rivaled finding something healthy to eat in a break-room vending machine. Anyone who thought the lives of the BAU team were glamorous—thanks to high-profile cases and the hero-making best sellers by Max Ryan, John Douglas and David Rossi himself, among others—were sadly misinformed.
The BAU members might be away from home for as much as a month at a time. They had to find Laundromats, places to eat that weren’t simply fast food (though there was plenty of that), and lodging within the bureau’s less than generous budget, to accompany the long hours spent in police stations or field offices around the country.
A saving grace of this trip had been the excellent laundry facilities inside the hotel in Bemidji. Since then, however, an itinerary of Minnesota to Georgia to Alabama, and presumably back again, had given Emily Prentiss no chance to do her laundry.
And with the all-nighter at the grave sites last night, Prentiss hadn’t even had time to change her clothes or brush her teeth. Thankfully, a breath strip and her pocket hand sanitizer kept her from feeling terminally gross.
Rossi had planned to get them checked into a motel to clean up and catch a quick nap, but events had conspired against them.
First, they’d attended hastily scheduled autopsies of the two new bodies the crime lab team had unearthed. The smell had been minimal compared to an ordinary autopsy, the bodies having been buried for so long that the soft tissue was gone, and the aroma with it.
Some things had survived the prolonged interment, including tufts of the girls’ blonde hair; also present were shreds of clothing. Like the three girls in Minnesota, these victims had been buried in nice clothes, wrapped in blankets and sheets of plastic—much of the plastic and some of the blankets had survived as well.
The clothes, like those in Minnesota, had no tags and appeared homemade. The most surprising discovery was a little pink purse, inside of which were a stubby pencil, a comb, and a tam
pon still in its plastic applicator.
Rossi held up the plastic evidence bag containing the tampon. ‘‘Half the girls had these and the other half were of an age when they’d be getting their first period. Significant?’’
Prentiss frowned in thought and nodded. ‘‘I think it might be. . . .’’
‘‘Me, too,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘Me, too . . .’’
Cohasset, Minnesota
Things were moving fast now. Possibly too fast.
Though he had expected the FBI to talk to him at some point, he was surprised by how much they already knew. Normally, he never would have shopped two days in a row, but these were not normal conditions.
In less than two days, he and His Beloved would be on the road. He would have preferred to let things settle more before they left, but those darn hunters had disrupted his timetable. Even worse, they’d disturbed the peaceful resting place he’d bestowed their girls. One of the hunters was still being held by the cops, but the other two . . .
How he would love to punish them for what they had done—killing was too good for them, but it would have sufficed. For now he would have to be content with daydreams of torturing them, making them pay for upsetting his life, his family—this, at least, gave him a modicum of pleasure as he drove to Cohasset, a little town northwest of Grand Rapids.
Though the drive was only sixty-five miles down U.S. 2, he had taken the long way around, going south on U.S. 71 to Minnesota 200, then east through Whipholt and Remer before turning north to Cohasset. He took the roundabout route to be seen working, away from the town where he would adopt another girl. He had been in the little town before, and done some window-shopping there, just in case.
His methodical planning, always a major priority for him, had come in especially handy this time. If he hadn’t already had his eye on a little girl in Cohasset, they wouldn’t be able to build their family in nearly enough time. That was the nice thing about his job—it gave him a certain freedom, to keep his eyes open for possibilities.
Wasn’t like he hadn’t known what was coming. He had tried to talk His Beloved out of sending the girls to finishing school, but their future was out of his hands. No matter how much he pleaded with her, he never had a chance. Neither did their girls. He had known this, especially after the first time.
The little girl in Cohasset was special. He did not want to let this one get away. Besides, after Hibbing, the authorities were all looking to the east. Having a second abduction so quickly, so close to the other, would keep their attention to the east while he, His Beloved, and their new family would head west toward Washington State, and a new life.
He had gotten a job with a lumber company near Seattle, but had explained to them that he would not be able to start until after the first of the year.
That meant nearly two months with no income, but they had been saving for quite a while, and were prepared to lie low for the next month or so. Plus, once he had become aware the federals were on the way, he’d immediately asked to use two weeks of vacation he’d been saving, for just such an emergency. He would give them his resignation soon enough, but he was in no hurry. No point in giving the federals a leg up.
As he drove down the tree-lined two-lane, the aspens cast soothing shadows across the road. Once again, he reconsidered his plan to shift the blame. Even back in Georgia a plan had been in place—had the police picked up his trail too soon, he would’ve fed them someone he’d lined up to take his fall. The same was true now. Almost since their arrival in Bemidji, he had been scouting for someone to take the heat, should things play out that way.
The plan was set and, after today, he would probably have to make sure that information about the individual he’d chosen began to find its way into the hands of the FBI. Otherwise, no amount of lying low would allow their family to surface using their real name. That would mean giving up his job, his degree, and sacrificing all the years he’d put into the lumber industry.
Of course, if necessary, he would start again under a new name. After all, everything else was secondary to keeping His Beloved happy and safe; but for the last twenty-five years, he had been able to protect her and hold on to his career.
That was a long time to work so hard, but he was proud of what he and His Beloved had built up over the years. Yes, finishing school had deprived him of watching the girls fully mature, but they were a blessing for the time they were in his life. And considering this corrupt and immoral world, the girls were lucky to have the lifetimes they’d enjoyed, however truncated.
If the frame he’d constructed was as tight as he thought, his foil would take the blame for everything that had happened here, and perhaps the events in Georgia as well.
He entered the town and eased down the main street. Cohasset was too small to have a police department—a plus for him. With a population of 2,500, their protection came from the Itasca County Sheriff’s Office. Today, after the word went out, the police departments of Coleraine, Grand Rapids, Hill City and Deer River would all be involved as well. He knew that. He also knew that by the time they started blocking roads, he’d be long gone—and so would the girl.
He made sure none of the deputies’ cars were in front of the diner. In a town with no police, he’d feel humiliated after planning this shopping trip so carefully, only to have it go to h-e-double-l because some deputy was having lunch two blocks from his target.
Luckily, the diner, though busy, showed no signs of law enforcement. He traveled southeast on U.S. 2 past the diner, before turning left on Columbus Avenue, then circling the block back to the highway.
He crossed the highway to the southwest on First Avenue NW and rolled over the Burlington Northern Santa Fe rail crossing—the only thing that could disrupt his plan. Three routes of exit from the neighborhood he was entering would take him back to U.S. 2. He could come back the way he came, or use two other outlets to the north. The only downside was that all three crossed the railroad tracks at some point.
One off-schedule freight train, and he would be boxed in.
He had checked the train schedule carefully and found a train due through here just after one, but that still gave him over an hour. You heard about trains being late, but never about them running early! That better hold up today. The only other way out was a four-mile sprint dead west on a two-lane county road. If the police got in front of him, it would all be over.
The house he was looking for was on Fourth Avenue, a north-south street with only four residences on the west side between First and Second streets. The third house on the left, a white clapboard bungalow, was the home of the little blonde girl he had his eye on.
He had seen her for the first time in the diner back on the highway. After stopping there for lunch one afternoon (in the summer when he had been working in the area), he became mesmerized by the little girl when she came in with her mother. As they ate, he had watched them, and dawdled over several cups of coffee after he’d finished his lunch, then followed them out when they left. The woman had loaded the child into a car seat in the back of a blue Ford Focus. He memorized the license number just in case he lost them. Wasn’t like it was that big a town. . . .
He spent another half hour following the Focus to a gas station, then to the post office, before the woman had finally driven home. Two more trips over the end of summer and into the fall had determined that the Focus was always parked in the gravel driveway. As he eased past the house, he noted the Focus in the driveway—Mommy was home, presumably, which meant the girl would be there, too.
In a town this small, he did not dare park; the chance of somebody noticing his car was too great. Again, as he had in Hibbing, he’d rented a car. This Ford Taurus was unassuming and looked as if it might belong to the insurance salesman he pretended to be. To cover his tracks further, he had stopped at a roadside restaurant for breakfast.
He’d chosen the restaurant because the parking lot had another Taurus—a different color than his rental, but that didn’t matter. The subt
erfuge didn’t have to hold up for long; it just had to buy him a few more minutes. Any edge, however small, was a good edge.
Since he had neither the skills nor the nerve to steal a car, he did the next best thing: He parked next to the other Taurus, and—under the pretext of tying his shoe—knelt behind the vehicle and, his heart pounding, got out a small screwdriver.
Working quickly and cautiously, he removed the rear license plate, tucked it under his Windbreaker, then rose, returned to his car, tossed the plate into the trunk, and shut it. He hoped the other Taurus would pull out of the lot with its driver not missing his rear plate—and even if the plate’s absence was noticed, the driver would hardly heed the car next to him—he’d simply think that vandals had swiped the plate or, perhaps, that the bumpy Minnesota two-lane roads had knocked it off.
Walking to the restaurant, he struggled to get his breathing under control. He even stopped and bought a USA Today out of the machine and took three deep breaths as he took one more look around the lot to make sure his petty theft had gone unnoticed. He realized he was breaking his own rule of never committing a misdemeanor while committing a felony, but he had not, as of yet, committed that felony. So, he thought, the argument at this point was purely academic.
That thought gave him a smile as he entered the restaurant and had a hearty breakfast. He even left the waitress a better-than-usual tip, so she would remember him—he had still been wearing his company shirt and jeans under the company Windbreaker. After breakfast, he drove to one of his inspection points. He performed the inspection, then, with the rental car parked well off the road, changed into his suit and switched the rear license plate for the one from the diner.
Now, an hour later, feeling he’d covered his tracks, he made one more pass through the neighborhood, pretending to be looking for a house number, but really checking out the block for walkers and anyone stepping out onto their porches. From his vantage point, the neighborhood looked quieter than the forests he knew so well.
He turned into the driveway, took a deep breath to try to settle his grinding stomach, then checked his disguise in the rearview mirror. The fake mustache and cheap black wig weren’t terribly believable up close, but from a distance should work. Next, he slipped on a pair of latex gloves. He wasn’t in any fingerprint database that he was aware of, never having been arrested or served in the military, but taking chances was ill-advised.
Finishing School Page 16