He stepped from the car with a black shoulder bag that he hoped would make his insurance man disguise more believable, should any neighbors spot him. More importantly, he had the top flap open and one hand stuck inside. There was only one chance here, and the prize was breathtaking.
He had to get it right.
He climbed the two concrete steps to the door, and rang the bell. A screen door separated him from the locked inner door, half wood, half glass with curtains. Through the divide, he could see the blonde woman coming to the door. She seemed perplexed by this interruption in her day. Her eyes cut down the hallway toward what he presumed was a bedroom, and he hoped that the little girl was taking a midday nap. That might make his job easier.
When the woman’s eyes fell on him, he smiled. Though the confusion didn’t completely leave her face, the small-town girl smiled—pretty, almost as tall as him, slim with her blonde hair tied back today. She wore faded jeans and a maroon University of Minnesota sweatshirt with gold lettering and Goldy, the team mascot, on it.
She unlocked the dead bolt, opened the inner door, and, in what was a very helpful move to him, opened the screen.
Her smile was wide if still uncomprehending. “May I help—’’
That was as far as she got before his hand came out of the shoulder bag with the Taser clutched in his fist.
He fired the weapon and the tiny darts struck her in the chest. The woman’s eyes widened almost comically and her mouth formed a soundless O as she jumped and jerked, falling backward into the house.
He glanced around, saw no one on the street or on the porches of the nearby houses, and simply followed the still-shuddering woman inside. She fell to the hardwood floor of the living room, the wires between them dancing as she convulsed. He looked around at the room—tastefully decorated with a brown cloth-covered sofa, love seat and wide chair with hassock. A squat rectangular table sat in the middle of the grouping, the little girl’s toys cluttering the floor.
He closed the door, looking through the window once more to make sure the coast was clear. Looking down, he noted the woman had passed out. He bent to her and pulled the darts out of the Minnesota sweatshirt—most of Goldy the Gopher’s face had been obliterated and droplets of blood were left behind on the maroon sweatshirt.
He withdrew a small bottle of chloroform from the bag, along with a rag, undid the cap (careful to keep it at arm’s length) and poured a little onto the cloth. To make sure he had time to accomplish his goal, he held the thing to the woman’s nose for a count of ten.
She was definitely going to be out for a while. He hoped she wouldn’t remember anything about him, but if she did, she’d be hard-pressed to come up with anything beyond his disguise.
As he turned toward the hallway to the bedrooms, he saw the small blonde girl staring up at him, her expression perplexed.
“What did you do to my mommy?’’ she asked.
“She was tired,’’ he said gently, his voice low and even, despite his surprise at seeing the little girl. “Now she’s taking a nap.’’
Her cornsilk hair framed a heart-shaped face; she had a glowing porcelain complexion. Her blue eyes were the color of the sky on a sunny day, even as they filled with tears and she ran to her fallen mother.
But she did not wail or scream, nor did she run away from him. Instead, she knelt at her mother’s side as if to say good-bye. It was almost as if she’d chosen to go with him, which warmed his heart as he scooped her up and put the cloth over her mouth.
She struggled for only a moment.
He rested the quiet child on the floor, using her mother’s arms as a pillow. The little girl was so beautiful—he felt a tear roll down his cheek. This gift would make His Beloved so happy.
A thrill came from being inside this foreign house. He had only been in one other such house—that of Ellen, their first, with her parents sleeping in the next room. All he had been able to do then was collect his precious gift and run.
Today, he could shop for accessories.
The first thing he did was tie up the mother and gag her. Fifteen minutes later, he’d packed a small bag of toys and clothes, which he ran outside with and put in the trunk, leaving the lid up. The neighborhood remained quiet and he rushed back inside to gather his blanket-wrapped prize. Carrying her down the two steps and across the yard, his heart pounding, he slowly scanned every house across the street, watching for anyone who might see him.
Nothing. No one.
After placing her carefully in the trunk, he closed the lid and once again looked around before he climbed into the car and, as calmly as he could, backed out of the driveway and headed for his own vehicle. He hated having to put the precious child in the trunk, and was anxious to get her safely into her waiting car seat.
Bemidji, Minnesota
Dr. Spencer Reid ached from head to toe.
The youngest of the BAU team felt one hundred years old. The lack of sleep, from working nearly twenty-hour days with no breaks, had worn him out, both physically and mentally. He had a pounding tension headache and wanted nothing more than to close his eyes for an hour or two.
What kept him going was knowing that Hotchner, Morgan, and Jareau felt at least as drained. In the five days they’d been here, they had made significant progress; but they’d sent two members of the team to Georgia, making more work for those left behind. Even Detective Garue, who’d been with them every day, looked like he’d been on a weeklong stakeout.
The video feed on his laptop came alive and Reid found himself staring not at Garcia, but at David Rossi.
‘‘Hotch there?’’ Rossi asked.
Hotchner stepped over to Reid’s laptop, Morgan on his heels. ‘‘You have something, Dave?’’
Rossi held up the evidence bag with the purse in it. ‘‘This belonged to one of the girls,’’ he said. ‘‘She was buried with it.’’
‘‘And?’’
‘‘And inside, there was a tampon.’’
They all stared blankly at the laptop for a long second as if they had heard Rossi wrong.
Reid got it in an intuitive flash. ‘‘He loves them as girls, but he can’t tolerate them as women. That’s why he kills them—they’re turning into women.’’
Eyes flaring, Morgan said, ‘‘That goes along with our theory that he’s an incomplete personality—that he can’t maintain a normal relationship.’’
‘‘Also speaks to his control issues,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘Once they start menstruating, they’ve moved beyond his control, at least in his mind, and he can’t stand it.’’
Reid blurted, ‘‘But we’ve been working as if this UnSub is a pedophile.’’
In the room, Morgan and Hotchner stared at him, and from the laptop, Rossi did the same.
‘‘I’m just saying,’’ Reid went on, ‘‘pedophiles have very narrow interests. This UnSub has been holding these girls for long periods of time, much longer than a normal pedophile would.’’
‘‘True,’’ Rossi said, frowning from the laptop. ‘‘I think Reid might be onto something. This problem might be more complicated than simple pedophilia.’’
‘‘All right,’’ Morgan said. ‘‘So—where does that leave us?’’
For several moments no one said anything, as they all reconsidered their information so far.
‘‘Has to be a couple,’’ Reid said, as if to himself.
‘‘What?’’ Hotchner asked.
‘‘A couple,’’ Reid said. ‘‘A childless couple who wanted children, girls specifically, but for some reason, after they reach puberty, they become, what, obsolete? Or dangerous?’’
‘‘Or,’’ Rossi said from the screen, ‘‘they become competition.’’
Morgan’s eyes tightened. ‘‘Competition how?’’
‘‘Not ‘how’—who,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘For the mother. She sees them as her competition with the father . . . sexually, once they reach puberty.’’
‘‘Acting out,’’ Hotchner said, ‘‘from
abuse she probably received herself as a young woman.’’
‘‘Probably,’’ Rossi said, ‘‘from her father.’’
Hotchner twitched a frown. ‘‘Are we sure this is the right direction?’’
Rossi said, ‘‘Makes sense to me. First time the pieces have seemed to fit.’’
Garue asked, ‘‘Could a woman like that have anything like a normal relationship with a man?’’
‘‘If she did,’’ Reid said, eyes slits, ‘‘wouldn’t the characteristics of that man be nonthreatening? Insufficient personality? Avoids confrontation? Despises violence? And aren’t these the characteristics we’ve already applied to our UnSub?’’
They were all staring at him now, and if he’d been forced to answer, Reid would admit that he enjoyed the respect he saw in their eyes.
‘‘Let’s get the locals in,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘Let’s not waste any more time—let’s give them the profile.’’
The detectives, deputies, and city patrolmen who crowded into the conference room that had served as the team’s home for this week were loud as they chattered among themselves. Hotchner, Morgan, and Reid stood up front with Detective Garue. JJ was off dealing with the media, trying to keep the story from blowing up nationally on the cable news outlets—in the long run, they all knew, that would be a vain attempt.
Stepping forward, Hotchner cleared his throat and the cops straightened up and quieted down. ‘‘I’m sure by now you’ve all heard that this case is not just a local one. This UnSub has killed at least six girls in two states over the last ten years, and abducted them over an even longer period.’’
The surprised officers glanced at each other, some shook their heads, some mumbled epithets.
Again Hotchner waited for quiet, then said, ‘‘The media will try to play this case up as a sex crime and the UnSub as a pedophile.’’
Some cops nodded. The rumors had already started.
‘‘We don’t believe this to be the case.’’
They looked at him skeptically.
A uniform asked, ‘‘How is this guy not some kind of perv?’’
The profilers all winced at the word choice, but no one said anything—they were guests here. Hotchner turned to Reid, who explained about pedophiles, and how these girls had been held much longer than was typical.
When Reid finished, a detective asked, ‘‘Then what the hell is going on here?’’
Hotchner said, ‘‘Kidnappings happen for three reasons: profit, perversity, and to gain a child. No victims’ parents ever received a ransom note here, so profit was not the motive. We believe, as we’ve already explained, that sexual abuse was also not the motive. That leaves only one—to replace or gain a child.’’
The skepticism in the officers’ faces faded a little.
‘‘We think we’re looking for a married, or at least long-term, couple. He will be nonconfrontational and believe himself to be less than most men. Physically, he will not be imposing and will have trouble maintaining eye contact, especially with figures of authority. We believe he works for Bassinko Industries. We have, in fact, narrowed the field of suspects to four. Two of them moved well after the crimes in Georgia. We’ll have some of you go interview them just to be sure. The other two suspects, Jason Fryman and Lawrence Silvan, both fit the profile in most every aspect. Both are married and childless, both left Georgia within one month of the discovery of the first body there.’’
The officers were all taking notes now and Morgan was passing out photos of the two main suspects.
‘‘As for the wife of the UnSub, she is probably a victim of child abuse, and may well be the dominant partner. We expect she is the one committing the murders while the more submissive partner—the husband—abducts the victims, then, when the time has come, disposes of the bodies.’’
The officers were all attentive now.
‘‘Another thing,’’ Morgan said, getting to the back of the room and forcing the policemen to turn their heads. ‘‘Just because we’ve painted this male UnSub as Casper P. Milquetoast, don’t for a second believe he’s not dangerous. If he thinks we’re threatening his family, or his dominant partner, he will fight to protect them. He will kill to protect them. So don’t be deceived.’’
‘‘That’s right,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘And—’’
He was interrupted by a knock at the conference room door. Before he could stop her, a Bemidji police dispatcher burst into the room. ‘‘There’s been another abduction! The AMBER Alert just came out.’’
‘‘Where?’’ Hotchner asked.
‘‘Itasca County. Cohasset.’’
Reid swung toward Detective Garue.
‘‘East of here,’’ Garue said, ‘‘near Grand Rapids.’’
‘‘Let’s get to it,’’ Hotchner said over the sudden din of chatter and squeaking chairs as they were pushed back and the officers rose. ‘‘Get your assignments from your superiors.’’
The officers rushed out, as Morgan came over to join Reid, Garue, and Hotchner.
Hotchner said, ‘‘Let’s find Fryman and Silvan now.’’
Morgan shook his head, growling, ‘‘Damnit, I knew we should have tailed them.’’
Shrugging, Hotchner said, ‘‘That was my call. I thought it was premature.’’
‘‘Well, it wasn’t.’’ Then Morgan seemed embarrassed. ‘‘Sorry, Hotch. . . .’’
‘‘No, you’re right. But even now we don’t have enough agents to do it, and these locals don’t have the experience to not be made. Someone had to make the decision. I’ll carry the weight of it.’’
Reid had never been jealous of command, and even less so now. As he studied Hotchner, his boss seemed to be aging before his eyes. The stress level of their job, always high, had just tripled. A second child abducted within twenty-four hours.
But enough of self-recrimination.
Time for the BAU team to earn their paychecks.
Chapter Ten
Brunswick, Georgia
Rossi and Prentiss had interviewed a number of employees at Clenteen Enterprises who’d worked with Lawrence Silvan and Jason Fryman ten years ago. They had learned very little.
Now they sat with Clenteen’s human resources director, Dorothy Pilson, a middle-aged woman with gray-flecked brunette hair, who might have been someone’s kindly aunt, albeit one who guarded information about her employees like a pit bull.
Rossi was getting fed up. ‘‘You know, Mrs. Pilson, this is a federal investigation.’’
She smiled as if trying to explain to a slow child. ‘‘Please understand my position, Agent Rossi. My job is to preserve the privacy of our employees, past and present.’’
‘‘Understand my position,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘We’re trying to catch a murderer who has killed at least six teenage girls.’’
They endured a tense silence for a while. Next to Rossi, Prentiss sat quietly and, standing behind her, Carlyle might have been a statue.
‘‘Fryman and Silvan,’’ Rossi said, his voice neutral, if not calm. ‘‘When did they give notice?’’
Mrs. Pilson eyed him suspiciously, as if Rossi were after valuable Clenteen company secrets. Finally, she glanced at a folder on her desk.
‘‘Mr. Silvan,’’ she said with exaggerated formality, ‘‘gave his notice in May and left in June. Mr. Fryman’’—she indicated another folder—‘‘left somewhat more abruptly. He gave notice on June tenth, and was gone on the seventeenth.’’
‘‘Thank you,’’ Rossi said. With a half smile, he said, ‘‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’’
‘‘Agent Rossi,’’ Mrs. Pilson said, offended.
Rossi’s cell phone rang, signaling the end of the round.
While Prentiss and Carlyle made polite good-byes to Mrs. Pilson, Rossi adjourned to the corridor to take the call from Hotchner, who briefed him on the changing situation in Minnesota. Rossi thanked God they’d packed their stuff, which was already in back of the Tahoe.
Soon, in the SUV�
��Carlyle speeding them north on I-95 to the Brunswick Golden Isles Airport, red lights flashing, siren wailing—Rossi filled Prentiss in.
‘‘Another kidnapping?’’ she asked, eyes wide. ‘‘In less than twenty-four hours?’’
‘‘Hotch thinks the UnSubs are getting ready to bolt.’’
‘‘What set them off?’’
Frowning, Rossi said, ‘‘Us, probably.’’
‘‘You think?’’
‘‘I think,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘We’re getting too close.’’
‘‘If we’re a stressor,’’ Prentiss said, ‘‘maybe that will get him to make a mistake.’’
‘‘Maybe.’’
‘‘Skeptical?’’
Rossi shrugged a shoulder. ‘‘He’s been planning for this day. If we’re right, and I’m pretty sure we are, this UnSub has been preparing for years, ever since he abducted the last of those girls. He knew this day was coming, just like it did a decade ago. That first time may have blindsided him, but he seems pretty ready this time around. If he’s abducted two blonde girls matching the description of the previous abductees—and he’s done it within twenty-four hours—what does that tell you?’’
Unhesitatingly, Prentiss said, ‘‘He’s been shopping for replacements.’’
‘‘That’s it,’’ Rossi agreed. ‘‘He’s been shopping—and what happened the last time he changed locations?’’
‘‘The third girl he picked up, he was already on the road.’’
Rossi nodded glumly.
Prentiss asked, ‘‘What did you tell Hotch about our meeting with the HR director at Clenteen?’’
‘‘Fryman and Silvan were considered professional but private by their fellow employees. Nobody remembers whether either man ever mentioned having children. Neither ever attended company functions outside of work, and neither hung out with other employees. ‘He was a quiet loner that we never thought would hurt anyone. . . .’’’
Finishing School Page 17