‘‘Something just to . . . hold for him, maybe?’’
Fryman shook his head. ‘‘Nothing.’’ Then, frowning, he added, ‘‘Well . . . he did sell me his car. Real good price, too. Way under Blue Book. He said he was getting a new one to go with his new job.’’
The three agents traded looks.
‘‘What?’’ Garue asked.
Reid said, ‘‘He’s probably planted evidence.’’
Alarmed, Fryman blurted, ‘‘Of what?’’
Hotchner said, ‘‘Something from the two recent kidnappings, most likely—when did you buy the car from him?’’
‘‘Not quite a week ago.’’
More to himself than Fryman, Hotchner said, ‘‘Before the kidnappings . . .’’
The Fryman house was just beyond the city limits on a two-lane road with woods on either side and out back, too. That knowledge told Morgan what Silvan had been looking for.
‘‘He was coming to plant the evidence now,’’ Morgan said. ‘‘Only we were here.’’
Mrs. Fryman, more composed now but still afraid, asked, ‘‘Does that mean he’s gone?’’
From the window Morgan could see the woods on either side of the property, running almost to the road, framing the view. ‘‘Can he get into the woods in his car?’’
‘‘Oh yes,’’ Fryman said. ‘‘There’s a Bassinko service road less than a quarter mile that way.’’
He pointed in the direction the Taurus had disappeared.
Looking at Hotchner, Morgan said, ‘‘He’s been planning this all along. The only thing that went wrong was we were too quick, jumping on Mr. Fryman here as a suspect. For all the trouble we’ve been having with this case, from Silvan’s point of view? We were actually too good.’’
Fryman asked, ‘‘Now what?’’
Hotchner’s eyes were on Morgan. ‘‘You have a plan, don’t you?’’
Morgan nodded. ‘‘Mr. Fryman, does this house have a basement?’’
‘‘Yeah, why?’’
‘‘Take your wife, and get down there now. Don’t come out until you hear us give an all-clear.’’
The Frymans rose off the couch and moved toward the kitchen.
Hotchner asked, ‘‘Derek, what’re you thinking?’’
‘‘Hotch, you have to leave.’’
That halted Fryman and his wife in their tracks, and the husband blurted, “What?’’
But Hotchner was on track with Morgan.
Reid was, too, and said, ‘‘He knows the FBI is here. What he doesn’t know is how many of us there are.’’
‘‘Right,’’ Morgan said. ‘‘Hotch, you, Reid and Garue go. Silvan’s going to hide in the woods until he thinks the FBI has moved on—his whole new life depends on his planting this evidence. If he fails, he’s had it. He has to do this. But he’s not going to risk it while the FBI is here.’’
Hotchner was nodding. ‘‘Mr. and Mrs. Fryman, come back here, please—you need to walk us to the door. When we leave, you get down into the basement, just as Agent Morgan said.’’
Fryman nodded. So did his wife.
Turning to Garue, Hotchner asked, ‘‘You familiar with this service road Mr. Fryman mentioned?’’
‘‘Sure.’’
‘‘We’ll pull out, and we’ll go there. Then we’ll come through the woods to back up Morgan.’’
‘‘That,’’ Garue said with a smile that cracked his leathery face, ‘‘is a plan.’’
While the others went out the front, performing their ruse, Morgan slipped out the back, leaving his parka behind despite the cold, moving along the old two-story house, his pistol in his hand, barrel down. He hugged the outer wall and hoped that Silvan had stayed in the woods on the east side, the direction Morgan had seen him take. The car Silvan had sold Fryman was parked nose-in in the gravel driveway on this side, in front of a freestanding two-car garage with its door down.
Morgan couldn’t be sure from what direction Silvan might approach. His guess was the car would be the suspect’s destination—that Silvan would be ready to plant something in the trunk, using a spare key he’d kept. That meant the UnSub’s most likely avenue was not from behind the house, nor on its west, but on the east, where the car waited.
If Morgan was wrong, and Silvan came up in back, the profiler would make a good target should the UnSub have a gun. But if their profile was correct, Silvan would likely not be armed—this UnSub would do everything he could to avoid confrontation. A gun would hardly be this killer’s first option. And even if Silvan did resort to a firearm, Morgan felt confident he’d be a hell of a lot more comfortable with his weapon than the other way round.
Still, lucky shots happened, and Morgan did not intend to be the victim of one. He slipped into the grassy space between the house and the garage and, at the front corner of the latter, peeked to see the SUV driving off.
The Frymans were not on the front porch. He hoped they were back inside and beating a hasty retreat for the basement about now.
The sun was almost down, the light fading fast. If Silvan didn’t make his move soon, darkness might prevent Morgan from seeing the suspect until the guy got to the car. But Silvan had the other half of the same problem: Wait too long, and he’d be finding his way in darkness back to his own car.
The UnSub must have come to the same conclusion, because within moments Morgan saw the suspect slink out of the woods, in a Bassinko Company Windbreaker no less, moving low and slow across the yard, something in his hands—something made of cloth—his eyes glued to the front of the house . . . looking to see if Fryman might not come back out, Morgan realized, to put the car away in the garage.
The closer Silvan got, the faster the man moved, then made a sudden stop at the rear of the car. Morgan heard the click of a key in a lock. The trunk lid came up, blocking the suspect from the profiler’s view.
Staying low, Morgan made the short distance to the front of the car. They were at opposite ends of the vehicle now, each out of the other’s sight. Morgan was low, next to a headlight, any slight sound he’d made having been covered by Silvan messing about in the trunk.
The killer was planting his evidence.
But to keep it from being too obvious, Silvan was burying it under the spare tire in the bottom of the trunk, from the sound of things, anyway.
When the trunk lid closed quietly, Morgan jack-in-the-boxed and pointed his gun across the length of the vehicle. ‘‘Freeze it right there!’’
The bespectacled man couldn’t have looked more stunned if Morgan had slapped him. The man’s latex-gloved hands were on the trunk lid, and held no weapon.
The snout of his gun trained on Silvan’s chest, Morgan said, ‘‘Lawrence Silvan, you’re under—’’
That was all he got out before Silvan bolted, sprinting for the woods.
‘‘No!’’ Morgan yelled. “Freeze!’’
Silvan kept running, Morgan in pursuit now, having been slowed a few seconds by navigating around the parked vehicle for the grass beyond the gravel.
On the run, the little man—damn, he was fast—fished something out of his pocket. Morgan thought it might be a gun, but it seemed too small for that, and anyway Silvan didn’t raise his hand and aim whatever-it-was back at Morgan, whose own weapon was trained on the man, ready to shoot if Silvan gave him the slightest provocation.
As they neared the woods, Silvan kept going, his arms pumping, his head down. He was getting close to their darkening shelter when another voice yelled, ‘‘Freeze!’’
Garue stepped from the edge of the forest, his gun trained on Silvan.
Who, finally, damnit, froze.
But he didn’t entirely freeze, really, pressing a button on whatever was in his hand and bringing it up to his ear.
A cell phone!
‘‘You were right, dear!’’ he said into it just as Morgan hit him with a flying tackle from behind. The phone went sailing into the trees as Silvan screamed, Morgan on top of him.
Morgan was c
uffing and Mirandizing their suspect as Hotchner emerged from the woods with the cell phone in hand.
‘‘He ended the call,’’ Hotchner said.
‘‘Where is she?’’ Morgan asked, jerking the cuffed Silvan to his feet.
‘‘Who?’’
‘‘Your wife.’’
Silvan shrugged. ‘‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I left something in my old car and just came around to get it.’’
‘‘Wearing latex gloves?’’
Silvan said nothing.
‘‘Where are the girls you’ve abducted the last two days?’’
‘‘What girls?’’
Reid was at Morgan’s elbow. ‘‘He called his wife to warn her. She’ll be on the run.’’
‘‘We need to get Garcia on this,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘We need a new profile. This time for Mrs. Silvan.’’
Garue said, ‘‘I’ll get an APB out,’’ and moved away, getting on his own cell.
The forester’s eyes were huge. ‘‘I did this, all right? But you need to know I was in this by myself. I killed them—killed them all. Suzanne had nothing to do with it. She doesn’t even know the girls are dead. She didn’t know they were stolen—she thought we were a foster home. This is all me.’’
As he led Silvan away, Morgan said, ‘‘You must be a hell of a forester, Silvan.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘You sure know how to spread the fertilizer.’’
Darkness was on them now.
Chapter Eleven
Bemidji, Minnesota
In the interview room, Lawrence Silvan sat, small and smiling, across the table from SAC Aaron Hotchner. Uncuffed, the bespectacled man reminded Hotchner of a comic actor from his childhood television viewing, but he couldn’t recall the name. Why did Silvan seem so smug, so pleased with himself, under these circumstances?
In front of Hotchner was a closed folder; his only goal in this session was to get those girls back, unharmed—nothing else mattered.
‘‘Where are they, Lawrence?’’
Silvan shrugged, his tiny smile ever present. This had been his response to every question he’d been asked since they were in the Frymans’ yard and he’d blurted that absurd ‘‘confession.’’
Finally, in a small yet not really timid voice, the suspect spoke.
‘‘I told you,’’ Silvan said. Shrug, smile. ‘‘I killed them. I killed them all.’’
Wally Cox. That was the actor’s name. Wally Cox.
‘‘All right,’’ Hotchner said, resigned.
The BAU team leader had hoped not to have the blatantly false confession as their starting point. Having to break that down, before getting to the truth, would cost time, and who knew how much time those girls had? How could they know Silvan’s wife wouldn’t dispose of the children on her way to disappear?
This was mitigated by Silvan knowing every bit as well as Hotchner that the forester would be spending the rest of his life in prison, without any possible hope of parole. This gave Hotchner absolutely nothing with which to bargain.
If the husband wanted to bear the entire weight of the crimes committed by him and his wife, Hotchner could do nothing to stop him, at least not with the evidence they had now.
‘‘How did you kill them?’’
Silvan eyed his inquisitor suspiciously. After a moment, he said, ‘‘I gave them an overdose.’’
‘‘What of?’’
‘‘Of barbiturates.’’
‘‘Where did you get the barbiturates?’’
Again Silvan considered the question before answering. ‘‘I pilfered them.’’
‘‘From where, Lawrence?’’
‘‘From my wife.’’
‘‘Your wife uses barbiturates?’’
‘‘Suzanne has had trouble sleeping for a long time.’’
‘‘Were these prescription medications, Lawrence?’’
‘‘Yes. Suzanne has needed sleeping pills and painkillers for years.’’
‘‘Why?’’
‘‘She had . . . problems.’’
‘‘Had problems?’’
‘‘Had problems at home. When she was younger.’’
‘‘What kind of problems, Lawrence?’’
Silvan hesitated. ‘‘The emotional kind.’’
‘‘And she got painkillers prescribed for her emotional problems?’’
Silvan fussed with a shirt cuff.
‘‘Do I have to repeat the question?’’
Letting go of the cuff but not looking at Hotchner, Silvan said, ‘‘She got in trouble as a girl.’’
‘‘Trouble.’’
‘‘You know. As a girl.’’
‘‘What kind of trouble, Lawrence?’’
‘‘Some boy got her in trouble.’’
‘‘She was pregnant. Did she have the baby, Lawrence?’’
This time the answer was prompt, with some old anger under it, the calm eyes flashing behind the glasses. ‘‘Some son of a bitch did it.’’
‘‘Did what, Lawrence? Make her pregnant?’’
‘‘No! Gave her a bad abortion—when she was a teenager. That left her with chronic pain. Listen, I’m sorry.’’
‘‘Sorry, Lawrence?’’
‘‘For swearing just then. I wasn’t raised that way.’’
Hotchner paused at that speed bump. Then he asked, ‘‘And this . . . back-alley abortion, that’s why Suzanne could never have children of her own?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘That’s very sad, Lawrence.’’
‘‘I know.’’ He was staring into nothing. ‘‘But I still wanted kids.’’ The smug little smile returned. ‘‘So . . . I just took them when I saw one I liked. And made them mine.’’
‘‘And Suzanne never knew?’’
‘‘Well . . . she, uh, because of her emotional problems, we couldn’t, uh . . . adopt. That’s why I told her we were going to be, you know, foster parents. She never knew how I got the girls. That was my little secret.’’
‘‘She never wondered why no one official came around to talk to you and her about these foster children?’’
‘‘No. I said I handled all that.’’
‘‘Why did you kill the girls when they got older, Lawrence?’’
‘‘They were nicer at a young age. Easier to handle.’’
‘‘And Suzanne never suspected you were disposing of them when they reached a certain age.’’
‘‘No. She just thought they’d been turned back over, to, uh, you know, the state or some agency. And that we’d been asked to be a foster home for a new batch of girls.’’
Then he smiled a little bit bigger. Hotchner knew why: The planner was improvising, and was proud of how well he was doing on the fly.
Hotchner decided to turn up the heat. ‘‘Did your wife know you were having sex with the girls?’’
‘‘I wasn’t!’’
Hotchner didn’t think he was, but turned the knife, anyway. ‘‘Isn’t that why you had to dispose of them when they got older? They might tell your wife, or run and tell the authorities, what you were doing to them?’’
The color drained from Silvan’s face, his mouth yawning like a trapdoor. ‘‘I . . . I . . . would . . . would never. . . . do . . . such a . . . such a . . . evil thing. . . .’’
Hotchner had heard many a killer speak of the world as seen through a distorted prism; but Silvan’s definition of evil was brand-new even to the seasoned profiler.
‘‘I would never harm those girls! I loved them . . . but not in a sick way.’’
‘‘Until they became women. Once they reached puberty, you couldn’t deal with them, could you? Or was it that as young women they were no longer physically attractive to you?’’
‘‘I never had relations with them—ever!’’ The UnSub who hated confrontation now had not a child to deal with, or even a teenage girl, but a grown man who was not having any of his lies. ‘‘I said before . . . I loved them. They were
our children.’’
‘‘They weren’t your children, Lawrence; you abducted them. You stole them from their real parents. Why would you do such an evil thing if not to have sex with them?’’
‘‘It’s not evil to want a family. It’s not evil to take these innocent children to a safe place in a world this dangerous.’’
Hotchner wondered if the ‘‘safe place’’ was the Silvan home, or a hole in the ground; but this he did not ask. Not yet. ‘‘You and Suzanne wanted a family?’’
‘‘Yes,’’ Silvan said, ‘‘but My Beloved had no part in how we . . . made that family.’’
‘‘When you say ‘we,’ you mean you and your wife ‘made’ the family?’’
‘‘She raised the girls. She is a wonderful mother. But she would probably have been mad if she knew how I got the girls.’’
‘‘Probably?’’
‘‘She’d have been angry with me.’’
‘‘Angry for having relations with them?’’
‘‘I didn’t! I told you, I would never do such an evil thing! We raised our daughters with love and care. You have scientists, don’t you, who can look at the girls and tell that I didn’t touch them? Don’t you?’’
Hotchner flipped open the folder, withdrew the pictures of the bodies and spread them before Silvan like a dreadful hand of cards. ‘‘You’re right, Lawrence. The girls you loved and cared for were so decomposed that we couldn’t tell if you had sexual relations with them or not.’’
Silvan took off his glasses, tossed them clatteringly on the table. Then his eyes went everywhere but at Hotchner or the photos—he’d glance down, then regard the ceiling, then study the walls, until finally he covered his eyes with his hands.
Silvan said, ‘‘You’re not a good person.’’
‘‘Oh?’’
‘‘What kind of person would show horrible pictures like that, of dead girls, to their father?’’
Hotchner tapped one of the photos. ‘‘You see, Lawrence, since we couldn’t tell through forensics, we just assumed you had sex with all six. That’s what men who steal little girls do.’’
‘‘I didn’t,’’ Silvan insisted, hands still shielding his eyes.
“Look at them,’’ Hotchner said through his teeth. ‘‘They were beautiful young children, and you stole their childhood, and took their lives.’’
Finishing School Page 19