Finishing School

by Max Allan Collins

  Silvan shook his head, eyes covered, moaning but saying nothing.

  ‘‘Look, Lawrence! We’ll sit here till you do.’’

  Slowly, Silvan uncovered his eyes and they went to the photos. Without his glasses, the man might have seen only a blur of the decomposed horror; nonetheless, he lasted barely five seconds before turning away, and tears began to stream. Silvan looked like a child himself now—a small boy.

  Hotchner knew that this man, in his own warped way, had indeed loved these girls. That didn’t mean Silvan hadn’t killed them, but this was likely the submissive half of the couple. The submissive would dispose of the bodies, but the dominant one would be the one doing the killing.

  And Suzanne Silvan had the two little girls now. The only difference was that this time, the dominant partner might also have to dispose of the bodies.

  Hotchner said, ‘‘You loved those girls.’’ Not a question.

  Silvan nodded meekly.

  ‘‘And you didn’t have sex with them.’’

  Silvan whispered hoarsely, ‘‘I swear to the Lord I didn’t.’’

  ‘‘You also didn’t kill them.’’

  Silvan said nothing, his eyes closed, his breathing ragged.

  Hotchner tapped a photo. ‘‘It tears you apart inside, seeing them like this.’’

  ‘‘. . . Yes.’’

  ‘‘You and I both know there are two more girls out there who will meet the same fate unless we do something.’’

  Silvan said nothing, but his eyes were still producing tears and his mouth was quivering.

  ‘‘Lawrence, you need to tell me where Suzanne has taken them.’’

  Silvan swallowed snot. Then he asked, ‘‘Why should I?’’

  ‘‘Why? So we can save them!’’

  ‘‘As long as I’m locked up,’’ Silvan said, his voice peaceful, ‘‘they don’t need saving. They’ll grow up happy and loved.’’

  ‘‘And then be murdered.’’

  The smug little smile returned, though dripping with tears now. ‘‘No. You still don’t understand. That’s when they’re really saved.’’

  And Hotchner knew this man would never give up his ‘‘Beloved.’’

  Then Silvan added, ‘‘Who knows? Maybe this time they won’t have to go to finishing school.’’

  ‘‘Finishing school?’’

  Silvan shrugged. ‘‘It’s just a phrase.’’

  But Hotchner knew at once. ‘‘A euphemism for killing the girls? Is that what she called it?’’

  Silvan was cleaning his glasses on his shirt. ‘‘No, it’s my phrase—that’s what I called it. Suzanne wasn’t part of this, remember?’’

  Hotchner knew he was facing a dead end and was almost relieved when a knock came at the mirrored window.

  When Hotchner exited the interview room, he left the pictures spread out on the table before Silvan, the little forester still doing his best not to look at them, but as if passing a car wreck, occasionally glancing anyway. Maybe a few minutes alone with the photos would change the man’s attitude.

  But Hotchner doubted it.

  Morgan, who’d been in the observation booth, joined Hotchner in the hall.

  ‘‘What?’’ Hotchner asked.

  ‘‘We know where Suzanne Silvan is headed.’’

  ‘‘Excellent. Garcia?’’

  Morgan flicked a smile. ‘‘Garcia. She did some digging when we started putting together Suzanne’s profile. Her parents, Jacob and Tess Hamilton, have been dead for years. But they left her the family farm just outside of Ames, Iowa.’’

  ‘‘Nice to know, but why do we think she’s going there?’’

  ‘‘She kept the land, but in her maiden name. It would have been hard as hell for anyone to track.’’

  ‘‘Unless they had Penelope Garcia doing the digging.’’

  ‘‘Exactly.’’

  ‘‘Okay, Suzanne owns land in Iowa—that still doesn’t tell me why she’s going there instead of anywhere else.’’

  Morgan nodded. ‘‘Fair enough. Try this—she’s never worked outside the home and has no education past high school. She may have some money they’ve saved, but what about when that runs out? Where better to get a job than somewhere where people already know her?’’

  Hotchner said, ‘‘And with the farm in her maiden name, no one will come looking for her there, or so she thinks.’’

  ‘‘If Silvan was somehow able to escape, or wriggle out of this on a legal technicality, they have to have a backup in place.’’

  ‘‘With a planner like Lawrence Silvan they would.’’

  ‘‘Right. But how would he find her? He has to know where she’s going . . . and with him in jail, it sure as hell isn’t Tacoma. I think that family farm was the backup plan all along, a sort of safe house should they need it. After all, Lawrence is not the only one in the family who can plan.’’

  ‘‘Why haven’t they gone there before?’’

  ‘‘Haven’t needed to. And that part of the country doesn’t fit Lawrence’s career needs.’’

  Hotchner gave up a smile. ‘‘That’s very good work, Morgan. How long will it take us to get there?’’

  ‘‘Oh, we’re not going.’’

  ‘‘Really,’’ Hotchner said skeptically. ‘‘Were you promoted while I was in doing that interview?’’

  Morgan grinned. ‘‘Rossi and Prentiss were flying here to join us.’’

  ‘‘Ah—and you diverted their plane.’’

  ‘‘Yep. I think that’s called taking initiative.’’

  ‘‘It is, and you did well.’’

  ‘‘Even if she drives straight through,’’ Morgan said, still grinning, ‘‘Dave and Emily’ll be waiting for her.’’

  ‘‘If you’re right about where they’re heading.’’

  Morgan’s grin vanished, but something faintly kidding was in his reply: ‘‘Hotch, I’m a trained professional. You doubt my profile?’’

  Hotchner said nothing.

  Fishing a bill from his pants pocket, Morgan said, ‘‘Twenty says Rossi and Prentiss get her at the farm.’’

  Hotchner surrendered half a grin. ‘‘I know you’re trained, Derek—I helped train you. You don’t expect me to bet against myself, do you?’’

  Ames, Iowa

  The sun peeked over the horizon as SSA David Rossi sat in the front seat of an unmarked car next to plainclothes investigator Tom Matcor from the Iowa State Patrol. Prentiss, in back, was trying with intermittent success to nap.

  Knowing they had a head start, they had taken motel rooms to shower and change clothes, but had not taken the time to sleep. Instead, the two profilers had organized a plan with the help of the Iowa state troopers, and for almost two hours had been parked next to an outbuilding on the Hamilton family farm just west of Ames.

  Mostly for communications purposes, patrol cars were stationed at the next farm in either direction; and, just in case, at a farm barely a quarter mile farther west of the Hamilton spread, a SWAT team waited.

  Rossi, who hunted game, had achieved an almost Zen-like ability to remain patient—no point in wanting something to happen; you just had to wait and be ready. Either game would show itself or it wouldn’t.

  Another hour elapsed before a call came from the squad car to the east: “Gray Toyota Camry with a temporary plate in the rear window just went by, headed your way.’’

  ‘‘Roger that,’’ Matcor said into the handset.

  Less than a minute later came the sound of a car heading up the gravel driveway. Prentiss sat up, wide-awake, alert. Rossi marveled at how she did that, and wished he could wake up that fast himself.

  His voice low, Rossi said, ‘‘Patience . . .’’

  The house, a two-story clapboard, probably built in the 1930s, faced the road, its drive a long curling gravel path on the west. The unmarked sat just east of an outbuilding on the northwest corner of the house, separated by the gravel drive that went on up a short hill to a circle in front of a barn twe
nty yards farther east. The house blocked the vehicle on the south, the barn on the east and the outbuilding on the west.

  Since the highway was south of the property, Suzanne Silvan would not be able to see them until pulling up the driveway near the back door of the house; and by then, when she saw them, it should be too late. . . .

  As the car rolled into sight, Rossi—like Prentiss, in an FBI jacket—got out the passenger side into crisp coolness, keeping the car door open and between himself and his target; even though he considered the woman nonviolent, procedure was procedure. His pistol-in-hand hung loosely at his right side, its barrel pointed to the ground. Prentiss with Matcor was on the other side of the unmarked.

  When Suzanne finally looked up and saw them in the dim light, she hit the brakes, then shifted into reverse. The state patrol cars came rolling up, however, one in the driveway behind her, the other having circled around the front, through the yard, and around to block her.

  Over the top of the open car door, Rossi yelled, ‘‘FBI, Mrs. Silvan! Step out of the car with your hands up.’’

  No movement in the vehicle.

  Hadn’t she heard him? The windows were up, the engine running. He was about to try again when the driver’s-side door slowly opened and a slim, attractive woman—about five-seven, in jeans, a light jacket halfway unzipped revealing a maroon sweatshirt, and leather running shoes—slipped out, hands raised high.

  ‘‘You folks have made a mistake,’’ she said, her voice clear and loud. ‘‘My name is Hamilton.’’

  Rossi came around and approached her.

  The woman with her hands up had brown hair tied back in a loose ponytail, a comma of blonde hair hanging down near one eye. About a foot away, he stopped.

  Staring into marble-hard brown eyes, he said, ‘‘Suzanne Hamilton Silvan, you mean. And the only one who’s made a mistake is you. Turn around and assume the position.’’

  The woman did as she was told.

  As she leaned against the hood, Rossi pushed the power lock button on the open driver’s-side armrest. The doors clicked and Prentiss opened the passenger back door, said something Rossi couldn’t quite hear, then emerged with a little blonde girl in her arms. The child was crying, but appeared to be all right.

  ‘‘It’s okay,’’ Prentiss cooed. Then, looking up at Rossi, she said, ‘‘Both girls are here—they seem to be fine.’’

  ‘‘You be careful with my daughters,’’ Suzanne said sharply.

  ‘‘Stealing them,’’ Rossi said coldly, ‘‘doesn’t make them yours.’’

  Over her shoulder, Suzanne did her best to look offended, and was fairly successful. ‘‘I’m no kidnapper.’’

  ‘‘Maybe you aren’t,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘But your husband, Lawrence, is, and you’re his accomplice after the fact and probably before.’’

  ‘‘That’s absurd.’’

  ‘‘Murder, kidnapping, crossing state lines with those girls, are a lot of things, but absurd isn’t one of them. You enjoy this sunrise—it’ll be the last one you’ll ever see outside prison walls.’’

  Prentiss handed the first girl to a trooper, then the second one to another. The children were confused but neither was crying now; they seemed to sense they’d been rescued.

  ‘‘Dave,’’ Prentiss called, ‘‘they’re going to be fine.’’

  Rossi nodded. Coming around the car, Prentiss patted the woman down as Rossi, holstering his weapon, read Suzanne her rights.

  ‘‘She’s clean,’’ Prentiss said, cuffing the woman, then turning her around.

  Suzanne Silvan was sneering at Rossi, arrogant. ‘‘I hope you don’t think I’m going to talk to you without a lawyer present.’’

  ‘‘We can get you one here,’’ Rossi said, ‘‘or where we’re going.’’

  ‘‘I’m in no hurry. I’ll pick one eventually. You see, I think you’re wrong—I think I’m going to see a lot more sunrises.’’

  ‘‘Really?’’ Rossi said.

  She laughed. ‘‘Do you really expect me to believe that Lawrence blamed me for all of this? He’s the kidnapper, and knowing how weak he is, I’ll just bet he’s confessed.’’

  ‘‘Oh, he has.’’

  She smiled at Rossi in supreme self-satisfaction.

  ‘‘Of course,’’ Rossi said, ‘‘he didn’t know we were going to catch you with the two children he kidnapped from Minnesota and you transported to Iowa, which I’m afraid does make you a kidnapper, too.’’

  Her smile faded only slightly. ‘‘I can explain that.’’ So much for waiting to pick out a lawyer.

  ‘‘Be my guest,’’ Rossi said.

  ‘‘Lawrence sent me here with the girls. He threatened to kill me and them if I didn’t do as he said. I had to bring them here to protect them.’’

  That didn’t make much sense, which Rossi didn’t bother pointing out. Instead, he asked, ‘‘So you were aware these girls had been kidnapped?’’

  She frowned.

  ‘‘Lawrence said you thought all of the girls he’s kidnapped over the years were foster children.’’

  ‘‘Well . . . of course, I did.’’ Her eyes danced. ‘‘But this time, he confessed what he’d been doing all this time. . . . You can’t imagine how shocked I was to learn what had been really going on . . . and how foolish, how stupid it made me feel.’’

  ‘‘You’re right.’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘I can’t imagine.’’ Rossi smirked at her; couldn’t help himself. ‘‘This happened before the call he made to you, I take it, right before he was arrested.’’

  ‘‘Call?’’

  “ ‘You were right, dear’? Before you deny it, remember, there’ll be cell phone records.’’

  ‘‘Oh, that call,’’ she said. She raised her chin, looked down her nose at him. ‘‘Why, that just sounded like gibberish on my end.’’

  ‘‘Sounds like code for you to grab the girls and go.’’

  Now it was her turn to smirk. ‘‘I’d like to see you try to prove that.’’

  Rossi shook his head. ‘‘I probably won’t bother. I can’t prove my profile, either.’’

  ‘‘Profile?’’

  ‘‘We’re with the Behavioral Analysis Unit. It’s our job to profile the killer . . . and I was sure it was you, not Lawrence.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t even know the girls were dead! Lawrence said he’d sent them back to the state authorities. That our foster care was over.’’

  ‘‘Why, because it was time for them to go to ‘finishing school’?’’

  That took the smile off her face. That told Suzanne Silvan that hubby Lawrence had opened up to his interrogators, at least to some degree.

  ‘‘How did you manage it, Suzanne? How did you get Lawrence to shoulder all of the blame? He must love you very much.’’

  ‘‘He does. He’s my husband.’’

  Ross pretended to chuckle. ‘‘I mean, I understand the brainwashing—you’ve had twenty-five years to work on him. You were able to convince him to acquire a family for you, one little blonde abductee at a time. Then, even after you raised the girls together, when they got to that difficult age? You even convinced him it was normal, it was right, it was all part of your loving marriage, for him to dispose of the bodies of the ‘daughters’ you’d killed.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t kill anyone. I told you, I didn’t know they were dead. It’s a tragedy.’’

  ‘‘Yet you seem to be over it already.’’ Rossi grunted a laugh. ‘‘And then you somehow got him to start the cycle all over again, got him to go along with you on a second round of kidnapping and family life and then murder . . . but the third time really wasn’t the charm, was it?’’

  Her chin was up again, but nothing like a smile was anywhere on her face. ‘‘One man’s opinion,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Actually, my whole team’s opinion, six of the top criminal profilers in the world.’’

  She summoned another sneer, a little one. ‘‘Six expert opini
ons against those of twelve licensed drivers. And how do you think that will come out?’’

  Shrugging, Rossi said, ‘‘You’re probably right, they’ll believe Lawrence. God knows when I heard the tape of his confession, I believed it. How he abducted each girl, how he brought them home, how he killed each one with pills he pilfered from you, how he dressed them, protected them with the blankets and plastic before he buried them.’’

  Suzanne Silvan’s self-satisfied expression returned—a multiple murderer convinced she would get away with her crimes.

  Rossi was out on a limb now; he was bluffing his ass off. He had in fact not heard a tape of the confession and only had received a brief summary from Hotch on the phone; but he knew the profiles of Lawrence and Suzanne Silvan, and he knew how this woman thought.

  They were standing in this yard on this crisp, beautiful morning because twenty-five or so years ago, this twisted woman had been an innocent herself, abused by her father and unprotected by her mother. Sick as it was, she actually thought she was protecting ‘‘her’’ girls from such a fate. Starting their periods had signaled the end for these girls, as otherwise they would become women and enter a corrupt world, a world so perverse and cruel that Suzanne—scarred by her childhood—felt that only by killing them could she save them.

  Then a thought flashed through Rossi’s mind: Maybe it wasn’t the world outside she was protecting them from, not entirely; maybe she wanted to remove them from the presence of their ‘‘father’’—the adult man of the house, Lawrence Silvan.

  ‘‘Yep, Lawrence told us everything he did,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘He claimed the thing he was most ashamed of was having sexual relations with the girls.’’

  Suzanne’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open.

  Rossi had hit the hot spot and—for a long moment—he could practically see the wheels turning as she tried to come to grips with what he was saying . . . and was he telling the truth?

  ‘‘Each seduction in detail,’’ Rossi said, and shuddered. ‘‘Horrible to hear. He said he was always telling you how much he loved the girls . . . sort of a veiled confession, I suppose . . . and yet you never caught on. Of course, he was so fearful of what you might do, a veiled confession was as close as he could bring himself.’’