Finishing School

by Max Allan Collins

  Her eyes were darting, her mind racing.

  Then he remembered how she’d reacted when he used the phrase ‘‘finishing school’’—Morgan had told him about that on the phone, Silvan using that odd phrase as a euphemism for murder.

  ‘‘I wonder,’’ Rossi said, ‘‘if you know what sending the girls to ‘finishing school’ meant to Lawrence?’’

  Her features tightened.

  ‘‘He told us that to him, having sexual relations with them, that was ‘finishing school.’ He said, as soon as the girls began to ‘blossom,’ he began to have relations with them.’’

  ‘‘No!’’

  ‘‘He said he didn’t want them to die without knowing the real joy of being a woman.’’

  ‘‘No, no, no!’’

  ‘‘He said for several months before ‘he’ killed each girl—and, of course, we know who really killed the girls, don’t we, Suzanne?—he made sure they knew the real happiness of experiencing a man’s touch. He didn’t want them to die without that knowledge.’’

  ‘‘I . . . I failed them. . . .’’ Tears were streaming now; lips quivering. She fell back against the car. ‘‘You have to believe me, I didn’t know he was doing that! I’d kill him if he were here. I swear I’d kill that little dried-up son of a bitch. . . .’’

  ‘‘How did you fail them, Suzanne?’’

  ‘‘I thought I’d saved them, all of them—Rose, Renee, Rachel, Pam, Patty, little Paula—but I failed them all, didn’t I?’’

  ‘‘Did you?’’

  ‘‘You have to believe me—I tried to save them. Lawrence didn’t put the girls to sleep—I did. I gave them their medicine, their overdoses, to spare them. You have to understand, once I began having my monthly ‘friend,’ my father would spend more nights in my room than in his and Mother’s. And when I tried to get Mother to help, she wouldn’t. She pretended not to believe me, and I swore I’d never be a terrible mother like her. Never.’’

  Rossi glanced at Prentiss, who was standing mute witness to this entire exchange.

  ‘‘Oh, she did one thing for me, my mother—she got my tubes tied, so my father couldn’t make me pregnant again. That was how she chose to deal with him pawing at me, sticking that . . . that thing in me.’’ The whites of her eyes showed all round, and her voice became shrill. ‘‘Not my girls. That would never happen to my girls. I knew all men were alike, even Lawrence—but I thought if I got the girls out of the house when their monthly friend came, I thought . . . I thought . . . well, I never thought that Lawrence would do that to them, when they were just innocent little girls!’’

  ‘‘You had to be cruel to be kind,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘Kill them to save them.’’

  She nodded. ‘‘I sent them to finishing school— that’s what that phrase was supposed to signify. They were meant to go to heaven pure, innocent, undefiled.’’

  While she was talkative, Rossi decided to dot the i’s and cross the t’s. ‘‘Since you couldn’t have children of your own, you talked Lawrence into kidnapping little girls for you.’’

  ‘‘Of course.’’ She gazed at him in shock that he just didn’t seem to get it. ‘‘All normal people want to have a nice family.’’

  What could he say to that? Maybe that the finishing school Suzanne Silvan was likely to attend would be a lethal-injection chamber.

  To a nearby trooper, Rossi said, ‘‘Take her.’’

  The trooper guided her by the elbow to a squad car.

  Rossi had only one thing left to say: ‘‘Suzanne?’’

  She looked back at him through tear-filled eyes.

  ‘‘There is one thing you should know.’’

  ‘‘Yes?’’

  ‘‘Lawrence never said any of those things I said. He would have gone to Death Row for you.’’

  Her expression turned quizzical. ‘‘Then why . . . why did you say those terrible things?’’ She shook her head. ‘‘Just like a man . . . just like a man . . .’’

  Prentiss was at his side. ‘‘I got it all,’’ she said, and held up the little recorder. ‘‘That was good work.’’

  He grunted. ‘‘Yeah. Me and her father.’’

  Rossi walked to the farmhouse and sat on a front step. He felt like he could sleep for a hundred years. They had saved two little girls, and would return them (if traumatized) to their families; but Rossi still felt lousy about this one.

  For over twenty years these people had ruined the lives of six girls and their families, and damaged another two families in recent days. They had been damned lucky to even identify the last three—Rossi figured they owed that mostly to advances in DNA matching. The other three, the ones buried in the woods in Georgia? It would take a miracle to pinpoint the parents of those girls.

  When they got back to Quantico, Rossi would make a point of trying to track the Silvans’ movements immediately after their marriage; Reid would help, and so would Garcia—if they had a miracle worker on the team, she was it—but he knew the odds against finding the parents of girls who disappeared somewhere in the United States in the early to mid-eighties.

  Literally hundreds of girls would have gone missing back then. There weren’t even AMBER Alerts; kids could vanish a lot more easily. He wasn’t confident, but they had to try.

  That was the job, and he was fine with it.

  What he could not fathom, what he could not begin to understand, in all his profiling expertise, was why he felt such a hollow victory over what he’d done.

  And why he found himself feeling pity for the monster that a little girl named Suzanne Hamilton had become.

  “Parentage is a very important profession,’’

  George Bernard Shaw said,

  “but no test of fitness for it is ever imposed in the interest

  of the children.’’

  Epilogue

  Two more hours to go on the flight home.

  This was Sunday, a day of rest where Jennifer Jareau had grown up, but not for the BAU team—they had risen early to go over to the law enforcement center in Bemidji and deal with the last details concerning the Silvans, who faced murder and kidnapping charges. The national media had shown up, and she was already being hounded about ‘‘The Mommy and Daddy Murders’’—just the sort of sick moniker she had expected from the tabloid mentality.

  The case had been put to bed—at least until court-room proceedings began—and their gear packed up and stowed in back of the SUVs. Time to say their good-byes.

  She’d been next to Rossi when Fletcher Keegan came up to shake hands.

  ‘‘Thanks for coming, man,’’ Keegan said.

  ‘‘It’s what we do. We didn’t exactly get to hang out.’’

  ‘‘Hey, I didn’t think you’d even remember me, one class a hundred years ago, let alone bring your whole team out here.’’

  Rossi grinned. ‘‘Don’t flatter yourself, Fletch. I had no idea who you were. We came to catch a killer.’’

  Keegan’s expression fell. ‘‘Well, uh, I do appreciate it, and—’’

  ‘‘Could be,’’ Rossi cut in, ‘‘my ulterior motive was to help the student who sat in the third row that week at Quantico, and asked all the right questions. Could be I sensed that punk would turn out to be a decent criminalist.’’

  Smiling now, Keegan said, ‘‘Could be. Thanks, Agent Rossi.’’

  ‘‘It’s Dave.’’

  ‘‘Thank you, Dave.’’

  Detective Garue drove to the airport the Tahoe that conveyed Rossi, Reid, and Jareau.

  As they neared the airport, the Native American detective turned to Rossi, who sat in front next to him.

  ‘‘Just thought you should know,’’ Garue said, ‘‘I have been talking to some of the leaders on the rez.’’

  ‘‘Yeah?’’

  ‘‘Yeah. I think it’s time they started to cut you bureau boys and girls a little slack.’’

  ‘‘Appreciate that,’’ Rossi said.

  Garue parked the SUV in front of the terminal.
Reid climbed out right away, but Jareau hung back to listen in on the Native American and the bestselling author.

  ‘‘I want to thank you, Agent Rossi, you and your team.’’

  ‘‘They’re not ‘my’ team—I’m just part of it. And we’re just doing our jobs. But I don’t mind hearing a pro like you say he’s pleased.’’

  Garue grinned. ‘‘Yeah, well, we both know you could’ve given us a profile without ever leaving Quantico. What this team does . . . your team does . . . is way above and beyond.’’

  ‘‘Cool.’’

  ‘‘That’s it—‘cool’?’’ Garue chuckled. ‘‘You know, I heard you were an egotistical son of a bitch.’’

  ‘‘Don’t believe everything you hear,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘See, I heard that all the Indians up this way despised us . . . and look at you, you’ve been nothing but aces the whole time.’’

  ‘‘There was that moment right after you arrived. . . .’’

  Rossi looked perplexed. ‘‘Yeah, I know—I forgot to sign a book for you, didn’t I? Okay I send you one?’’

  Garue shook his head, grinning big. ‘‘You know the address.’’

  The two men got out, shook hands, patted shoulders, and Garue made a point of thanking—and shaking the hand of—each and every team member. Though this was a happy exchange, with the November wind in Bemidji a whole lot colder than the breeze in Quantico, Jareau had been relieved to finally board the plane and get in the air.

  Now Hotch was up front, asleep on a couch across from Rossi, who was out cold, too—snoring, even. Morgan and Reid were in back, Morgan napping, Reid, reading, naturally.

  In the middle section, Prentiss and Jareau sat together, both wide-awake, Prentiss with a book she wasn’t really reading and Jareau a report she’d prefer to deal with tomorrow morning.

  Questions had been bubbling in JJ for a while now and, unable to figure out the answers on her own, she decided to ask Prentiss before she chickened out. ‘‘You ever wonder why Hotch is the only one of us with kids?’’

  Prentiss answered the question with one of her own: ‘‘What about Rossi? Wasn’t he married a bunch of times?’’

  Jareau shrugged. ‘‘Yes, but no kids. Three times, by the way—he was married, I mean.’’

  ‘‘No kidding,’’ Prentiss said with a smile. Then, rather seriously, she said, ‘‘This isn’t really a career conducive to having children . . . though that doesn’t mean I’m not interested.’’

  Hotchner sat up, rubbed his eyes, rose, slipped into the aisle and moved past them, presumably to the back to sit next to Reid.

  Jareau shook her head. ‘‘It’s just . . . we just see so much cruelty to children, in this job.’’

  ‘‘I know, but I don’t think you can let that stop you. Are you thinking about having a child?’’

  ‘‘Now?’’ Jareau blurted. ‘‘Lately, I haven’t even met a guy I want a second date with, let alone a kid.’’

  This wasn’t exactly true—Jareau was seeing someone, and in law enforcement, but hadn’t yet shared that with her teammates.

  Prentiss smiled knowingly. ‘‘Every time I think of having a child, I think of having to tell her—it’s always a girl, by the way—‘Honey, be good. Mommy has to fly to Laramie, Wyoming, to catch a sexual sadist. Love you! Mommy will be back as soon as the bad man goes to prison.’ ”

  Jareau laughed a little. ‘‘Oh well. Maybe it’s time for me to put that dream away.’’

  ‘‘I don’t think so,’’ a voice from the aisle said.

  Both women looked up to see Hotch hovering over them. He sat down across the table from the two women.

  ‘‘Set it aside until you’re ready,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘But don’t give up on the idea. If I’m not out of line saying so, JJ, you’d make a very good mother. That’s a kid I’d like to meet.’’

  Prentiss said, ‘‘What am I, chopped liver?’’

  ‘‘You’re a whole different conversation.’’

  Then he flashed one of his rare smiles and they smiled back at him and Prentiss laughed.

  Jareau said, ‘‘I know it’s none of my business. . . .’’

  Hotchner nodded for her to continue.

  ‘‘But how do you manage this job with your son?’’ She gestured to include the plane and all that it implied, the travel, the long hours, and more.

  ‘‘Evidently, not well,’’ he said with a somber smirk, ‘‘or I’d still be married.’’

  ‘‘I don’t mean that,’’ Jareau said, mildly embarrassed. ‘‘Relationships are hard, no matter what your career is. They’re impossible in this job.’’

  ‘‘No kidding,’’ Prentiss said with an eye roll.

  Jareau said, ‘‘How can you be a good parent and do this job?’’

  Hotchner bestowed another smile. ‘‘That’s an easy one. I do this job because I’m a good parent. I’m just trying to make this a safer place for my son. I don’t want Jack to end up like . . . like the victims in this case. The best way for me to prevent that from happening is to stop those kinds of people whenever, wherever I can.’’

  ‘‘You can’t protect all the little boys and girls,’’ Prentiss said. ‘‘And you can’t catch all the monsters.’’

  Still smiling, Hotchner said, ‘‘Oh, I know. That’s why I put up with you two—and Rossi, Morgan, and Reid. . . . Now, try to get some rest. Before you know it, it’ll be Monday and we’ll be right back in it.’’

  Hotchner rose and stepped into the aisle. ‘‘You’ll be a good mother, JJ, one of these days. I promise. Hey, you’re a fast learner.’’

  He went down the aisle toward Reid.

  She hoped Hotch was right. That she would indeed be a good mother—one of these days.

  Right now her family was this team. Tomorrow they would hunt monsters again, but today she’d close her eyes and ease back the seat. For a couple of hours, at least, there would be no monsters.

  If she could hold the bad dreams at bay.

  Profile in Thanks

  My assistant Matthew Clemens helped me develop the plot of Finishing School, and worked up a lengthy story treatment (including all of his considerable forensics research, and on-site location scouting in Bemidji, Minnesota, and elsewhere) from which I could work.

  Profiler Steven R. Conlon, Assistant Director, Division of Criminal Investigation for the State of Iowa Department of Public Safety, generously provided a great deal of help and useful information.

  Lt. Chris Kauffman (retired), Bettendorf (Iowa) Police Department, and Lt. Paul Van Steenhuyse (retired), Scott County Sheriff’s Office, again provided professional insights and expertise.

  Also helpful were Dr. Stephen Thompson for medical insights; Matthew T. Schwarz, CLPE, Identification Bureau Manager, Davenport (Iowa) Police Department; Sonja Hoie of U.S. Forest Service; and Pete Aube, who shared his knowledge of the woods and the upper Minnesota landscape.

  The following books were consulted: The Encyclopedia of Serial Killers (2000), Michael Newton; In the Minds of Murderers (2007), Paul Roland; Mindhunter (1995), John Douglas and Mark Olshaker; My Life Among the Serial Killers (2004), Helen Morrison with Harold Goldberg; and Profile of a Criminal Mind (2003), Brian Innes.

  Special thanks go to executive producer Edward Allen Bernero of Criminal Minds; editor Kristen Weber of Penguin; and Maryann C. Martin of CBS Consumer Products. Without them, this novel series would not have happened.

  Thanks also go to agent Dominick Abel; Matthew’s wife, Pam Clemens, a knowledgeable Criminal Minds fan who again aided the effort; and the author’s frequent accomplice, Barbara Collins.

  About the Author

  Max Allan Collins was hailed in 2004 by Publishers Weekly as ‘‘a new breed of writer.’’ A frequent Mystery Writers of America Edgar nominee, he has earned an unprecedented fourteen Private Eye Writers of America Shamus nominations for his historical thrillers, winning for True Detective and Stolen Away.

  His graphic novel Road to Perdition is the basis of the Ac
ademy Award-winning film starring Tom Hanks, directed by Sam Mendes. His comics credits include the syndicated strip Dick Tracy; his own Ms. Tree; Batman; and CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, for which he has also written video games and a USA Today bestselling series of novels.

  An independent filmmaker in the Midwest, he has written and directed such features as the Lifetime movie Mommy and the recent DVD release Eliot Ness: An Untouchable Life. His produced screenplays include the HBO World Premiere The Expert and the current The Last Lullaby, based on his acclaimed novel The Last Quarry. His other credits include film criticism, short fiction, songwriting, trading-card sets, and movie/TV tie-in novels, among them the international bestsellers Saving Private Ryan, Air Force One, and the Scribe Award-winning American Gangster.

  Collins lives in Muscatine, Iowa, with his wife, writer Barbara Collins.