Finishing School Read online

  ‘‘Yes, Dr. Reid, I remember. How can I help you?’’

  ‘‘When we spoke yesterday, you told us forest number four had more than one inspector—am I remembering correctly?’’ Of course, he knew he was.

  ‘‘Yes, three of us, on a rotating basis.’’

  ‘‘May I have their names and contact information?’’

  Silvan complied: The other inspectors were Randy Beck and Jason Fryman. Phone numbers and home addresses were provided as well.

  ‘‘Thank you, sir. Can you also come in for an interview?’’

  ‘‘Well, certainly, Dr. Reid. But you must understand that we all travel extensively. I doubt any of us could get in before Friday—although if you’re going to be at the law enforcement center at this time tomorrow night, I might make it.’’

  ‘‘Let’s say Friday morning, then,’’ Reid said. ‘‘Thanks for your help.’’

  They signed off, and Reid set about getting Fryman and Beck in for interviews. Both men agreed to come in first thing Friday morning. With that done, Reid thought about calling it a day. He was tired, frustrated, and wondering where to turn next when Hotchner said, ‘‘The crime lab guy is on his way back with Garue.’’

  Reid and Morgan managed to pull themselves up a little straighter in their chairs and JJ, who seemed impervious to long hours, simply pulled her chair a little closer to the others.

  The Native American detective entered, his gray hair hanging lank; he looked as fatigued as Reid felt. With Garue was a tall, muscular man with close-cropped brown hair, a wide forehead, tight brown eyes, and a face that looked like it doled out smiles only sparingly.

  Garue introduced the agents, then said, ‘‘This is Fletcher Keegan from the regional office of the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.’’

  Eyeing the big man, who wore work boots, jeans, and (beneath a Windbreaker) a navy Polo shirt with the state BCA logo, Reid had a feeling of déjà vu.

  He said, ‘‘We’ve met before, Mr. Keegan.’’

  Keegan managed a twitch of a smile. ‘‘I didn’t think you’d remember, Dr. Reid,’’ he said, his voice a rich baritone. ‘‘You sat in on a lecture Jason Gideon gave when I attended the National Academy.’’

  ‘‘That’s right,’’ Reid said. ‘‘And you know Rossi.’’

  Nodding, Keegan said, ‘‘I do, but I notice he’s not here.’’

  Hotchner said, ‘‘When we got word about the victims having originally been abducted in the South, Rossi and SSA Prentiss went down there to investigate from that end.’’

  ‘‘Good idea,’’ Keegan said. ‘‘But maybe I have some information that will help you at this end.’’

  ‘‘Glad to hear it.’’

  Hotchner gestured for the man to sit, and he did, the team leader, too. Garue followed suit.

  ‘‘First,’’ Keegan said, ‘‘now that we’ve had more time to study the bodies, we can state with surety that the girls were all in good health at the time of their murders.’’

  Hotchner frowned. ‘‘Could you define ‘good health’ more precisely?’’

  ‘‘Certainly. Good health as in not so much as a cavity among the three of them. Their teeth were perfect. One would have benefited from some orthodontic work, but her teeth were healthy and strong. Just as the others’ were.’’

  ‘‘Which tells you what?’’

  ‘‘The UnSub fed them well. You would have to say he nourished them. None had so much as a broken fingernail. For lack of a better phrase, if I can wander into your territory of profiling . . . ?’’

  ‘‘Be our guest.’’

  ‘‘Well, he loved them. That’s what has me stymied.’’ Keegan shrugged, shook his head. ‘‘I could find no sign that these girls had been mistreated in any way before they were killed.’’

  With the tiniest of smiles, Hotchner asked, ‘‘What did you learn about kidnapping at the National Academy?’’

  Keegan didn’t hesitate: ‘‘Three reasons to kidnap: profit, sexual deviance, and to obtain a child an UnSub could not otherwise have.’’

  Morgan said, ‘‘And we have no ransom notes.’’

  Keegan nodded, and said, ‘‘And no signs of sexual abuse that I could find.’’

  Hotchner said, ‘‘That means our UnSub was looking for some other kind of fulfillment from the crime. What was it?’’

  Keegan shrugged and said, ‘‘I’ve already wandered too far into your territory.’’

  ‘‘No idea,’’ Garue said, shaking his head.

  Hotchner’s expression was grave, even for him. ‘‘We need to find out two things to catch this UnSub—why he took these children, and what went wrong with his situation.’’

  Keegan said, ‘‘How do we know something ‘went wrong with his situation’?’’

  Reid said, ‘‘He held three girls from three different abductions for ten years, then suddenly decided that they needed to die.’’

  Hotchner picked up the thread: ‘‘But not all at once—over a period of a year. Did they somehow become a threat to him after all that time?’’

  Morgan, frowning, said, ‘‘Ten years, and they’re suddenly a threat? Why?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know,’’ Hotchner admitted. ‘‘But if we figure it out, we’ll understand the UnSub. Then we can catch him.’’

  ‘‘There’s another thing,’’ Keegan said, lifting a hand like a student in class. ‘‘About the girls’ clothes . . . ?’’

  ‘‘What?’’ Morgan asked.

  ‘‘They were all homemade. We thought, at first, that maybe the tags had just been cut out, but closer inspection indicated they were in fact homemade.’’

  Hotchner asked, ‘‘What about the cloth?’’

  ‘‘Common stuff sold in any number of fabric-and-yarn shops within a thousand miles.’’ Keegan shrugged. ‘‘I don’t know if it helps or not, knowing that.’’

  ‘‘It definitely helps,’’ Reid said. ‘‘It helps by bringing up more questions.’’

  Keegan frowned. ‘‘More questions is a good thing?’’

  ‘‘In profiling it is. Are homemade clothes a reflection of the economic status of our UnSub? Or were the clothes homemade because the UnSub didn’t want anyone to know he had children? Obviously, the girls weren’t in the public school system.’’

  ‘‘Or any private school we can find,’’ Garue added.

  Reid continued, in a rush of words. ‘‘They were likely homeschooled, if the UnSub even bothered with that. But with the homemade clothes, are they the signs that the UnSub has a wife? Or is the UnSub female? Does a male UnSub have the sewing skills to make those clothes? Is that an insight into his employment?’’

  Holding up a hand, Hotchner said, ‘‘That’s enough questions for the moment—let’s get back at it and start finding some answers.’’

  Hibbing, Minnesota

  The overcast morning sky held the promise of a coming storm, which could not help but remind him of his own situation. Although the plan for their impending departure had been taking shape since the burial of Paula, he could clearly see the pace would have to increase.

  His Beloved had ordered enough meds to facilitate sending the girls to finishing school, as well as covering her own needs should they require a hasty departure. That possibility existed, he knew. The finding of the graves by those nosy hunters had been both unforeseen and unfortunate. Though the possibility of discovery always loomed, he had not counted on hunters simply stumbling onto the girls, especially not so soon.

  He now realized that if today’s shopping trip was unsuccessful, they might well have to complete their new family on the fly—not the first time, but hardly ideal, meaning less chance of him putting together the perfect family for His Beloved.

  He had a vague belief in omens, however, and the heavy cloud cover of the morning provided just the sort of tiny advantage that could make all the difference. He certainly didn’t want to do this on a bright, sunny day if he could avoid it, and the cobalt sky made his job, a
t least slightly, easier. And if God had been against what he planned, wouldn’t the Almighty have stuck him with sunshine?

  He pulled into a long, tree-lined lane and turned around, then parked just out of sight of anybody driving along Lake Carey Road. He hoped the perfect child would be along soon and he would just fall in behind her. The last thing he needed was whoever lived at the other end of the lane pulling up behind him to ask what the heck he was up to.

  As he waited, he tried to come up with a legitimate excuse to be sitting in the private drive of someone he did not know. He got out his cell phone and rested it on the passenger seat. If he saw a vehicle in his rearview, he would put it up to his ear and claim that he had pulled off to take an important call—a quasi-believable excuse.

  If the darn mother would just drive by with that beautiful child, he could get the heck out of here and stop worrying about maybes and might-bes and could-bes. Wasn’t like he didn’t have enough on his mind already! Assuming the mother simply mirrored her route home last night, he would follow her to the day care, then wait for everything to settle down, so he could enact the plan that he had worked on most of last night.

  He had driven back past the house yesternight, gotten the last name off the roadside mailbox, then gone back to his room and got online on his laptop. Took some digging, but he now knew a great deal more about the Scheckel family. His plan was less than masterful, he knew, but better than nothing.

  At least he had a shot.

  He was hoping, though, that he might find his chance before little Marie—a name he had learned from the family’s own home page—was locked up inside the day care center.

  He glanced in the rearview mirror, and once again heaved a sigh of relief when he saw nothing. Looking out toward the road, he willed the black Navigator to appear.

  It did.

  Thank you, God, he thought, sitting numbly as the vehicle rolled by.

  He was so surprised that the SUV had shown up the moment he had willed it, he almost didn’t put his car into gear to follow. When he finally dropped the gearshift into drive, he was well behind the Navigator. The morning traffic picked up more as they neared town. The street name turned back from Lake Carey Road to Dupont when they crossed North Dublin. He was closer now, following along, just another commuter heading to work.

  When Dupont Road turned into Twenty-fifth Street, he got a nagging notion that his shopping trip might end in frustration. He stayed with the SUV, but something told him he should just give up. He had listened to his inner voice on more than one occasion and found his intuition to be trustworthy.

  He decided he would follow her to the day care and then would watch the little girl go inside and out of his life, a missed opportunity for them both. The more he considered his plan, the less likely success seemed. He had hoped to present himself as an operative of a security company hired by the family. He had an old badge he’d swiped from a rent-a-cop nearly twenty years ago. Sometimes, in an emergency, such a ploy could work, but he didn’t like the way this felt. He was getting a vibe that something was . . . off.

  Then, as if he been granted another break by God, he noticed the Navigator’s left blinker coming on blocks short of the day care.

  What was Mommy up to?

  Looking to where she was turning, he saw a convenience store with parking places near the building, gas pumps nearer the street. The lot butted up against a restaurant that came to the sidewalk, the parking lot on the east side, the convenience store to the west beyond the eatery.

  The restaurant was one of those steak places that didn’t open until late afternoon, and he had a sudden idea. Instead of following the Navigator into the convenience store lot, he jerked the wheel and turned left into the restaurant’s. He parked on the east side of the building, then jumped out of the car and walked briskly but inconspicuously, around the restaurant toward the convenience store. He stopped short when he saw Mommy pumping gas, the little girl still strapped into her car seat in the back.

  The convenience store’s front windows allowed him to see most of the action inside. One guy paid for coffee at the cash register, near the door. The guy came out, climbed into a white car and pulled out the side entrance to the west.

  Still watching, he pretended to bend down to tie a shoe while he searched for the surveillance cameras. The restaurant had none—a staid old steak house that didn’t worry about its parking lot. The convenience store, on the other hand, would be trying to catch drive-offs. They might have cameras everywhere.

  In the end, he counted four, all mounted on the flat roof of the store, all pointed toward the pumps. A fifth camera, and maybe a sixth and seventh as well, would be inside; but he didn’t care about those—they’d be focused on the front door, the register area, and, if the owner was exceptionally paranoid, the beer coolers.

  Making sure he stayed behind the woman, he waited. If she paid at the pump, he was wasting his time. If she went inside to pay, he had one chance.

  When she replaced the pump nozzle, he figured he was out of luck. She leaned into the vehicle’s driver door and he assumed she had paid at the pump, using her card while he had hotfooted it around the restaurant. Shaking his head, knowing now that the bad vibe had been right, he shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket. As he was about to turn back to the car, the mother leaned back out of the SUV and closed the door. Holding bills in her gloved hand, she turned toward him.

  He willed himself to be invisible and she continued toward the store. He could not believe his luck. The lot was empty, except for the Navigator and a car parked near the door that probably belonged to the employee inside. At this time of the morning, more people should be around, picking up coffee, newspapers, energy drinks, and doughnuts.

  Yet, as he approached the SUV, careful to stay on the sidewalk as though he were just walking past, his chin tucked into his chest, his eyes to his left watching the woman go into the store, he could only smile. No one was out here but him and her. Another sign that God was on his side . . .

  When the woman went past the counter and back to the coffee station, he knew the time to take his shot had come. Easing up to the SUV’s back door, he kept his eyes on the clerk, who was talking to the woman—maybe she was a regular.

  Heart pounding now, he touched the back door handle—unlocked. The door opened as if he and it were old friends. His chest pounded, his heart banging against his ribs, as if trying to make a break for it. When he finally tore his eyes away from the two people in the store, he looked into the ocean-blue eyes of the girl in her car seat.

  She smiled at him.

  “Hiiiii,’’ she said, her voice tiny, but warm.

  “Hi,’’ he said back. Already hurriedly unstrapping her, he said, “You want to go see your mommy?’’

  She nodded. “I wanna doughnut.’’

  “We’ll go get you one,’’ he said, eyes cutting to the woman inside as she put the lid on her coffee. She was about to turn back toward the front of the store. He needed to be gone.

  He slipped the girl out of the car seat and took off at a run, barely getting the SUV door shut before he tore off. That one thing, the closed door of the Lincoln, with the illusion that all was well, might buy him the few extra seconds he needed.

  Not looking back now, the girl holding tight to his chest, too surprised even to cry out, he sprinted around the corner of the restaurant, cars on the street and possible witnesses be darned as he bounced along, struggling to get his keys out of his coat pocket and control the girl at the same time.

  “Hey!’’ she said, realizing something was wrong.

  He fumbled at the lock once, twice, three times, silently cursing, his heart sure to explode in his chest now. Finally, the key fit into the lock.

  “I wan’ my mommy!’’

  “Patience, dear,’’ he said.

  He twisted the key, threw open the door and put the girl on the front seat.

  “Mommy!’’ the girl screamed, but the slamming car door swallowe
d the sound. He ran around and heaved the driver’s door open, dove in, cranked the car to life, and tried to pull away smoothly.

  The girl was crying on the seat next to him now, still too stunned to do anything but wail. Turning right, he pulled onto Twenty-fifth and melted into traffic. As he looked in the rearview mirror, he saw the hysterical woman looking this way and that on the street, wondering what had become of her daughter.

  Careless bitch.

  Timing was everything now. He had to assume someone had seen the rental car, if not him and the girl. He sped across Twenty-fifth, but not too fast. He reminded himself of a lesson he had learned a long time ago—never commit a misdemeanor while committing a felony.

  At the corner of North Dublin Road, he took the right and headed south for the Chisholm-Hibbing Airport. Driving south, the little girl louder now, he saw a cop coming the opposite way and, for a moment, his breath caught. He watched the black-and-white for a long time, until it disappeared from the side mirror. Then, finally, he took another breath.

  As the little girl became harder and harder to control while he drove, he became convinced he’d need to move to step two, soon. He pulled into the parking lot of a closed tavern, got out of the car, went around to the trunk and removed the chloroform from his bag. After splashing a little on the handkerchief, he closed the trunk, then went to the front and opened the door.

  The little girl screamed.

  He put the rag over her nose and mouth and she stopped screaming.

  He threw the handkerchief into a nearby trash can. He got back into the car and got back onto the road. He hadn’t wanted to stop before the airport and now the fear was spiking in him again. Still, he forced himself not to drive too fast.

  He pulled into the airport, half surprised not to see any cops. He pulled up behind his own car and stopped. First, he took his bag from the trunk of the rental and put it into his trunk. Next, after carefully checking for other people in the parking lot, he retrieved the slumbering child and put her in the car seat he had waiting for her, and strapped her up.

  Safety first.

  Pulse pounding, sweat beading on his brow, he climbed in and started the car, backed out of the parking place, and pulled away. By the time he was half an hour out of Hibbing, looking over at the little Sleeping Beauty, his fear had been replaced by elation.