Finishing School

by Max Allan Collins

  Garue’s eyes were slits in the weathered face.

  ‘‘I think Morgan’s onto something,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘They’re buried here because our UnSub wasn’t strong enough to get the bodies any farther. He took great care with how he packed the corpses, and took similar care with the graves and their placement from each other. So why would he be careless about where he places the secret cemetery?’’

  Morgan cut in: ‘‘And why would he increase his risk by making two trips for each body?’’

  Rossi continued, ‘‘Because if he predug the grave for one, it would make sense that he did it for all three. There’s an almost ritualistic pattern to these burials. And not only does he risk being seen, he’s risking someone finding the open grave. Way too iffy for a guy who’s been this careful with everything else.’’

  Garue looked at the tiny piece of the access road visible through the trees and thoughtfully said, ‘‘He’s gone over a quarter of a mile, over uneven ground, carrying a body. He gets this far, he’s worn out, and if he hasn’t dug the grave ahead of time, he still needs to do that. If he goes any farther in, he risks not having the strength to dig the hole.’’

  ‘‘Right,’’ Morgan and Rossi said together.

  ‘‘The holes are important too,’’ Garue said. ‘‘The oldest two were deep, a hell of a lot deeper than I would bury something in the woods. He really didn’t want these bodies found. The third one was shallower. Why?’’

  Rossi said, ‘‘Something spooked him, maybe.’’

  Garue’s eyes widened. ‘‘Hell. Do you think someone saw him?’’

  Shrugging, Morgan said, ‘‘Something must have made him nervous, or else why is that grave shallower than the other two?’’

  Garue shook his head glumly. ‘‘Finding what spooked him is going to be goddamn impossible. . . .’’

  ‘‘Not necessarily,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘If we can determine when the bodies were buried, we can start figuring out what might have been the stressor that caused him to deviate from his pattern. Who would normally come in here?’’

  Garue thought about that. ‘‘This time of year, hunters. Also, the forester in charge of inspecting this area . . . although that can rotate, and there could be more than one forester in the picture. Hell, Bassinko has a bunch of foresters.’’

  Rossi pressed. ‘‘Anybody else?’’

  ‘‘Some people might use the area for hiking in the summer, although, technically, they would be trespassing.’’

  Morgan asked, ‘‘Why here?’’

  Garue frowned. ‘‘Pardon?’’

  ‘‘Why this place?’’ Morgan said, pointing at the ground. ‘‘Of all the places in and around town, why this particular place?’’

  ‘‘Random?’’ Garue asked with a shrug.

  Shaking his head, Rossi said, ‘‘This is not a place of convenience. It’s out of town, it’s off the beaten path—no, he came here for a reason. If not convenience, then more likely it was comfort. The UnSub came here because, for some reason, he was comfortable here.’’

  Morgan was looking all around them. ‘‘What’s different about this part of this forest?’’

  After taking several moments to turn in a complete circle to study their surroundings and consider Morgan’s question, Garue finally said, ‘‘Nothing. Nothing sets this part of the forest off from the rest of it. Of course, this is different than most of the forests in the area.’’

  Rossi asked, ‘‘How’s that?’’

  ‘‘You see how the trees are thinner here than that area over there?’’ Garue asked, gesturing toward where the three hunters’ blinds were.

  Both agents nodded.

  ‘‘That’s because this area has been harvested. Judging by the growth, I’d say about ten years ago.’’

  Morgan asked, ‘‘Who would know that for sure?’’

  ‘‘And,’’ Rossi added, ‘‘who would feel comfortable here because of that?’’

  Garue shrugged. ‘‘All the same people we’ve been talking about—hunters, foresters, sylviculturists. Plus, most anybody who grew up around here knows the difference between harvested forests, and ones that haven’t been cut down for a while.’’

  Rossi twitched a frown. ‘‘We’re going in circles.’’

  Morgan studied their surroundings. ‘‘Tell me about the hunters.’’

  Garue squinted at the profiler. ‘‘The ones who found the graves, you mean?’’

  ‘‘Yeah. Were they just walking around out here?’’

  ‘‘No. They were tracking a buck one of them shot with a bow.’’

  Morgan considered that. ‘‘Deer are hunted from blinds, right?’’

  ‘‘Stands,’’ Rossi corrected him.

  ‘‘Yeah, but the hunter stays in one place and the deer come to them.’’

  ‘‘That’s right,’’ Garue said. ‘‘They hunt the edge line, the area between harvested and unharvested forests. That’s where the deer like to eat. You see this ground around us? Lots of different plants here. The trees aren’t big enough to keep the sun out yet. When that happens, the smaller plants die off. These other plants are the deer’s favorites, so they feed in the recently harvested areas. But since they’re cautious animals, they live in the thicker woods . . . like over there. That’s where the three hunters’ stands are.’’

  ‘‘If you knew these graves were here,’’ Rossi said, ‘‘you could sit up there and see them?’’

  Garue shrugged. ‘‘Probably. If you had binoculars, easy.’’

  Morgan asked, ‘‘When does hunting season start?’’

  ‘‘Gun season, last Saturday. Muzzle-loader season starts at the end of the month, and bow season has been going on since middle of September.’’

  Rossi and Morgan traded a look.

  ‘‘If the last body,’’ Morgan said, ‘‘was buried in September or later . . .’’

  ‘‘Maybe hunters spooked our UnSub,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘There might be a deer hunter out there who saw something and doesn’t even know it.’’

  ‘‘Oh, hell,’’ Garue said. ‘‘There’s a lot of bow hunters, but Daniel Abner leases this land from Bassinko. He would’ve probably led any hunters in here. We need to talk to him, more than before.’’

  ‘‘Good place to start, anyway,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘Let’s get back to civilization.’’

  On the drive in, Garue phoned into the office and asked that someone call Abner and have the guide come around to the law enforcement center.

  When they got back to the conference room, Hotchner told the trio that a deputy had come in to say that Daniel Abner, the hunting guide, was already waiting in interview room one.

  ‘‘Before you interview him,’’ Garue said, ‘‘there’s something you should know about Dan Abner.’’

  ‘‘What’s that?’’ Morgan asked.

  ‘‘He had a ten-year-old daughter who was kidnapped, raped, and killed.’’

  Hotchner stepped forward. ‘‘Why weren’t we told about this right away?’’

  Garue looked perplexed. ‘‘I didn’t see the relevance.’’

  ‘‘A similar crime to this,’’ Hotchner snapped, his temper showing through, ‘‘and you didn’t see the relevance?’’

  ‘‘I’m telling you about it now,’’ Garue said, keeping his cool. ‘‘It was fifteen years ago. Cost him a daughter and a marriage. He was never a suspect—well, not really anyway, no more than any family member is in such a situation—and the suspected killer disappeared before we could arrest him. In the fifteen years since, not one other girl has disappeared from the area. Abner’s not your UnSub. He’s another victim. Which is why I’m telling you this. He’s got ghosts—we all do—but this is going to wake his.’’

  Calmly, Hotchner said, ‘‘We need all the facts, that’s all. You needn’t worry—we’ll handle him with care. Morgan, you do the interview.’’

  ‘‘You got it, Hotch.’’

  Garue led the parade to the interview room. He, Hotchner
, and Rossi went into the observation booth next door while Morgan took a deep breath, then went on in.

  The balding man at the table puffed on a cigarette, an ashtray handy. Evidently, Bemidji either didn’t have a city ordinance against smoking in public buildings or someone had cut Abner some slack. Morgan guessed option number two.

  Morgan smiled more to put the man at ease. Abner did not return the smile, but did nod.

  ‘‘Mr. Abner, I’m Supervisory Special Agent Derek Morgan.’’

  Abner nodded again, said nothing, and stamped out his cigarette in the ashtray. Morgan sat opposite the man, the two silently studying each other. Abner wore a flannel shirt, jeans and ankle-length boots; his mostly bald head bore patches of halfhearted gray the color of the stubble on his chin. Dull gray eyes lurked behind wire-frame glasses, and his expression seemed a little lost.

  Still, Abner had not said a word and Morgan could only wonder if Garue had also left out the fact the hunting guide was mute.

  ‘‘I’d like to talk to you,’’ Morgan said evenly, ‘‘about what you found in the woods over the weekend.’’

  Abner nodded.

  ‘‘What did you find?’’

  Abner just sat for a long moment.

  Morgan was fighting irritation when the man lit up another smoke and, finally, looked him in the eye.

  ‘‘It was sickening,’’ Abner said.

  This, though something of a non sequitur, was at least an answer. Morgan prompted, ‘‘Sickening?’’

  Abner sighed smoke, nodded. ‘‘In one goddamn second, I went from having a fun time with some buddies to knowing exactly what the guy who found my daughter must’ve felt like. Man, I thought I was going to puke, made me so sick to my stomach.’’

  ‘‘We were told about your daughter,’’ Morgan said. ‘‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’’

  Abner said, ‘‘It was a long time ago. But . . .’’ He shrugged, sighed smoke again. ‘‘It’s not the kind of thing you get over, really.’’

  ‘‘I know it’s difficult, sir, but I need to hear your story.’’

  The guide thought for a moment. Morgan was about to prompt him again, when he said, ‘‘I was hired by Billy Kwitcher and Logan Tweed to take them on a deer hunt.’’

  ‘‘Both locals?’’

  He nodded. ‘‘I’ve known Logan all his life. He was almost ten years behind me in school, but I knew his older brothers.’’

  ‘‘What about Kwitcher?’’

  ‘‘Him, I don’t really know that well. Just a friend of Logan’s. Him and Logan went deer hunting last year, with another guide.’’

  ‘‘Do you know what guide? Would you have a name for him?’’

  ‘‘Nope. Sorry.’’

  ‘‘Do you know anything at all about Kwitcher?’’

  ‘‘I’m pretty sure he works construction with Logan.’’

  ‘‘Not a lifetime Bemidji resident?’’

  ‘‘Naw. Billy told me he moved here a couple of years ago from . . .’’ Abner shook his head. ‘‘All I can remember is somewhere down South. Arkansas, Missouri, Oklahoma, something like that.’’

  ‘‘All right,’’ Morgan said, never having heard a more vague rendering of Southern states. ‘‘Tell me the rest of the story. I’ll try not to interrupt.’’

  Ten minutes later, his face ashen, the pain of his own daughter’s disappearance obvious there, Abner wrapped up his account.

  Morgan leaned forward. ‘‘You had no idea that anyone had been in the forest?’’

  Abner shrugged. ‘‘I can’t go that far, Agent Morgan. There’s no way to keep people out—not to mention that Bassinko folks are in and out of there, now and then. After all, they own the land, what’s to stop ’em? If I went in there and saw new tire tracks? I wouldn’t think a thing of it.’’

  Morgan mulled this for a moment before asking the next question. If he asked all three hunters the same question, perhaps the three answers together would provide the team with something helpful. This was important; an adage gleaned from their evidence-gathering colleagues said, First on the scene, first suspects.

  ‘‘You’ve told me how you reacted to finding the skeletal hand,’’ Morgan said. ‘‘Now I’d like your impression of Kwitcher’s reactions, and Logan’s.’’

  ‘‘Their reactions?’’ Abner said, almost sputtering. ‘‘The same as mine! We were all freaked out as hell. Jesus, what do you think?’’

  Holding up both hands, Morgan said, ‘‘Whoa, slow down a little.’’

  Abner ground out his cigarette and immediately started up another.

  ‘‘You were all surprised,’’ Morgan said. ‘‘Granted. Think about it for a few seconds . . . then tell me what they were doing while you were making the 911 call on your cell.’’

  The hunting guide puffed away on his cigarette as if the act of inhaling fueled new thoughts.

  ‘‘They were both pretty worked up,’’ Abner said, at last. ‘‘In different ways, though. You’re right, when I think about it, all our reactions were at least a little different.’’

  ‘‘How so?’’

  ‘‘Like I said, it made me sick to my stomach. All those memories . . . but the others, well . . .’’

  ‘‘Yes?’’

  Abner met Morgan’s eyes. ‘‘Logan was . . . I’d call it . . . curious, you know?’’

  ‘‘I’m not sure I get that.’’

  The guide tried again: ‘‘He almost reached out and touched the thing a couple of times.’’ Abner shuddered. ‘‘I mean, I had to stop him. It was like he wanted to hold those bony fingers. I don’t know, maybe he thought . . . Shit, I don’t know what he thought. But I had to tell him the cops wouldn’t want the scene disturbed, or I swear he would’ve touched that hand. Hell, he might even have pulled it out of the ground! Like a goddamn flower he was plucking.’’

  ‘‘And Kwitcher?’’

  Sighing smoke again, Abner said, ‘‘His reaction was somewhere between Logan’s and mine. Billy stayed away from the hand, but let me tell you—he couldn’t stop staring at it. The weird thing, though?’’

  ‘‘Yeah?’’

  ‘‘When I looked in Billy’s eyes, it was like he was . . . somewhere else. He was staring at the hand, but he wasn’t really seeing it. He was looking through it. Seeing something else. It was like he’d just seen a damn ghost or something.’’

  Morgan nodded. He scooted the chair out and stood. ‘‘I don’t have any more questions for you, sir. Thank you for your time.’’

  ‘‘Glad to help.’’

  ‘‘We may need to talk again. This can be a long process. So don’t be alarmed if you hear from us.’’

  ‘‘Okay.’’ Then, his eyes burning into Morgan’s, he said, ‘‘You find this son of a bitch, you give me five minutes with him alone, and save yourself the cost of a trial.’’

  From the look in the guide’s eyes, Morgan knew the man spoke the truth.

  ‘‘I understand the sentiment,’’ Morgan said with a grim little smile. ‘‘But you might in future want to keep thoughts like that to yourself.’’

  Back in the conference room, Hotchner gathered the group around and filled them in on the interview.

  Morgan said, ‘‘Well, Abner’s big enough to have moved the bodies.’’

  Detective Garue said, ‘‘You consider him a suspect?’’

  Hotchner said, ‘‘We consider everyone connected with the crimes to be at least a person of interest . . . until they’re not.’’

  Reid asked, ‘‘Was he serious about that threat he made?’’

  Morgan nodded. ‘‘If it’s an act, it’s a damn good one. He had me convinced that if he and the UnSub are left alone together ... the UnSub won’t walk away.’’

  Prentiss, eyes tight, asked, ‘‘Could he be covering his tracks? Talking big to make us look somewhere else?’’

  ‘‘Possible, of course,’’ Morgan said with a shrug. ‘‘My gut is to believe him . . . but on the other hand, no one in this tow
n would ever question Dan Abner’s vehicle being on that forest service road.’’

  Garue looked stricken. ‘‘I can’t believe you’re considering Dan,’’ the local lawman said. ‘‘After what he’s been through? When does a guy get cut a break from you people?’’

  ‘‘When he or she is no longer a person of interest,’’ Hotchner said, voice calm. ‘‘Look at the profile that’s emerging. Abner’s comfortable in that forest. He knows it as well as or better than anyone. No one would question his being there. He’s had major stressors in his life, with the loss of his daughter and his wife leaving him. When was the crime?’’

  Garue said, ‘‘I told you, fifteen years ago.’’

  ‘‘No—what month, what time of year?’’

  The detective had to think, but he finally said, ‘‘She disappeared in April. Found her body the following June.’’

  ‘‘When did his wife leave him?’’

  Garue thought some more. ‘‘September of the next year, I think it was 1993.’’

  ‘‘So,’’ Reid said, ‘‘two months ago was the fifteenth anniversary.’’

  ‘‘Guys,’’ Garcia said from the speakers and screen of a laptop.

  Morgan turned and saw the curly-haired blonde smiling at him from the monitor.

  ‘‘Hey, girl,’’ Morgan said.

  She kept their usual jokey flirtation to a minimum with Hotchner and Rossi standing on either side of Morgan. ‘‘Hi, everybody,’’ she said. ‘‘I finally got a background on your hunter, Billy Kwitcher.’’

  ‘‘Good,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘By your high standards, that took a while.’’

  ‘‘Well,’’ Garcia said, ‘‘William R. Kwitcher only showed up on the radar two years ago.’’

  Garue asked, ‘‘Where was he before that?’’

  ‘‘Living in Arkansas as William K. Rohl.’’

  Hotchner asked, ‘‘You’re sure it’s the same guy?’’

  ‘‘Mr. Kwitcher’s middle name is Rohl and Mr. Rohl’s middle name was Kwitcher, when he fell off the world two years ago. Not surprisingly, they also share the same birthday.’’

  ‘‘He changed his name,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘Any idea why?’’