Finishing School

by Max Allan Collins

  Jesup, Georgia

  Retired detective Malcolm Henry lived in a formidable two-story farmhouse just beyond the city limits on the far south side of town, a gravel lane leading up to the spread. Mickerson parked in front of a small but well-kept barn, and Rossi got out and looked around at something out of a Grant Wood painting.

  A knock on a side door was answered by a short, thin woman in jeans and a gray sweatshirt with the words HILTON HEAD over the left breast. Seeing Mickerson made her smile and she invited them in.

  They entered into a huge yellow kitchen dominated by an almost Arthurian-sized round oak dining table with matching chairs. Big windows on the south wall let in plenty of sunshine to make the room warm and inviting.

  Mickerson asked, ‘‘How’re you doing, Mrs. Henry?’’

  ‘‘Fine, fine,’’ she said, with a wide smile. She was a petite woman who had stayed physically fit and appeared younger than the early sixties that Rossi figured her for, her hair color a shade of blonde unknown in nature.

  After names had been exchanged and they’d all shaken hands, Mrs. Henry waved them to the table, saying, ‘‘Have a seat, have a seat. Would you like some coffee?’’

  Rossi said, ‘‘Sure, thanks.’’

  Prentiss, Carlyle and Mickerson were game, as well.

  When their hostess had given them all huge mugs of coffee, she said, ‘‘I expect you’ll be wanting to talk to Mal.’’

  ‘‘Yes, ma’am,’’ Mickerson said. ‘‘Please.’’

  She nodded. ‘‘I’ll go and get him. He’s—’’

  ‘‘He’s right here,’’ said a deep voice from the doorway off a dining room.

  They all turned toward the basset-faced, barrelchested, medium-sized man with the piercing brown eyes; his short dark hair was graying at the edges.

  ‘‘Tim,’’ Henry said as he strode in to join them. ‘‘How’s my favorite bonus baby?’’

  ‘‘Bonus Baby’s good, Mal. How’s my favorite retiree?’’

  Henry gave up a single-shoulder shrug. ‘‘Gettin’ by. This doesn’t look like a social call. . . .’’

  Soon, the friendly Mrs. Henry having taken her leave, they were sitting together at the big table talking about the Abigail Mathis kidnapping.

  ‘‘Figured it had to be that,’’ Henry said with a husky sigh. ‘‘There are days when an old broke-down cop like me misses the job. But there aren’t any days I miss that one.’’

  Rossi asked, ‘‘What can you tell us?’’

  Henry sipped his coffee, then set the cup down. ‘‘I’m glad somebody finally found the poor thing. I suppose you’re after the perp now.’’

  ‘‘Yeah. Who called and told you the girl had been identified?’’

  ‘‘Nobody,’’ Henry said. ‘‘Made the local news—but there wasn’t much in the way of details.’’

  Rossi filled the retired detective in.

  Henry chewed on the information awhile.

  Rossi said, ‘‘The other girls buried with Abby could have been her sisters, they looked so much alike.’’

  ‘‘That is plain goddamn weird.’’

  ‘‘Yes, it is. But it’s true—we’ve seen photos of each of the victims. They were all blonde girls abducted at age three or so, and killed between the ages of twelve and fourteen. All dressed nicely, all well taken care of.’’

  ‘‘Took care of is right,’’ Henry said gruffly. ‘‘All buried?’’

  ‘‘Next to each other,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘The graves couldn’t have been neater in a cemetery.’’

  ‘‘All between twelve and fourteen, you say?’’

  ‘‘Yeah . . .’’

  Henry stroked his chin in thought, then turned to Mickerson. ‘‘When was that girl found in Bockman?’’

  ‘‘Oh, hell,’’ Mickerson said, and grimaced. ‘‘Goddamn, I never even thought about that.’’

  ‘‘What girl?’’ Prentiss asked.

  The retired cop turned to her. ‘‘A blonde about the same age as your dead girls was found buried in the woods, outside Bockman.’’

  Eyes flaring, she asked, ‘‘What and where is Bockman?’’

  ‘‘It’s a town, sort of. Really only about seven or eight houses out the end of Sansavilla Road, on the south bank of the Altamaha River.’’

  Rossi asked, ‘‘When was this?’’

  ‘‘Ten years ago,’’ Henry said. ‘‘Never woulda even found her, but the river flooded that spring, and when the water went down, well, the grave was exposed. She was just sort of sticking up out of the ground. Wrapped in plastic like a goddamn sandwich.’’

  Turning to Prentiss, Rossi asked, ‘‘How did we not get this information from Garcia?’’

  Henry held up a hand. ‘‘Ain’t gonna be no record of this in VICAP, CASMIRC, or any of those kind of places.’’

  The retired detective was referring to the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program and the Child Abduction and Serial Murder Investigations Resource Center.

  Henry was saying, ‘‘Bockman is . . . rural. It ain’t like here in town. They don’t operate on any big scale. Hell, the sheriff thought he was lucky they called at all. Back there, in the woods, sometimes the dead get buried without a lot of . . . fanfare. ‘You came from the earth, you shall return to the earth.’ If the girl’d been from around there, they probably never would have called anyone. The mere fact that nobody recognized her, or her bracelet, was enough to get them to call the sheriff.’’

  ‘‘Bracelet?’’ Prentiss asked.

  ‘‘She was dressed nicely—I remember that from the photos I saw. Even though the water and the time in the ground had pretty much wrecked them, you could see the girl was wearing nice clothes. She also had a bracelet on her left wrist. Gold—sort of a really delicate ID bracelet, but instead of the girl’s name, it had engraved in script ‘Mommy’s Little Sweetheart.’ ”

  Rossi asked, ‘‘Was she ever identified?’’

  Frowning, Henry shook his head. ‘‘Nope. Sheriff called the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, and they did all they could, but the girl never got a name.’’

  ‘‘Was there an autopsy?’’

  Henry shrugged. ‘‘I never heard of one. Being the county seat, we knew the sheriff and his department pretty well. That’s how I found out as much as I did. Bockman’s not anywhere near our jurisdiction. Once the state was involved, we sort of got shut out. The only thing I know for sure is the girl was never ID’d. You’d have to talk to the GBI to know for sure.’’

  Rossi nodded. ‘‘We will. Hers was the only body found?’’

  ‘‘Far as I know.’’

  ‘‘They didn’t look for more graves?’’

  With a little shrug, Henry asked, ‘‘Why would they?’’

  Good point, Rossi thought.

  They thanked their host for the time and information, and thanked Mrs. Henry, as well, who offered pie that they reluctantly turned down.

  When they were out in the yard, Rossi turned to Mickerson. ‘‘How far is Bockman?’’

  ‘‘Maybe twenty miles.’’

  ‘‘Is there somebody over there we could talk to? Somebody who would know where the body was found?’’

  ‘‘Sure, lots of folks.’’

  Rossi frowned. ‘‘I mean exactly where.’’

  Mickerson shrugged. ‘‘The sheriff would. He’d have been out there.’’

  ‘‘Call him. Lead us out there, and we’ll call the Georgia Bureau of Criminal Investigation on the way.’’

  Mickerson asked, ‘‘What are you thinking?’’

  Rossi said, ‘‘I’m thinking I’ve just learned a blonde teenage girl was buried in the woods in Georgia. And I’ve learned this when I’ve come around investigating the deaths of blonde girls who disappeared from around here, ten years ago, who wound up buried in the woods of Minnesota.’’

  ‘‘Doesn’t sound like a coincidence.’’

  ‘‘No. It doesn’t. We need to see if there are more graves. There were three
in Minnesota. Why would there only be one here? We have to look.’’

  A call from JJ came in not long after they left Detective Henry’s. Prentiss took it, then passed the message along to Rossi. A little blonde girl had been abducted from a town east of Bemidji and, Garcia said, Hotchner was afraid the whole cycle of kidnapping and murder might be starting again.

  Prentiss asked, ‘‘Should we be back up there?’’

  ‘‘Our job is here,’’ Rossi had said, matter-of-factly.

  ‘‘The UnSub did his abductions on the road. He may have already left Bemidji.’’

  Rossi nodded. ‘‘That’s why we need to stay here. The more we find about the UnSub’s past, the easier it’ll be to predict his future.’’

  ‘‘That makes sense,’’ she admitted.

  About Rossi’s height and build, Sheriff Roger Okrent—an African-American in a black cowboy hat with the tan uniform of Wayne County—had short black hair, a black mustache, and brown eyes bright with intelligence. He was eager to help his FBI visitors.

  Orkent led them to the spot in the woods—despite the lack of snow, a fair amount of green, and Georgia pines (not white-barked aspens), these cathedral-like, silently peaceful woods still much reminded Rossi of the Minnesota forest. But looking around the ground near where the girl had been found ten years ago, Rossi knew he might be standing near a hellish discovery.

  Darkness settled into the Georgia woods before they could get the ground-penetrating radar down from Atlanta. That didn’t stop Rossi. He found a company to rent them work lights and they illuminated the area like daylight.

  The crime lab crew had worked the scene for four hours, midnight approaching, and Rossi was starting to wonder if he’d miscalculated. Prentiss wedged herself into the back of the SUV for a nap while Carlyle dozed in the driver’s seat. Rossi stayed awake the whole time. He was thinking they would do one more grid, then call it a night.

  ‘‘Hey!’’ the radar operator yelled. ‘‘I think we found something!’’

  Three hours of careful excavation later, the crime lab crew had opened two graves containing two plastic-wrapped skeletons that Rossi figured for teenage girls. They both wore dresses and both had wisps of blonde hair remaining.

  Sheriff Okrent asked, ‘‘How the hell did you know they would be here?’’

  Rossi shook his head. ‘‘You have no idea how much I wish I’d been wrong. Tell me, who owns this forest?’’

  ‘‘Clenteen Industries,’’ Okrent said. ‘‘Biggest lumber company in the area. Their office is in Brunswick.’’

  ‘‘How far is that?’’

  ‘‘About thirty miles.’’

  ‘‘We’re going to need a motel in Brunswick,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘The UnSub who killed these girls, and the three in Minnesota, worked there.’’

  Chapter Eight

  Bemidji, Minnesota

  Derek Morgan had barely slept.

  The trip to Hibbing had been both helpful and frustrating. Morgan and Garue had made the 105-mile drive in just over sixty minutes, Garue running the siren and pushing the gas pedal the whole way. They went directly to the police department on Twelfth Avenue E, were invited to join the investigation by Chief Nicole Barbaro, and then met with Detective Ian Hauser, a laconic, ruddy-faced, sad-eyed man who brought to mind a red-haired Abraham Lincoln.

  Hauser filled them in on the information he had so far, which was scant. Even though the UnSub would have to have touched the SUV, the crime scene team had been unable to lift a single usable print that didn’t belong to the Scheckel family. The only other hope was the store’s security video.

  After the catch-up meeting, Hauser joined Morgan and Garue for a ride to interview the missing child’s parents, Thomas and Lisa Scheckel, at their log-cabin-style home on Lake Carey Road.

  Mrs. Scheckel, Lisa—a blonde of twenty-five with even bangs, shoulder-length hair, and high, porcelain cheeks—wore an untucked pink button-down blouse with a wide belt at her jeans. Husband Thomas was a bearded bear of a man with brown hair as long as his wife’s; his brown eyes burned in turns between rage and terror.

  They sat in a living room whose log walls were home to leather furniture and a wall-mounted flat-screen TV above a glass shelving unit of electronic devices, with what were apparently mounted wireless surround-sound speakers. The Scheckels shared a sofa while Garue and Morgan sat in well-padded leather chairs at ninety-degree angles to the sofa. Detective Hauser stood at Garue’s left shoulder.

  After the introductions and Lisa’s retelling the story of their daughter Sophie’s disappearance, Morgan worked to get more details.

  ‘‘Mr. Scheckel, what do you do for a living?’’

  ‘‘I’m an architect.’’

  ‘‘For?’’

  Scheckel shook his head. ‘‘I guess you’d say I’m self-employed.’’

  ‘‘Interesting work, architecture. Isn’t this a pre-fab?’’

  ‘‘Yes. Which I designed for the company I co-own.’’

  ‘‘Any trouble at work?’’ The profiler sat forward a little now.

  ‘‘No. Not that I know of. My partners all seem happy.’’

  ‘‘Clients?’’

  ‘‘I don’t have anything to do with the clients who order our fabricated homes. And I haven’t taken a private client on since we started the company.’’

  Morgan gave the missing girl’s mother a serious, supportive smile. ‘‘And, Mrs. Scheckel, do you work outside the home?’’

  She shrugged. ‘‘Just part-time at an independent bookstore.’’

  ‘‘No trouble with relatives or friends?’’

  ‘‘This,’’ Scheckel said tightly, ‘‘was a stranger—no one in our lives would do a thing like this.’’

  Morgan kept his voice even. ‘‘We’re just covering all the possibilities, sir. Mrs. Scheckel, have you noticed anyone suspicious hanging around your bookstore—following you, maybe?’’

  She frowned at that, thought for a moment, then shook her head.

  Morgan turned to the husband. ‘‘Anything strange on your end, sir? Had the sense you were being followed in your car, maybe? A new face that’s turned up where you take lunch, perhaps?’’

  ‘‘No. Everything in our life was just fine . . . until yesterday morning.’’

  Morgan returned his attention to the mother. ‘‘Do you stop at that convenience store every day?’’

  ‘‘More like once or twice a week. Once a week anyway, for gas. They’re the cheapest around here. Then, maybe once or twice more for a latte.’’

  ‘‘Before or after you drop your daughter off?’’

  ‘‘Usually, when it’s just coffee? After. But my gas tank was in the red and I noticed the pumps were free, so I pulled in. Really just a spur-of-the-moment decision.’’

  ‘‘So, do you stop for lattes the same days each week?’’

  ‘‘No. I don’t think so anyway.’’

  ‘‘Do you always take the same route to the day care?’’

  Mrs. Scheckel nodded. ‘‘Yes. There’s really only one easy route, efficient route. Why?’’

  ‘‘I’m trying to establish if you have patterns someone watching you, over time, might ascertain. The individual we’re tracking targets young girls who are of a type your daughter fits. That makes it less likely that an individual would have abducted your daughter on impulse.’’

  Scheckel squeezed his wife’s hand. ‘‘How much danger is Sophie in?’’

  ‘‘We do not believe she is in any immediate danger.’’

  ‘‘Is this . . . is this a sexual predator?’’

  ‘‘Based upon the information we have, no. We believe this Unknown Subject takes children to essentially adopt and raise them.’’

  Morgan did not add that, after a certain number of years, the girls would turn up murdered and buried in the woods.

  Though he talked to the parents for another thirty minutes, Morgan learned nothing else new. That had been the frustrating part of the trip. The
helpful part had been being able to send all the convenience store security video to Garcia. At least that held the possibility of a break.

  Nothing else seemed to be working. The AMBER Alert that went out within thirty minutes of little Sophie’s abduction had turned nothing up except that the usual cranks saw missing children the way other crazies saw UFOs.

  Morgan already knew they were dealing with a ghost. Assuming this was their UnSub, he had kidnapped at least seven girls over the last twenty years, and not left so much as a fingerprint.

  At the convenience store, Morgan studied the building, the parking lot, the gas pumps, everything about the place. Though the crime had gone down over four hours ago, the CSI van was still in the parking lot and traffic was crawling by as gawkers took it all in. Hauser went off to chat with the crime scene supervisor while Garue stayed with Morgan.

  If Mrs. Scheckel had made such a spur-of-the-moment decision, how could the UnSub know the mother would be at the convenience store? The UnSub must have been following her. From where? Her house? The Scheckels lived out in the sticks.

  The UnSub would be taking a hell of a risk parking anywhere near the house. Had he waited on a side road for them to pass, or had he waited in town somewhere? If she took the same route every day, the UnSub could easily wait anywhere along the route without being conspicuous.

  If he knew the route, how did he know? How long had he been stalking this family?

  ‘‘And why this family?’’ Morgan said aloud.

  ‘‘What?’’ Garue asked.

  ‘‘This family, the Scheckels. Why them?’’

  Garue shrugged. ‘‘Because they had a blonde, three-year-old daughter.’’

  ‘‘Right—but how did he know that?’’

  Garue shrugged again.

  ‘‘Because,’’ Morgan said, ‘‘he had seen her. Where?’’

  The detective just stared this time, realizing he was not really part of the conversation.

  ‘‘The day care,’’ Morgan said. ‘‘That makes the most sense.’’

  ‘‘What?’’ Garue asked.

  ‘‘He staked out the day care. When he found the blonde child he liked, he followed when the mother picked her up.’’

  ‘‘You sound sure of yourself.’’