Finishing School (8 page)

‘‘That makes sense,'' Reid said. ‘‘But, of course, you've dug deeper.''

Garcia grinned and pretended embarrassment. ‘‘Why, Dr. Reid, you're paying attention.''

Reid smiled back at her shyly. He realized Morgan would have had some witty comeback, or some flirtatious remark, but that wasn't his way.

‘‘Both girls were blonde,'' she said. ‘‘Like your Minnesota victims.''

Now Reid was frowning. ‘‘Maybe he's escalating.''

‘‘And it's probably already occurred to you that they were in about the same age range as your victims.''

Nodding, Reid said, ‘‘Kwitcher, or rather Rohl, isn't a very large man. From what Morgan has said, our UnSub probably isn't physically imposing.''

‘‘The girls in Arkansas seemed to have been party types; nothing like force was involved.''

‘‘True. And that might be the case here in Minnesota. It's not the sex that requires force—it's possibly panicking or even premeditatively deciding to clean up after the fact. The girls ‘party' willingly, but wind up murder victims after.''

Garcia was tilting her head. ‘‘The autopsy reports came in on the three girls.''

‘‘What have we got?''

‘‘Cause of death was opiate poisoning. Insects tested from the decomposed bodies contained high amounts of codeine and thebaine.''

‘‘Hydrocodone,'' Reid said, eyes tightening. ‘‘Prescription pain reliever.''

‘‘That's right. The girls just went to sleep and never woke up.''

‘‘Nonviolent,'' Reid said. ‘‘Another sign that this UnSub loved his victims.''

‘‘ ‘Loved'?'' Garcia asked, obviously uncomfortable with the characterization.

‘‘In his own special way. This goes along with his method of disposal, dressing them up, the coats, wrapping them in blankets and sheets of plastic. In some way, he thinks he's protecting them.''

Garcia shook her head, her distaste obvious but unspoken. ‘‘Still nothing on identification of the girls. I'll let you know as soon as I have something.''

‘‘Thanks,'' Reid said. ‘‘I'll tell Hotch.''

Garcia disappeared and Reid went to tell their boss about what he had learned. But already he was having his doubts about Kwitcher—a guy who picked up underage party girls at convenience stores could hardly work up ‘‘love'' for them, as reflected by the UnSub's ritualistic burials.

Or were these girls representative in Kwitcher's mind of some single lost love from his past?

 
Emily Prentiss felt a shiver run up her spine, but whether from fear or just the cold, she could not say. She certainly had on enough clothes—over her sweater she wore a Kevlar vest, and over that a navy blue Windbreaker with FBI emblazoned in yellow, front and back. Her Glock was in her hand, safety off, arm extended down along her leg keeping the pistol partially hidden.

Though the sun shone brightly, a biting wind had started ripping through from the north as she made her way into the teeth of it, walking carefully up the alley behind a two-story clapboard house on Twelfth Street NW, mere blocks from two parks and both Bemidji's middle and high schools.

As another shiver spread through her, Prentiss considered that the cold she felt might be neither fear nor wind, but the sheer creepiness of a known sexual predator having settled down here in Homespun, U.S.A., in the midst of such fertile pickings.

She settled in at the corner of the house's garage. Around her, the neighborhood was made up of similar houses, some in need of paint as much as Kwitcher's, most in better shape. The garages lined the alley like teeth on either side, a molar missing here and there where a door stood open.

Out front, Morgan and Garue would be preparing to mount the front porch steps, operating on the assumption Prentiss had the back covered, which she did. From her position behind the detached garage, using it for cover as she peeked around the corner, she could easily see the back door and most of the backyard.

In her earpiece, Morgan said, ‘‘We're approaching the front door and knocking.''

Though she knew Morgan respected her as an agent, he would, occasionally, shift into the stereo-typical male protective mode. That was why the two men had sent her to the back. She didn't resent this, exactly, realizing Morgan had far more experience going through doors; but this wasn't her first time on the street—she'd spent years as a field agent before joining the BAU.

Mildly preoccupied with that thought, she was startled, just a little, when the back door swung out like a slapping hand and a skinny man, probably about her size, dashed out into the backyard, face masked with fear.

‘‘Rabbit on the run,'' Morgan's voice said in the earpiece.

No shit
.

‘‘Got him,'' Prentiss said into the cuff mike, and as that hand went down, the one holding the gun came up, and she stepped around the corner of the garage right into the path of their rabbit.

‘‘Freeze, FBI!'' she said, her pistol's front sight locked on the man's chest.

He was either deaf or stupid, and just kept coming, arms pumping as he sprinted toward her, determination replacing fear on his face, though the eyes were wild. No weapon was apparent and she wasn't about to kill him for panicking and running. . . .

The rabbit must have sensed that because instead of veering off, he plowed right into her, knocking her backward, the air whooshing out of her as she hit the earth, the gun tumbling from her hand in a lazy arc. But the suspect got tangled with her, and toppled onto her, a second impact that sent a star-burst through her brain.

Prentiss fought through the pain and disorientation as she and the suspect both tried to scramble to their feet and away from each other's grasp. They were both wobbly and she launched a spinning kick that missed her target, the suspect's face, but landed squarely in his upper chest, knocking him back onto his ass again. By the time he started to rise, she had retrieved her pistol and held it inches from his frightened face.

‘‘I think you ruined my pants,'' she said, her voice flat, but an eyebrow arched. ‘‘So I'm in
no
mood . . .''

Rubbing his chest, the suspect slumped back to the ground.

‘‘On your stomach—spread-eagle.''

He hesitated.

‘‘What did I say about my mood?'' she asked, her voice much sharper now.

He complied.

Morgan and Garue came tearing around either side of the house, each with his gun drawn. Then they slowed, seeing the tableau with Prentiss in command.

‘‘Nice job,'' Morgan said with a relieved grin.

‘‘Yeah, thanks,'' Prentiss said. ‘‘Next time,
I'll
take the front.''

The squatting Morgan cuffed the suspect's hands behind him. ‘‘You're William Kwitcher?''

Still on his stomach, the suspect swallowed and said, ‘‘Yeah.''

Morgan tapped him on the head, just a tiny but unmistakable thump. ‘‘Didn't your mother ever teach you not to run away from a federal officer?''

As they helped the suspect to his feet, Garue read Kwitcher his rights. They led him to Garue's Durango and put him in back. The detective would drive him to the law enforcement center with Morgan and Prentiss trailing.

Fifteen minutes later, they brought Kwitcher in through the LEC's back door. Hotchner, Rossi, and Reid were waiting for them—JJ was in a meeting with the Bemidji police chief.

Kwitcher was deposited in an interview room. Prentiss, Morgan, and Garue watched from the observation booth as Rossi came in to interrogate Kwitcher.

The skinny man, his hands cuffed through a loop in the table, sat disconsolately, head bowed as Rossi stared him down.

Finally, Rossi took the seat opposite and said, ‘‘William R. Kwitcher?''

Kwitcher looked up.

‘‘Or maybe I should say William K. Rohl?''

‘‘Aw, shit,'' Rohl mumbled, shook his head, then looked down again.

‘‘I'll just make it ‘Billy,' if you don't mind. Because you're one rose that by any name is not smelling sweet.''

The suspect lifted his eyes and gave Rossi a sulky look. ‘‘I didn't do anything. I found a body and we reported it. Like good citizens. So why am I in trouble?''

‘‘I wonder.'' Rossi flashed a grin that had no amusement in it whatsoever. ‘‘Maybe it's because you're a registered sex offender in Arkansas, who moved away without notifying the state. Maybe it's because you're living in Minnesota where you, a sex offender, have
not
registered.''

Rohl found a blemish on the table that seemed to him very interesting and studied it intently.

‘‘Billy, you had sex with two fourteen-year-old blonde girls.''

‘‘They were willing. I didn't know they was underage. How are you supposed to tell these days? You seen how they dress, how they act.''

Rossi ignored that. ‘‘Now you turn up at a deer stand overlooking the graves of three blonde girls of about the same age as your previous victims. Coincidence?''

‘‘Those two girls weren't no victims,'' Rohl said indignantly. ‘‘That them girls buried out there was young and blonde, well . . . you're right. It's a coincidence.''

Shaking his head, Rossi said, ‘‘Do you believe in God, Billy?''

‘‘Sure I do.''

‘‘So do I. But I'm an atheist about one thing.''

‘‘Huh?''

‘‘I don't believe in coincidence.''

The suspect swallowed, shook his head. His eyes finally stopped avoiding Rossi's. ‘‘How can I prove to you I didn't do this thing?''

Rossi shrugged. ‘‘Gonna be tough. You
do
match the profile.''

‘‘Profile?''

With a gesture to himself, Rossi said, ‘‘That's why the FBI is in town. We're profiling the killer . . . which, I'm afraid to say, is starting to look a whole lot like you.''

Rohl's eyes flared. ‘‘I didn't do
shit
, I tell ya!''

Ignoring that, Rossi said, ‘‘The first thing we know for sure about the perpetrator is that he's a pedophile.''

‘‘Don't you call me that. I ain't no damned child molester. Them girls in that convenience store? They looked of age. They was buying beer, wasn't they?''

‘‘Billy, do you think I didn't read the file? That's how you connected with those girls—
you
bought beer for them. And invited yourself to the party . . . party of three, I should say.''

‘‘You make it sound sick.''

Rossi did a double take. ‘‘Billy, you had sex with two fourteen-year-olds. Even in Arkansas, that's pedophilia. And you're a statutory rapist who skipped and avoided registering as a sex offender. Yeah, I'd call that sick.''

‘‘You never saw them two girls. You'da thought they was old enough, too. I was just a normal man with normal needs.''

‘‘Have you ever had a real relationship with a woman twenty-one or over?''

‘‘Hell yes!''

‘‘I don't mean just getting laid, Billy—I mean a genuine, long-term, loving relationship.'' He leaned on the table. ‘‘I have a hundred dollars that says you can't give me the name of one woman who'll admit to dating you even three times, let alone having a relationship.''

Rohl folded his arms and sulked some more.

‘‘Thought as much,'' Rossi said. ‘‘Let's get back to the profile. You're not very big. Neither is the perp. He would've carried the bodies farther from the road, if he'd been able. On the other hand, maybe the graves were placed there so you could see them from your deer stand.''

Rohl started to look frightened. ‘‘Look, you can be disgusted all you want about me and them teenage girls. But this isn't that—I'm a lover, not a killer. I didn't
do
it, man!''

‘‘You ran.''

‘‘I was scared.''

‘‘Ran, and in the process, assaulted a federal officer.''

‘‘I didn't
mean
to! Christ, she kicked
my
ass!''

Rossi managed not to smile at that. ‘‘That what you're going to tell the judge, Billy? ‘I was trying to escape, Your Honor, but when I knocked that female FBI agent down to get away, I didn't mean to, and anyway, she hurt me back'? I'm sure that'll play. I'd go with that.''

Rohl lapsed into silence.

‘‘You own a gun, Billy?''

The suspect eyed Rossi with distrust.

‘‘Look, Billy, we're getting a search warrant for your house. We'll have it in fifteen minutes, and half an hour from now, we'll know. Why don't you score a point here and cooperate?''

He shrugged, looked away. ‘‘My grandpa's shotgun's in the bedroom closet. It's a family gun.''

Rossi nodded. ‘‘Thank you for cooperating. But you're now a felon in possession of a firearm, ‘family gun' or not, and you've assaulted a federal officer.''

‘‘How was I supposed to know she was a federal officer?''

‘‘Maybe the big yellow FBI letters on her jacket?''

The suspect couldn't find a reply for that.

Rossi continued: ‘‘Those are the federal charges so far. We'll also be looking into how much trouble you're in for leaving Arkansas without notice, and living in Minnesota without registering. Bottom line, Billy—you're going to jail. Your detention hearing will be tomorrow.''