Finishing School (26 page)

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Authors: Max Allan Collins

BOOK: Finishing School
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‘‘What of?''
‘‘Of barbiturates.''
‘‘Where did you get the barbiturates?''
Again Silvan considered the question before answering. ‘‘I pilfered them.''
‘‘From where, Lawrence?''
‘‘From my wife.''
‘‘Your wife uses barbiturates?''
‘‘Suzanne has had trouble sleeping for a long time.''
‘‘Were these prescription medications, Lawrence?''
‘‘Yes. Suzanne has needed sleeping pills and painkillers for years.''
‘‘Why?''
‘‘She had . . . problems.''
‘‘
Had
problems?''
‘‘Had problems at home. When she was younger.''
‘‘What kind of problems, Lawrence?''
Silvan hesitated. ‘‘The emotional kind.''
‘‘And she got painkillers prescribed for her emotional problems?''
Silvan fussed with a shirt cuff.
‘‘Do I have to repeat the question?''
Letting go of the cuff but not looking at Hotchner, Silvan said, ‘‘She got in trouble as a girl.''
‘‘Trouble.''
‘‘You know. As a girl.''
‘‘What kind of trouble, Lawrence?''
‘‘Some boy got her in trouble.''
‘‘She was pregnant. Did she have the baby, Lawrence?''
This time the answer was prompt, with some old anger under it, the calm eyes flashing behind the glasses. ‘‘Some son of a bitch did it.''
‘‘Did what, Lawrence? Make her pregnant?''
‘‘No! Gave her a bad abortion—when she was a teenager. That left her with chronic pain. Listen, I'm sorry.''
‘‘Sorry, Lawrence?''
‘‘For swearing just then. I wasn't raised that way.''
Hotchner paused at that speed bump. Then he asked, ‘‘And this . . . back-alley abortion, that's why Suzanne could never have children of her own?''
‘‘Yes.''
‘‘That's very sad, Lawrence.''
‘‘I know.'' He was staring into nothing. ‘‘But I still wanted kids.'' The smug little smile returned. ‘‘So . . . I just took them when I saw one I liked. And made them mine.''
‘‘And Suzanne never knew?''
‘‘Well . . . she, uh, because of her emotional problems, we couldn't, uh . . . adopt. That's why I told her we were going to be, you know, foster parents. She never knew how I got the girls. That was my little secret.''
‘‘She never wondered why no one official came around to talk to you and her about these foster children?''
‘‘No. I said I handled all that.''
‘‘Why did you kill the girls when they got older, Lawrence?''
‘‘They were nicer at a young age. Easier to handle.''
‘‘And Suzanne never suspected you were disposing of them when they reached a certain age.''
‘‘No. She just thought they'd been turned back over, to, uh, you know, the state or some agency. And that we'd been asked to be a foster home for a
new
batch of girls.''
Then he smiled a little bit bigger. Hotchner knew why: The planner was improvising, and was proud of how well he was doing on the fly.
Hotchner decided to turn up the heat. ‘‘Did your wife know you were having sex with the girls?''
‘‘I
wasn't
!''
Hotchner didn't think he was, but turned the knife, anyway. ‘‘Isn't that why you had to dispose of them when they got older? They might tell your wife, or run and tell the authorities, what you were doing to them?''
The color drained from Silvan's face, his mouth yawning like a trapdoor. ‘‘I . . . I . . . would . . . would
never
. . . . do . . . such a . . . such a . . .
evil
thing. . . .''
Hotchner had heard many a killer speak of the world as seen through a distorted prism; but Silvan's definition of evil was brand-new even to the seasoned profiler.
‘‘I would
never
harm those girls! I loved them . . . but not in a
sick
way.''
‘‘Until they became women. Once they reached puberty, you couldn't deal with them, could you? Or was it that as young women they were no longer physically attractive to you?''
‘‘I never had relations with them—
ever
!'' The UnSub who hated confrontation now had not a child to deal with, or even a teenage girl, but a grown man who was not having any of his lies. ‘‘I said before . . . I loved them. They were our children.''
‘‘They weren't your children, Lawrence; you abducted them. You stole them from their real parents. Why would you do such an evil thing if not to have sex with them?''
‘‘It's not evil to want a family. It's not evil to take these innocent children to a safe place in a world this dangerous.''
Hotchner wondered if the ‘‘safe place'' was the Silvan home, or a hole in the ground; but this he did not ask. Not yet. ‘‘You and Suzanne wanted a family?''
‘‘Yes,'' Silvan said, ‘‘but My Beloved had no part in how we . . . made that family.''
‘‘When you say ‘we,' you mean you and your wife ‘made' the family?''
‘‘She raised the girls. She is a wonderful mother. But she would probably have been mad if she knew how I got the girls.''
‘‘Probably?''
‘‘She'd have been angry with me.''
‘‘Angry for having relations with them?''
‘‘I didn't! I told you, I would never do such an evil thing! We raised our daughters with love and care. You have scientists, don't you, who can look at the girls and tell that I didn't touch them?
Don't you?
''
Hotchner flipped open the folder, withdrew the pictures of the bodies and spread them before Silvan like a dreadful hand of cards. ‘‘You're right, Lawrence. The girls you loved and cared for were so decomposed that we couldn't tell if you had sexual relations with them or not.''
Silvan took off his glasses, tossed them clatteringly on the table. Then his eyes went everywhere but at Hotchner or the photos—he'd glance down, then regard the ceiling, then study the walls, until finally he covered his eyes with his hands.
Silvan said, ‘‘You're not a good person.''
‘‘Oh?''
‘‘What kind of person would show horrible pictures like that, of dead girls, to their father?''
Hotchner tapped one of the photos. ‘‘You see, Lawrence, since we couldn't tell through forensics, we just assumed you had sex with all six. That's what men who steal little girls do.''
‘‘
I
didn't,'' Silvan insisted, hands still shielding his eyes.
“Look at them,''
Hotchner said through his teeth. ‘‘They were beautiful young children, and you stole their childhood, and took their lives.''
Silvan shook his head, eyes covered, moaning but saying nothing.
‘‘
Look
, Lawrence! We'll sit here till you do.''
Slowly, Silvan uncovered his eyes and they went to the photos. Without his glasses, the man might have seen only a blur of the decomposed horror; nonetheless, he lasted barely five seconds before turning away, and tears began to stream. Silvan looked like a child himself now—a small boy.
Hotchner knew that this man, in his own warped way, had indeed loved these girls. That didn't mean Silvan hadn't killed them, but this was likely the submissive half of the couple. The submissive would dispose of the bodies, but the dominant one would be the one doing the killing.
And Suzanne Silvan had the two little girls now. The only difference was that this time, the dominant partner might also have to dispose of the bodies.
Hotchner said, ‘‘You loved those girls.'' Not a question.
Silvan nodded meekly.
‘‘And you didn't have sex with them.''
Silvan whispered hoarsely, ‘‘I swear to the Lord I didn't.''
‘‘You also didn't kill them.''
Silvan said nothing, his eyes closed, his breathing ragged.
Hotchner tapped a photo. ‘‘It tears you apart inside, seeing them like this.''
‘‘. . . Yes.''
‘‘You and I both know there are two more girls out there who will meet the same fate unless we do something.''
Silvan said nothing, but his eyes were still producing tears and his mouth was quivering.
‘‘Lawrence, you need to tell me where Suzanne has taken them.''
Silvan swallowed snot. Then he asked, ‘‘Why should I?''
‘‘Why? So we can save them!''
‘‘As long as I'm locked up,'' Silvan said, his voice peaceful, ‘‘they don't need saving. They'll grow up happy and loved.''
‘‘And then be murdered.''
The smug little smile returned, though dripping with tears now. ‘‘No. You still don't understand. That's when they're
really
saved.''
And Hotchner knew this man would never give up his ‘‘Beloved.''
Then Silvan added, ‘‘Who knows? Maybe this time they won't have to go to finishing school.''
‘‘Finishing school?''
Silvan shrugged. ‘‘It's just a phrase.''
But Hotchner knew at once. ‘‘A euphemism for killing the girls? Is
that
what she called it?''
Silvan was cleaning his glasses on his shirt. ‘‘No, it's
my
phrase—that's what
I
called it. Suzanne wasn't part of this, remember?''
Hotchner knew he was facing a dead end and was almost relieved when a knock came at the mirrored window.
When Hotchner exited the interview room, he left the pictures spread out on the table before Silvan, the little forester still doing his best not to look at them, but as if passing a car wreck, occasionally glancing anyway. Maybe a few minutes alone with the photos would change the man's attitude.
But Hotchner doubted it.
Morgan, who'd been in the observation booth, joined Hotchner in the hall.
‘‘What?'' Hotchner asked.
‘‘We know where Suzanne Silvan is headed.''
‘‘Excellent. Garcia?''
Morgan flicked a smile. ‘‘Garcia. She did some digging when we started putting together Suzanne's profile. Her parents, Jacob and Tess Hamilton, have been dead for years. But they left her the family farm just outside of Ames, Iowa.''
‘‘Nice to know, but why do we think she's going there?''
‘‘She kept the land, but in her maiden name. It would have been hard as hell for anyone to track.''
‘‘Unless they had Penelope Garcia doing the digging.''
‘‘Exactly.''
‘‘Okay, Suzanne owns land in Iowa—that still doesn't tell me why she's going there instead of anywhere else.''
Morgan nodded. ‘‘Fair enough. Try this—she's never worked outside the home and has no education past high school. She may have some money they've saved, but what about when that runs out? Where better to get a job than somewhere where people already know her?''
Hotchner said, ‘‘And with the farm in her maiden name, no one will come looking for her there, or so she thinks.''
‘‘If Silvan was somehow able to escape, or wriggle out of this on a legal technicality, they have to have a backup in place.''
‘‘With a planner like Lawrence Silvan they would.''
‘‘Right. But how would he find her? He has to
know
where she's going . . . and with him in jail, it sure as hell isn't Tacoma. I think that family farm was the backup plan all along, a sort of safe house should they need it. After all, Lawrence is not the only one in the family who can plan.''
‘‘Why haven't they gone there before?''
‘‘Haven't needed to. And that part of the country doesn't fit Lawrence's career needs.''
Hotchner gave up a smile. ‘‘That's very good work, Morgan. How long will it take us to get there?''
‘‘Oh, we're not going.''
‘‘Really,'' Hotchner said skeptically. ‘‘Were you promoted while I was in doing that interview?''
Morgan grinned. ‘‘Rossi and Prentiss were flying here to join us.''
‘‘Ah—and you diverted their plane.''
‘‘Yep. I think that's called taking initiative.''
‘‘It is, and you did well.''
‘‘Even if she drives straight through,'' Morgan said, still grinning, ‘‘Dave and Emily'll be waiting for her.''
‘‘
If
you're right about where they're heading.''
Morgan's grin vanished, but something faintly kidding was in his reply: ‘‘Hotch, I'm a trained professional. You doubt my profile?''
Hotchner said nothing.
Fishing a bill from his pants pocket, Morgan said, ‘‘Twenty says Rossi and Prentiss get her at the farm.''
Hotchner surrendered half a grin. ‘‘I know you're trained, Derek—I helped train you. You don't expect me to bet against myself, do you?''
 
Ames, Iowa
 
The sun peeked over the horizon as SSA David Rossi sat in the front seat of an unmarked car next to plainclothes investigator Tom Matcor from the Iowa State Patrol. Prentiss, in back, was trying with intermittent success to nap.
Knowing they had a head start, they had taken motel rooms to shower and change clothes, but had not taken the time to sleep. Instead, the two profilers had organized a plan with the help of the Iowa state troopers, and for almost two hours had been parked next to an outbuilding on the Hamilton family farm just west of Ames.

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