Finishing School by Max Allan Collins Page A

what?’’
    â€˜â€˜The brother, five at the time, was on the monkey bars. He slipped and both Mom and Dad turned when they heard him yell in pain. That was all it took.’’
    Reid asked, ‘‘And no one else on the scene saw anything?’’
    â€˜â€˜No.’’
    Hotchner said, ‘‘No surprise. People in a park tend to be focused on their own activities. . . . Keep digging.’’
    â€˜â€˜Will do.’’
    â€˜â€˜And, Garcia—see what progress has been made on the third victim. Plus, start running down missing blonde girls from the South who disappeared around ten years ago.’’
    â€˜â€˜Yes, sir.’’
    â€˜â€˜And expand your search to the corridor between Bemidji and Atlanta.’’
    â€˜â€˜Right,’’ Garcia said, then disappeared to do her work.
    Rossi asked, ‘‘You’re thinking the UnSub may have lived in the Atlanta area?’’
    Hotchner said, ‘‘I’m thinking it’s a place to start. Both girls disappeared from a hundred-square-mile area, so I’m guessing our UnSub spent some time there. There’s one sure way to find out.’’
    Rossi, ahead of him, said, ‘‘You really want to split the team up like that?’’
    Hotchner said, ‘‘You’ll be as close as the nearest phone or laptop.’’
    Frowning, Prentiss asked, ‘‘What I am missing?’’
    Hotchner said to her, ‘‘You and Rossi take the jet to the Atlanta field office and see what you can find out at that end. The rest of us will work the case from here.’’
    Prentiss said to Rossi, ‘‘How did you know us going to Atlanta was what Hotch was thinking?’’
    Deadpan, Rossi said to her, ‘‘Haven’t you heard? I’m a profiler.’’
    Â 
Atlanta, Georgia
    Â 
David Rossi was well and truly used to not waking up in his own bed.
    Life on the road was part of not only his BAU job, but his role as writer and lecturer, which kept him frequently away from home as well. Waking up in his second city on one case, however, was not the norm. Still, he wouldn’t miss the Arctic Circle temperatures of Minnesota, and had no problem with waking in the more temperate climes of Atlanta.
    The flight into Hartsfield International Airport had been both uneventful and late. He and Prentiss had not left until the afternoon, which meant the pair didn’t land at Hartsfield until nearly ten p.m. local time. Having skipped lunch and losing an hour entering the eastern time zone, Rossi was starving by the time they landed.
    He and Prentiss had shared a late dinner in the hotel restaurant, a typically mediocre dining experience, and he relished every forkful. Scotty Carlyle, the rangy African-American agent who’d picked them up at the airport, kept them company, not joining them, just sipping on a Diet Coke.
    Built like a linebacker, Carlyle had close-clipped hair, wide, clear brown eyes, and a mellow baritone touched with a Southern accent.
    Carlyle asked, ‘‘What brings you to Atlanta to investigate a ten-year-old kidnapping?’’
    Rossi and Prentiss brought the agent up to speed on their case.
    â€˜â€˜Hell of a thing,’’ Carlyle said. ‘‘You think you have a serial killer, operating undetected over a long period like this? Is that unusual?’’
    â€˜â€˜I wish it were,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘This is probably the worst kind of serial killer to identify and track—on the move, striking periodically.’’
    â€˜â€˜Even in these days of computers and DNA?’’
    â€˜â€˜Less tough, sure, but yeah. Even the most sophisticated computer systems provide cracks a killer like this can fall through.’’
    Carlyle shook his head, sipped his Diet Coke. ‘‘So . . . what do you have in mind for tomorrow?’’
    Rossi told