“It’s okay,” Vail said, barely above a whisper.
Mayfield sniffled. Still looking at the empty seat. “My father wanted to make me a man. So he hired a hooker, a whore. I ran out, but he caught me in the kitchen and dragged me back into the bedroom. Tied me down.”
Vail knew where this was going before Mayfield said it. “She raped you?”
“He said I needed to be a man. He stood outside the door and listened. I saw his feet underneath the door. Standing there.” He dragged his nose across his shoulder. Face down now, he talked to his lap. “But I was a man now. I’d had sex with a woman, with a whore. And my mother let it happen.”
“Was she there, too?” Vail asked softly.
“There?” Mayfield shook his head. “She was always working. She was never there. My father couldn’t keep a job, so he was always at home, getting drunk and smoking pot and playing cards. My mother was never around. But she knew what was happening, and she did nothing.” He lifted his head and turned to the empty chair. Took a deep, uneven breath, slumped forward and put his right elbow on the table.
“I don’t think your mother knew. I don’t think she’d let that happen to you, John. Did you ever . . . tell her?”
Mayfield swung his face toward Vail’s. “I couldn’t.”
Vail nodded slowly. “I understand.” And, honestly, she did understand. What thirteen-year-old could face his mother and tell her he’d been raped by a prostitute? The details of how it happened were unimportant. It was too embarrassing for most thirteen-year-olds to admit. Telling your mother something that personal, face-to-face, was out of the question. The evolution of John Mayfield into serial killer was now clear. She lowered her eyes, saddened by the series of events that led to this man in front of her having taken the lives of so many innocent people. People who had nothing to do with John Mayfield’s failed upbringing.
Piercing the quiet, the moment, was the grumbling vibration of Vail’s BlackBerry. Both she and Mayfield reflexively jumped as she lifted her hand off his and fumbled to answer it. She cursed herself for forgetting to silence it.
The display said it was Bledsoe. Goddamn it. Take it or not? What if he had critical information on Robby? Mayfield had revealed to her some of the most crucial details: why he killed. But she hadn’t yet gotten into the equally important questions of how and why he chose these particular victims.
Why the male?
And the document he’d sent that listed victims they didn’t know about—who were they?
Then there were those affiliated with the AVA board—the special cases. What the hell did that mean?
Phone vibrating. Answer Bledsoe’s call or not?
She may never have a chance to reestablish the connection she’d developed with Mayfield. But the decision was made for her. Mayfield yanked back, pulling his arm off the table.
His reaction took Vail by surprise. In that instant, she thought he was going to hit her, and she recoiled, nearly fell backwards in her chair. The phone stopped ringing. Fuck. Lost the connection—to Mayfield and to Bledsoe.
“I’m done talking,” Mayfield said. “You’re a whore just like my mother. Pretending to care, to be there for me. I should’ve killed you when I had the chance. Just like I killed the others. Guess I’m a fucking man now, huh!”
Vail shoved the BlackBerry into its holster and rose from her chair.
Mayfield tried to stand. But his leg cast—and the restraint cuffed to the armrest—forced him to fall back into his seat. “Remember, Vail. There’s more to this than you know. And I’m beginning to doubt you’re smart enough to ever figure it out.”
The door to her right swung open and in stepped Ray Lugo. He lifted his right hand, revealing a black SIG-Sauer pistol.
And it was pointed at Mayfield.
“Ray!” Vail lunged for the gun—but Lugo fired. The blast in the small room was deafening.
Vail grabbed Lugo’s pistol and wrapped her hands around it, trying to force it toward the ceiling. But Lugo was intent on keeping the SIG on target.
“Drop it. Ray. Drop. The. Fucking. Gun!”
Lugo twisted back, but Vail held on, ducking to keep her face from the barrel of the pistol. “Leave me the hell alone—” he yelled, then yanked down hard and drove his left shoulder into her chest.
Vail bounced into the wall fell to the side
Mayfield—blood—yelling—and
Lugo fired again.
As Vail got to her feet, Lugo crumpled and fell backwards into the wall. He grabbed for his neck. Blood was spurting, soaking the carpet and Vail—Vail pulled off her blouse and pressed it against Lugo’s neck.
Banging on the door. “Karen!”
Brix.
He was trying to get into the room, but Lugo’s body was blocking the doorway.
“Ray’s been shot,” Vail yelled. “He’s been shot!”
Holding her shirt tight against Lugo’s neck, she dragged his body a few inches to the side . . . an opening just wide enough for Brix to squeeze through.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. A ricochet?” Vail grabbed Lugo’s neck to apply firmer pressure. “We’ve gotta get him to the ER. Help me carry him—”
Brix lifted Lugo into his arms—not an easy task because the man was thick and it was a cramped space—but they managed to get him out of the room and down the hall. Vail tried her best to keep pressure on his neck wound.
“What the hell happened?” Dixon asked, following closely behind. “I was watching you on the monitor. I looked away and then there’s a gunshot.”
They stumbled through the metal door and hung a left into another corridor. “We need to get him to the hospital,” Vail said. “He’s been shot—”
“Get the van,” Brix yelled. “Bring it around Main. By the Sally Port. He’s fucking heavy. And call an ambulance for Mayfield!”
There were shouts in the hallway as deputies cleared the way and scattered.
“Bring the van around!”
“Hurry!”
“Call the Med Center,” Brix yelled. “Tell ’em we’re en route. LEO with a GSW to the neck . . .”
SIXTY-FOUR
They loaded Ray Lugo into the back of a state Department of Corrections specially outfitted Ford E-350 Super Duty van. The passenger compartment was lined with a thick gray-metal cage, so there wasn’t much room. Nevertheless, Dixon and Vail squeezed in, alongside Lugo. Vail’s head pressed tight against the ceiling.
The claustrophobic crush of being in confined spaces began building in Vail’s chest. Shit. I can’t deal with this now. Focus on Lugo, keep pressure on his neck.
Brix hoisted himself in and pushed onto the bench seat beside Vail as the van screeched away from the building. Shoulder to shoulder, they swayed with the vehicle’s jerky movements. Her head repeatedly struck the roof with each bump in the road.
Vail was covered in Lugo’s blood, the slick liquid coating her arms and face, shoulder, bra—
Concentrate. Keep pressure on his neck.
“All right,” Brix said. “What happened? Ray stowed his gun, I saw him do it.”
Dixon patted down Lugo’s jeans. “Me, too.” Her hands stopped moving and she squeezed his left ankle. Drew back his pant leg, revealing a holster. “Backup piece.”
“Fuck.”
“But how did he get hit? If he was aiming for Mayfield—”
“He fired twice,” Vail said. “Must’ve been hit by a ricochet.”
Brix nodded. “The Blue Room walls are cement. Makes sense. But why—why Mayfield?” Brix leaned forward. “Why, Ray?”
Lugo’s breathing was labored. His lids parted and his eyes rotated toward Brix. “Him. He . . . started it.”
“Who started it? Mayfield?”
“May . . . field. Kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped?” Vail asked. “Who? Mayfield kidnapped you?”
He fluttered his eyelids. “Wife. Son. He was . . . going to . . . kill them. Made deal. He lets ’em live.�
�
“You made a deal with Mayfield?” Brix asked.
“Told me. Can’t escape . . . him. Will find us.” He licked his lips. “Scared . . .”
“He scared you,” Dixon said, “so you cut a deal? With a goddamn killer, Ray? You’re a cop, a sergeant, for chrissake.”
“No . . . Tried finding . . . him. No leads. Couldn’t . . .”
Dixon leaned in. “What kind of deal did you cut with him, Ray?”
“Looked. Couldn’t find. He . . . found out. Warned me.” He coughed.
Blood leaked. Vail pressed her shirt harder against the wound.
“What kind of deal,” Dixon repeated, this time louder, firmer.
Lugo did not answer at first. Finally, he said, “Helped. Left wife . . . son . . . alone.”
“That’s why you shot him?” Brix asked. “Because you helped him? You thought he’d rat you out?”
“Helped him how?” Dixon asked.
“Had to.”
“Had to, what? Had to shoot him, or you had to help him?”
“Ray,” Vail said. “What did Mayfield mean when he said, ‘There’s more to this than you know’?”
His eyes swiveled to Vail, then toward Brix. “Look . . . after. Wife. Son.” Lugo’s voice was low. He was gurgling his words. “Or . . . he . . . wins.”
“What?” Vail looked to Brix for confirmation of the meaning of the garbled words. Then she dropped her gaze to Lugo. “Ray! Mayfield wins? Why?”
Lugo closed his eyes. Vail grabbed his shoulder and shook. “Ray! Stay with us. Why is there more to this?”
Lugo opened his eyes. Brix leaned in close. “Was Mayfield the Crush Killer?”
“Yeah . . . but . . .” Lugo sucked in air. Blood bubbled on his lips. “Disc . . .” His body convulsed, then went limp.
Oh, my god. A horrifying thought suddenly formed in Vail’s mind: Had Mayfield killed Robby? Did Lugo help him? Is that what Ray was talking about? Is that what Mayfield meant? ‘There’s more to this.’ Am I going to find Robby dead in some vineyard, missing the second toenail on his right foot?
Dixon looked at Brix. “Did he say, ‘disc’? What disc?”
Vail grabbed Lugo’s wrist and felt for a pulse. She looked away. Brix did the same, but nothing needed to be said. Everyone in the van knew that Lugo was gone.
Brix’s phone buzzed. He looked down, glanced at the display. “Ambulance is en route with Mayfield.”
“Still alive?”
He reread the text message. “Barely. Probably not going to survive the ride.”
Vail slumped back against the van wall, her head and shoulders bouncing with the bumps in the road. Brix had his bloody hands on his face, elbows on his knees. And Dixon just sat there, staring at Lugo, at the man she had known for so long. Yet hadn’t known at all.
The van pulled into the ER parking lot and stopped with a lurch. They didn’t move. The back doors swung open. Two hospital personnel in scrubs peered in and apparently read their body language. “Is he gone?” one of them asked.
“Gone,” Brix said.
“You sure?”
“I fucking know when a cop’s dead. Now close the goddamn door and leave us alone.”
The van was dark again, save for the parking lot light filtering through the tinted rear windows.
They sat in silence until Vail’s phone vibrated. And vibrated. She ignored it. Seconds later, it vibrated again.
It pulled her back to rational thought. With blood-smeared hands, she reached for the BlackBerry. Put it against her ear. “Yeah.”
“Karen, it’s Bledsoe. I checked everything. Airports, flights. Credit cards. Car rentals, hotels, area hospitals, morgues, police and sheriff departments in a hundred mile radius. I can’t be totally sure because it’s the middle of the night, but I came up empty. I got nothing. There’s no sign of Robby.”
Vail dropped the phone to her lap. Bledsoe was still talking, but it didn’t matter. His words resonated and repeated in her head: There’s no sign of Robby.
Exhausted, famished, emotionally drained, and covered in a dead man’s blood, she closed her eyes.
And she cried.
A NOTE FROM ALAN JACOBSON
I know, I know . . . I left a few loose threads hanging on this garment. Fear not, they will be tied together, neatly trimmed or tucked away in the next Karen Vail novel.
Go now (yes, now) to www.crush.alanjacobson.com for a short video featuring yours truly discussing the ending to Crush. But that’s not all—you’ll also find a few other surprises there. See you soon.
—ALAN
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, I could not have written this novel with the accuracy and credibility I strive for without the assistance and cooperation of the following professionals:
Senior FBI profiler Supervisory Special Agent Mark Safarik (ret). Mark, now Executive Director of Forensic Behavioral Services International, started as a vital resource fifteen years ago and became a close friend. His knowledge and expertise in the field of criminal investigative analysis is tops among his peers. I value his friendship, his input, our discussions, and his detailed and critical review of the manuscript.
Senior FBI profiler Supervisory Special Agent Mary Ellen O’Toole (ret). Mary Ellen provided key information regarding her experiences dealing with narcissistic serial killers, including their offender character traits, crime scene behaviors, and the interview techniques she has used with them. Moreover, the stories Mary Ellen shared with me over the years relative to her long career in the profiling unit helped me understand Karen Vail’s challenges and opportunities.
Sergeant Matt Talbott, St. Helena Police Department. Matt was my first law enforcement contact in the valley. He helped orient me as to the Napa County Major Crimes Task Force and its makeup, operations, procedures, and background, as well as the various policing and jurisdictional nuances of the Napa Valley.
Captain Jean Donaldson, Napa County Sheriff’s Department. Jean not only gave me a comprehensive tour of the Sheriff’s Department facility, including the morgue, task force conference room, and all points in between, but he graciously answered my unending follow-up questions about department procedures and operations.
D. J. Johnson, Assistant Director of the Napa County Department of Corrections. D. J. took me on a comprehensive, behind-the-scenes tour of the Napa County Hall of Justice, particularly the jail and court-house, and provided detailed explanations of the Department of Corrections’ operational procedures.
David Pearson, CEO of Opus One Winery. David assisted me with understanding appellations, AVA associations, their boards, and the politics that permeate the wine-growing regions. A longtime wine industry veteran, David took me on a fascinating personal tour of Opus One, and subsequently reviewed pertinent portions of the manuscript for accuracy.
Tomás Palmer, Senior Security Program Manager at Microsoft. Tomás provided detailed explanations regarding embedded data in Office documents—and kept it on a level a nonprogrammer could comprehend. During our ongoing exchanges of information and “what if” scenarios, I found Tomás to be a creative and outside-the-box thinker—an invaluable resource to a thriller novelist. He also reviewed relevant sections of the manuscript to make sure I didn’t mangle what we’d discussed.
James Patton, Deputy Director of Global Trade Compliance at Microsoft. Jim ran point, putting me in touch with Tomás and arranging mind-blowing behind-the-scenes tours of the Microsoft campus facilities, which included a fascinating look at the company’s cutting edge research. In addition, thanks to Bryan Rutberg, Director of the Redmond Executive Briefing Center and Dominic Trimboli, Group Manager Executive Briefings, for showing me around the Executive Briefing Center and teaching me how to use the Surface computer.
Jonathan Hayes, a senior forensic pathologist in the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in New York City, and a clinical assistant professor at NYU School of Medicine. Jonathan, author of the thriller A Hard Death, provided information on body
decomposition and advised me on the drug BetaSomnol. Before I start receiving emails due to concern over conveying actual dosages about real pharmaceuticals, it was best to invent a drug—no harm in a little creative license—and get on with the story. Both Jonathan and I will sleep easier.
Amanda Montes, Translations Switch Technician for CellularOne Arizona. Amanda provided information regarding text messaging, storage, law enforcement standards, access, and terminology.
Senior Special Agent Susan Morton, of the Arizona HIDTA (High-Intensity Drug Trafficking Area), and Law Enforcement Specialist Marybeth McFarland, at the National Park Service’s Golden Gate National Recreation Area, for background on the complex jurisdictional issues relative to the park. As the fictional SFPD inspector said, you really do need a map and scorecard to keep it straight!
Crush (Karen Vail Series) Page 43
