Velocity kv-3

by Alan Jacobson

  “How do you know what must smells like?” Vail asked.

  Merilynn scrunched her face, as if she resented the question. “I spent eleven years working at San Miguel vineyards. I worked the fields, I worked with the grapes. I know the smells of a winery.”

  Vail turned to Dixon. “Does this smell help narrow it down?”

  Dixon chuckled. “Not really. The Napa Valley Wine Train covers almost twenty miles before turning around. She heard the train, which means, what? How far can you hear a train whistle? Another two or three miles in either direction? That’s a huge area. And this is the Napa Valley. You know how many wineries or grape processing facilities there are in this region?”

  “The train sounds the whistle at crossings, and when it leaves the station,” Brix said. “That might help narrow it.” He turned back to Merilynn. “What happened after you were kidnapped? How long did he hold you?”

  “I’m—I’m not sure. I think Ray said we were gone two days, but I can’t remember. I didn’t really want to talk about it.” She stared off at the wall, as if reliving the ordeal. “He kept us in a dark place. I couldn’t tell if it was morning or night. We were blindfolded and gagged most of the time.”

  Vail scooted her chair closer, then leaned toward Merilynn. “Mrs. Lugo, I’m truly sorry you had to go through that. But . . . what did Ray do? Did he report it? Did the St. Helena PD go searching for you?”

  “Ray got a phone call from the man—from this guy you’re calling John Mayfield. He said he had taken us and if Ray cooperated, he’d return us unharmed. But if Ray didn’t, and if he tried to find us or told anyone—anyone—about this, he’d kill us immediately. And it wouldn’t be pleasant.”

  Vail looked at Brix.

  “Ray never reported anything to anyone,” Brix said. “If he had, St. Helena PD would’ve brought us in. Something like that is a major crimes task force deal, and way beyond St. Helena’s capabilities.”

  Merilynn said, “Mayfield told Ray that if he ever told detectives about him, he’d know. And he’d find us again, when we were out shopping or at day care. Or at school. He knew a lot about us. His point was there was no way to escape him. There’d be no safe place.”

  Dixon sighed long and hard, then said, “But Mayfield returned you unharmed.”

  Vail glanced at Dixon, then shook her head. “Wait a minute. You said that if Ray cooperated, he’d release you. What did Mayfield want Ray to do?”

  Merilynn sat back, folded her arms, then looked at Vail, then at Dixon, then at Brix. “If you want to know, get me and my son protection.”

  Vail brought a hand to her forehead and rubbed vigorously, as if doing so could calm the building anger. The lack of sleep had weakened her internal checks and balances, and her frustration was threatening to bubble over. “Mrs. Lugo,” she said firmly. “Someone I care about a great deal is missing. John Mayfield may have taken him. He may have him blindfolded and gagged in that same dark place, just like he did to you and Mario. But even if we get to talk to Mayfield, I doubt he’s going to be a good citizen and tell us what we want to know. If that’s the case, my friend—a cop, like Ray—might not have much longer to live. Without food, water—”

  Merilynn squared her jaw. “I’m sorry. But I have to think of my son. I will help you. If you help me first.”

  Vail rose from her chair, spun around, and stormed out of the task force conference room. She walked down the hall, then stopped, leaned against the wall, and slunk down to the ground. She sat there, her forehead leaning against her knees. Vail was being totally honest with Merilynn: she had no sway over who was accepted into the witness protection program. The Justice Department decided that. And based on what Merilynn had told them, Vail doubted she was a candidate. While it might comfort Merilynn and support her parental instincts, there did not appear to be a clear threat that would require protection.

  A moment later, Dixon left the conference room and located Vail down the corridor. She sat down beside her but remained quiet.

  Finally Dixon said, “That thing you said about Robby in there. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “I didn’t either. It just kind of came out. And then it hit me. Hard. When she wouldn’t budge, I had to leave before I said something we’d all regret.”

  “We need to mobilize NSIB,” Dixon said, referring to the Napa Special Investigations Bureau. “We can sketch out the radius on Bing maps and get them canvassing the area ASAP, see if we can locate Mayfield’s hideout.”

  Vail got up suddenly. “Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “Mayfield. I want to see him.”

  8

  Dixon tried discouraging Vail from making the hospital visit, but Vail would have nothing of it. En route to the medical center,

  Dixon called Brix and informed him where they were headed—and asked him to map out the area Merilynn Lugo had described and to engage NSIB assistance with the canvass.

  They made their way into the ICU of the Napa Valley Medical Center. I can’t believe it was only yesterday that Mayfield was brought here after his arrest. Yesterday that Robby went missing.

  They pushed through the doors into ICU. An open and spacious nursing station occupied the center of the floor, with individual patient rooms lining the periphery. Large sliding glass doors sat sandwiched between translucent walls that could be curtained off by powder blue full-length drapes.

  Vail and Dixon showed their credentials to the nurse sitting closest to them. Her name tag read “Helen.”

  “John Mayfield,” Vail said. “How’s he doing?”

  Helen, a fifty-something woman whose chestnut hair was due for a dye session, consulted a chart, flipped a page, and said, “Looks like he’s in pretty grave condition.”

  “Which room’s he in?” Dixon asked.

  Helen chuckled. “I’m afraid he’s not in any condition to talk. They’ve induced a coma to stabilize him and increase his chance of recovery.”

  “Okay,” Vail said. “Which room?”

  Helen’s gaze flicked between Vail and Dixon, clearly confused—her reply should have been adequate to assuage their desires.

  Vail, for one, knew her facial expression was not conveying an air of calm and acceptance.

  “Three.” Helen’s eyes slid left.

  Vail and Dixon thanked her, then moved toward the room. “Shouldn’t there be cops posted?”

  Dixon rubbernecked her head. “There’s supposed to be someone. Don’t see him.”

  “Only one?”

  “I’m guessing they don’t expect a comatose patient to be much of a problem.”

  “He’s huge and he’s killed a lot of people,” Vail said. “I think there should be a decent presence, don’t you?”

  Dixon raised a shoulder. “Budget’s always an issue.” She stepped forward and grabbed the door handle. She slid the large panel to the side and they walked in. Lying on the bed to their left, hooked up to flexible tubes and lead wires, was John Mayfield.

  Vail moved to his side and had to summon the will not to reach out and grab him by the gown and shake him, slam his psychopathic head against the bed frame. Demand to know what he did with Robby. If he did something to Robby.

  Instead, Vail stood there staring at him. Finally Dixon said, “I don’t mean to be callous, but the nurse kind of had a point. What are we doing here?”

  Vail pulled her gaze from Mayfield and looked at Dixon. “I don’t know, Roxx. I needed to see him, what kind of state he’s in.” She looked down at Mayfield again. “Do you know what I feel like doing?”

  “Shooting his brains out?”

  Vail hiked her brow. “That would work, too.” She leaned in close, put her face against Mayfield’s left ear. “Should I do that, Johnny boy? Should I take my Glock and put it in your mouth?”

  “Karen—”

  Vail was not deterred. “If you manage to survive, I’m going to enjoy watching you get the needle. I’ll be there in the death chamber, along with the families of
all the people you’ve killed.”

  Dixon sighed audibly, then put her hands on her hips and turned away.

  Vail leaned back and studied his face. “So tell me, Johnny, will you be seeing your mother in hell when you get there?” There—what was that—did his face twitch? “Roxx, you see that?”

  Dixon turned. “See what?”

  Vail continued scrutinizing Mayfield’s expression. It was now blank. Had she really seen something? “Tell me, John. What did you do with Roberto Hernandez? Did you kill him?”

  Nothing, not a shudder or a quiver.

  Vail moved in closer. “Do you have him tied up somewhere?”

  “Does he have who tied up?”

  Dixon and Vail swung their heads toward the door. Standing there, an icy expression on his face, was a man dressed in a white lab coat, stethoscope draped around his neck.

  “You are?” Vail asked.

  The man stepped into the room. “I think the question is, who are you?”

  “I asked you first,” Vail said, not yielding her ground.

  The man stared at her. “Do I have to call security?”

  Dixon held out her badge. “Investigator Dixon. This is Special Agent Vail. FBI.”

  “I’m Mr. Mayfield’s surgeon. Dr. Koossey.”

  “Well,” Vail said, “I guess that makes us related. We’re Mister Mayfield’s arresting officers.”

  Koossey threw his chin back. “So you’re the ones who shot him.”

  “I wish,” Vail said. Koossey didn’t like that answer. Tough shit, doc. You don’t know who your patient is.

  He folded his arms across his chest. “Are you two about done here?”

  Vail stepped closer to Koossey. With a smirk, she said, “Doctor, if I was done here, Mayfield would be flatlining.”

  “Karen.” This from Dixon, whose face was a deep shade of red. Vail had to admit that was a stupid thing to say. One thing to think it. Another to speak it to the patient’s physician. Certainly not when she wanted answers. Her “pleasantness filter” was failing her. Lack of sleep, stress . . . she was pissed off and, frankly, she just didn’t give a shit.

  “Sorry about that, Dr. Koossey. My partner’s sleep deprived, she’s not exactly exercising her best judgment at the moment.”

  His eyes flicked down to her holster. “Yet she’s still carrying a loaded weapon. Very nice.”

  This guy’s got a set of balls. Wonder if he’s from New York. “I think I’ve heard just enough out of you, doctor. But I’ll tell you how you can make yourself useful. How about telling us when Mister Mayfield here is going to be able to answer questions?”

  Koossey snorted and tossed a look at Dixon, as if to say, “Is she for real?”

  Dixon must’ve read the same thing from the man’s face, because she said, “Look, doctor. Your patient is an extremely dangerous serial killer. He’s murdered several innocent men and women. Including a couple local cops.” Dixon yanked down on the collar of her blouse and craned her neck back, exposing her throat. The remnant of Mayfield’s work was apparent in blood red, with emerging hints of eggplant-shaded hues. If it had been a sunset, it would’ve been memorable. It wasn’t a sunset, of course—but for Dixon, it would forever remain a memory. To Koossey, she said, “Mayfield tried to kill me.”

  Vail likewise exposed her neck. “I’m a member of that club, too.” Whaddya think of that, doc? “We’ve got another potential victim of his out there somewhere, a detective. Until we can question Mayfield, we’ve got no way of finding him. And we’re hoping to find him alive.” Vail folded her arms. “So.”

  Koossey worked his jaw from side to side. “We’ve induced a coma. Do you know what that means?”

  “I know about comas,” Vail said, flashing on her son’s recent experience with the condition. “But only traumatic ones.”

  “Drug-induced coma is used these days to treat refractory cases of status epilepticus and in some cases of neurosurgery.”

  Dixon held up a hand. “Status ep—you mean epilepsy?”

  Koossey looked annoyed at being interrupted. “Yes. Mind if I continue?”

  Dixon and Vail stared at him. Maybe it’s not just me. The guy’s a little arrogant. Probably would have something in common with Mayfield. Maybe they’d have been buddies.

  Koossey apparently got the message. “Its use in traumatic brain injury is a bit more controversial. The idea behind it is reduction of intracranial pressure and metabolic activity, to allow the brain to heal.”

  “How about we bring him out of it long enough to answer questions?” And then put him under again, this time permanently. Wait, did I say that last part aloud? Vail’s eyes flicked from Dixon to Koossey. No reaction. Phew.

  Koossey lifted the metal clipboard from Mayfield’s bed. “It’s not like that. I put him in the coma because his brain is too ill to function properly. The injuries were quite severe. So even if I were to bring him out of the coma, it’s unlikely he’d awaken.”

  “How long are you going to keep him under?” Dixon asked.

  Koossey canted his eyes toward the clipboard. He looked over the progress notes, flipped a page, then said, almost off-handedly, “A medically induced coma is incrementally lightened as the patient demonstrates elements of recovery. And that, Agent Vail, like it or not, depends on Mr. Mayfield. He’s in control of the situation now.”

  He was in control of the situation before, too. That was the problem.

  “We’ll be monitoring his electroencephalographic patterns and intracranial pressure, as metrics to help determine when to lighten the coma. More than that, I can’t help you.” Koossey replaced the clipboard, then turned toward the door. “Miss Dixon, you seem to be the level-headed half of your duo. Can I count on you to keep your partner in check so I can finish the rest of my rounds?”

  Dixon ignored his comment, but said, “Will you call me as soon as he’s potentially capable of answering questions?” She pulled a card from her pocket and offered it to him.

  Koossey frowned.

  “Because of Mayfield’s extremely violent nature,” Dixon said, “if we have adequate notice, it’ll enable us to increase security. To prevent him from murdering you and your staff.”

  Koossey gave Dixon a long look, then took the card and walked out.

  Dixon moved around the bed to Vail, placed a hand around her shoulders, and said, “C’mon.”

  They stopped at the nurses’ station. Helen glanced up from her file. Dixon handed her a business card as well. “I’d appreciate if you’d leave instructions for all the staff to notify me when you’re preparing to bring Mr. Mayfield out of his coma.”

  “He’s violent and extremely dangerous,” Vail said. “He’s murdered several people. And mutilated a number of women. Sliced off their breasts.”

  Helen glanced over at Mayfield’s room. Vail figured she was about to piss her pants, if she hadn’t already.

  “Okay?” Dixon asked.

  Helen, still looking in the direction of Mayfield’s room, said, “Yeah, yeah, of course.”

  As they walked away from the nurses’ station, Vail’s BlackBerry buzzed. She reached to her belt and yanked it off. It was Jonathan. “Hey, sweetie, how you doing?”

  “You okay, Mom?”

  Vail sucked in a deep breath and stood up straight, as if Jonathan could see her, 2,500 miles away. “I’m fine. Why?”

  “I—I don’t know, you just sounded different. Unhappy.”

  “I’ve just got some stuff going on here I’m trying to deal with. How are things at home? Aunt Faye treating you okay?”

  “Fine, she’s fine. I’m actually having a good time with her.”

  “You are? I mean, that’s great—I’m glad you’re getting to know her better.”

  “Listen, Mom, I gotta get to class—”

  Vail shifted the phone to her other hand. “Right. Okay—but I need you to do something for me.”

  “Wow, if you’re making me late for class, must be important.”

&n
bsp; “I need a photo of Robby. You remember that one you took of me and him at the academy a couple weeks ago? Can you cut me out and email it to me?”

  “You mean crop it?”

  “Yeah, that. Crop it.”

  “Sure. I can do it after next period.”

  “No, I don’t want you going home and missing school.” Actually, given the circumstances, maybe that’d be a good idea.

  “I upload all my pictures to my SkyDrive account. I can go into the computer lab and grab the photo.”

  “SkyDrive?”

  “Free online storage. Don’t worry about it, Ma, I can do it. I’ll crop it and email it to you. You’ll have it in like an hour.”

  “You’re a lifesaver.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” He hesitated a second, then said, “Is everything okay? With Robby? Why do you need the photo?”

  Shit. It hadn’t occurred to her that he would ask, but now that she thought of it, of course he would. Despite the short tenure, Robby had been the most positive male figure in her son’s life—in years. So how do I answer that one? I can’t lie to him. He’d never forgive me. But I don’t want him worrying.

  “I just need it for a case.” Okay, that’s only partially true—but it’ll have to do for now. “Email it to me as soon as you can, okay sweetie?”

  Jonathan seemed to accept the explanation—and the diversion—but he was no dummy. He would know something was wrong, but he probably also knew his mother wouldn’t tell him much about a sensitive issue.

  Vail hung up, reholstered her phone, and joined Dixon at the elevator.

  It slid open and a uniformed officer stepped out.

  “You assigned to John Mayfield?” Vail asked.

  “Who—”

  “Your prisoner.” Vail held up her creds.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Because you weren’t at your station.”

  “I had to use the head. I was only gone a few minutes. Guy’s in a coma.”

  Dixon shook her head. “No good. Coma or not, he’s extremely dangerous. Don’t underestimate him. And don’t leave your post again unless you’ve got coverage.”