The 7th Victim kv-1

by Alan Jacobson

  “Good,” Bledsoe said. “There’s a bunch of things we’re working on, so I put together a quick summary of what’s going on and who’s doing what. You can add Sin’s assignment to the bottom.”

  “How do you want to handle the perp’s message?” Manette asked.

  Bledsoe pulled a small spiral notepad from his sport coat pocket, flipped a couple of pages. “‘It’s in the . . . ,’” he mumbled. He shook his head, then said, “I think we should attack this like we would any other piece of evidence. Karen, you have any new thoughts on this?”

  “Nothing I’m willing to share just yet.”

  “Look, I know you don’t like to guess, but right now we’ve got nothing to go on. Even a guess would send us in a direction. Might be the wrong one, but it could also be the right one.”

  “I’ve got one,” Hancock said.

  Vail rolled her eyes. “Here we go.”

  “I think it means he’s playing with us, taunting us, daring us to find the severed hand.”

  “And?” Bledsoe asked. “Did you find it?”

  “Not yet, but—”

  “Look, Bledsoe, you wanted my opinion, I’ll give it to you,” Vail said. “Right now there are too many possibilities. So I’ll tell you what my gut says. This message meant a lot to this offender. He took great risks to leave it for us. I don’t think it’s taunting per se, but I think he’s trying to tell us something without directly telling us. He doesn’t want to make it too easy. But bottom line is, there is meaning in it. Just what that meaning is, I don’t have a clue and a hunch wouldn’t be worth anything. Hancock’s got a hunch and it means nothing.”

  “To hell with you, Vail,” Hancock yelled. “You’ve been on my case since the minute I walked through the vic’s door. What did I ever do to you?”

  Bledsoe shook his head in disgust. “Okay, all right, enough.” He turned to Vail. “He’s right, Karen, lose the attitude.”

  “Damn straight,” Hancock said.

  “I’m consulting VICAP, see if we get any hits on similar cases,” Vail said calmly.

  “Who’s got the vic’s employers?” Sinclair asked.

  “Hernandez,” Bledsoe said, “that’s yours. Check out the people the vics worked for. Then check out their customers. Anything pops up that’s even possibly suspicious, let’s all discuss it.”

  “Got it, boss.”

  They spent the next two hours running scenarios and making phone calls and assembling lists. The usual bone-grinding police work. As they rose to disperse, Bledsoe gave a quick whistle. “Before I forget. Expenses. Save your receipts, give ’em to me in an envelope marked with your name every Monday for the previous week. Make sure you write down what each receipt is for. I’ll get them to admin at my house and they’ll send it through internal review. So don’t be ordering no three-course meals. Now go home and get some rest. We’ll meet here every morning at eight. You can’t make it, let me know. We’re on flex time, but I don’t want anyone taking advantage. We got us a killer to catch, and each day, each hour, each minute that passes we don’t get something accomplished means some other woman is closer to being cut up. Clear?”

  Everyone nodded, then dispersed. Vail walked over to Hancock, who tilted his chin back and looked down his nose at her. She said, “I think you were right, Hancock. About the artistic feel to the murals. Just wanted you to know.”

  Hancock regarded her for a few seconds before responding. “You know, I could’ve done your job, Vail. I could’ve been a profiler.”

  Vail pulled a stick of gum from her pocket and folded it into her mouth. “What do you want me to say? Wasn’t my decision.”

  “That’s what you want to think. No guilt that way. But I’m over it, I’ve got a good job. And I’m in charge. I don’t need to take any orders from superiors. I call the shots.”

  “Glad it worked out.” Vail turned to gather her papers, but Hancock grabbed her arm.

  “I know you said some bad things about me.” His voice was low, as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “I won’t forget that.”

  Vail’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t threaten me, Hancock. Nothing you say or do scares me. You come at me, I’ll crush you under my heel. Don’t you forget that.”

  Vail grabbed her leather messenger bag and winked at Robby, then walked out the door.

  fourteen

  Charcoal gray thunderclouds threatened a downpour, but thus far they had held their load. Karen Vail had a ten o’clock appointment with her family law attorney but stopped at Deacon’s house on the way. If there was an amicable solution to the custody issue—meaning no attorneys involved—she wanted to find it. She liked her attorney but had no desire to fund another of his five-star resort vacations.

  She didn’t think Deacon would go for it, but she was prepared to make a Mafia-style offer: one he couldn’t refuse . . . one that would waive her rights to the house. If there was one way to get at the armored organ Deacon once called a heart, it was through his wallet.

  Vail stood at the peeling steel gray wood door and felt like a trespasser. It’d only been eighteen months since she had moved out, but in that time she had become a different person. A person who couldn’t stand the man who owned the house she used to call her own. She put her hands on her hips and glanced down at her feet. Did she really want to ring this bell? Did she really want to see Deacon?

  She could go through her attorney, have him handle everything, and never have to see her ex’s face again. But if she could appeal to the side of him she used to love, the good-natured, hard-working soul that shriveled into oblivion, maybe get him to agree—

  The wood door swung open and revealed a disheveled forty-year old man, leather-grained face and wild, pepper-colored hair. A stained white T-shirt hung over faded jeans. He may have stood near five-eleven, but his large-boned frame and new paunch made him look larger than that. He stepped closer to the screen door. “The fuck you doing here?”

  Vail immediately marveled at how an individual could descend so quickly, and completely, into Dante’s Inferno.

  “You knock? Didn’t hear a knock.”

  “I was about to ring the bell.”

  “You didn’t answer me. What the fuck do you want?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about Jonathan.”

  “What about?”

  “Can I come in?”

  Deacon pushed the screen door open and nearly struck Vail in the face. He turned and headed into the darkness. Bargain basement furniture adorned the living room. It was the same assortment of couches and recliners Vail had wanted to throw out—Good Will and Salvation Army turned her down—but after being out of work awhile, Deacon didn’t want to spend money on new pieces. “These work just fine for me,” he had said at the time. As if he was the only one who lived there.

  Vail glanced at the issues of Penthouse and Jugs strewn across the coffee table and cringed at the thought that Jonathan was being exposed to this on a regular basis. These were things she would mention should they end up in court, to paint a picture of the home environment Deacon provided.

  Deacon bent over and turned off the television. “So?”

  “Jonathan’s not happy here, Deacon. From what I gather, you’re not happy having him here, either.”

  “Don’t be speaking for me. He’s my boy, a man needs his boy around. A boy needs his father.”

  Normally, Vail wouldn’t argue with that statement. But since Deacon was the father—

  “So if that’s all you came to talk to me about, I’d say we’re about done.”

  But Vail didn’t like being dictated to, and she despised his flippant attitude. Her heart began pounding. Anger swelled. No, not just anger. Hatred. Where had the man gone she’d loved so many years ago?

  “I came to offer you something,” she said. “For Jonathan. Give me full custody and I’ll waive all my rights to the house.”

  Deacon walked over to her and stood three inches from her face. A common intimidation tactic used during interr
ogation was to invade someone’s space. Vail had been taught the technique by a seasoned NYPD detective. For Deacon, it came naturally.

  Vail was not about to yield her ground. She knew how the game was played, so she stood there and stared into the man’s dark eyes, his beer breath battering her nose.

  He rested his hands on his hips and looked down at her. “You have a lot of nerve, coming here, thinking you can buy my son from me.”

  “He’s not happy, Deacon. If you want what’s best for him, take my offer. Full custody for me, the house is all yours. No strings.”

  Deacon clenched his jaw. “I don’t think you heard me, Karen. Answer’s no.”

  “What possible reason would you have for wanting him around, if all you’re going to do is put him down all the time?”

  “Is that what he says?” Deacon shook his head. “Fucking kids. None of ’em tell the truth. It’s like a disease.”

  “I believe him, Deacon. Jonathan has no reason to lie to me.”

  “Well, whoop-dee-do for you, Miss Perfect Parent.”

  “If you won’t take my offer, I’m gonna go back to court, let the judge decide.”

  Deacon’s face curled into a snarl. “You bitch. Do that and you’ll be sorry.”

  Vail smirked and shook her head. “I don’t respond to your threats anymore, Deacon. There’s nothing you can do to hurt me.”

  With that, Vail felt something hook behind her right foot—and Deacon’s right hand push against her chest. She was moving backward faster than she could react, and a second later her head struck the wood floor in an explosion of blinding pain.

  fifteen

  I awake with a start. I realize I’d fallen asleep in my room. Shit! He’s coming. Creaky floorboards. Heavy footsteps.

  Before I fell asleep, he was with a whore. I know her, she’s been here before. I’ve seen her eyes, the way she looks at him. They’re mean eyes.

  The door swings open and my father stands there, his overalls unbuttoned at the top, the straps dangling at his sides.

  “There was someone here.”

  He sneers. “She was a bitch, I got rid of her.”

  “I didn’t like her.”

  “Yeah, well, she didn’t like you none, either. She thought you were bad. Ugly. Just like your mama saw you.”

  Mother. She didn’t know what it meant to be a mother. She couldn’t have. She was a bitch, just like the ones he brings home.

  “Let me tell you something, them bitches are real bad. They see you as trash. Ugly, rotting trash. The whores always say mean things about you. They say you’re ugly and you’re lucky to have a father like me who takes care of you.”

  Lucky is not the word I use to describe my life.

  He comes over to the bed and I’m waiting for the belt to come whipping at me. I shy away, waiting. . . .

  “It’s your mama of a whore’s fault you’re ugly. She made you this way.”

  I lift my head slowly, still waiting for the leather to snap against my skin. But I notice he’s not wearing a belt.

  “Time for a haircut, your hair’s gettin’ too long! Come on, now!”

  He grabs me and pulls me off the bed—

  Amazing stuff! He realized he had to do something with it, publish it somewhere. He could use someone else’s name so no one would know it was him. Or maybe I do want people to know what I endured. Fiction or nonfiction? It’s all true, but who’d believe it? They’d look at him like he was the bad one, because who wants to be associated with someone who’d been treated like that?

  But there were people who would be interested in this stuff. People who’d eat it up, consider it downright brilliant. They’d read it and read it again, show it to other people, scrutinize it until they broke it down by word choice, grade level, and whatever other silly metrics they’d designed to evaluate writing.

  And the cops would analyze it, too.

  Let them comb through it, they’ll never get anywhere with it. Of course it meant he’d have to cover his tracks. So be it. Put it out there and see what reaction his readers had. If it came off well, maybe he’d go for a bigger audience.

  He closed the laptop and yawned hard, but a jolt of pain made him wince. His face was killing him. The last bitch got in a cheap shot, a roundhouse punch that landed square and stunned him for a second. After letting him in the house, something must’ve tipped her off, because she took the first swing. But he wanted her dead a little bit more than she wanted to be alive, because after hitting him she started to run. He grabbed her arm, spun her around, and punched her back, a left and right combination, real fast. All he knew was that it hurt his knuckles. But she went down and then he got his pipe out and that was that.

  He’d been on the receiving end of a beating too many times, so if you wanted to go toe to toe with him, fine, he was ready to rumble. He knew all the moves because he lived through them.

  He shoved an ice pack against the lump on his forehead. The swelling had drained a bit into the side of his face and jaw, but fortunately the discoloration was easily covered by makeup. An FBI agent with a large purple and black bruise on his face would attract attention, and that was something he needed to avoid.

  But if there was one thing this bitch taught him, it was that he needed to handle these encounters better, find a way of knocking them out faster, before they had a chance to swing at him. Next time it could be a knife or a broken bottle.

  He made a list of possible solutions, but they all involved risk—the biggest of which was being seen in public buying a weapon. But the Internet, on the other hand, allowed him to go anywhere and do anything he wanted, without anyone scrutinizing his face or questioning his motives.

  He could buy whatever he needed, within reason. A simple search brought him to numerous websites that sold stun guns, which could incapacitate a bitch for minutes at a time. All he’d have to do is touch the probe to her body—hell, even her clothing. The longer the contact, the longer the period of incapacitation.

  He clicked on the Frequently Asked Questions link, and read: “Using a high pulse frequency, stun guns scramble the nervous system and make the muscles work so rapidly their source of energy converts immediately into lactic acid, exhausting and disabling the muscles. At the same time, the pulse interrupts the brain’s nerve impulses, causing the stunned individual to lose muscle control and become disoriented. This incapacitated and confused state will last two to five minutes or longer depending on body mass and. . . .”

  Minutes! He only needed a few seconds, really. A few seconds to get his hands around her neck, a few seconds to squeeze the life from her body. Two hands, two eyes. Two bugged out eyes, the capillaries bursting from the pressure. . . .

  He quickly paged through the website, entered the credit card number, then logged off. He’d have the package tomorrow.

  It seemed almost too good to be true.

  sixteen

  The room spun for a second before coming back into focus. Vail blinked a few times and realized she was staring at the light fixture on her ceiling. No, not her ceiling, not anymore. Deacon’s ceiling. Deacon’s house.

  The television was on, the unmistakable sound of cars racing around a track blaring from the speakers. A cigarette was burning down near the filter in an ashtray beside Deacon’s recliner. And—what the hell?—her pants were unzipped.

  What time is it?

  Why am I on the floor?

  Why does my head hurt so much?

  Vail rolled onto her side and saw Deacon’s empty Lazy Boy. Where the hell is he?

  She felt like a hammer had crushed her skull. She reached back and felt a bruise, as if her head were a piece of damaged fruit. Whatever had happened, it involved Deacon. And that meant it wasn’t good.

  Vail pulled herself up and stood in the middle of the living room, which tilted back and forth like a seesaw. She swayed, dizzy and wobbly, bending her knees and holding her arms out like a surfer for balance. After steadying herself, she stumbled out to her car.
>
  She rooted around her pocket for the keys, opened the door, and drove away. Her mind was still a blur, and she was more or less driving on autopilot. She knew the way to her office without thinking—which was good, because at the moment thinking was more than her shaken brain could handle.

  As she headed back toward the interstate, she struggled to recall what had transpired after arriving at Deacon’s. The dashboard clock read 10:36. Ten-thirty-six . . . she had been there an hour and a half. Whatever she had done, whatever had happened, had taken a considerable amount of time.

  She remembered going there to discuss a change in Jonathan’s custody—and Deacon had been less than cooperative. Things were coming back to her, but she was still drawing blanks.

  Ten-thirty. There was something she was supposed to have done at ten. What was it?

  She stopped at a light and looked around. Was it something for work? Was she supposed to meet the task force somewhere? She yawned and her jaw hurt. She looked in the mirror and fought back dizziness to see half-mast eyes and frazzled hair. What the hell had happened?

  Come on, Karen, think! The light turned green—and her thoughts cleared a bit. She took what she knew and mixed in a little inference . . . and figured she and Deacon had gotten into it over Jonathan’s custody. The end result she knew—an unexpected nap on Deacon’s floor, some dizziness, and one hell of a headache. He must’ve clocked her good, because she still didn’t remember it. But there was no bruising on her face.

  However it went down, she only hoped she’d gotten him good, too. But judging by the fact that the TV was on and a smoke was burning in the ashtray, she probably did not get the best of the encounter.

  A sprinkling drizzle began dotting her windshield. As she reached to turn on the wipers, her forearm brushed up against her holster, and oh, shit—

  She slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop on the rain-slick roadway, a portfolio of papers and files stacked in the backseat flying to the floor.

  Though she didn’t remember what had happened at Deacon’s, her weapon was missing, and that was something she did not want to have to explain—to anyone, let alone Gifford or the policy freaks at OPR.