The 7th Victim kv-1

by Alan Jacobson

  She rolled out of bed and walked downstairs to Robby, who was sound asleep on the couch. She nudged him over and curled up against his body. She was close to falling off the edge, which she found hilariously ironic. How symbolic of her life at the moment.

  She reached up and pulled his arm across her, feeling his warmth, the firmness of his body, and felt better. His fingers closed around her hand. He stirred, then lifted his head. “Karen?”

  “I couldn’t sleep. I needed some company.”

  “Okay.” The next words he mumbled were unintelligible as he drifted back asleep.

  She lay there awake, thinking and lamenting. And worrying.

  thirty-three

  The ride back to Virginia brought reflection. Robby again gave Vail her space, and after thirty minutes of highway driving, she lapsed into another nap. Not having slept much the past two days, the mounting fatigue and stress were wreaking havoc on her body.

  As the car lurched out of the toll booth on I-95 near the Maryland border, Vail’s head popped up. Her hands flailed in front of her, as she fought to orient herself.

  “Welcome back to Earth,” Robby said.

  She squinted against the bright sunlight. “Where are we?”

  “About to cross into Maryland.”

  “I think I just figured out how to link victim three to Dead Eyes. Where’s your file?”

  “You figured that out while you were sleeping?”

  “My mind’s pretty much ‘on’ twenty-four/seven these days. The file?”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Backseat.”

  Vail grabbed his leather shoulder bag, reached inside, and pulled out the thick Dead Eyes folder. She paged to victim number three, Angelina Sarducci, and found the crime scene manifest. Her finger stabbed at one of the entries. “A package,” she said, curling a lock of hair behind her right ear.

  She dug out her phone and dialed UPS. She entered the tracking number listed on the crime scene manifest, then waited while the automated system processed her request. She pressed “end” and handed the phone back to Robby.

  “It was delivered at 6:30 P.M.” She turned some more pages.

  “So what?”

  Her finger traced the lines of another document. “ME estimated time of death to be between 6 and 7 P.M.” She looked over at Robby, whose eyes were still on the road.

  “I don’t get it. What’s the big deal?”

  “Here’s the scenario: vic lets offender in, he kills her, then starts to do his thing with the body. But at six-thirty, the UPS guy comes to the front door and rings the bell. Offender freaks, goes out the back door. Leaves vic as is. He never had a chance to engage in his postmortem behavior, like severing the left hand and stabbing the eyes.”

  “Okay, I see where you’re headed.” He chewed on this for a moment, then shrugged. “Works for me.”

  Vail nodded slowly. “Me, too.”

  AT 12:15 P.M., Robby pulled behind Vail’s Dodge at the task force op center.

  “You coming in?” he asked.

  “Going right to the hospital, check in on Jonathan. Then I’ll shoot over to the office, run this victim three theory by my unit. Tell Bledsoe I’ll talk to him later.” She placed a hand on his and squeezed. “Thanks.”

  As she got in her car, the memory of Officer Greenwich standing beside her door moved through her mind. Though it was barely two days ago, it seemed like another lifetime. She arrived at Fairfax Hospital at one o’clock, with no memory of having driven there.

  She walked into Jonathan’s room, where Dr. Altman and a nurse were hunched over a machine. They turned when she entered. “Ms. Vail,” Altman said.

  “How’s Jonathan?”

  “Well, he’s showing incremental improvement. Some slight opening of the eyes. It’s nothing dramatic, which is why I didn’t have them call you. But it’s definitely encouraging.”

  I told them to notify me of any changes. She couldn’t fault them, however. To her, that Jonathan had made progress was significant. But medically, it was merely “incremental improvement.” Vail stepped up to her son and took his hand. “Is that all you can tell me?”

  “Unfortunately, that’s all I can say now. We just have to wait—”

  “Wait and see. Yeah, I know.” She sighed. “Sorry, Doctor. It’s been a rough week.” Or two.

  “I understand. We’ll keep you posted of any substantial changes.”

  “Has—I’m just curious . . . has my—has Jonathan’s father been by to see him? Deacon Tucker.”

  Altman deferred to the nurse, who answered. “You’re the only visitor he’s had.”

  The doctor tilted his head, considering her comment. “Seems like that’s important to you. Do you want to know if he comes by?”

  “If my suspicions are right, he pushed Jonathan down the stairs. But I’ve got no proof, so I can’t get a restraining order. So, yeah, I’d like to know if he shows up. The minute he checks in at the nurse’s station.”

  Altman leaned his head back. “Okay. I’ll make sure the entire nursing staff knows.”

  Vail thanked Altman and he left with the nurse. She pulled up a chair and stroked her son’s cheek, ran her fingers through his hair, and talked to him. She told him she loved him, and that she was planning a big camping trip to Yellowstone, for when he got out of the hospital.

  Vail felt foolish talking to someone who was unconscious and unable to respond. But she did it anyway, because according to Altman there was a possibility her son could hear her voice. And since no one knew how active a comatose mind was, there was also a chance Jonathan might be feeling scared and alone. Both were emotions with which she herself had suddenly become familiar. She was fortunate her friendship with Robby was strong, and that he’d made it clear he would be there to help her through things.

  Jonathan, however, had only her.

  thirty-four

  Vail arrived at the BAU at five o’clock. She scanned her ID card, then moved through the heavy maple doors and down the narrow hallways toward Thomas Gifford’s office. She could feel her colleagues’ gazes following her, but she kept her eyes focused ahead and didn’t acknowledge anyone. She was there for a reason and didn’t feel like chatting with any of them about her suspension, which would be the likely topic of conversation.

  She stood in front of the secretary’s desk and waited for Lenka to hang up the phone. “Can you ask the boss if he’s got a moment for me?”

  “Sure thing.” Lenka punched a button, explained into her headset that Vail was in the anteroom, and hung up. “Go on in.”

  Vail thanked her, then entered Gifford’s office. The chief honcho was behind his desk, Frank Del Monaco reclining in the guest chair to Vail’s right; Del Monaco’s legs were spread apart, his pudgy fingers splayed and resting comfortably on his thighs. The two men were laughing, as if they’d shared a joke.

  “Agent Vail,” Gifford said, forcing the smile from his lips. “I thought you were supposed to remain at home pending the investigation.”

  “I have something to discuss with you, sir. Just came up.” She glanced over at Del Monaco, who was biting his lip . . . as if he was still thinking about the joke. Unless the joke was about her.

  Gifford bent his head down and ruffled some papers, no doubt to keep himself from looking at Del Monaco and losing his composure. “Agent Del Monaco,” he said, “a moment please.”

  “Yes, sir.” Del Monaco stood and turned to walk past Vail, a grin widening his face.

  The door slipped shut behind her, and Vail stepped forward. “I was thinking—”

  “How’s your son?”

  She hesitated a second, changing gears in her brain from business to personal. “Not much change. Some slight improvement.”

  “Good. That’s good. Slight improvement is better than no improvement.”

  She twisted her lips, confounded by his awkward attempt to show concern. “Sir, I had a thought about victim number three. The one everyone doubts was done by Dead Eyes—”
>
  He held up a hand. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re on suspension.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. She wanted to tell him that even though she draws her paycheck from the government, she really works for the victims—and they haven’t taken her off the job. Instead, Vail chose the less confrontational thought that flittered into her brain. “But being on suspension doesn’t mean my mind turns off. I’m still working the case in my head.”

  “Just make sure it stays in your head. I don’t want any media hounds ramming mikes up my ass asking about your involvement. Bureau’s in for enough embarrassment once they find out you beat up your husband.”

  “Ex-husband. And I’m certainly not going to talk to any reporters.”

  “They have ways of finding these things out, you know that. That’s if your ex doesn’t make the call himself.”

  Vail sighed. The last thing she needed was the newsies invading her privacy. “Sir, about vic three. I can explain why the scene’s different, why the Dead Eyes behaviors are absent.”

  Gifford rubbed at his eyes, then swiveled his chair to face the large window and his second-story view. “We’ve been through this so many times—”

  “I didn’t have proof before. Now I do.”

  “Fine. Tell it to Del Monaco, he’ll present it to the unit.”

  “Why Del Monaco?”

  “He’s been assigned the file until further notice.”

  Vail looked away. It was like a slap to the face, but in the instant it took her to process the comment, she realized it was a likely development. Someone had to take it over. “I’d like to be the one to present it. It’s my theory, it’s already . . . a volatile topic. I think I should be there to stand behind it, to give it the attention it deserves.”

  Gifford leaned back in his chair a bit and rocked, as if mulling over her request. “I really think it’s in your best interest to distance yourself from the Dead Eyes case—”

  “You mean from the Bureau.” She felt her blood pressure going up, the line of mercury rising in the narrow glass tube.

  He spun his chair around to face her. “I mean from both. Look,” he said, lowering his voice, “you’ve got enough trouble without Linwood and the police chief on your back, too.”

  “Linwood and the police chief?”

  “There’s only so much I can do to protect you.”

  “With all due respect, I don’t need your protection.”

  “Yes, you do.” He looked away. “I’ve already gotten calls. Pressure from all levels. I’m standing behind you, Karen, because I think you’re a damn good profiler. One of the best I’ve got. Now I’m asking you, don’t blow your career over this. Focus your energies on beating this rap. Then we’ll worry about Dead Eyes. If he’s still at large, you’ll get the case back.”

  “I guess I should thank you, for helping out. I appreciate it.” She sat down in the chair. “But please let me address the unit. Just this once.”

  Gifford held her gaze for a long moment, then buzzed an extension. “Frank, can you come in here for a minute?” He hit the button again. “Run your theory by the two of us. If it passes our smell test, you can talk to everyone else.”

  Vail nodded and waited the thirty seconds it took Del Monaco to return to the ASAC’s office. He walked in carrying a file folder and sat down in the chair beside Vail.

  Gifford nodded at Vail. “Talk.”

  “I have some proof to back my theory with victim three—”

  Del Monaco rolled his eyes. “Not this again—”

  “Listen to what she has to say, Frank. Then we’ll assess.”

  Del Monaco crossed his legs, then reluctantly tilted his head toward Vail. His body language said “Don’t bother me with this shit.” But verbally, he was a bit more polite. “Go ahead, I’m listening.”

  Vail resented having to justify herself to Del Monaco before being permitted to go in front of the unit. But since these were the ground rules Gifford set forth, she had no choice but to take her best shot. “There’s a crime scene unit manifest for a UPS package discovered at Angelina Sarducci’s front door. I called UPS and tracked it. It was delivered at 6:30 P.M. ME said time of death was between 6 and 7 P.M.”

  “So you think the delivery guy rang the vic’s doorbell and scared off the offender,” Gifford said.

  “Which is why he didn’t engage in most of the postmortem behaviors we’ve seen with the other vics.”

  “But this is nothing new,” Del Monaco said. “A year ago you said the same thing, that someone had interrupted him.”

  “Yeah, but now I’ve got proof.” Vail sat back and waited for a response. Both men were staring ahead, musing on her remarks.

  After a moment of reflection, Del Monaco spoke. “Karen, I know this linkage thing is important to you. And in the end you may be right. But here’s the thing: our job is to look at the behaviors left by an offender at a crime scene and make inferences based on what we see. What you’re doing is looking at an absence of behaviors and trying to create a relationship. If we later find out this is a Dead Eyes case, we can then say your UPS package theory was right on the money.”

  “It’s possible you’re right,” Gifford added, “but we can’t deal in possibilities or we’d be all over the damn map.”

  Vail was probing the inside of her teeth with her tongue, doing her best to keep her mouth shut. Now was not the time for a confrontation. Besides, she didn’t really know what she would say. They had a point.

  Del Monaco opened the file he was holding. “How about we take theory, opinion, and emotion out of the equation. Look at the numbers. For all the Dead Eyes vics, both the Safarik HIS scale and the ISS show a point nine-five correlation. Victim three doesn’t even make the cut—”

  “Of course the severity of injury to vic three is less. You can’t use those numbers—”

  “Hold it a second,” Gifford said. “What numbers are these?”

  Del Monaco seemed annoyed his boss had interrupted. “The Safarik Homicide Injury Scale measures the degree of injury suffered by the victim. It’s a new variable for analyzing offender behavior. ISS stands for Injury Severity Score—”

  “ISS is used by CDC for categorizing triage results from automobile accidents,” Vail said.

  Del Monaco nodded animatedly. “And I’ve seen it used for homicide victims, too.”

  Vail looked away.

  “Bottom line,” Gifford said, “is no matter how you look at it, you can’t say it’s a Dead Eyes vic because behavior is absent. Your theory accounts for the lack of additional behavioral evidence, but it doesn’t necessarily point to Dead Eyes.”

  Vail kept her head down. She had anticipated resistance, but cursed herself for not thinking things through more thoroughly. Del Monaco and Gifford were right: though her theory might be correct, they can’t abandon their conventions because of something that’s not there. She sighed frustration.

  “I did get something you’ll find interesting, though,” Del Monaco said, handing her a printout from the file. “VICAP results. They were handed to me on the way over here. Haven’t even looked at them yet.”

  Vail took the report and scanned it. “I knew the number of hits would be small, but this is amazing.” She took another few seconds to look over the data, flipped a couple of pages, then looked at Del Monaco. “I did a search of murders, attempted murders, and unidentified human remains, to see how many offenders had written something in blood at the scene. Of the twenty-three thousand VICAP cases, we got a hit on only twenty-one cases.”

  Del Monaco sat up straight. “Jesus. Twenty-one out of twenty-three thousand. That’s small.”

  Vail thumbed back and forth. “Smaller than that, actually.” She spent a moment with the data, then continued: “If we eliminate two cases where blood was smeared, and only include the cases that contained writing, we’re down to nineteen cases. Those cases involved twenty-six victims. If we extrapolate out the male vics, which were gay, we’re left with nine female victims.”<
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  “Out of twenty-three thousand cases.”

  She flipped a page. “Looking at it from the perspective of the blood murals,” Vail continued, “if we eliminate the crime scenes that contained offender writing, we’re looking at only two cases. Two.”

  They were silent for a moment. “Okay,” Gifford finally said, “what does this mean?’

  Del Monaco said, “On the surface, that it’s extremely rare to find blood-based writing or painting at a scene.”

  “Yeah, but what does it tell us about the offender?”

  Vail considered this before speaking. “Well, only one of the VICAP cases is still unsolved, and that’s in Vegas. Way out of this guy’s geographic range. Besides, other than the writing, the ritual behavior is very different.” She handed him back the report. “Not only does this tell us that none of these other cases are related to Dead Eyes, I think we can reasonably assume that Marci Evers is, in fact, Dead Eyes’s first vic.” Establishing the first victim of a serial killer often provided important clues because the offender was not as sophisticated when he started killing, and thus was more likely to have made mistakes.

  “You’ll be getting a call from Kim Rossmo,” Vail said. “I sent him the case, asked him to work up a geographic profile for us.”

  Del Monaco nodded. “I’ll look for it.”

  Vail stood and glanced at Gifford. “Thanks for hearing me out.”

  “Use the time off wisely, Karen. Clear your head of Dead Eyes, even if it’s only for a few days. Get your house in order, and then get your ass back in here. We sure could use you.”

  Vail forced a half-smile, then walked out. She wanted to think Gifford was being genuine, but she could never be sure with him. She took one last peek at her empty office, then headed to the elevator.

  thirty-five

  A light drizzle fell as Vail showed her credentials then drove through the checkpoint leading to the FBI Academy. Gifford’s idea of getting Dead Eyes out of her thoughts for a while had merits. Besides, it would allow her some time to focus on the other mystery in her life, the identity of her biological mother.