The 7th Victim kv-1

by Alan Jacobson

  “I don’t have much hope, sweetheart. I’m on death row. You hold out hope, you get disappointed.”

  She nodded, then pushed away from the table.

  “Just remember,” Singletary said. “You give me what I want, I’ll give you the name of the Dead Eyes killer.”

  Vail stood there for a long moment, reading the man’s eyes. Tempted to agree to the deal even though she didn’t have the authority. Given all the death, the young lives taken and yet to be taken, the offer seemed too good to refuse.

  But in her experience, making deals with the devil usually backfired.

  fifty-seven

  Vail let the door click closed behind her. Bledsoe met her and Del Monaco in the hallway, the detective’s normally olive-complected face red and strained.

  “I spoke with Gifford,” Vail said. “He’s calling Underwood’s office. We’ll know soon whether or not he’ll come. Bureau will pay his airfare and hotel, any expenses.”

  Del Monaco grunted. “We all know this deal turns on his sentence.”

  “And that ain’t gonna happen,” Bledsoe said. “Imagine the heat the DA will take if he caves and recommends leniency to the governor.”

  Vail shook her head. “Think about the heat he’ll take if Dead Eyes murders another woman and it gets out he could’ve prevented it.” She leaned her back against the wall, let her head touch the cold, painted cinderblock. “I think we need to make the deal. Contingent on arrest and conviction of Dead Eyes.”

  Del Monaco stepped forward. “The guy’s set to die in five days, Karen. Delaying his execution even an hour sends a message. Once you’ve delayed it, it’s like you’ve made the decision to wait till the jury comes back with a verdict. You can’t suddenly decide you’re going to change your mind two or three months into it. You’re either in or out.”

  “You don’t think we should do it,” Bledsoe said.

  “Hey, I don’t get paid the big bucks to make those decisions. What I think doesn’t mean diddly.”

  “I think Underwood’s our best shot,” Bledsoe said.

  Del Monaco shoved his hands into his pants pockets. “There’s a bigger issue. How do we know this letter is even legit? And how do we know that Singletary really knows who Dead Eyes is? He could be jerking us around. Playing us, trying to buy himself some extra time.”

  Vail pulled out her cell phone and began to dial. “Maybe the lab has some answers for us.”

  She walked down the hall, pacing, waiting for the technician to take her call. But she knew the time spent hoping they had discovered something of value was wasted when the tech told her they hadn’t finished running the tests. They could tell her the type of paper it had been written on, the type of ink used to print it, and that there were no usable fingerprints other than a partial from Singletary.

  “This guy dies in five days,” Vail said. “Any way we’ll have something soon—anything—that’ll tell us if this letter is from our killer?”

  “Problem is that we’ve got no other writing samples to compare it to, nothing where we can match syntax, or even something as basic as handwriting.” The technician sighed. “But we’ll do our best. If there’s something to find, we’ll have it for you tomorrow.”

  Vail walked back toward Del Monaco and Bledsoe and said, “Nothing yet.”

  Del Monaco was folding his phone. “Underwood is on his way. He’ll be here inside of two hours. I say we get out of here, paint the town or something.”

  “Our knight in shining armor is on the way to save the day,” Vail said with a hint of sarcasm. “Smacks of Hollywood. I can’t wait.”

  THEY TOOK THEIR SEATS at a beat-up picnic table twenty yards from Bob’s Country Store, where they’d purchased hamburgers, chilidogs, and beer. The debate over drinking while on duty died with their appetite after finding that the only greasy spoon within fifteen minutes of the prison was, in fact, a very greasy spoon.

  And, as they soon learned, being in the Bible Belt meant their alcohol had to be consumed off-premises, in the chill air.

  “Well,” Bledsoe said, inspecting the flat head on his beer, “it seems that somewhere along the way, Underwood made an impression on Singletary.”

  Del Monaco tipped his plastic cup toward the light and frowned at the color of his drink. “Singletary’s got a relationship with Underwood. He trusts him. Happened with John Wayne Gacy, and Dahmer, too.”

  Bledsoe took a pull on the beer and made a face. “I hope Underwood works his magic. I get the feeling he’s more into writing books than writing profiles these days.”

  “Bureau pension only goes so far,” Del Monaco said. “Nothing wrong with free enterprise.”

  “Yeah, well, looks to me like he’s trying to ride the coattails of John Douglas’s success.”

  Vail cleared her throat and leaned forward. “Frank,” she said tentatively, “you ever have nightmares? Of work?”

  Del Monaco swallowed a mouthful of beer as he thought about the question. “You mean like working with you is a nightmare sometimes?”

  “I’m serious.”

  Del Monaco set down his cup and regarded his colleague. “You having Dead Eyes nightmares?”

  Vail’s gaze found the million-year-old pocked-wood table. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  He shrugged. “Had a nightmare after my first murder scene way back when. But nothing since then. My brain kind of acclimated to it. Go to work, deal with this shit, come home, leave it all at the office.”

  She pulled her coat tight against a sudden gust of wind. “That’s good you can do that,” she said without further explanation.

  “I’ve had some nightmares,” Bledsoe said. “Been awhile, but I remember the last one real well. I was in a shootout and my gun jammed. Radio didn’t work. And I couldn’t talk. It was like my throat closed up. Woke up drenched in sweat.” He shook his head. “Seemed so damn real. It’s been years but I remember it like yesterday.”

  Vail wished she had never brought it up, because the next question was likely to be from Del Monaco, again asking if she’s had dreams regarding Dead Eyes.

  But he surprised her when he elbowed her and said, “Let’s look at that letter again. If anyone’s qualified to analyze it, it’s us.”

  Vail pulled it from her pocket and unfolded it. She read aloud. “I’ve done more than I ever thought I’d be able to do. But when you put your mind to something, you can do anything.” She looked at Del Monaco, who shrugged.

  “Beats the shit out of me,” he said. “Nothing specific to that.”

  Vail continued: “I find myself overwhelmed by the power of it all. Of being able to do anything I want to. No one to tell me I can’t.”

  Del Monaco spread his hands in acknowledgment. “Signs of power. Of control. So far, there’s nothing to say it’s a hoax. But, there’re no details only the killer would know, either.”

  “It does match up with the emails he sent,” Vail said. “The hunger-based need for power and control.”

  “But it’s nonspecific,” Del Monaco said. “Those are common serial offender themes.”

  Vail looked back at the paper: “I can’t stop myself. I’m sure you know the feeling, the urges, the need for more. They may think they can stop me, but they can’t. I know what they know. They’ll never find me.”

  Vail exchanged a knowing glance with Bledsoe. All the proof she needed was right there—a reference to the stolen profile. It wasn’t hard evidence, but it was enough to convince her emotionally, if not legally or logically. She cleared her throat, then said, “Well, I think those last few sentences are the most significant, because it tells us a lot about him. It confirms a lot of our profile. And it tells us he’s gaining confidence, which is common with offenders as time passes. They begin to feel impervious to capture. They get sloppy and they begin to self-destruct internally. They may even get more violent.”

  “I thought Linwood’s murder was more violent because of the personal connection,” Bledsoe said.

  �
��It was.” At least, I think it was. “But this is something else. Many, if not most, serial killers begin to get more aggressive, more violent as the victims mount. It’s almost too much, it becomes overwhelming to them. Even those who thrive on control begin to lose structure in their lives, even if they don’t realize it’s happening. When it gets out of hand, they surpass their ability to handle the overload. They make mistakes, lose their composure. That’ll work to our advantage. Only problem is, we don’t know if he’ll reach critical mass at victim eight or victim twenty-eight.”

  Del Monaco set down his cup and wiggled a bit on the bench seat. “An offender’s early murders typically demonstrate his need to engage in the thrill of the hunt. He lives for exerting control over his victim. But as he loses himself in his perception that he’s invincible, the emphasis of his attacks shifts to a kind of hunger, a simple need to kill.” He looked at the letter and shook his head. “There’s something that bothers me, though.” He picked up the paper and stared at it.

  After waiting for Del Monaco to continue, Vail asked, “Frank?”

  “‘I know what they know,’” he said. “What does he mean by that? Who is ‘they’?”

  “He’s talking about us,” Bledsoe said.

  Vail shut her eyes, bracing for the hammer to come down hard on her skull.

  “He thinks he knows what we have on him,” Bledsoe continued.

  She opened her eyes, realizing Bledsoe was not going to reveal their secret. They brought their beer to their lips and continued ruminating over the meaning of the letter. A few moments later, Bledsoe warded off a chill, then checked his watch. “We’ve gotta go. Underwood should be en route and it’ll take awhile to stow our handguns and get through security again.”

  “Show time,” Vail said.

  THOMAS UNDERWOOD was a fit fifty-nine years old, with a full head of ink-black hair and the boyish looks that had made him a knockout in his early Bureau days. He had the expert crime solver look Hollywood sought, and Vail was amazed he had never been offered his own television show. But his presence was electric, she had to admit, and she felt a few butterflies fluttering, though she couldn’t be sure it wasn’t just the cheap beer gurgling around her stomach.

  Underwood smiled when he saw Del Monaco. “Frank, how you doing? Enjoying life, it looks like,” he said, patting Del Monaco’s round abdomen. Del Monaco huffed a false laugh.

  Underwood made introductions to Bledsoe, then turned to face Vail. “Thomas Underwood,” he said, extending a hand and flashing a white smile.

  “Karen Vail.”

  Underwood’s grin widened. “Oh, you don’t need an introduction.”

  Vail felt a flush settle across her face. She was impressed he knew who she was. Had he been following her career?

  He must have read the increase in her body temperature, because he immediately clarified: “Your face was plastered across the front page of just about every major newspaper in the country.”

  Vail turned away to hide her disappointment and faced the one-way mirror that overlooked their subject. “You don’t need an intro to Mr. Singletary either, I take it.”

  “No, I know Ray quite well.” He clapped his hands together. “I’ve been thoroughly briefed on the ride over, so why don’t I just get started?” He looked to Bledsoe, who nodded. “Great. Why don’t you all wait here and I’ll go get us some answers.”

  fifty-eight

  Thomas Underwood greeted Richard Ray Singletary with a firm handshake. It was awkward for both of them because of the shackles, but Underwood was clearly determined to initiate physical contact.

  “Ray, how’ve you been?”

  “As good as can be expected in a place like this, with the death penalty hanging over your head.”

  Vail turned to Bledsoe, who, like Del Monaco, was standing behind the one-way mirror. The gain on the microphone inside the interview room was turned up loud and picked up every utterance, every scrape of chair leg or shoe against the cement floor. The voices sounded tinny, as if they’d been run through a coffee filter.

  “They’re like best buddies,” Bledsoe said. “How can Underwood shake the guy’s hand and act like his friend?”

  “Part of what made him so successful at interviewing these monsters,” Vail said. “He’s got the gift of gab, and he understands the criminal mind. We teach interview techniques in my unit, if you ever want me to talk to your squad.”

  “Thanks.” Bledsoe’s bruised tone told her he wasn’t interested.

  “You understand if I don’t have a lot of sympathy for your predicament, Ray,” Underwood said. “You know, it’s a bed you made for yourself.”

  “Well, well, well. Has retirement made you a little cynical?”

  “I’ve only retired from the Bureau, not from my life’s work.” Underwood flashed a smile. “So I’ve been told you have something to talk to me about.”

  Singletary leaned across the table, his eyes darting back and forth, as if he had a reasonable expectation of privacy. He lowered his voice and said, “I know who wrote the letter. I know who the Dead Eyes killer is.” He raised his eyebrows and leaned back in his chair.

  To Underwood’s credit, he knew how to play these guys. “So who is he?”

  “For a price.”

  “Look, Ray. You demanded they fly me out here, and I dropped everything I was in the middle of and caught the next plane. I’m here. Let’s not play games.”

  “This isn’t about games, Thomas. It’s about life. I don’t want to die. I’ve got less than five days before they kill me. That’s about a hundred and sixty hours before my life is over. They want to catch this guy, I wanna live. It’s all locked up in here,” he said, pointing to his head. “I give them a name, they give me my life back. That’s not too much to ask, Thomas. It’s really pretty simple.”

  “It’s a lot more complicated and you know it, Ray. You’re a smart guy. There’s politics involved. They give in to you, it sets a bad precedent.”

  “They let me die with the name buttoned up inside me, and setting a bad precedent will be the least of their problems. What politician wants the blood of more dead women on his hands?” He looked away, then back to Underwood. “Hell, once the legislature finds out I know who this guy is, they’re gonna want that name so the FBI can arrest him and publicly fry his ass. It’s important to show you can’t kill a state senator and get away with it, right? So don’t tell me about politics.”

  Underwood leaned back in his chair. “Let’s say for a moment that they won’t deal. What else can I negotiate for you?”

  “There’s nothing else to talk about. You want the killer’s identity, that’s what it’ll cost you.”

  “The problem they have, Ray, is that there’s no way of verifying this letter is really from the Dead Eyes killer. You say it is, because you recognize a phrase he used. But it could just be chance. It’s not like he signed it and included a fingerprint and photo for your benefit.”

  “I’ll give you the name and you go out and grab the guy up. Things check out, the deal goes through. It’s the wrong guy, I get the needle. You can’t lose.”

  “He’s got it all figured out,” Bledsoe said in the adjacent room.

  “He was an organized offender,” Vail explained. “High IQ. Preyed on college girls living off-campus. He followed them to a supermarket, then lured them away by wearing a fake cast, claiming he’d broken his arm. He told them he needed help loading groceries into his van. As soon as he got them out of sight, he cracked them over the head with the cast and threw them into the van.” Vail turned back to the mirror. “You bet he’s got this all figured out. Which is why I find it hard to trust him.”

  “We’ll see what take Underwood has, maybe he’s got a feel for the guy,” Bledsoe said. “He knows him better than anyone.”

  Vail folded her arms. “For what we’re paying him, he’d better come up with something.”

  “I thought the Bureau just paid his expenses,” Bledsoe said.

  �
�He’s an international consultant,” Vail said. “World renowned. Expenses and a hefty fee, I’m sure.”

  Del Monaco nodded. “Gifford was against it, but they worked something out. I think Underwood saw it as an opportunity for another book, or at least a chapter in his next one.”

  “. . . So give me something,” Underwood was saying to Singletary. “Something I can take to them to prove your info is good. They won’t want to cause a big media stir, then find it’s the wrong guy. And even with a name, it could take a while to find him. Once they agree to the deal, your execution is off. And if your info turns out bad, and they have to ramp up again and set a date for you to leave this planet, it’s damn messy. You see the problem we have here, Ray?”

  Singletary squirmed a bit in his seat. He had no response.

  “We’ve got some other problems, too, Ray. Like they think maybe this is a hoax and it’s just your way of playing with us, watching us go off on a wild goose chase. Your way of getting even.”

  “Could be, but not likely. Even your psychobabble analysis of me could tell them that’s not what I’m about.”

  “They’re also thinking it’s your way of getting your fifteen minutes.”

  “I got my fifteen minutes. I got my fifteen years of attention, Thomas, some of it because of you. My name is forever engraved in the crime journals. And in your books.”

  Underwood shook his head. “You’re missing a huge opportunity here, Ray. Every bit of publicity you’ve gotten since your arrest has been negative. But ‘Convicted killer gives police identity of Dead Eyes killer’ makes you look good. Big headlines.”

  “What good is that gonna do me after they inject poison into my body?”

  “I could debate that with you philosophically. Give you the Zen explanation. The concept of redemption. But I know you pretty well, so I know that’s pointless.” Underwood tapped his fingers on the table in front of him. “Why do you think Dead Eyes sent you this letter? My friends at the Bureau who asked me to come, they kept asking me, ‘Why Singletary?’” He turned his hands palm up. “What should I tell them?”