Bledsoe lifted the telephone handset. “I’ll get a uniform posted outside Emma’s door at the assisted care facility until we get this guy in custody. What was the name of that place?”
Vail told him, and he began to dial.
“Where do we stand with your list?” Del Monaco asked.
Robby, who was sitting on the edge of his desk, reached behind him for his yellow pad. “Fifty-two Patricks. One of them, a Patrick Farwell, did show up on a roster from Velandia Correctional Facility from 1977. Did a deuce for rape, then paroled. Kind of fell off the radar sometime in the early eighties.”
“This guy is how old?” Manette asked. Like Del Monaco, she was in sweats and tennis shoes, but on her slender frame, they fit well and looked cozy.
Robby flipped a few pages. “According to what we’ve got here, looks like we got a DOB of August 9, 1947.”
Sinclair straightened. “Bingo.”
Bledsoe hung up the phone and announced, “Okay, uniform is on its way to Silver Meadows.”
“Hold on a minute,” Manette said. “That doesn’t fit your profile, does it?” She was looking at Vail, arms spread, as if she were enjoying that the profile was flawed.
Vail cocked her head. “The age difference is irrelevant—”
“Oh, here it comes. You give us an age range of thirty to forty years old, and when he turns out to be sixty-one, you say it doesn’t mean nothing?”
“If you’d let me finish, I’ll explain,” Vail said calmly. “We know Farwell did time for rape. If he is our guy, I’ll bet he also did time somewhere else, maybe under an alias or in a different state, for similar sexually related crimes. If that’s the case, and he was in the slammer for a while, that would explain the age difference.”
“How so?” Bledsoe asked.
“We’ve found that when a sexual predator is incarcerated, he doesn’t mature emotionally, even though he ages chronologically. So even though we’re looking for a forty year old, and he’s really sixty, if he’s done twenty years somewhere, emotionally he’s still forty when he gets out. Since we’re analyzing behavior, and behavior is a function of our emotions, he actually does fit the profile.”
Manette waved a hand. “Mumbo jumbo hocus pocus crap. You got an excuse for everything, don’t you? Can’t you just admit you were wrong?”
“This isn’t solving anything,” Bledsoe said. “For the moment, I accept Karen’s explanation. Let’s move on.”
Sinclair’s head was resting on the Michael Jordan basketball, his eyelids at half-mast. “Did we put out an APB?”
“And a BOLO,” Del Monaco said, referring to the Bureau’s “Be On The Lookout” alert.
Sinclair pulled his head up, straightened his back, and tried to open his eyes. “Then we should be getting as much as we can on this guy, checking tax records, DMV files, utility companies—”
“Some of that’ll have to wait till morning, when we can access their databases,” Bledsoe said. “But I agree. Let’s get started now on what we can. Maybe we’ll have something by then. We’re going to need more than a locket, a profile, and some circumstantial connections to get a search warrant.”
THE SUN’S EARLY RAYS crept past the cloud cover and warmed the winter air a few degrees. Like the task force, the house’s heater had worked overtime into the cold evening, struggling to blow through clogged and aged ducts.
Using the Internet, FBI, police, and tax databases, Virginia prison records, and a few favors, they were able to sift through a fair amount of information. The one promising fact was that Patrick Farwell had a history consistent with those seen amongst serial offenders. The records they sifted painted a by-the-numbers black-and-white picture, but left a great many holes that needed plugging. In the wee hours of the morning, they began reading between the lines, substituting speculation and conjecture for facts. It was a less than accurate means of proceeding, but when they stepped back and examined it, the picture they were left with did seem to support their theory.
Vail had a problem with loading theory upon thin assumptions, but everyone was tired and strained.
“Damn,” Robby muttered. He was seated in front of the computer, logged onto a database that displayed Virginia real estate transactions over the past hundred years. Based on Vail’s analysis and Del Monaco’s theory, they had focused their attention on Virginia, hypothesizing that Dead Eyes had shown an inclination to remain within the state. They intended to look at everything but decided not to stray too far from the guidelines provided by the geoprofile as a means of narrowing their searches.
“What’s wrong?” Bledsoe asked, his eyes bloodshot and his sixth or seventh cup of coffee in hand.
“I did a search of tax records, figuring if he owned a house, or condo, or some land somewhere, I’d get a hit. Came up a big goose egg.”
The simultaneous rings of the telephone and fax machine shifted their attention. Being the closest to the kitchen, Vail grabbed the handset. She listened to the technician provide details on what they had found, then jotted down some notes. “And the other stuff?” She waited a beat, thanked the person, and hung up. She stepped back into the living room with a smile on her face. “That was the lab. They lifted several latents and ran them through AFIS. They got a hit.” She paused for emphasis, then said, “Patrick Farwell.”
“Bingo,” Bledsoe said.
Manette rocked forward in her chair, then lifted the page from the fax machine. “Patrick Farwell, that’s our dude.” She examined the mug shot the lab had faxed, then handed it to Vail. “And he looks a lot like you, Kari.”
Vail cocked her head, assessing the image, instantly noting—and regretting—the obvious likeness to herself. “Daddy,” she finally said, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
sixty-six
The task force snacked on bagels, muffins, and a tank of coffee Sinclair had retrieved from the local café a short time after 7 A.M. It was only fifteen degrees when he left, and when he returned he babbled on about how growing up in Oak Park, Illinois, should have prepared him for days like this. Everyone was too tired to object to his bellyaching, and eventually he took his seat and hugged a large mug of hot coffee.
In fact, java flowed freely to anyone with a cup. They were now going on twenty-four hours without sleep, with no break in the foreseeable future. As they took in their fill of sugar and caffeine, they analyzed all the information that began rolling in shortly after the clock had struck eight.
They had learned that Patrick Farwell had also been arrested fifteen years ago for aggravated sexual assault of a minor. He had served time at Pocomona Correctional Facility before being transferred to the newer maximum security Greensville campus halfway through his sentence because he had been stabbed by an inmate who took his assault on the minor personally.
But his parole eighteen months ago only served to rid the system of the scourge that had been Patrick Farwell. He broke ties with his parole officer and was never seen again. As far as the Department of Corrections was concerned, Patrick Farwell disappeared. After an extensive search, it was theorized he had left the state and gone underground. But the warden had another theory, and that was that Patrick Farwell had taken on an alias and was still living somewhere in the Commonwealth of Virginia. It was only a hunch, but the warden noted that his hunches, though based only on his limited knowledge of each particular inmate, were usually accurate.
“His pent-up anger boiled over when he got out,” Del Monaco said. “As soon as he disappeared, there were no controls on him anymore. No guards, no parole officers. The guy was unleashed, literally and figuratively.”
Robby nodded. “And his break with parole coincides with the first Dead Eyes murder. My vic, Marci Evers.”
“Any suggestion of computer skills?” Bledsoe asked.
Robby rubbed his eyes. “Like what? Classes, things like that?”
“Anything,” Bledsoe said.
“Nothing I see in the record,” Robby said. “But computer training is available
lots of places, and most of it isn’t tracked or recorded anywhere.”
“And the kind of software used for the untraceable email is available online,” Vail said. “Based on what I was told, advanced training isn’t required.”
“Well,” Manette said, “I say we go for it. We’ve got the name, fingerprints, and background on this guy, and from what I’m hearing, he fits nicely. All we need is . . . him.”
Bledsoe clapped his hands together. “Then let’s get moving. Hernandez, talk with the postal inspector. Find out if there was ever a forwarding order submitted for Patrick Farwell. Sin, check with the IRS, see if any W-2’s have been filed. Then check the regional jails. Possible this guy got picked up on a traffic violation or a drunk-in-public. He could already be under lock and key.” Bledsoe looked at the fax. “And I’ll get this circulated. Have the lab send it to every PD and SO in the state.”
“Shouldn’t we go national?” Sinclair asked.
“Can’t hurt to get something out to NCIC,” Bledsoe said, referring to the National Crime Information Center.
Vail shook her head. “Farwell’s local. He’s bold, aggressive, and sure of himself. He thinks he can operate without consequence, and unfortunately we’ve only reinforced those feelings by being unable to generate any substantial leads.”
Robby held up an index finger. “Until now.”
“Until now. Point is, we’ve given him no reason to leave his comfort zone, which is outlined in the geoprofile. For now, I say we keep it statewide. And hope we get lucky.”
sixty-seven
With the investigation now focused and well on its way toward bringing in its first suspect, Vail took a break to run over to the hospital to check in on Jonathan.
She informed the nurse she wanted to talk with the doctor, then sat and held Jonathan’s hand for nearly half an hour before Altman walked in. They exchanged brief pleasantries before he said, “You remember our discussions about the importance of small steps.”
“Have there been any since you last examined him?”
“Yes. Come closer.” He removed his penlight from his jacket pocket and leaned over Jonathan’s face. He turned on the light and brought it close to the youth’s eyes.
“He blinked,” Vail said. “He did that before.”
“That’s right. Now, watch this.” Altman stepped back and grabbed a wad of Jonathan’s forearm and squeezed. Jonathan moved the limb, pulling away from Altman’s grip. “Purposeful movement in response to pinching.”
Vail moved to Jonathan’s side and instinctively rubbed his forearm where Altman had made his mark. “And that means?”
“It’s a very, very strong sign that Jonathan is coming out of the comatose state.”
“How long?”
“Before he’s completely out of it?” Altman shrugged. “There’s no timetable. Could be tomorrow, could be weeks or months. It’s impossible to say.”
While the agony of uncertainty would continue, at least she had substantial reason for hope. The odds that Jonathan would come out of the coma had just increased. “Thank you, Doctor.”
“I noticed your limp has gotten worse. Mind if I take a look at it?”
Vail smiled. “I’d meant to ask you about it. I twisted the knee a couple weeks ago. Then I slipped on the ice, and it’s been killing me ever since.”
She sat down and watched as Altman moved her leg through a normal range of motion, then gently pushed and pulled in a variety of directions. Vail grabbed the arms of the chair and tried not to scream.
“Orthopedics isn’t my specialty, but it looks like you’ve torn some ligaments. You should have an MRI and a more comprehensive exam.” He pulled out a prescription pad and jotted down the names of two physicians. “Don’t put it off too long, it’s only going to get worse.”
She took the paper and thanked him. After Altman had left the room, Vail leaned close to her son and ran the back of her index finger across his face. His left eye twitched in response. “Jonathan, sweetie, can you hear me? It’s Mom. I wanted to tell you how proud I am of you. Keep fighting. You’re gonna beat this.”
She reached down and took his hand in hers. “I’m making progress, too, on my case. Tell you what. When you wake up, we’ll ditch this place and go out for milk shakes. Just the two of us, okay?”
She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, then kissed his forehead.
“I love you, champ.”
sixty-eight
“We’ve got Farwell’s full file from Greensville,” Bledsoe said, tossing it on the table in front of him. Robby and Vail had arrived at Izzy’s Pizza Parlor at nearly the same time. Bledsoe had already ordered, and a large pizza pie gleaming with cheese and pepperoni sat in front of him. He moved over to allow Vail into the booth beside him. Robby’s size automatically bought him the entire opposite end of the table. “Farwell was in the general population. There was a note in the file that he was particularly close with one inmate.”
“Richard Ray Singletary,” Robby said.
“The one and only.”
Vail sighed. “Well, that makes me feel a little better. That we didn’t let Singletary take the secret to hell with him. At least we found the information before anyone else died.”
“What else is in the file?” Robby asked.
“According to prison records, home address is listed as a PO Box in Dale City. Manette’s on her way over there to see if it’s still active. If it is, she’ll sit on it, see if he shows. But we also got a fifteen-year-old employment address. Timberland Custom Cabinets in Richmond.”
“A carpenter,” Robby said, eyeing the pizza.
“Yes,” Bledsoe said, lifting a large slice from the aluminum platter.
Robby followed his lead and dug in. “I take it we’re on our way there after lunch.”
“Already spoke with the guy. He’s a real by-the-numbers prick. I put a call in to the DA to get a warrant. Should be ready by the time we’re done here. Hopefully they’ll have more than just a PO Box in their file.”
Robby sprinkled red pepper flakes on his pizza. “Even if he doesn’t, it feels a whole lot better having a scent to track. Sooner or later, we’ll find him.”
TIMBERLAND CUSTOM CABINETS was a sprawling industrial complex on a potholed asphalt road that dead-ended against the back lot of an adjacent lumberyard. The main structure was a tin-roofed brick building that probably had not looked a whole lot better when it was new.
Vail took one last pull on the straw of her Big Gulp of Coke—high octane to keep her mind working and her feet moving—and followed Robby and Bledsoe into the building. Bledsoe served the search warrant and asked for the personnel records pertaining to Patrick Farwell. Ten minutes later, a heavyset black woman emerged from another wing of the office with a dog-eared manila file folder in her hand. She handed it over without a word, then returned to her desk.
They thumbed through it, the three of them huddling over the paperwork, scouring it as if it contained the highly guarded secret formula for Coca-Cola.
“Same PO Box,” Bledsoe commented.
“And nothing on the application to indicate he’d ever been in the slammer,” Robby noted.
“You didn’t really expect him to be an honest citizen when filling out his job app, did you?” Vail asked. “Would you hire a rapist who’d done time?”
“So we’re left with interviewing the employees,” Robby said. He turned to the receptionist. “Can we talk with the personnel director?”
“You’re lookin’ at her.”
“You have any employees who’ve been with the company longer than fifteen years?”
She looked at the ceiling, searching the exposed pipes and ventilation ducts. “We got four. No, three. Then there’s the owner.”
“They in?” Bledsoe asked. “We’ll need to talk to each of them.”
“They’re in. I’ll call them.”
Vail held up a hand. “Hold it. We’ll take the owner first. Then we’ll talk with the three workers.”
<
br /> AL MASSIE WAS A SQUAT MAN in his early fifties. His thick, short legs rubbed together when he walked, causing a side-to-side gait that resembled a waddle. He had a flat pencil stuck behind his right ear, and frazzled gray hair interspersed with saw dust. His left thumb was missing its last joint.
“I’m Paul Bledsoe, Fairfax County Homicide. These are my associates, Special Agent Karen Vail and Detective Robby Hernandez.” Pleasantries were exchanged. “We were wondering what you could tell us about Patrick Farwell. Worked here three years, nineteen—”
“I remember Patrick. Good worker, kept to himself. Didn’t know nothing about what he was doing, though. I had nothing to do with it. I told the police everything, which wasn’t much.”
“We’re not here about that case,” Vail said. “We were just hoping you could provide some background for us on Patrick. Anything you could tell us would be helpful.”
“Don’t remember much. That was a long time ago.”
“How about friends he had?” Vail continued. “Was he close with any of the workers?”
“From what I remember, Patrick was a loner. There was one guy he used to work with a lot, Jim Gaston. Did a lot of finish work with him. Jim’s still here. You talk to him yet?”
“No, we figured we’d start with you.”
“Jimbo’s your man. If Patrick said anything to anybody, it woulda been to Jimbo.” He looked at Bledsoe and Robby, then took a step backward. “I’m in the middle of a wall unit, and yes, I may own the place but I still keep my hands in the sawdust. Don’t like running the business, that was my father’s job before he passed on. Anything else you need me for?”
The 7th Victim kv-1 Page 34
