The 7th Victim

by Alan Jacobson

  But I really don’t have to see. I already know. I know because he does the same things to me.

  He shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the childhood memories from his mind. He’d have to do more of this. It was very liberating, and very . . . stimulating. He glanced at the clock on his screen and realized he was late. He closed the laptop’s lid, grabbed the tie, and ran down the steps to his car. He was at the evil bitch’s house pretty fast, but then again he was daydreaming about what he’d written and wasn’t paying attention to the time.

  He’d only been here once, a drive-by to see if the site was a suitable location for his work. An artist must survey his setting to make sure it can inspire him, bring the creative juices to boil at just the right moment. Timing was so crucial. But for this type of art, the creative part came only after the evil was purged. Only then could the brilliance be fully expressed.

  He parked a block away, down a side street, and huffed it toward the house. In suit and tie, he wouldn’t attract attention walking around the neighborhood. And if anyone did question him, he’d pull out his FBI shield and they’d slink away, properly silenced.

  He approached the side yard, looking for signs of a security system: magnetic trips on the window sill, wire tape, or even the obnoxious “Protected by” placard stuck in the dirt by the front door. As if a stupid alarm is really going to protect them from someone who wanted to do something evil. Evil—they don’t know what evil is!

  He stood by the back door and knocked lightly. Listened for a barking dog. Nothing. Very good. He did another walk-around of the perimeter, then stopped at the front door, which was shielded from the street by a dense shrub that stretched ten feet high toward the eave. He gave one last knock and a ring of the doorbell, then decided no one was home. He slipped on latex gloves, removed a lock-pick kit from his pocket, chose the proper tools.

  A couple minutes later, he was standing in the hallway, taking in the décor. Not bad, but not as elaborate as the last bitch’s place. Couple of fabric sofas with a horrid floral print, an old GE television in the corner in a melamine entertainment cabinet, and an area rug on the wood floor. House must’ve been about thirty, forty years old. Bad taste was a lot older than that.

  He made his way into the master bedroom and looked around, in the dresser and night table drawers. No condoms, no thick, heavy watches, no Sports Illustrated magazines. No aftershave or musky cologne. Only women’s clothing in the closet. Bottom line: no boyfriend or male figure to worry about.

  On the way out of the room, he pressed on the mattress. New and firm, perfect for his work. An artist required the proper media, or the result would be unacceptable. But first things first. Purge the evil.

  He moved into the kitchen and checked the drawers: four steak knives. He removed one and examined it. Sufficiently sharp. It would do nicely. He replaced it and turned his attention to the refrigerator . . . always a valuable resource. It told so much about people. Not just what’s inside, but what’s outside. Mounted with magnets were a series of snapshots, all showing the bitch of the house in various poses: standing with a set of snow skis in the winter, barreling through a plume of water on jet skis in the summer, and flexing with her personal trainer at a health club.

  Off the main hallway that stretched the length of the house sat another two bedrooms. No furniture in one, an old twin bed and matching oak dresser that were angling for the distressed look in the other. No personal effects. In sum, no roommate.

  As he headed back toward the front door, he saw an unopened bill on the credenza. Addressed to Sandra Ann Franks. The bitch’s name. He was sure he already knew more about her than her gynecologist. Sandra Ann Franks. Well, it wouldn’t be Franks for long. “I’ll have to be frank with you, Miss Franks. No, no, let me be blunt as I drive this knife through your eyes!”

  Sometimes you get so focused you forget to see the humor in the situation.

  But evil was no laughing matter. This was serious business. And Sandra Ann Franks had passed the final test. Like moist clay right out of the box, she was ready to be molded and shaped. And cut into pieces.

  He glanced at his stopwatch: he’d been in the house nearly four minutes . . . time to go. He clicked the door shut behind him, made sure it was locked. He didn’t want anything happening to the bitch before he returned.

  six

  Karen Vail stood in the back of an Academy classroom waiting her turn to speak. For each new agent class, she taught an overview of behavioral analysis so the recruits didn’t end up like those cops who thought she could hold a piece of the victim’s clothing and describe the face of the killer.

  “So without further ado, I’d like to have Special Agent Vail come to the podium.”

  All heads swiveled in Vail’s direction, but there was no clapping. Usually, the instructor gave her such a buildup that the new agents felt compelled to stand and bow as if she were some demigod. Or at least welcome her with a warm round of applause. But this instructor was new, and he didn’t seem to go into her background as much as the others had. At least, she didn’t think he did. Her mind was on Melanie Hoffman, and she wasn’t really listening.

  She made her way to the front, opened her laptop, and gazed at the inclined classroom—at the eager faces staring at her. She remembered that look, that feeling of excitement at beginning something new. She still loved her work—in an odd sort of way given what she did—and still felt challenged. But it was no longer fresh, and like the exhilaration one feels at the start of a budding romantic relationship, the magic had faded with time. The challenge, instead of only coming from the job, morphed into a struggle to keep it interesting.

  “I’m Karen Vail,” she started. “I know, you were probably expecting a man. I can see it in your faces.” She liked to start by putting them on the defensive. Part of the new agent initiation protocol. Either that or she’d done too many interrogations—after a while, you started looking for the upper hand in all conversations.

  “Profiling isn’t an exact science, no matter what anyone tells you. Now I can just assign you one of Douglas’s books to read, then come back in a couple of days to answer questions, but that’s not my style. I’m here to give you a perspective on the sick minds we’re tracking out there. Well, that’s not entirely accurate. The violence they perpetrate on others is sick, for sure, but they’re not mentally ill—they know damn well what they’re doing. We’ll talk more about this later.”

  After spending a few moments outlining the organizational chart for her unit, she sensed it was time to pick up the pace. A couple of the agents in the back row were slumped over, heads resting in their hands, no doubt thinking about lunch in the dining hall.

  “Let’s go into some actual examples to give you an idea of how we look at things.” She lifted the lid of her laptop, then pressed a button on the lectern’s AV panel. The classroom lights dimmed and the rear projection screen behind her glowed with yellow and white text against a black background. “Critical Incident Response Group, Behavioral Profiling Analysis” was boldly emblazoned across the screen. She pressed the Bluetooth remote and advanced to the next PowerPoint slide. In public school, when Vail was growing up, they used real slides. They jammed, they faded if you left them under the projection light too long, and you didn’t have near the creativity of the graphics she was able to produce for her FBI presentations on PowerPoint. Now her slides zipped across the screen with fancy corner-to-corner wipes, dissolves, and all sorts of neat effects. Her students still fell asleep on her. So much for technology.

  “This is the case I’m currently working on,” Vail said. “The Dead Eyes killer.” She heard a few snickers. “This isn’t a laughing matter,” she barked at them. The room got very quiet very quickly. “What you’re about to see is disgusting, the product of a monster. I hope none of you have to come upon a crime scene like this one. But my goal is that if you do, you’ll at least know something about what you’re looking at. And how to go about helping catch the bastard.”r />
  She hit the button on the remote and the first slide dissolved on the screen. A woman’s bedroom beamed from the computer. Her brutalized torso lay on the bed in front of a mirror, the now-familiar sight of steak knives protruding from both eye orbits. “This was the first victim. Marci Evers. Twenty-eight, brunet. Worked as a paralegal in Vienna.” She pressed another button and a second slide wiped across the screen beside the one displaying the crime scene. “Here you see the statistics and facts we know about the victim. I’m going to direct you to one thing, to illustrate a point. How many of you know what MO stands for?” This was basic “Cop 101” stuff, and she knew all their hands would be raised. But she was planning to throw them a curveball, to see who could hit it.

  There were forty-some-odd new agents ready to answer. Vail looked at one of the women and nodded. “Go ahead.”

  “Modus operandi,” she said.

  “Or method of operation, in English. Yes. Now a tougher question. Does MO ever change?”

  This time there were no hands raised. They were thinking, which was good. Vail waited a moment, then gave them the answer. “Research indicates that the MO of sex offenders changes every three to four months. Why?”

  Again, no hands were raised. “Okay, let’s take a look as to why it would change.”

  She pulled a laser pointer from her jacket pocket and pointed it at the screen. “Everyone see this blood on Marci Evers’s cranium?” The area had been shaved and a small skin laceration was evident at the crown of her head. “Why would there be such an injury?”

  “He hit her to knock her out,” a new agent said.

  Vail nodded. “Good answer. You might be right.” She turned back to the screen. “Now let’s look at Dead Eyes’s second victim.” She pressed the remote and another set of slides materialized. “Noreen Galvan O’Regan. Twenty-six, brunet, licensed nurse practitioner. Worked in Fredericksburg, lived in Maryes Heights.” She pointed at the cranium. “What do we see here?” The laser was pointed at a shaved portion of Noreen’s scalp.

  “Another blow to the head,” a woman in the back row remarked.

  “Indeed. But this one’s larger, wouldn’t you say? The injury is more extensive. This is Dead Eyes’s MO, ladies and gentlemen. A blow to the head. But we’re still not sure why the killer did this to his victims, and we can’t explain why Noreen’s is worse than Marci’s. Let’s look further.” She changed the slide. “What’s this—anybody?” It was a close-up of Marci’s right hand, showing two broken fingernails, cuts, and bruises on the hand and forearm.

  “Defensive wounds?” asked someone in the first row.

  “Exactly. Defensive wounds. Let’s back up a second and take a look at Noreen’s hands.” She hit the next slide. “No broken nails. A large bruise on the right forearm. So why are there so few defensive wounds on Noreen?”

  Vail clicked a few times with the mouse and located a folder containing digital pictures. After opening one of the photos, she could tell from their faces that some of them were getting it.

  “This is Melanie Hoffman, his latest victim. I was at her crime scene this morning.” She clicked the mouse again and additional views of Melanie’s crime scene appeared. Vail glanced at each one, then asked the class, “What do you see?”

  “The back of her head is totally caved in,” an agent said. “And there aren’t any defensive wounds.”

  “Now, can we reach a conclusion as to why the offender inflicted these blows on his victims?”

  “To immobilize them.” The voice came from a corner in the back of the room. It was Thomas Gifford, the Assistant Special Agent-in-Charge of Special Investigations—Vail’s boss. She had not seen him come in, but that was Gifford’s way. Stealth.

  “That’s exactly right,” Vail said, playing along, unsure why Gifford was sitting in on her class. His office was in the same building as hers was, fifteen minutes down the road. “The offender used the blows to immobilize his victims. The head injuries were progressively more substantial as we go from victim one to victim three because he learned from his encounter with Marci Evers. She fought back. We saw all those defensive wounds. The next time around, he was more prepared. He took out Noreen O’Regan more efficiently, with a more damaging blow to her cranium—and he succeeded. No broken nails, just a bruise on the forearm. She didn’t put up much of a fight. And now, when he gets to his next victim, Melanie Hoffman, we don’t see any defensive wounds. He learned from his two prior encounters and refined his methods. He improved his MO.”

  “So MO can change,” ASAC Gifford said.

  He was trying to help her. Vail didn’t need—or want—his assistance. “That’s right. Give Agent Gifford a gold star.” The smile disappeared from his face. “MO can change, so that’s why we don’t usually rely on it to give us linkage. Linkage allows us to connect one victim to another, which gives us valuable information about the offender. So if we can’t use MO to establish linkage, we have to use another convention, called ritual. Anyone want to venture what ritual is? Anyone other than my boss,” she said, forcing a smile.

  There were no takers. “Ritual,” Vail said, “is psychosexual need-based behavior. It’s behavior that’s unnecessary to the successful commission of a crime. It can be cutting the victim’s hair, removing her organs—things that have nothing do with killing the victim or preventing us from catching him. These kinds of behavior speak to an inner need the killer’s not even aware of.” She stopped, glanced at Gifford, then looked away. “So we know MO changes. What about ritual?”

  No hands raised.

  “Ritual behavior does not change, primarily because, unlike MO, he’s not even conscious of why he’s doing it. Now,” Vail said, raising an index finger for emphasis, “signature is another term we need to discuss. It’s the unique combination of ritual behaviors seen at two or more crime scenes. This is important because we can get a signature within MO and ritual, which is an exciting new paradigm—”

  “Agent Vail.”

  It was Gifford, and his face, in the gray and red hue thrown off from the projected photos, looked hard. Angry.

  “Yes, Agent Gifford.” She tried to treat him like one of the class but knew that wouldn’t last long.

  “Signature is signature. MO is MO. The two do not mix.”

  Gifford had been a profiler for a couple of years but through some inner political maneuverings, a death, and some unexpected—and untimely—retirements, he moved up the chain of command very rapidly. His brief stint with the profiling unit made him an annoyance. He knew just enough to make skilled profilers’ lives miserable, but not enough to really know what he was doing. Most ASACs in the history of the unit were pure administrators and had no on-the-job training. Vail figured it had been done that way for a reason.

  Vail did not like being corrected in front of a class of new agents. She swallowed hard, then forced a smile. “Well, I can see why you think I’m wrong. However, after an offender perfects his MO, and there’s no need to change it, we start to see the offender engaging in well-defined MO behaviors—behaviors that won’t change because he doesn’t need to change them. These behaviors become a signature within the MO.”

  “Agent Vail,” Gifford said, standing and moving to the front of the small auditorium. “I think you’re done here today. Why don’t you wait for me in the library.”

  She watched him approach, shocked he would treat her like this, in this setting. She must have stood there a little too long, as he leaned into her face.

  “The library, Agent Vail.”

  “Yes, sir.” She laid the remote on the lectern, put her head down, and walked out, avoiding the gaze of all the embarrassed agents. But she knew they were more than likely shocked; she was the one who was embarrassed.

  And furious.

  VAIL SAT WAITING for Gifford for twenty minutes. The library was neat and orderly, quiet and grand, with floor-to-ceiling brown brick walls and wood panel insets, black granite countertops and a three-story central atrium. Against a
wall stood a silent grandfather clock that, Vail noticed, was running fifteen minutes slow.

  Gifford walked in with a scowl on his large face and sat down hard at the table to her right. He pulled out his PDA and began making notes with the stylus, completely ignoring Vail’s presence. But she knew what was going on. With her background in psychology, it was quite clear. He was maneuvering for control, establishing who was in charge. He was telling her that he would talk to her when he was ready—and that she would have to come to him.

  Vail decided to play a little control game of her own. She opened a book she had brought with her to class, which happened to be the bible of investigators worldwide—a reference text on violent crimes written by the founding FBI profilers. She had been through the Crime Classification Manual several times in the past and wasn’t really reading it now. However, showing Gifford that she was not put off by his behavior neutralized the power he was trying to assert over her.