The 7th Victim

by Alan Jacobson

  “Mark called it being ‘Knee deep in the blood and guts.’”

  “Yeah, that’s it. You’re in this one up to your hips. It’s on your mind and you can’t shut it down. You feel enormous pressure to solve it. And when you can’t, you’re taunting yourself in your dreams. ‘Can’t you see it? Study the art! Figure it out!’ You’re telling yourself to find the answers. Think about it a minute, objectively. I know that’s hard because you’re so close. But think about it.”

  Vail stood there, her mind flooding with thoughts when suddenly one fought to the surface; it tumbled out of her mouth as if it were a pilot ejected from a cockpit. “I can’t see the killer because I’m blind, just like the victims.”

  “There you go,” Rudnick said. “Very good.” He squinted and shook his head slowly, the picture of pity. “You’ve been taught to empathize with the victims and think like the killers, Karen. What an impossible thing to do! No wonder you’re conflicted. Your subconscious is on overload.”

  Vail bit her lip.

  Rudnick stepped around his desk and placed a hand on her shoulder. “This is all perfectly normal, Karen. I bet if you ask some of your colleagues in your unit, you’ll find that many of them have had similar dreams about this stuff.”

  Vail looked up, feeling a bit brighter. “Thanks, Wayne. Makes sense.”

  Rudnick smiled. “Of course.” He bent over and retrieved his ball. He sat down behind his desk, leaned back, and took aim at the ceiling. “Now beat it so I can get back to work.”

  fifty-four

  After joining Robby in the Academy parking lot, she drove him back to his car. She had planned to go to the hospital to visit Jonathan, then meet Robby for dinner. Despite what Jackson Parker had said about him being her only friend, she knew she had Robby. She felt that no matter how things turned out, he would be there for her. And her for him.

  As Robby was getting into the car, his phone sounded—followed seconds later by a similar trill from Vail’s BlackBerry. “Get in,” he said. “I’ll drive.”

  They arrived at the task force op center ten minutes later, ahead of Manette, Del Monaco, and Sinclair. Bledsoe was pacing, holding what appeared to be several eight-by-ten glossy photos in his hand. As soon as Bledsoe saw Vail come through the door, his face lit up.

  “I feel like a kid who’s just found out a really cool secret, but he’s got no one to tell.”

  “What’s the secret?” Robby asked.

  “Look.” He shoved the photos in Robby’s face.

  “Where’d you find this?”

  “You’re gonna love this,” Bledsoe said, looking at Vail. “If we figure out what it means, it could break the case.”

  “Where was it?”

  “In Linwood, shoved up her rear.”

  “In her rectum?” Robby asked.

  “ME found it during the autopsy. Showed up on x-ray.”

  Robby handed each of the photos to Vail as he went through the stack. “What does it mean?”

  Vail did not answer. She was studying the close-up photos, which depicted a heart-shaped gold locket.

  “Karen? What’s wrong?”

  “Looks familiar. . . .” She finally looked up. “Can’t place it.” Where have I seen something like this before?

  “But what does it mean?”

  The front door flung open and in walked Manette, Del Monaco, and Sinclair.

  “. . . and I’m telling you, Sears Tower has the most stories,” Sinclair said.

  “But in terms of actual building height,” Del Monaco said, “that one in Taiwan is tallest.”

  “Hey, look at this,” Bledsoe said.

  Manette, Del Monaco, and Sinclair joined the huddle.

  Vail handed them the stack of photos. “ME found this locket during Linwood’s autopsy.” She turned back to Bledsoe. “We already know Linwood meant something special to this guy. Somehow this is related. When an offender shoves an object up a victim’s rectum, it’s a very personal act. First thought is that there’s a sexual component. It’s symbolic. Meant to send a message.”

  “Another message,” Sinclair groaned. “We haven’t figured out the first one yet.”

  “I think I’m beginning to understand,” Manette said. “Our UNSUB designs puzzles for The New York Times. He wears red underwear and likes pistachio ice cream because the nuts symbolize his mental state. What do you think, Kari, honey, maybe? Possibly?”

  Vail ignored her. “Even though it’s ritual behavior he hasn’t engaged in before, it doesn’t change my profile. But it does support everything we’ve assumed about him up to this point. If anything, it solidifies our belief that Linwood’s a key. Oh—and a couple other things. The experts at BSU said the email this guy sent is likely a personal account of his childhood.”

  “Pretty fucked up childhood,” Manette said. “Then again, isn’t that the thing with these killers, Kari? They were abused by a parent, or they were pissed on by some bully, someone didn’t like the color of their hair—”

  “BSU also felt,” Vail said, gaze firmly rooted to Manette’s mischievous eyes, “that the offender definitely has artistic talent and that he’s probably had some art training along the way. Could be significant. The murals show repetitive patterns, even though they’re all different from one another.”

  “So how does all this help us?” Bledsoe asked.

  “Well, for one, the more emails we get from him, the better understanding we’ll have of what’s making him kill. The more info we can gather on his thought process, the greater the chances we’ll have of anticipating his next move, or even possibly catching him.”

  “Anything on the emails themselves? Are they traceable?”

  “The geeks are working on it, but so far all we’ve got is that he’s used some sort of special software that not only prevents it from being printed, but it causes the email to self-destruct after a certain period of time. In this case, approximately two minutes after you begin reading it.”

  “So he’s a technology whiz,” Bledsoe said.

  “Not necessarily. It’s all readily available info that anyone who’s good with a computer can figure out without too much difficulty.”

  “Then what do we know about this software?” Sinclair asked. “Who makes it?”

  “It’s not software that you buy in the store. This is Internet stuff, created by people who claim that anonymous email is an extension of Free Speech, used to protect human rights, workers reporting abuses, political dissidents complaining about their government, people writing on controversial topics, that sort of thing. Most of it is web-based. There’re a shitload of providers.”

  Manette shook her head. “So we’re not gonna catch this dick-head by tracking down the source of his messages.”

  “Doesn’t look like it. Especially since he’s using a public cybercafé, logging on, sending his message, and logging off quickly. But our people are still working on it. Next time he sends us a message, we’ll be better prepared to track it. If it’s possible, they’ll find a way.”

  “And the murals?” Bledsoe asked. “You said there was some significance to them.”

  “I’ve been thinking that this guy may suffer from OCD.”

  “Obsessive Compulsive Disorder?” Sinclair asked. “How do you get to point Q from point A?”

  “The repetitive nature,” Vail said. “And the amount of time he spends with the body. It’s excessive, taken to the extreme. The need for perfection. To him, the victim is an art medium, the crime scene his canvas.”

  “And this locket?” Robby asked. “Where does that fit in?”

  Bledsoe said, “I’ve got copies of the locket photos being circulated to area jewelers, in case any of them recognizes either the piece itself or the style of design. Maybe we’ll get lucky and someone has seen something like it before.”

  “What about Linwood’s husband?”

  “We faxed him a photo. Claims he’s never seen it before. I’ve got a uniform taking a color photo over there to be abs
olutely sure.”

  “Freaking weird if you asked me,” Sinclair said.

  Manette brought both hands to her hips. “Like any of this is normal?”

  Sinclair shrugged, conceding the point.

  Bledsoe collected the photos and handed them to Manette. “Pin these up on the wall, will you?” To Sinclair, he said, “What’ve we got on the blood angle?”

  “We’re building a database. Guy in my office is running what we’ve got. Some hits on infected male Caucasians in the target age range. We narrowed the list by eliminating one who was dead, another who’s a double amputee from diabetes, and one who was confined to a hospice with advanced AIDS. The remaining seven we’re checking out. No obvious ties to any of our vics, but we’ve got a lotta ground to cover. Still got a little more than half the labs and hospitals to hear back from.”

  “I’ve got a list of painters,” Robby said. “And carpenters, potters, sculptors, glass blowers, graphic artists, and interior designers. Last count we were up to forty-one hundred names.”

  “I told you,” Bledsoe said.

  “May not be so bad. Next step is to cross-reference them all. Once we start mixing in all the parameters, the numbers should drop off and leave us with something manageable.”

  “When can we have everything collated?” Bledsoe asked.

  Robby looked up at the cottage cheese ceiling, his mind crunching numbers and estimating tasks. “I’d say three, four days. If everyone gets me their lists by tomorrow.”

  A groan erupted. Bledsoe raised his hands. “Hey, the longer we take to develop suspects, the longer this guy’s free to roam. And the more women are at risk. I don’t like body counts. As it is, I’m frustrated as hell we haven’t been able to run in any mopes for questioning.”

  The phone rang and Bledsoe moved to answer it. He nodded at Vail, then tossed her the handset. It was the office manager at the last assisted care facility on her list that could take her mother. She had only seen photos of the place on their website, as she had not had time to tour the facility. But the woman was now assuring her that Silver Meadows was among the finest in the state, and that Vail “absolutely had to come see it for herself.” Vail told her she would, then hung up.

  She didn’t bother telling the woman the only other facility on her list was not a viable option, that Silver Meadows was her last hope. She stood in the kitchen and thought of her mother, when it finally hit her: with her mother’s mental acuity fading, her childhood house due to be sold, and her biological mother dead, the last links to her past were wilting away, drying up, and crumbling like a spent rose.

  Vail made her way out of the kitchen and into the main room of the op center, where everyone had left except for Robby, who was sitting on the edge of a desk, waiting for her.

  He stood and walked toward her. “Everything okay?”

  She nodded, but she knew her face was betraying her. “Guess as I approach middle age, I’m having a hard time coming to grips with the issues that crop up.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Kind of a role reversal. In some ways, she’s like a child now—and I’m the parent. That visit the other day was like cold water in the face. It really shook loose some old memories, got me thinking.” She rubbed at her forehead. “Going through all her stuff is going to be tough. Who knows what I’ll find. Like that photo album.”

  Robby leaned a shoulder against the wall. “After my mom died, I had to take care of her affairs. I found some things buried in that old apartment that gave me a different perspective of who she was. Explained a lot of things, turned around everything I knew about her. It bugged me, a lot. Friend of mine suggested I go for counseling. So I did—just a few times, but it helped me out. One of the things the doc told me is that change is part of the natural order.” Robby went silent a moment, then shook his mind back to attention. “Eventually, everything comes to an end.”

  Vail looked at the wall of crime scene photos: Marci Evers, Noreen O’Regan, Angelina Sarducci, Melanie Hoffman, Sandra Franks, Denise Cranston, Eleanor Linwood.

  “Some things,” she said, “end sooner than they’re supposed to.”

  fifty-five

  He was hungry again and fighting the urge to do something. He couldn’t hold himself back much longer, which meant he needed to start planning his next target. He already knew who it had to be, but it would be a tough one. Much tougher than the others. Tougher for reasons only he knew.

  But as the old man had said time and again, “You gotta be fuckin’ tough.” There wasn’t much worth taking from the man, but that was one thing he never forgot. Because when dealing with that bastard, you had to be tough just to survive. But his definition of “tough” differed from his father’s. The old man meant for others to take what he had to give, to endure the pain. Taken another way, it meant having the strength emotionally to defeat him. To eventually find a way out, an escape.

  And as time passed, that way out became clear—at least, it was a method by which he could deal with it all. As he sat in his studio, the kiln cooking his class’s ceramic work, he sat down at the keyboard and thought of the time when the light finally came on, when he realized who he was and how he could deal with his situation.

  Like any thirteen year old, I’ve got my limitations in dealing with adults. They’re bigger and stronger. But I’m getting bigger, too, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let him continue to take advantage of me without some kind of consequence. So I’ve been putting up a fight.

  But that hasn’t stopped him. Now he knocks me out from behind and ties me down. I know because when I wake up I’ve got a bump on my head and rope burns on my wrists and ankles.

  But he still hasn’t found my secret room. I can get there from outside the house now, through the crawl space. Caught me a ’coon who was trying to move in on my place because it was warm. Reminded me of Charlie, but his eyes were bigger, and I didn’t like the way he looked at me.

  He’s not a problem anymore. I took care of him, and that was that. My secret room is the only reason I stay here. It’s my place, I call the shots. And I don’t want anyone in here, not even animals.

  Sometimes the simplest of goings-on makes you realize how things really are, and what needs to be done. Once you see how straightforward it all is, how the solution was right in front of you all the time, you get mad and promise yourself you won’t make the same mistake twice. You learn from what you’ve done, get smarter.

  As he flipped through his photos, the ones he stole from Super Agent Vail, he realized that he’d missed out on an incredible opportunity. What a perfect way to relive the kill. He could buy a camera, take photos of the bodies like the cops do. He could store them on his laptop and view them anytime he wanted. Even better—a camcorder—one of those small ones—could be set up on a tripod to record everything. Then he could watch it. Play it in slow motion. His pulse quickened just thinking about it.

  And he could walk into any store and buy one. A normal Joe buying a camcorder like any American who wants to tape his kids, grand-kids, nephews, bitches.

  Out to tape his bitches. Dead and alive.

  Ultimately dead.

  fifty-six

  The tour of Silver Meadows Assisted Care was longer than Vail would have preferred. She had much on her mind, and the last thing she wanted was a sales pitch that had more shine than shoe polish. Especially since she had no other alternative. At least she could move in her mother without reservation about the quality of care she would receive. Only the monthly cost would cause her concern. But, as her mother had once told her, “It’s only money.”

  She thanked the woman, whose smile seemed to sport more teeth than a shark, and was heading back to her car when her phone rumbled. These days, the vibration set her heart racing: odds were it meant either important news about Jonathan or the discovery of another Dead Eyes victim.

  The text message belonged to Bledsoe. She was to meet him at the task force op center in fifteen minutes to discuss “a major bre
ak” in the case. Vail pulled up to the curb one minute sooner than expected, and Bledsoe met her in the street. As Robby arrived behind her, Manette, Sinclair, and Del Monaco walked out of the house and the group convened on the front lawn.

  “I guess Dead Eyes is bored with sending emails. Didn’t get enough of a rise out of us,” Bledsoe said. “A letter was received this morning by Richard Ray Singletary at Rockridge Correctional. Ring a bell?”

  “Singletary, yeah. Serial killer, North Carolina,” Del Monaco said. “The Mohawk Slasher. Took out seven college freshmen before he was caught. It was one of Thomas Underwood’s first profiling cases. Underwood met with Singletary a number of times. Part of BSU’s program to interview serial offenders to develop an understanding of why they did what they did.”