The 7th Victim

by Alan Jacobson

  Vail had tossed and turned the past four nights, getting little sleep—and what rest she did get occurred in disturbed, nightmare-filled fits. She spent time with Jonathan each day, but there was little news to report.

  It was agreed that prior to Singletary’s death walk, Underwood and Vail would make one last attempt to obtain the name locked away in his brain. Upon arrival, they were led to the prison’s death-watch area, where they found Richard Ray Singletary in a cell, sitting on the edge of a cot. He was dressed in a thin, short-sleeved blue cotton shirt and a fresh pair of pants, his head bowed and forearms resting on his thighs. The warden was standing outside, his face tight and drawn. There was no chaplain present.

  The door to Singletary’s cell was open, and three large guards stood with their hands on their belts. They were there to prevent him from harming himself, and to ensure he did not explode in one last rampage of death before he left this world.

  Singletary’s ankles and wrists were shackled in preparation for transport to the lethal injection chamber. Though he had been given steak dinners each night as compensation for having turned over the alleged Dead Eyes letter, his face was drawn and he looked as if he had dropped several pounds since their last visit. His head lifted upon their arrival, hope spilling from his eyes. He undoubtedly thought they might have brought news the governor had spared him.

  “Thomas.”

  “Ray.”

  The two men stared at each other for a long moment, then Singletary looked away, apparently realizing they were there not to deliver good news, but to try one last time to wrest information from him.

  “We need the name, Ray. I know you’re disappointed we weren’t able to make the deal. No, check that. Disappointed is a bullshit word. Devastated. But I tried, you know I tried.”

  Vail stood to Underwood’s left, arms folded, trying to will the prisoner to give up the name.

  Singletary nodded.

  “I’m sorry I failed.” He stepped inside the open door and knelt in front of Singletary, within reach of the man’s legs.

  One of the guards stepped forward. “Sir, I would be more comfortable—”

  Underwood held up a hand. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Ray won’t hurt me.” He looked up at Singletary and met his eyes. “Ray, I’m going to make you one last offer. I have the power to let the world know that your last act on this Earth was one of mercy. You once told me you felt sorry for the victims’ families. You have a chance to make a difference, to give them a little bit of something to make them feel good. To alleviate their hate.”

  “Their hate is misdirected. Tell them to hate my father, who beat me every day, tell them to hate the two women who raped me when I was thirteen.” A tear streamed down his cheek. “Tell them to hate the people who made me who I am.”

  Underwood’s lips twisted into a frown. “Ray, don’t do this. Don’t make excuses. You are who you are, you did what you did. You’re going to face your maker very soon. Wouldn’t you rather face him knowing you did at least one good deed in your lifetime? Show him you made an attempt to atone for the pain you’ve caused.”

  Vail did not fault Underwood for his efforts but was sickened by the fact they had been reduced to begging for the information. Singletary deserved to rot in hell; he deserved to be tortured the way he had tortured his victims. The way he had brought them to the brink of death, only to revive them over and over so he could torture them some more.

  “This man deserves to die,” Vail said matter-of-factly. “He’s not going to give us the name, Agent Underwood.” She was turning the screw, driving it in, bringing Singletary to the point of no return. “We’ve offered him what we could. The man has no desire to save himself.”

  Underwood sighed, then rose to his feet. “Richard Ray, you disappoint me. There’s nothing to be gained by protecting this man, by taking his name to your grave.” He waited a moment, and for a brief second it appeared as if Singletary’s mouth wavered. “We’re going to be in the chamber, in the viewing area. If you change your mind, Ray, just say the name. Before you lose consciousness, say the name. Save your soul.”

  Underwood turned and left, Vail on his heels. They did not look back.

  sixty

  The execution chamber was a clean, well-lighted circular area surrounded by a glass viewing enclosure and a witness room sporting sixteen blue plastic institutional-style chairs. Already seated were relatives of both the victims and prisoner, state-selected witnesses, and media representatives. Vail and Underwood took their places beside Bledsoe and Del Monaco, who were sitting behind the government officials also in attendance.

  Vail shook her head at Bledsoe, but he already knew by their demeanor that Singletary had not cooperated. Bledsoe, desperate to clear the Dead Eyes case, had quietly lobbied the governor and district attorney one last time upon arrival at the correctional facility. But they would have nothing of it.

  The families of the seven women Richard Ray Singletary had killed sat rigidly in their seats. Their faces were, for the most part, stiff and angry, an occasional tissue being dabbed at the face. No doubt reliving excruciating memories a parent should never experience. Their daughters brutally murdered, the case file reports clearly outlining the torturous last hours of their children’s lives.

  The door to the execution chamber swung open and Richard Ray Singletary was rolled into the room strapped to a gurney. ECG cardiac monitor leads and a stethoscope were affixed to his chest, and two IV lines, one in each arm, had been inserted in the adjacent preparation room. The black-and-white clock mounted above the doorway to the chamber read 11:49.

  Vail uncrossed her legs and leaned forward on her thighs, hands covering her mouth, hoping for one last utterance from the monster who lay strapped before them.

  The IV lines were connected to the wall, where they threaded through an opening into a puke-green anteroom, where the hooded execution team stood amongst their drugs, a clock, and a bank of telephones—should the governor call with a last-minute stay. In this case, the governor was in attendance. Vail glanced over at the man. Judging by his rigid posture and stern face, this was not going to be Richard Ray Singletary’s lucky day.

  Vail knew multiple executioners were set to inject drugs into the IV tubes, but only one of them would actually supply the lethal dose. No one would know—not even the executioners—who delivered the toxic cocktail into the inmate’s bloodstream and who had injected their drugs into a secondary reservoir.

  At eleven fifty-five, the executioners shoved their syringes into the IV ampules, then awaited word to proceed.

  The warden leaned close to the prisoner. “Richard Ray Singletary, do you have any last remarks?”

  Vail closed her eyes, her heart pounding so hard she felt the pressure beating against her ear drums.

  “Rot in hell, all of you,” Singletary yelled.

  “Thank you, sir,” the warden said. “And may the same fate befall you, as I’m sure it will.” He turned to the executioners and said, “Proceed.”

  Vail pictured them depressing their plungers, injecting a massive dose of the barbiturate sodium pentothal, the first step in Richard Ray Singletary’s death. In a matter of seconds, he would be unconscious.

  After flushing the line with saline, a paralyzing agent, pancuronium bromide, was then injected to deaden nerve signals to the cardiac muscle and disable the diaphragm and lungs.

  Bledsoe sighed deeply, his eyes focused on the second hand as it swept around the clock face. At two minutes past midnight, with the ECG monitor registering an unending flat line, the warden pronounced Richard Ray Singletary dead.

  “Shit,” Bledsoe muttered under his breath.

  Vail nodded. “Shit.”

  sixty-one

  The flight back on the governor’s private charter was quiet. No one spoke. Vail could not help thinking they were back to square one. As much as they knew, as much information they had garnered from the various crime scenes, they still had no clue as to who Dead Eyes was. No sus
pects. Just pages and pages of information, gruesome photos, and for all they knew, useless analyses.

  Vail stretched out her legs, and a sudden spark of pain in her left knee took her breath. She pulled out a small bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol and popped two caplets. She realized she had almost finished the thirty-count bottle in less than three days. She promised herself that the next time she saw Dr. Altman she would ask him to look at the knee and give her something stronger for the pain. Even if it required treatment, she had no time. She needed to stay on top of things until they caught Dead Eyes. Along with Jonathan’s condition, the case had become the focus, dare she think it, obsession, of her life.

  She reclined her seat and thought of Robby. She missed his touch, his warmth, his scent. It was a strange feeling, losing oneself so totally in another’s person. Had she not had everything else hanging over her head, she might have been able to revel in falling in love. It had been so long. She had only experienced it twice, the first time in junior high school, and then again with Deacon. Deacon happened fast, and then she quickly became pregnant with Jonathan. She didn’t think Deacon was a mistake at the time, but history was not as kind in retrospect.

  The Lear jet banked left and the lights of the small private landing strip came into view. She tightened her belt and turned to face Thomas Underwood, who was sitting to her right. “I enjoyed working with you.”

  “I wish the end result could’ve been better.”

  “Me, too.”

  “If there’s anything more I can do, please don’t hesitate.”

  Vail let a small smile escape the right side of her mouth. “I could use your help writing a paper on the identification of signature within MO. Would you consider coauthoring it with me?”

  “Absolutely. Of course, that’s assuming you’re not really the Dead Eyes killer.”

  “Of course.” She rested her head against the seatback and closed her eyes as the plane hovered above the landing strip. The wheels caught with a slight screech, and she was home.

  She knew Robby would be waiting up for her.

  sixty-two

  Turning points. Turning points seem to remain with you after other memories have long since faded, like a lone flower that remains in bloom amongst a basket of dried leaves. As he sat pecking away, he tapped into the emotions that led to his establishing his independence so many years ago. For him, a turning point like this was not just a thriving blossom but an entire bouquet.

  I got tired of the beatings, of the prick doing things to me I didn’t want him to do. But I wasn’t strong enough to fight him off. I thought if I showed him I could fight back at least once or twice, he’d get the message to stay away. But it didn’t work, because he keeps coming for me. Still, I’ve been able to protect what’s important. He’ll never find the secret place. No one will ever find it.

  But I realized that there were things I could do to control my own life. Like at the slaughterhouse, they use meat hooks to hang the carcasses. And I got to thinking . . . the slabs of meat are real heavy. So I asked my boss if I could work in the meat prep area. He looked me up and down and saw that I’m pretty tall for my age, but scrawny. He said he didn’t think I could handle it, but I just started doing it on my own time. He saw I was determined to do it, and he finally said okay.

  I’ve also been spending an extra half hour doing exercises with the carcasses at the end of my shift. It’s as good as lifting weights, maybe even better. I’ve been able to lift the larger, heavier ones. So that’s where I’ve been working the last couple of months. And I feel like I’m now ready to take on the prick. . . .

  A turning point indeed. He’d gained confidence in himself, a confidence that would lead to him gaining control over his life, perhaps for the first time. He realized that if there was something that needed to be done, he merely had to find a way to do it. It wasn’t a matter of if it could be done, but how. He’d always felt that way, from the time he found a way to haul the plywood from the store to his house a few miles away. But the stakes were higher then and he needed to know he could do the dirty work, confront the devil, and get the job done. Because there would be no turning back. Once he confronted the prick, it was do or die. And he wasn’t planning on dying.

  Now, decades later, he was facing the same demons again. Funny how life comes full circle. But he was wiser and ready for what was to come. No one would ever be able to tell him no again. Not anyone.

  He made sure of that.

  sixty-three

  The next morning, after lying awake most of the night, Vail quickly showered and dressed, then rushed to the hospital to be near Jonathan. There were times when she needed to hold his hand, stroke his cheek, pull him into her arms. It was a longing, whenever she was away from him, that she could only liken to being without food and water. After a time of doing without them, she had to find some to keep herself going. Seeing Jonathan, even in his current state, gave her the strength to go on. As Emma used to say when Jonathan was young, seeing him “recharged her batteries.” Though Vail found the analogy endearing, she now fully understood the reference.

  NEARLY THREE HOURS after arriving at the hospital, Vail checked in at the op center. The lists were being crunched, but thus far there were no obvious hits. Just a few possibles, on which Robby and Manette were following up.

  Vail left the op center and headed to the assisted care facility to finalize the paperwork. While en route, Vail called her Aunt Faye, who told her everything was ready for Emma’s move. Though Emma’s belongings were packed, there were many drawers and boxes that still needed to be sifted through, as Faye didn’t know what Vail wanted to dispose of and what she wanted to keep. “Then there’s your doll collection.”

  Vail sighed. “There’s so much to take care of.”

  “Don’t worry about the house,” Faye said. “Take care of Jonathan and your mom. I’ll make sure things are looked after until you’re ready to put the place up for sale.”

  Vail thanked her and told her how much she appreciated the help.

  “I’m bringing some boxes for you to look through when you have time,” Faye added. “At least that’ll be a few less for you to deal with when the time comes.”

  They confirmed their plans to meet at the assisted care facility around three o’clock, then said good-bye.

  After meeting briefly with the Silver Meadows facility manager, Vail fought back tears as she signed the papers. The contract was finalized. Emma’s room was now waiting for her.

  VAIL’S PHONE RANG as she stepped into the parking lot. She wiped her eyes, cleared her throat, and answered the call. It was Jackson Parker, keeping her up-to-date on the status of her case. One remark he made that she found particularly intriguing was whether she had given thought to the possibility that Deacon could have murdered Linwood. The remainder of her drive back to the op center was consumed with thoughts regarding this possibility: The focus of the offender’s attention seemed to be around her; the personal connection would fit. And the killings began right around the time Vail had filed for divorce.

  But how would Deacon have found out about Linwood’s relationship to her? More importantly, did Deacon fit her profile? In many respects, he did. She had to look at it objectively, removing all emotion. It was a very difficult thing for a profiler to do. Often, any personal involvement ruined his or her ability to keep a distance, to evaluate and analyze without bias.

  She called Del Monaco, ran the scenario by him, and he agreed it was worth looking into. She closed her phone and shook her head. Once again, she had overlooked a most obvious lead, one right in front of her face. Regardless of whether it led somewhere, it was something she had not thought of. She would have to remember to thank Parker for the heads-up.

  When she arrived at the op center, she told Bledsoe of the Deacon connection and then asked about Hancock.

  “We’ve got a guy on him and he hasn’t been out of our sight. So far, nothing.”

  “And the killer’s been dormant ever
since you put the tail on him.”

  “Coincidence?”

  “Guess we’ll find out. Lab get anything on the stuff taken from his place?”

  Bledsoe sat down heavily. “Nothing.”

  “I was hoping we’d find something. Lot of times the killer keeps the trophies he takes from the vics in his place, so he can play with them when the urge hits him. But sometimes they have other places, just in case their houses are searched.”

  Bledsoe said, “Hancock knows what we’d be looking for. And as arrogant as he is, if he is Dead Eyes, he’d be smart enough not to keep his trophies in a place we’d think to look.”

  “Besides,” Vail said, “the vics are all killed in their own homes, so the dirt and blood are all offsite. If he changes clothes and dumps them en route, they’re long gone. Which leaves us nowhere.”