He wished her luck on getting her mother settled into the care facility.
“Sorry for the distraction, but there’s a lot of things I’ve got to take care of before she gets here,” she said.
“Hey, it’s your mother. Get her settled in, then get back on track. I need you.”
FAYE AND EMMA ARRIVED a few minutes before three. They checked in Emma, unloaded her suitcases, and helped the staff orient her to her new surroundings. While Faye went to freshen up, Vail sat and tried to talk with her mother to ensure she understood what was happening and why. But Emma’s lapses in and out of lucidity saddened and frustrated her.
When Faye returned half an hour later, Emma was asleep. Faye planned to stay the night on a cot in Emma’s room, then drive home tomorrow. They unloaded the boxes Faye had brought from Emma’s basement and bedroom closet and placed them in the backseat of Vail’s car.
Vail hugged her aunt, thanked her for all her help, then drove to Fairfax hospital to visit Jonathan. She ate dinner in his room, talked to him for a while, and told him they had moved grandma to Virginia. And like every time before this one, she told him how much she loved him.
VAIL ARRIVED AT ROBBY’S just after 8 P.M. He wasn’t home, and the house was quiet. She carried in the boxes from her car and set them down in the family room. She changed into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, then made herself a cup of hot chocolate. She knelt on the floor in front of the boxes and sliced them open with a pair of scissors.
Inside the first box was Lily, an old doll she had played with as a child. She leaned her back against the couch and smiled. Emma was good with a sewing machine, and had spent countless hours crafting an entire wardrobe of custom clothing for her. Vail fished around the box and found that many of the outfits were still in good condition. She thought of her friend Andrea, and the hours they spent in her room, playing house with their dolls.
The electronic beep of one of Robby’s wristwatches plucked her from the daydream. Holding Lily brought back many memories of her childhood and only intensified her indecision about what to do with Emma’s house. She would have preferred not to sell it. With the only expenses being property taxes, insurance, and occasional maintenance, it made sense to hold onto it. But Old Westbury, while charming and serene, was five hours away, and not what she considered a vacation destination.
She put Lily aside and dove into the next box. She tried to be as selective as possible in terms of what she would keep, as her house’s space was limited and she despised clutter. She put on her crime scene hat, sifting through the keepsakes and papers as if they belonged to a victim. If she did any more reminiscing, it might open the emotional floodgates—and bring on the guilt she was suppressing for removing her mother from her home and putting her in a facility . . . even though, logically, she knew it was the correct decision.
In the fourth carton, she found a locked metal cash box. She shook it, but it was heavy and she could feel the contents shifting against the interior. Her curiosity piqued, she went to the kitchen, found a pair of scissors, and pried open the cheap latch.
Inside, papers were piled atop each other. She dug in and found old photos of her parents when they were young—group shots, posed photos, and a few from what appeared to be a family trip. She set the pictures aside and saw a small, cloth-wrapped object jammed against the side of the box. She picked it up, spread the wrapping, and uncovered what was inside.
Her mouth dropped open. She sat there staring at it, her mind instantly numb. “Oh, my god” escaped her lips before she realized her cell phone was ringing. Another mystery. What does it mean?
She flashed on all the evidence they had thus far gathered from each of the crime scenes, each piece a part of the puzzle she was attempting to assemble. But there was no guide. No framework. And therefore no reference point by which to fit the pieces.
Until now.
Phone is ringing.
She pulled the handset from her pocket and answered it, her mind still tumbling over the riddle. “Vail.”
“Karen, it’s Thomas Underwood. I hope you don’t mind me sticking my nose into your case, but I think I’ve got something.”
Her brain was still crunching data and she was only half listening. “Not a problem. . . .”
“The message left by the offender. You were right to think it means ‘It’s in the blood.’ The blood’s the key. But it’s not a blood borne disease, it’s—”
“Genes,” she said.
“That’s right,” Underwood said. “You figured it out?”
“Just now.” She sat there, phone in hand, the shock of the surprise beginning to settle in. “And I know something else, too. I think I know who our UNSUB is.”
sixty-four
Vail turned over the metal box and dumped the contents onto a clean, plastic garbage bag. She slipped her hands into a pair of latex gloves Robby had in his desk drawer and began sifting through the items one at a time, hoping to unearth something that would help her find what she was looking for.
She discovered several other dog-eared photos of Emma and Nellie, most of which contained images of people she did not know. But on one of the pictures there was a small object hanging from both Emma’s and Nellie’s necklaces.
Vail picked up the gold locket she had found in the metal box and stared at it, hoping to find an inscription. There was nothing. But with the lab’s color enlargement now sitting beside her, there was no doubt this locket was an identical match for the one found shoved into Linwood’s rectum . . . and possibly for the objects dangling from the necklaces in the old photo, as well.
Had Vail been wearing spurs, and had she been able to kick herself, she would have done so. She had been virtually blind to something so obvious. That she hadn’t seen it ate at her and ran contrary to what she prided herself on: that she knew the human psyche, could read it and evaluate it and predict certain things about it. But in this case she had been no better than a blind person who couldn’t read Braille. Because like all cases, there was a key that unlocked the killer’s secrets. She’d held the key—the locket—but had not realized it.
Vail put the photo aside, then continued to thumb through the spilled contents of the metal box. Something grabbed her attention: an envelope containing a scrawled note to Emma from Nellie: “Here’s the photo Patrick took of us. See you soon. Love, Nell.” Vail felt excitement well up in her chest. Pay dirt! Maybe. She thought of all the potential forensics arrayed in front of her: a first name. Fingerprints, possibly saliva . . . and DNA.
She found a box of plastic bags in the kitchen and slipped the photo and envelope in their own Ziploc containers. She taped the metal box closed, then dialed Bledsoe and asked if he was seated.
“I’m in my car, I better be seated.”
“Then pull over.”
“Pull over? That good, huh?”
“How much do you want to break Dead Eyes?”
“More than any other case I’ve ever had. Why, you got something?”
“I got the killer, Bledsoe. At least, I got a first name and possibly a whole lot more.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Would I shit you on something like this?”
“Don’t hold out on me, Karen. Who is it?”
Vail closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and told him.
sixty-five
“No way,” Bledsoe said. “Are you sure?”
“Very sure. I connected the dots. And he fits my profile. It all makes sense, which it should, whenever you look at the suspect in retrospect, right?”
“Karen, I’m sorry.”
“I never met the man, Bledsoe. It is what it is. I have no feelings either way. Let’s just bag him before he kills again.”
“You said you had a name.”
“First name is Patrick. If he was the same age as Linwood at the time, my guess is he was born in the mid-nineteen-forties.”
“That’s a big assumption, but it’s a start. I’ll get everyone on it, see
how many Patricks born in the mid-nineteen-forties show up on any of our lists. You said you’ve got other stuff, too?”
“I’ve got an envelope and a photo he may’ve handled. Might get some latents, possibly DNA.”
“Latents would be great. I’ve got a feeling this guy’s been in the system. If I’m right, the prints’ll get us his last name, then we’re off to the races. Where are you?”
“I’m at Robby’s. I’ve gotta go by the lab to drop off the evidence. I should be back here around eleven thirty.”
“Don’t go home. Meet us at the op center.”
“Oh, my other home.”
“And Karen . . . good work.”
VAIL ARRIVED AT THE OP CENTER at a quarter to twelve, having been awake for nearly eighteen hours. But she did not feel fatigued. She had been running scenarios and trying to match her profile to what she knew about her father—which was nothing. She had called Tim Meadows and told him she had crucial evidence in the Dead Eyes case that needed to be analyzed immediately.
“Judging by what you’re bringing me, we’ll need a latent person, an image enhancer, somebody in Questioned Documents . . . I’ll have to get three people on this if you want it done yesterday.”
“Tell them I said thanks.”
“Oh, that’ll go real far.”
“Then tell them the faster we get these results the faster we’ll have a suspect in custody.”
“They’ve heard it a million times, Karen. But I’ll take care of it. We’ll do the latents first, see if we get any immediate hits. We’ll take good care of you,” he told her. When she arrived at headquarters, one of the lab techs met her at the front entrance, took the materials, and did not say a word. He was clearly unhappy about having to work through the night.
But her reception at the op center was vastly different. When Vail walked in, she got high fives from everyone—including Del Monaco, who, because of the late hour, was uncharacteristically dressed down in sweats. Vail didn’t think it possible, but by comparison his round physique looked better in a suit.
“Guess we can pull that tail off Hancock,” Bledsoe said, running a black magic marker through Hancock’s name, eliminating him from their suspect list. “Let’s connect some dots.”
Vail settled into an empty chair near Del Monaco. “Okay. Here’s my theory: my biological mother, Eleanor Linwood, knew my father was bad news. She told as much when I went to see her. If this Patrick was my father, and he was involved with Linwood, either through marriage or some live-in arrangement, she might have taken me from my father without his knowledge. Another if, but if that was the case, it makes sense he was pissed as hell at Linwood. It’d be something he’d never forget.”
“Maybe he spent his life looking for her,” Del Monaco said. “To track her down and kill her. That would explain the personal nature of the murder, why hers was so much more brutal than the others. Based on the old photos we have of Linwood, it’s pretty obvious each of the victims resembled her. Brunet, shoulder length hair, slim build, pretty face. They were all extensions of Linwood. The way he remembered her, when she was young.”
“A lot of time to hold onto all that anger,” Robby said.
“Too long,” Del Monaco said as he settled himself into a chair. “For someone inclined to violence, as this guy obviously was, it built to a point where he couldn’t contain it anymore.”
“So how do the messages tie in?” Manette asked. “Was Linwood a carrier of something wicked?”
Vail shook her head. “It wasn’t that at all. Blood, yes, but not a viral infection. ‘It’s in the blood’ refers to a genetic link. Blood relative. Or maybe it refers to me working the case. And then there’s the gold locket. I’ve got an old photo of Emma and Linwood wearing what looks like identical necklaces. Photo’s at the lab now being enhanced. We found one of the lockets shoved up Linwood’s rectum, and the other one was buried in Emma’s keepsakes. Obviously, the killer knew about the lockets. He must’ve gotten hold of Linwood’s and held onto it all these years.”
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.
The 7th Victim Page 36
