Crush kv-2

by Alan Jacobson

  “You sound about as good as my eighty-year-old father,” Thomas Gifford said. “Smoked two packs a day for fifty years.”

  “Thank you, sir. That’s good to know.”

  “I got your message. Thanks for keeping me abreast of the situation. Wish you’d called me at home—”

  “There was nothing you could’ve done. With the time difference, I would’ve woken you. No point.”

  “True. Okay, here’s what I’ve set in motion. Art’s been in L.A. testifying in that Blue Lake Killer case. He was due to fly back to Quantico this afternoon, but I had him switch flights. He’s gonna stop off in Napa on his way. Just a quick visit.”

  Art Rooney was a sharp profiler, someone Vail respected, and the person to whom Gifford assigned most of their serial arson cases. His input could only help.

  “But this is not a serial,” Vail said.

  “You sure?”

  Actually, she had no idea. “I’ll check on that. I never asked.”

  “Do you need any medical attention? Are you okay?”

  “A paramedic worked on me, I should probably follow up with someone here.”

  “Good. Do it. I’ve also made arrangements for you to get a new phone. An agent from the Santa Rosa Resident Agency is picking up Art at the Napa Valley Airport, so he’ll give the phone to Art, who’ll give it to you. A new badge will be overnighted to you. Which brings me to the next item.” He waited a few seconds before saying, “Do you think this fire was targeting you?”

  “Hard to say at this point, sir. No obvious suspects.”

  “Fine, keep me posted. And . . . I feel like I’m always saying this to you, but . . . be careful, will you?”

  What, no “arson magnet” comment?

  “Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”

  HAVING ATTEMPTED to make herself presentable in Roxxann Dixon’s clothing, and despite Dixon’s claim she had something that would fit, Vail appraised herself in the mirror and frowned. It was hard enough for a woman to put on work attire each day and feel good about herself. Wearing someone else’s clothing—particularly with the figure of a Roxxann Dixon—made it more maddening.

  But the reminder crept into her thoughts again—she survived the fire and that was all that mattered.

  Robby came up behind her, pecked her on the neck, and, dressed in the clothing he’d worn yesterday, told her she looked great.

  Why do women always want to hear such drivel? Because it makes us feel better. She knew she didn’t look great, but those simple words, uttered by her boyfriend, lifted her spirits. How strange the human psyche.

  They met Dixon in the kitchen, grabbed some cereal for breakfast, and went their separate ways. Robby headed to the Napa outlet stores to put together a wardrobe for both of them, armed with Vail’s instructions on where to shop and what sizes and styles to buy. He seemed a little out of sorts, but she told him to find a clerk about her age and ask her opinion. It was the best she could do given the circumstances. Besides, it was only a few outfits. Chances are, he’d find some blouses and pants that fit decently. Generally she wasn’t that difficult a fit. That is, when she wasn’t trying to look good in clothing worn by a woman Detective Agbayani had referred to as “Buff Barbie.”

  Vail and Dixon headed for the sheriff’s department, but Vail wanted to stop first at the bed-and-breakfast to poke around in the light. Since the meeting was scheduled for ten, they had a little time to peruse the grounds.

  As they approached the driveway, Vail said, “So it seemed like you knew Eddie Agbayani.”

  Dixon chuckled. “Yeah, you could say that. We dated for a year, but we ran into some problems.” She hung a left into the bed-and-breakfast’s parking lot. “It was good for a while, but there was always an edge to our relationship. Still, we love each other. It’s hard. We hit a wall when we ran into some . . . dominance issues.”

  Dominance issues. Vail wondered who was the aggressor, but from Vail’s observations, and the greeting Agbayani had for Dixon when they saw each other, she figured it was probably Agbayani’s insecurity with their relationship that caused the problems. Male testosterone and ego getting in the way. As Vail pushed open her car door, she realized that wasn’t necessarily a fair assessment. What did she really have to go on, anyway? It was hard for her, as a profiler, to refrain from making psychological assessments off the clock. The constant analysis, the evaluation of body language and vocal tones and facial tension sometimes made it tough to sit back and casually converse with someone.

  “When did you two call it off?” Vail asked.

  “I called it off, not we. I’m not a typical woman, whatever that is. I’m headstrong, I know that. And sometimes we clashed because Eddie likes to call the shots, too. We had a balance for a while, but it shifted when I started spending more time at the gym than with him. I just, I had a couple stressful cases and working out helped settle my mind, put things in perspective.

  “So I guess some of that was my fault. But toward the end we were always at each other’s throats, and I felt it was best we took a rest.” They got out of the Ford and headed down the gravel path. “It’s been hard. I’ve missed him a lot. But time passes, distance opens up between you, and before you know it . . .” She shook her head. “It’s been almost four months.”

  That coincides roughly with her shift from Vallejo PD to the district attorney’s office. The smell of burnt wood and gasoline sat heavy on the air like cheap perfume, and made Vail’s nostrils flare. “Wonder how long till this stench dissipates.”

  Dixon scrunched her nose. “Probably not till they bring in a demo crew and get this shit out of here.”

  Approximately a quarter of the structure was still intact, no doubt due to the fire department’s rapid response. What was left was charred charcoal black, a ghostlike shell with fragments of flowery wallpaper stuck to odd-shaped wall fragments untouched by flame but doused by water.

  Vail walked the periphery, stepping carefully through the ash that carpeted the ground. Dixon’s shoes were half a size small, which made them uncomfortable, but not unmanageable. Still, Vail was aware of each step she took.

  She stopped beside Dixon, who had her hands on her hips, surveying the lay of the land: Off to the left, there was another building, once a garage that had been converted to the more lucrative Cabernet Truffle Room, as noted by a hand-painted sign above the door. A larger, two-story structure extended perpendicular to it, deeper into the wooded area, containing another four rooms.

  At her feet lay the charred Hot Date sign that had hung on their door only a couple of days ago. Ironically, the painted flames were nearly burned away, reduced to ashes, much like the promise of her vacation.

  Vail mused at the luck of their having taken the one solitary room, tucked away in its own building. If the aim of the arsonist had been to harm her, and she and Robby had been booked into the Cabernet Truffle Room, some of the other guests might not have survived.

  Vail shook off the thought, then started coughing again. Too much residual smoke still riding on the air. She headed back to the Crown Vic, hacking away, with Dixon behind her.

  They drove a mile down the road, before Dixon pulled over beside a large rolling vineyard. Vail got out and coughed long and hard, bent over at the waist and holding onto the wire fence that separated the vines from the roadway. A moment later, the spell subsided. She stood up, cautiously took a deep breath of the fresh air, then blew it through her lips.

  She got back into the car, her forehead pimpled with perspiration. “Well. That was great fun.”

  Dixon eyed her. “You okay?”

  “Couldn’t be better.” Vail nodded at the road ahead. “Let’s go.”

  THEY WALKED INTO the conference room and took their seats. Absent were their guests from yesterday, save for Timothy Nance. Sitting off to the side, his face was tight, etched with concern. His tie was pulled to the side, and he looked like he hadn’t slept much. Vail knew how he felt.

  Brix walked in and strode to t
he front of the room, dropped his thickening binder on the desk and put his hands on his hips. He, too, looked frazzled. His hair was hastily combed, his uniform was not as crisp as it had been and he had dark, loose skin beneath his eyes.

  He put his teeth together and whistled loudly. Everyone came to order. “Okay, I’m really pissed off at the night’s events. Someone’s targeted us, people, and I intend to find out who. It’s no secret I’ve had a problem with Special Agent Vail and her . . . attitude and methods . . . but she’s one of our team, and we don’t gotta like everyone, we just have to work effectively with them. If someone takes a swipe at her, they take a swipe at all of us. So I want to catch this fucker. And I want to catch this goddamn serial killer. And I want to do both sooner, rather than later. That’s not too much to ask, is it?”

  He looked around, making eye contact with Lugo, Dixon, Fuller, Vail—holding her gaze a few seconds longer for acknowledgment—which she gave him with a slight smile—before coming to rest on Tim Nance.

  Brix looked down at his hand, which held an envelope and a FedEx overnight pack. “Karen, these are for you. Front desk clerk gave them to me.” He passed them to Nance, who handed them off down the line toward Vail. “I’ve been in contact with Karen’s boss and we’ve got an Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms agent on his way to pay us a visit. Karen, you want to fill us in?”

  Vail laid the envelope on the table in front of her and glanced at the airbill on the FedEx package. “The BAU has two ATF agents in an Arson and Bombing Investigative Services subunit that we started twenty years ago. They were trained as profilers and primarily work ATF cases but they consult on all serial murder cases because, well, because they’re really good profilers.” She grabbed the tab, ripped open the package, and slid out her new badge. “Special Agent Supervisor Art Rooney is the guy who’ll be here sometime today. His input will help us, I’m sure.”

  “He’s actually here,” Brix said. “He and Detective Gordon are at the site right now, taking a quick look around.”

  Brix lifted the wall phone and punched in an extension. “Yeah, it’s Brix. Send in Matt.” He replaced the handset, then said, “Before Gordon and Rooney arrive, I’ve got a few updates for you. First, we’ve got an ID on the body we excavated from the collapsed wine cave.”

  The door opened and in walked a lanky, balding man in a lab coat. Matthew Aaron stepped in and Brix introduced him to the attendees.

  “Well,” Aaron said, clapping his hands together. “This was a very challenging case because of the state of decomp of the body. Dental x-rays didn’t give us any hits and missing persons reports were a dead end because we lacked identifying characteristics to establish a match. And since the body wasn’t prepared for burial, most of the flesh was a goner long ago.”

  “But,” Aaron said, raising an index finger, “the skin on one of her hands was partially preserved, for some reason. Still, I couldn’t figure out how to lift a fingerprint we could put in the system. Then I remembered this case I read about involving a 1948 military plane crash.

  For decades, one of the victims went unidentified. They tried everything, including DNA. But a George Washington University forensic science professor soaked the man’s hand in a chemical they used to ID Katrina victims. Eventually, he was able to rehydrate the skin and secure a print from the index pad.”

  “And . . .” Brix said.

  Aaron smiled and leaned back. “And that’s what I did. And presto. We have an ID.”

  Brix raised his eyebrows, asking the question silently.

  “Oh—the victim’s name is Ursula Robbins.” Aaron reached into his deep pocket and pulled out a notepad. Flipped a page and said, “Robbins went missing and was presumed dead a little over two years ago. No children, early fifties. I’m working on getting a photo for all of you. All I know is she was the chief executive of a winery in the Georges Valley District.”

  “Okay,” Brix said, “Ray, that’s yours.”

  “A few more things, then I’ll be out of your way,” Aaron said. “About that toenail thing—very interesting, actually. I’ve never seen that before. But it takes a few years for a buried body, one that’s not prepared or preserved in any way, to skeletalize completely. By that I mean for it to turn completely to bone, no soft tissue left. Nails are protein, keratin to be precise, like hair, so they stick around for a while. In this case, your victim had nail polish on her toes, preserving them and keeping them intact. Otherwise, once putrefaction gets underway, the skin on the hands and feet can slip off intact, a process called degloving.”

  “Degloving, cool,” Fuller said.

  Aaron looked over at Fuller and squinted confusion. “Yeah, okay. Well, the fact that the victim used nail polish means the other nails remained intact.”

  Vail said, “Hang on a minute. We don’t know if the victim put on the nail polish or if the killer did it. If the killer has some knowledge of forensic anthropology, he might’ve known the skin and nails would slough off, so he put the nail polish on to keep all the nails intact—except for the one he pulled off.”

  Brix lifted his eyebrows. “I’m not sure what to do with that. Let’s keep that in mind. Our UNSUB might have a knowledge of forensic anthropology. So he could be a pathologist.”

  Vail shrugged. “Possible. Or a forensic scientist.”

  A few heads turned toward Aaron.

  Brix pointed at Lugo. “Ray, you’ve got that too. Get some help if you need it. Run all the people in the area who’ve had training in those fields. Including the ones in our office.” He glanced at Aaron. “See if any have a record—mental illness, drug habits, propensity toward violence—”

  “Got it,” Lugo said.

  Fuller said, “We already know that these two vics, and the one in Vallejo, were done by the same guy. If we can find some commonalities in these three women’s victimologies, I say we got this UNSUB.”

  Vail scrunched her face. “Well . . . let’s just say that these vics are probably done by the same guy and that evaluating the victimologies might help us identify him.”

  Fuller rolled his eyes, as if to say Vail’s comment was merely a difference in semantics.

  “But I come back to access,” Vail said. “Access might be the commonality we’re looking for.”

  There was a knock at the door. It swung open and in walked Burt Gordon, followed by Art Rooney. Vail couldn’t help but smile. Seeing Rooney in this setting gave her a sense of warmth and comfort.

  Brix nodded at Gordon and said, “Take a seat, gentlemen.” As they were complying, he turned to the whiteboard and wrote “Vic 2 Ursula Robbins-Ray Lugo.” He spun back to the conference table and said, “I want to thank Special Agent Rooney for taking the time to help us out.”

  “Karen Vail is a very valuable member of our unit,” Rooney said in his southern drawl. “If someone tries to fry her ass, it really pisses me off. Since I’ve spent nineteen years studying arson and bombings, I think it’s fair to say there might be something I can offer that’ll help identify the type of person who did this.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” Fuller said. “But why are you here? I mean, don’t you deal with serial arsonists? Looks likely he might’ve only set this one fire.”

  “Only one fire,” Rooney said. He nodded slowly, as if he was considering Fuller’s point. “I see where you’re coming from. After all, it’s just one fire, why make such a big deal over it. Right?” Rooney grinned broadly, leaned back in his chair. His military style crew cut, chiseled features and trim body gave him a formidable appearance. He didn’t need to act intimidating to be intimidating. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Scott Fuller. Detective.”

  “Good to meet you, Detective. I can certainly understand your confusion over the need for me to be here. And I don’t think any less of you for asking such a misinformed question. So let me answer you, so you won’t make the same mistake again.” Rooney slowly rose from his chair. “I am with the ATF. That stands for Alcohol. Tobacco.
And Firearms. See, we deal with alcohol—this here’s wine country, so you might think there’s a connection there. But no. No, that’s not why I’m here. And then there’s tobacco, and, clearly, tobacco’s not why I’m here, either. So we get to the last letter in the acronym. Firearms. That covers bombs, incendiary devices, terrorism related offenses, and criminally set fires.” Rooney grabbed the back of the chair with two large hands. “Now let me ask you something, son. Where did you hear the word ‘serial’ in that description?” He narrowed his eyes, kept his gaze fixed on Fuller, who was staring back, his jaw set, lips tight and thin.

  Vail shared a glance with Rooney. She was thinking: Man, I wish I could do that as well as you can. Her look said: Boy, I’m glad you’re on my side.

  “So,” Rooney said. “Let me get back to where I was headed. I’m an ATF agent, but I’m also trained as a profiler. That’s important because the FBI has no jurisdiction over arson, but obviously it falls right into the sweet spot of the ATF’s authority. For Detective Fuller’s edification, that would be the ‘firearms’ part.” He walked to the whiteboard and motioned to the marker. “May I?”

  Brix handed it to him. Rooney uncapped it, and moved to a blank area on the board. “Let me give you some background on the type of person who is most likely to have committed this crime. Problem is, there haven’t been a whole lot of studies done on arson. But we’ve been able to pool all our knowledge based on the studies and offender interviews that have been done, and we’ve arrived at a typology of arsonists. It’s based primarily on motivation, the motives behind the crime. Now we’re categorizing this fire as arson because it meets the three established criteria.”

  Rooney held up a hand and ticked off each item on a finger: “First, property has been burned; second, the burning is incendiary and a device of some sort has been found at the scene; and third, the act was committed with malice, with the intent to destroy. I’ve been to the crime scene with Detective Gordon, and based on what we saw there and what he saw last night, this officially qualifies as arson.” He swiveled toward Gordon and said, “Is that right, Detective?”