“Yes, it is.”
“So here’s what we know,” Rooney said. “Shortly after Detective Hernandez left Agent Vail alone, the place went up in flames. We found a gas can in the back, in a well-concealed area that’s not visible from another room, the parking lot, or adjacent property. We found a cigarette lighter, likely used to ignite the trigger—the gasoline. But we also found something that we can’t explain.” Rooney nodded at Gordon.
Gordon scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, it’s damn strange. There was a well-defined area around the structure, which served as a barrier to the blaze.” He stopped for effect, then said, “And what looks like some sort of fire retardant chemical on the ground was laid out along the periphery.”
Dixon tilted her head and asked, “So you mean he meant to stop the fire at the one building?”
Gordon nodded. “That’s what it looks like. And no, nothing special about the chemical used. We’re still looking at it in the lab, but I think it’s widely available Class A foam, from fire extinguishers. It’s used to contain small brush and grass fires by creating a fire break.”
“So,” Rooney said, “armed with that knowledge, let’s talk about what we know about the people who start these fires. We classify them according to their motives: vandalism, excitement, revenge, crime concealment, profit, and extremist. All are self-explanatory.”
“Excitement?” Dixon asked.
“They get off on setting fire. They’re seeking thrills, attention, recognition, even sexual gratification—but the sexual component is pretty rare.”
Dixon said, “So are you saying we need to investigate each of these potential motives so we can eliminate them as possibilities, then narrow our suspect pool to those who are likely to have the remaining motive?”
“That’s one approach,” Vail said. “But rather than running in six different directions while still trying to zero in on this wine cave killer, I think we can logically eliminate crime concealment and extremist. There was no other crime he could’ve been trying to hide. Unless someone is aware of something, I don’t see a social, religious, or political conflict. Is there anything you know of I’m not seeing?”
“Nothing I’m aware of,” Brix said. He looked around. No one offered up anything.
Ray Lugo said, “If there was a profit motive, why just burn down the one structure?”
“Doesn’t make sense, I agree,” Rooney said. “Still, be worth looking into the owners, see if they’re in financial distress. Do they have a business partner with a beef? Have there been offers to buy the property that’ve been rebuffed by the owner? Anyone who’d stand to benefit by burning down the structure? An architect or contractor who was talking with the owner about a remodel the owner didn’t want to do? All this needs to be ruled out. Remember, the offender doesn’t think he’s going to get caught. He doesn’t think he’s leaving any clues for us.”
“Yeah, but . . .” Vail stopped, then shook her head. “Why would he go to such efforts to ensure the other structures wouldn’t also get destroyed?”
“An important question, for sure, but one we can’t answer right now,” Rooney said. “We’ll eventually know the answer, but for now it’s another thing to stick up on the whiteboard.” He turned and wrote “Arson,” then, below it, listed the question Vail had asked. “Another thing to keep in mind is that I’ve given you a very basic primer on arson—a number of those categories we discussed have subcategories. And then you have mixed motive offenders, too. But let’s keep it simple for now and expand as you gather more information and eliminate other factors.”
Fuller leaned forward, both forearms on the table. “Since you’re a profiler and your job is to profile, how about telling us who we should be looking for?”
“That’s really putting him on the spot, Scott,” Vail said.
Rooney held up a hand. “No, no. That’s a fair question, Detective.” He folded his arms across his chest and thought about it a moment. “If we go with the percentages, we’re looking for a younger white male, between eighteen and thirty, with a generally poor marital history. That suggests this UNSUB has a history of unstable interpersonal relationships. And a guy like this will have average or higher intelligence, and between a tenth- and twelfth-grade education level. There’s a fifty-fifty chance he’ll have one or more tattoos.”
“Will this guy have a sheet?” Brix asked.
“Highly probable. You’re looking at about a 90 percent chance he’s had a felony arrest and better than 60 percent chance he’s had multiple felony arrests. So, yeah, that’d be a good place to start: known offenders with potential motives for wanting that structure—or Agent Vail—in ashes.”
“Speaking of which,” Vail said, “were you able to tell anything about the front door?”
“In what way,” Gordon asked.
“I’m not sure, but it may’ve been jammed shut. I couldn’t open it.”
“There wasn’t much left of the structure, let alone the front door. But we can go back over there, take another look. You sure about it being jammed?”
“I was pretty freaked. The knob was very hot. Burned my hand.” She stole a glance at her palm. It was red and it hurt, but nothing serious. “I’m not sure, but I couldn’t open it.”
“Check it out,” Brix said to Gordon. “Anything else on the profile?” he asked Rooney.
Vail said, “There’ll probably be a history of some form of institutionalization. Not just prison—orphanages, juvenile homes, or detention, even mental health institutions.”
“But,” Rooney said, “unlike serial killers, a majority of arsonists come from intact and comfortable family units.”
“That makes me feel real good,” Dixon said. “Something went wrong somewhere.”
“Here’s something else you won’t like,” Rooney said. “Nationwide, law enforcement has a clearance rate on arsons of only about 20 percent, give or take. So we’ve got our jobs cut out for us.” He handed the marker back to Brix, then walked toward his seat. “If we find out this guy’s set other fires, there’s more to this equation, because then he’d be serial, and that brings in some other trends that’d help us catch this guy.”
“Like what?” Fuller asked.
“Like most serial arsonists walk to the scene of the fires they set, and they usually live within two miles, so they’re familiar with the neighborhood. About a third stay at the scene and a quarter of them go somewhere nearby where they can watch the fire department do their thing. Forty percent leave the scene.”
“But,” Gordon said, “almost all return to the scene from twenty-four hours to a week afterwards. So we’ve got an undercover watching the area to see if anyone comes by.”
“In case anyone’s wondering, the other guests have been placed at other B&Bs,” Brix said.
“We’re assuming,” Rooney said, “that we’re dealing with an honest to goodness arsonist. But if the intent was pure and simple, kill Karen Vail, then a lot of this goes out the window.”
There was quiet while everyone considered that.
“Any questions?” Rooney finally asked.
Fuller leaned back and stretched his arms upward. “Yeah, I’ve got one. How long are you gonna be in town?”
“I’m not. I’m headed to SFO for a flight back to Quantico. But I’m reachable on my cell.” He waited a minute, looked around the room, and saw there were no questions. “Karen, will you walk me out?”
While Vail rose, Rooney reached out to shake Gordon’s hand. “Pleasure, Detective. Please, keep me in the loop. You need something, anything, ATF will get it for you.”
“Appreciate that.”
“Oh—one more thing. An agent is on his way over from the San Francisco ATF Field Division office. I’d really appreciate it if you’d include him on your task force. Name’s Austin Mann.” He consulted his watch. “Should be here any—”
He stopped at the rapping of knuckles against the door.
Brix yelled out, “It’s open.”
/> The door swung in and revealed a suited man of average height, but heavy around the shoulders and thighs. He stepped in and nodded at Rooney. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“This is Agent Mann,” Rooney said. He then proceeded to introduce everyone in the room to him.
Vail couldn’t help but notice Mann had scarring on the left side of his face and a prosthesis—an artificial left hand. This was odd, to say the least. Vail would have thought such a condition would result in a forced retirement due to medical disability. Then again, she knew of agents with severe injuries who were permitted to remain on the job—but that was rare and usually due to their exceptional service records.
However, there was one thing she could be reasonably sure of: An ATF agent missing an extremity meant it had been blown off while defusing an IED on the job.
Mann turned to face her. “You’re Agent Vail?”
“Karen, yes. Good to meet you.”
“Karen was just about to walk me out to the car. You okay here?”
“They can get me up to speed.” Mann extended his right hand and Rooney took it. “I’ll keep you posted once you get back.”
Vail slipped the new FBI badge onto her belt, grabbed the envelope from the table and left the room with Rooney. As they cleared the front door to the building, Rooney reached into his inside suit coat pocket and handed her a new BlackBerry. “It’s activated and ready to go. Same number.”
She turned it on and waited as it booted up. “Thanks.”
“Watch that kid in there. Fuller,” Rooney said. “I’ve seen his type, knows it all, young buck who’s gotten where he’s at because of favors or nepotism or both. Book smart, street dumb.”
Vail marveled at Rooney’s ability to read people. She knew he was good, but that was impressive.
“He bugs me,” Rooney said. “Could be trouble.”
“Noted. What do you know about Austin Mann?”
“Hell of an agent. Loyal to the job like guys aren’t loyal anymore.” He nodded at the Bureau car down the street, headed toward them. His ride to SFO, Vail surmised.
Rooney said, “You noticed the prosthesis, I’m sure. Got it OTJ, defusing a bomb. Lucky that’s all he lost. I worked with him years ago in North Carolina. I was there when . . . when it happened. I hope you never have to see something like that. It was awful. A guy like that, tough as they come, squealing like a pig.” He shook his head. “Anyway, he took this assignment in Frisco and he’s been good. He’s been happy.”
The dark blue Crown Victoria pulled up to the curb.
“Is it a prosthetic hand, or his whole arm?”
“What?”
“Agent Mann’s prosthesis. How extensive is it?”
Rooney’s eyes narrowed. “Hand and forearm. Why?”
Vail stood there thinking a second too long.
“Karen, what is it?”
She laughed and waved a hand. “Nothing. Just tired.”
Rooney placed a hand on Vail’s arm and gave it a squeeze. “I want you to get back to Quantico in one piece, you hear? No more fires or other shit you seem to get yourself into.”
“Are you implying something, Art?”
“Implying? Hell, no. I think your record speaks for itself.” He stepped off the curb and opened the door. “See you back home soon.”
TWENTY-TWO
V ail watched the BuCar swing a wide arc in the street and head off down the road. She liked Rooney, and because she was about a dozen years younger than he, she sometimes thought of him like an older brother. She never felt that way about anyone in the unit—or anywhere else, for that matter.
But Austin Mann’s prosthesis began to bother her. When crushing a trachea, the “bar arm” move would be vastly more efficient if the offender had a hard prosthetic forearm. She would have to look into that. Carefully. One of her mentors had just vouched for the ATF agent. One thing she did not want to do was investigate a fellow LEO—a man with a distinguished service record—and have it get back to Rooney.
She turned to head back into the building, realized she was still holding the envelope Brix had given her, and turned it over. Agent Karen Vail was printed in black laser ink. She tore it open, and, while starting up the two flights of stairs, began to read:
Hey there, Agent Vail. You don’t know me, but I’m betting you wish you did. I know you’re a profiler who’s been brought in to catch the guy who killed that woman in the wine cave. And I know you’ve found the one in Vallejo and the one in that old Black Knoll Vineyards cave. That was a nice touch, actually, don’t you think? They’ve talked for years about getting at that vintage wine that was supposedly buried there, so I figured they’d eventually find my handiwork. It just happened sooner than I figured. I wanted it to be a total surprise, like, out of the blue, a holy shit moment, where everyone freaks out and says, “Oh, my god, another woman’s been killed by the same guy!” Ah, so the first question might be, am I a guy, or am I a woman? I’m not going to tell you. I’ll let you figure it out. I’m sure by now you’ve already got your theories. I’m sure you’re all thinking about me, talking about me. You, and Lieutenant Brix and Detective Fuller, Investigator Dixon, and Sergeant Lugo, and whoever else you’re going to bring on board. The more the better. You’re going to need it. But I’m wasting your time, and it’s not right to waste taxpayer money. So here’s the deal. I’m willing to work with you, but under some conditions. Are you sitting down?
No, Vail was definitely not sitting down. She was, at the moment, flying up the second flight of stairs, then bursting through the front doors, swiping her prox card, sprinting toward the task force conference room, and then—inside and out of breath, coughing like a two-pack-per-day smoker—holding the letter out in front of her.
All heads turned toward her—how could they not, she was hacking away and no one could hear anything else.
“You okay?” Mann asked, rising from his chair and helping her to her seat. Brix handed her a cup of water from the cooler in the corner.
Vail, holding the letter out away from her to protect it from trace contamination, took the drink from him with her other hand and did her best to swallow between coughs. As the spasm passed, she held up the letter and envelope and said, “I need a pair of gloves. Letter from the offender.”
Lugo reached into his pocket and rooted out a crumpled latex glove and handed it to Vail, who pulled it on.
“I’ll need to give Matt Aaron my prints as an exemplar. I was holding the letter before I realized what it was.”
Vail would be the only one to handle the letter for the moment, and only with her gloved hand. “We should obviously dust it in case the UNSUB handled it. There might be contact DNA on the paper or in the saliva on the adhesive of the envelope. Can your lab run DNA?”
“We’ve got it covered,” Dixon said. She wiggled her index finger at the letter. “What does it say?”
Vail read it to them, up to the point where she had left off. She then continued: “I want you to release news of my work to the media. You will refer to me as the Napa Crush Killer. Get it—the crush of grapes, the crush of the windpipe—I figure it’s a fitting name. Here’s what else I want from you.
“To show me you’ve agreed to my demands, you will have the newspaper publish a front page article about me. Use my name in the headline. Do that and we’ll talk about the rest of my demands. Oh—I know, I have to give you something in return. I’ll stop killing. Okay? Is that fair? I thought you might think so. Tomorrow’s Napa Valley Press—and post it on the Press’s website, on their home page, lead story, by noon today.”
“Where did that letter come from?” Dixon asked.
Brix lifted the room phone. “Good question.” Into the handset, he said, “Someone took possession of an envelope addressed to Special Agent Karen Vail last night or this morning. I need you to ask around to find out who dropped it off.” He listened a moment, then said, “That’s right. Check the surveillance tapes, get back to me ASAP. It was left by the killer we�
�re tracking . . . yeah, that’s right. He was in our goddamn building.” He slammed the phone onto the wall receptacle. “Christ.”
“He was here,” Lugo said, “right under our fucking noses and we didn’t even know about it.”
“Pretty ballsy,” Dixon said.
“That fits,” Fuller said. “A narcissistic killer feels invulnerable to getting caught. He’s better than everyone else. Superior. There’s nothing we can do to catch him. Isn’t that right, Vail?”
Vail nodded slowly. “Yeah, that about sums it up.”
“So the question is,” Dixon said, “What do we do about his demands?”
Mann said, “One of many questions. Is this UNSUB the same guy who set the fire? All to get attention?”
Vail looked at Mann, examined his demeanor and body language. If he was the UNSUB, he wasn’t giving anything away.
Dixon sat forward. “If he’s the same guy, why would he send Vail a letter if he jammed the door to kill her? She’d be dead if he was successful.”
“We don’t know for sure the door was jammed shut,” Brix said.
“And maybe he was hanging around the periphery, knew she survived, and left the letter after the fact.”
Dixon nodded slowly.
“So,” Mann said. “Back to my question. Same guy?”
Vail hiked her eyebrows. “Entirely possible. Though there isn’t generally a crossover between arson and serial killers. Then again, the longer I’m in this business, the more I’ve come to realize we can’t blind ourselves to new and previously unseen, or unidentified, behaviors. Just because we haven’t observed something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. It’s something we’ve discussed many times at the unit. We want to pigeonhole offenders into our neat categories, but there are some who lie outside our observed patterns. This Crush Killer could be one of those.”
“Back to the other question, then,” Dixon said. “Do we go along with what he’s demanding?”
“Yes and no,” Vail said. “I suggest we do just enough to keep the line of communication open. We negotiate. But the bottom line is we keep him talking to us. The more we learn about him from his communications, the better it’ll be for us. At some point he’ll give us something he’s not aware he’s giving us. And that could lead us to him.”
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