Velocity

by Alan Jacobson

  “Sounds like the same MO,” Brix said. “I mean, same ritual. Gotta be a copycat, right?”

  I’ll be the judge of that, thank you very much. Vail’s phone buzzed. She absentmindedly pulled it from her belt and glanced at the display. “Is this the address?” she asked Brix.

  “I had Mann text it to everyone.”

  Vail rotated her phone to face Dixon, who, after digesting the location, turned the car around and headed back down 29, toward downtown Napa.

  Unfortunately, even Vail knew the address.

  DIXON PULLED TO A HALT at a makeshift barrier created by haphazardly parked Sheriff’s Department cruisers blocking Third Street. Deputies and Napa Police Department officers milled about. A news van sat skewed at the end of Brown Street, where it intersected with Third: at the Hall of Justice complex, where the courthouse and the Napa jail were located.

  Dixon parked behind Brix’s vehicle, and she and Vail made their way toward the clot of detectives surrounding a quad area nestled between three large gray buildings. As Vail picked her way through the crowd of law enforcement bodies, she caught sight of Matthew Aaron holding a digital SLR up to his face. The burst from his flash illuminated the area of interest: a black square water fountain that sat atop two concrete rectangles.

  And seated on the lower step was a woman, posed in such a way to make it appear as if she was reclining against the stone, her right leg extended in casual repose. Except that a trail of diluted blood cascaded down from her hands. A set of handcuffs dangled from her left wrist and her head was canted back, hanging at an unnatural left-leaning kink. The water from the fountain was lightly spraying her head, which now featured stringy-wet brunet hair.

  “Can someone shut that fountain down?” Dixon asked.

  Brix pushed his way toward her. “Working on it. Called Public Works. They’re en route.”

  Vail stepped closer, to within a couple feet of Matt Aaron. “Was she—is her trachea crushed?”

  “Haven’t gotten to that yet, but my money’s on it.”

  “I’m not interested in betting,” Vail said. “Just give me goddamn answers.”

  Aaron hardened his jaw, then said, “There’s bruising over the trachea. It looks like it’s been crushed. But until I can get my hands on her, I can’t really answer your question.” He pointed at the body. “That said, the toenail’s missing. Right second toe. And her wrist has a transverse gash.”

  Emerging from the far end of the quad was Austin Mann and Burt Gordon. And a haggard Sheriff Stan Owens. Brix motioned them to an area near the twin flagpoles, a few feet from the jail building’s facade. Owens remained at Aaron’s side—something the forensic technician probably wasn’t too pleased with, but would no doubt keep to himself.

  The remainder of the task force gathered between the flag poles and stood there staring at one another until Brix spoke up. “Okay, what the fuck are we dealing with here?” He looked at Vail. “Karen—did we or did we not arrest the Crush Killer?”

  Vail brushed a lock of red hair behind her ear. “John Mayfield’s the Crush Killer. We didn’t release any details of the murders to the press, so the only people who know what Mayfield did with the bodies would be Mayfield himself—which isn’t possible because of the timing—or he had a partner. That wasn’t evident at any of the crime scenes, so if I had to guess—and that’s what I’m doing here—he was mentoring someone, teaching him how to kill. Someone with a similar personality. Narcissistic.”

  “James Cannon,” Brix said. “Mayfield’s bodybuilding buddy.”

  “That’d be the first place I’d look.”

  “Cannon’s out of town,” Dixon said.

  “Says who? Cannon?” Vail turned to the others. “I called him a little while ago and left a voice mail, told him I was sorry for turning him away, that I wanted to grab lunch or dinner with him. He texted back and said he’d love to, but he’s out of town.”

  “Which could be bullshit,” Brix said.

  Vail kicked at a dead branch by her feet. “If he’s our guy, yeah, it’d be bullshit.”

  Gordon shifted his thick legs. “Do you think your call tipped him off?”

  “Anything’s possible,” Vail said. “But if he’s a narcissist, he probably wouldn’t permit himself to think we’re on to him so soon. He thinks he’s smarter than us, and my message was a little suggestive of some sexual rendezvous, which would play right into his mind-set. I think we’re okay.” She thought a moment, then added: “If this body is fresh—and it looks like she is—then clearly, he’s comfortable killing. And he’s comfortable bringing the body to a public place.”

  “What do we know about the vic?” Austin Mann asked.

  “Not a whole lot,” Brix said. “We didn’t want to disturb the scene till we got that water shut.” Thirty feet away, as if on cue, the fountain stopped bubbling. Heads turned. Aaron moved toward the woman’s body.

  “We should have a few answers soon,” Burt Gordon said.

  “Why here?” Brix asked. “Why did he dump the body here?”

  “He didn’t just dump the body,” Vail said. “He posed her. And he placed her facing the street. Posing is a very different behavior. The Crush Killer left his victims out in the open where they’d be found, for sure. But this woman wasn’t just left in public. She was placed at the Hall of Justice, right in the front, posed. For all to see. You can’t get much more insulting to law enforcement, much more ‘in your face’ than leaving her right on our doorstep. He’s sending a message.”

  Mann shifted his gaze beyond Vail to the area around the fountain. “And that message would be?”

  “That he’s better than us, smarter than us. That he can kill this woman right in front of the Hall of Justice and get away with it. That he’s above the law, that we can’t stop him. That he’s in control.”

  “You talked to this James Cannon,” Gordon said. “Based on what you saw, is he capable of doing that?” He gestured with his chin toward the victim. “I mean, is it possible?”

  Vail and Dixon shared a look.

  Dixon answered. “Yeah, I think so. His demeanor when Karen rejected him. He took it personally, almost as if he was so far superior to any other man—how could she reject him?” She held up a hand. “Now, that’s looking at it in hindsight, maybe with a slightly skewed view. But you’re asking if it’s possible. I think it is.”

  “I agree,” Vail said. “But it could also be more complex. By doing the kill this way, he could be saying, ‘I’m my own guy. I’m my own killer. So I’m going to do things differently.”

  Mann said, “Differently meaning the posing, the location of the victim.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about the handcuffs?” Mann asked. “Gotta be some meaning behind that.”

  “For sure. It’s part of the message. He left her at a police station.”

  “Nothing deeper?” Dixon asked.

  “Who can say at this point? Is it a taunt? That we’re prisoners to his reign of terror? Yeah, okay. At this point, it’s just a guess.” Vail pulled her Glock, stepped forward, and carefully lifted the cuffs with the tip of the barrel.

  “What are you doing?” Gordon asked.

  “All cuffs have serial numbers, manufacturers and model numbers, right?” Vail leaned in close. “Serial number should be just below the key post. Four-five-three-five-one-one.”

  Brix typed the numbers into his phone.

  “Model number’s a seven hundred. Peerless.”

  Brix looked up. “Peerless. That’s what we use. The Sheriff ’s Department.”

  “That’s what most law enforcement agencies use,” Mann said.

  “You can buy a set on Amazon for thirty bucks,” said Aaron, who’d moved beside Vail to look at the cuffs. “I wouldn’t make too big a deal out of it. Security guards use ’em, too.”

  Vail frowned. “Track the serial number. You keep records at the department, right? Who gets which set of cuffs?”

  “Yeah,” Brix said. “I
can check it against the database, see who they belong to. If it’s one of ours. But we gotta do it manually. It’s not computerized. We can also ask around, see if anyone’s lost a pair.”

  “Keep it low-key,” Dixon said. “In case.”

  “In case the killer’s a cop?” Gordon asked.

  Dixon rocked back on her heels a bit. “I’m just saying. Let’s be smart about this. In case it is, yeah. I doubt it, but you can’t unring a bell.”

  “I don’t mean to be all doom and gloom,” Mann said. “But could these be Robby’s? Did he bring a set with him?”

  “On vacation?” Vail asked. She shrugged. “No idea. I didn’t see any. But I just don’t know.”

  “Before we go down that path,” Brix said, “let’s first see if the serial number matches any used by LEOs in the area. If you really think it’s possible, call Robby’s PD and see if they keep records on which detectives get which cuffs. Or, we can check with Peerless and see if they know which organization or retailer they shipped that set to.”

  “Good luck with that,” Mann said under his breath.

  “Let’s also get an ID on the vic. Find out the usual stuff. Who she is, who’d want her dead. Who had access to this quad.” Brix swiveled his body and looked around. “Which is pretty much anybody. Security cameras?”

  “I’ll look into it,” Gordon said. “I doubt they’re aimed at the street. That fountain is damn close to the sidewalk. The cameras, if there are any, would be turned in toward the building. I think this guy knew what he was doing.”

  “But,” Dixon said, “how do you kill a woman out in the open, during the day, in a public area, and have no one see it?”

  Vail shook her head. “You kill her offsite. Crush her trachea, if that’s what he did, then bring her here. Get her out of your van in such a way that it looks like you’re walking arm in arm. If it is Cannon, he’s easily strong enough to support her weight and carry her alongside him for fifty to a hundred feet. He sets her down beside him at the fountain, makes two quick slits to her wrists, and then he walks away and melts into the street and cars. The blood drains slowly due to gravity. Some washes away in the fountain.” She examined everyone’s face. “It can be done.”

  Dixon rubbed both hands across her eyes. “All right. So where are we?”

  “We ran Mayfield’s home phone LUDs,” Brix said, referring to the local usage detail printout of calls made and received. “And we got a log of his mobile calls. His cell was one provided by his employer and only had work-related calls to and from the county mosquito and pest control abatement division. And a few to wineries and public buildings. We cross-checked, and they all corresponded to jobs he had—places where he sprayed and whatever the hell else he did with his time when he wasn’t killing people.”

  Vail’s attention was split between Brix and what Matt Aaron was doing with the victim’s body. “And his home phone?”

  “Nothing popped out at us. We were still sifting through it when this call came in. We’re going further and further back in case he wasn’t as careful early on.”

  “Any calls to James Cannon?”

  Brix pulled his phone and began pressing buttons. “We’ve still got some unidentified numbers to track down, a few unlisteds. We should have an answer soon on that. And we should’ve also heard back from NSIB on whether they got a home address from the wireless carrier. I’m gonna see if I can scare them up right now.”

  “We spoke with Ian Wirth,” Dixon said. “He gave us a rundown on the application process for starting a winery.”

  “My brother texted me on the way over here minutes ago. He’s done with his meeting and should be calling me soon. Get anything from Wirth?”

  Dixon filled them in on what she and Vail had learned.

  “After I follow up with NSIB,” Brix said, “I’ll get someone started on calling the TTB and ABC ASAP, just in case the vintners organization is a dead end. If my brother gets us anything we don’t already know, I’ll give you a shout.” He pressed SEND on his phone.

  Vail’s BlackBerry vibrated: a Virginia number, one she recognized as Detective Paul Bledsoe’s. “I’ve gotta take this,” she said, then moved off toward the Hall of Justice entrance, beneath the address sign that read “1125” in large silver decals.

  “Hey,” Bledsoe said. “I just wanted to check in with you. You get anywhere?”

  “Treading water. You?”

  “I got Hernandez’s DNA sample over to the FBI lab and I’ve also got a sample coming your way, to the Sheriff’s Department.”

  “Very good, thanks. And—you think you can keep your guy on Jonathan till I get home? I—this Mayfield thing may not be over. And it could be related to Robby’s disappearance.”

  Bledsoe hesitated. “I think I can swing it. But are you sure? You think Mayfield had an accomplice?”

  “Or a ‘student.’ I’m not sure, but it’s possible. And until we can rule it out, and until we find out what happened to Robby, I can’t take the chance it’s personal.”

  “I’m working on something on my end,” Bledsoe said. “A guy I know, someone who owes me.”

  In the background, Dixon continued her conversation with Gordon and Mann. Vail plugged her left ear to mute their discussion. “Who is this guy and what do you think he’s going to be able to do for us?”

  “Name’s Hector DeSantos. I met him on another case a couple years ago; this guy’s involved with a bunch of people who’ve got access to information no one else has. I think he’s some kind of spook. But if there’s info tucked away somewhere in a police or hospital database that can give us a clue as to Robby’s whereabouts, DeSantos will be able to find it.”

  “Awfully nice of him to help us out.”

  “I haven’t asked him yet,” Bledsoe said. “But he owes me, and if he’s stateside, I think we’re good. I’ll see if I can set something up for when you get back.”

  “I’m on a flight tonight—actually, I guess it’s tomorrow morning. Anything changes, I’ll let you know. And Bledsoe . . . thanks again. For everything.” She hung up and rejoined the group.

  Brix said, “Wireless carrier had the same Soscol address. They emailed his bills, which were paid by direct debit to his credit card. NSIB’s now trying to get the address from the credit card company.”

  “Without a warrant?” Gordon asked.

  A forensic technician handed Brix a bag containing the handcuffs. “Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Brix said. “Be surprised what customer service reps will tell you.”

  “It’s not against the law to ask for information,” Dixon said. “It’s not even illegal to lie about who you are—as long as you don’t say you’re James Cannon.”

  “We’ll see what we can get,” Brix said.

  Dixon took Vail’s elbow and led her toward the street. “That call. Good news or bad?”

  “My friend, Bledsoe. He wants me to meet with someone back home who might be able to dig up info on Robby.”

  Dixon unlocked her car doors with the remote. “Take any help we can get.”

  “Where we headed?” Vail asked.

  “Mayfield’s place. That’s one warrant we didn’t have a problem getting.”

  17

  Vail and Dixon arrived at John Mayfield’s house, a small Victorian-style two-story with a compact footprint on a postage stamp lot. The grounds were immaculately cared for, and the shingle siding seemed to be the recipient of a recent coat of brick red paint.

  Parked out front, neighborhood cars. A large hockey net with a noticeable rip in the polyester mesh, shoved up against the curb.

  Vail and Dixon were the first to arrive. They walked up to the front door, tried the knob, and found it locked. “Kick it, pick it, or call for a battering ram,” Vail said.

  Dixon slid sideways and slammed her left foot against the jamb, just below the lock. It burst open with a splintering pop. “Much more satisfying that way.”

  “Can’t argue with that.”

  They moved inside th
e quiet house. Whenever Vail entered an offender’s residence, a strange feeling washed over her. All the evil this killer conjured was conceived here. Like the behaviors the killer left at his crime scenes, his home was a diary of sorts: unedited, the raw idiosyncrasies and habits of human nature lay bare before her. The way he folds his towels, his laundry, his clothing. Are his shirts on hangers in closets? Neatly arranged on shelves? Are there dishes in the sink? Does he hoard newspapers, magazines, odd trinkets?

  Everything she saw before her was like words in a novel; each room a chapter. Overall, that book told an important story about this offender. Who he was, at the core of his daily existence, unfiltered. Because he never expected to get caught, he had no reason to hide who he was.

  And Vail was not disappointed. She had anticipated a neat, orderly living environment. Possessions well cared for. Trophies and framed certificates of his accomplishments. And nothing to suggest anyone else was responsible for, or had contributed to, his achievements.

  After walking through the living room—dominated by an intricately carved walnut table with matching formal chairs—she moved into the hall and then the family room.

  Dixon called out to her from the den. On a couch in the corner was a box containing an unopened pay-as-you-go phone. “No surprise there. I’m sure the one he’d been using is here somewhere, if he didn’t already dump it before we grabbed him up.”

  “Even better,” Vail said, heading toward a desk along the far wall. “His PC.”

  Dixon joined her by the window, which looked out at the mountains.

  “Does the Sheriff’s Department have a cyber crime division that can go through the hard drive?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know if it’s as good as what you’ve got at the Bureau. You want to wait, or do you want to see if there’s anything on here about Robby?”

  All questions should be that easy. Vail turned on the monitor and flicked the keyboard. The computer fan whirled to life and the screen read, “Windows is resuming.” She looked over at Dixon. “It was on standby.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Narcissists tend to leave their computers asleep so they can get right to work when inspiration stirs them.”