“That’s a possibility. But I don’t think that’s what we’re dealing with here.”
“You agree?” Thibeaux asked.
Curtis nodded. “Yeah. I don’t have to tell you Marcks did some pretty sadistic shit to his vics. You really wanna be the one responsible for his daughter’s murder? Right after her book hits stores and she’s hitting the talk show circuit?”
“Bring the warden in,” Vail said. “I’d like to explain this to him myself.”
Thibeaux contorted the left side of his mouth. “Wouldn’t recommend that. The warden wouldn’t take kindly to—”
“A woman telling him how to do his job?”
Thibeaux chuckled. “To the FBI telling him how to do his job.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Suit yourself. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I’ve been peripherally involved with this case for years. I’m concerned about Jasmine Marcks.”
Thibeaux leaned back. “So it’s personal.”
“No.” Wait, is it?
“All good cops personalize their cases,” Curtis said. “It’s what makes us human. If we turn off that spigot we wouldn’t give a shit about the victims. And we wouldn’t be very good at our jobs now, would we?”
Vail drew her gaze from Curtis back to Thibeaux. “Honestly, I couldn’t have said it better.”
Thibeaux worked his jaw, then got up from his desk and left the room.
“You know this ain’t gonna go well,” Curtis said quietly.
“Why?”
“Wardens are political appointees. A lot of these guys are clueless in terms of what really goes on in a prison. Most of what they do is manage bed space. Not very highly regarded. The black sheep of the Department of Justice.”
“Well, let’s hope this guy has some idea as to what’s going on in his house. And what to do about it.”
A couple minutes later, the door opened and Thibeaux motioned Vail and Curtis into the sparse hallway, then led them to a larger office. Larger, but not a whole lot nicer. In this borderline dilapidated building, there was just so much that could be done with aging, cracked cinderblock. Not to mention the lack of money to fund it.
Warden James Barfield’s desk was immaculate, with neatly stacked folders on the left and a battered HP laptop on the right. It was an obsessive-compulsive’s oasis in the bureaucratic mess of a correctional facility that was five decades past its prime.
“Sit, Vail.” There was only one chair. “Curtis, you can stand.”
Curtis frowned but did as instructed, taking up a position behind and to the right of Vail’s seat.
“I’m told you wanted a few minutes to convince me that Roscoe Lee Marcks poses a danger to his daughter.”
Vail folded her hands in her lap—less likelihood she would do damage with them tucked away there. “Not how I’d characterize it, warden, but I guess it’s accurate enough.”
“Well then, how would you characterize it?”
“It’s our responsibility to keep Jasmine Marcks safe. And it’s your responsibility to make sure Roscoe Lee Marcks doesn’t do anything that endangers her. Our interests overlap so I don’t see where we have to convince you of anything.”
According to Curtis, that’s not his responsibility at all. But it made so much sense. How could he argue?
Barfield chuckled. “Just like the FBI to tell me how to do my job.” He had a southern drawl and said FBI slowly, emphasizing each letter distinctly, the “I” sounding like “ah.” “My responsibility, as you put it, is to make sure these inmates do their time as instructed by a court of law, without causing harm to themselves or each other. That about sums it up, Agent Vail. Now, I don’t know ’bout you, but I don’t consider watching over an inmate’s grown child as bein’ part of that job description.”
“Maybe it’s just a matter of common sense.” Vail forced a smile.
“We’d really appreciate your support,” Curtis said, clearly aware of Vail’s failed attempt at diplomacy.
“I’m sure you would.” Barfield frowned and glanced at Vail. “We’re already getting the materials together that Detective Curtis requested on Marcks’s visitors. What more do you want?”
“Special attention,” Curtis said before Vail had a chance to reply. “To make sure he doesn’t have any contact with anyone, inside or outside, while we investigate.”
“Can’t prevent him from talking to his attorney,” Barfield said as he busied himself with items on his desk. “And honestly, until and unless you charge him with something, there are rules I have to follow regarding prisoner rights.”
“Just keep your eyes open,” Curtis said, trying to sound reasonable. “That’s all we can ask.”
Barfield looked up. “Seems to me you were asking for quite a bit more than that.”
“Actually,” Vail said, “I was. We’re talking about someone who was victimized as a young teen. And continues to be victimized as a young woman. Her father’s an asshole. And he’s a serial killer. The least we can do is try our best to make sure that Roscoe Lee Marcks doesn’t conspire with anyone to kill her. Or rape her. Or mail her any more emotionally upsetting letters. Now maybe that doesn’t fall under your job description as warden, but it falls under your job description as a decent human being.”
Barfield grinned a broad, toothy smile. “Well, thank you, kindly, Agent Vail, for that inspirational kick in the rear. I’ll take it under advisement. Now y’all have a safe trip back home. Be sure and come back again real soon.”
“THAT WENT exceedingly well,” Curtis said as they walked back to their car. “Don’t you agree?”
Yeah. Exceedingly well.
“You’ve lived in Virginia how many years?”
Vail squinted at the overcast sky. “Uh, I don’t know, about ten.”
“And you still don’t understand southerners? Aren’t you ever going to lose that New York aggressiveness?”
Vail fished out her car keys. “You know what they say.”
Curtis grunted. “I know what I say. Shove it up your ass if you can’t adapt. And take your Yankee ass back to New York.”
Vail popped open her door and fell into the seat. “I was thinking more like, ‘You can take the woman out of New York but you can’t take New York out of the woman.’”
Curtis reached for his seatbelt. “I think that’s what exorcisms are for.”
9
Vail walked into her house and her chocolate brown standard poodle, Hershey, ran to the door, wagging his tail and holding a pair of her underwear and one of Robby’s socks in his mouth. He jumped up to greet her, spit out the garments, and plastered her face with kisses.
“I missed you too, boy,” she said, twisting her head to the side as she tried to talk without getting a wet tongue across her lips. “C’mon, let’s go out.”
Vail headed toward the side door, which led to the dog run. As she pulled it open, Hershey forced his way through and ran to his favorite spot to pee.
She grabbed a scoop of dog food and started back into the kitchen when her phone vibrated. She brought it to her face as she dumped the lamb kibble in the stainless steel bowl. “Hey Jasmine, how’s—”
“Someone was here, in the house.”
“How—are you there now?”
“I just got home and the side garage door was open. And then I heard a car door slam and I ran to the window and saw a beat-up old Toyota or Honda driving away.”
Awesome. That narrows it down to only a few million vehicles.
“Did you get a license plate?”
“No, I—I ran inside and called you.”
“Okay, get back in your car and go somewhere safe—get a coffee at Starbucks. It’ll be busy. I want you around people. I’ll call Detective Curtis, have him check your place out, make sure it’s clear, okay?”
“Yeah. I’m—I’m just … this isn’t like me but I’m …” She took a breath. “You know what? Forget it, I’m fine.”
“It’s okay to be scared. Do what I said. We’ll get this sorted out. I’ll call you back soon.”
Vail let Hershey in as she dialed Curtis. It went to voice mail and she left him a message to meet her at Jasmine’s, then headed out to Bethesda.
It was the tail end of rush hour and the last thing she wanted to do was get slowed by traffic. Her stomach was rumbling and her back was sore, having spent the better part of the day on the road. Though not standard issue, Vail had picked up a portable magnetic auxiliary light a few years ago for situations such as this. After affixing it to her roof, she was able to work her way through the congestion.
While en route, Vail called the Fairfax Police Department’s PSTOC—Public Safety and Transportation Operations Center—and had Curtis pulled out of an interview room. He was not sure how soon he could make it to Jasmine’s house, but he requested that a patrol car and a crime scene unit be dispatched.
Vail texted Jasmine and told her that both she and the police were en route. When she arrived on scene thirty-five minutes later, an officer had cleared the house and was waiting outside with Jasmine.
“I told you to go to Starbucks.”
“I did. But when I got your text I turned around and came home. The police were already at my front door.”
The crime scene technician opened his toolbox and pulled out gloves and booties. He tossed a handful to Vail, who gave a pair of the blue shoe covers to Jasmine. “Slip these on.”
“What for?” she asked as she knelt to pull them over her tennis shoes.
“To preserve the crime scene.”
Jasmine looked up from her crouch. “Crime scene? My house?”
“Anything missing?”
“I don’t know. I did what you said, left right away.”
“Take a look around. But don’t touch anything.”
Ten minutes later, Erik Curtis walked in, a scowl stretched across his face. “When I got home I found my brother in my kitchen, eating my New York strip steak. Before I could rip him a new one, I got a call that they’ve grabbed up a suspect in one of my cases so I went back in. And now this.”
“Strip steak, eh? You don’t hate everything that’s from New York.”
“As long as I can put it over a hot flame, I’m good.” He gestured at Jasmine. “So what’s the deal?”
Vail related what happened, then motioned him to the front porch. They stepped outside into the darkness and walked ten or so feet down the brick path. The street was not well lit, the nearest house a quarter of a block away. Curtis whistled to an officer and told him and his partner to begin a canvass of the neighborhood in case anyone saw the car or the person who had been inside Jasmine’s house.
“Find anything on those three known associates?”
Curtis snorted. “And when was I gonna do that? I was stuck in the car with you all day.”
“Stuck? With me?”
“You know what I mean.” He shrugged. “I’ll get on it tomorrow.”
“Could be one of them who did this.”
Curtis nodded absentmindedly. “Hopefully someone got a license plate or make and color of the vehicle. Maybe forensics will help us out.”
“So what are we going to do with Jasmine?”
“I’ll make a call, see if I can get a car stationed here tonight. And then …”
“Yeah, and then what?”
The voice came from behind them. Vail turned. It was Jasmine.
“We’ll figure something out. We won’t leave you unprotected.”
Jasmine bit her lip and nodded, searching Vail’s face as if evaluating the veracity of her statement. “You really think it’s safe here?”
“The moment it’s not, I’ll get you out. Promise.”
Jasmine nodded acceptance, then turned and walked back into the house.
“What do you think?”
“I think someone’s screwing with her,” Curtis said. “And I think she’ll be fine here. Because if that someone wanted to hurt her, he could have.”
Vail backed away from Curtis, heading toward the house. “‘Someone’ doesn’t cut it. We need to find out who it is, if he’s working with Marcks, and if he’s serious about hurting her or just trying to send a message.”
“Got it on my list, Karen. Tomorrow we’ll have some answers.”
Vail shoved her hands into her pockets. “Let’s hope so.”
10
Roscoe Lee Marcks walked into the inmate showers, a large white tile room with industrial steel shower heads hanging from the low ceiling. It was a communal area without privacy, a place where larger men derided smaller men based on the size of their genitals, their sagging asses, or anything else they could insult—or use to their advantage. The pecking order of a federal penitentiary was clearly defined and did not offer much opportunity to better your lot in life … particularly among those who were doing life.
Marcks did not have to worry about being ridiculed or intimidated because he was often the perpetrator and never the recipient.
“Fuck you looking at?” Marcks yelled across the room.
The target of his challenge was not, in fact, looking at Marcks; his back was turned and he had to be told that Marcks was talking to him.
The man, Patrick O’Shea, rotated slowly. He was larger than Marcks, both in bone structure and muscle mass. No one had challenged him since he arrived at Potter. As a result, when O’Shea tossed his bar of soap to the floor and advanced on Marcks, all the inmates in the vicinity scattered to the periphery, wanting no part of what was about to transpire.
Marcks stood his ground, nonchalantly tilting his head to the left as O’Shea closed on him. There was nothing that could happen here other than a physical confrontation. Regardless of the reputation of these men, the instigator could not back down and neither could the one who was called out.
“You outta your fuckin’ mind? Or you juss lookin’ for a beatin’?”
Marcks did not hesitate. A quick, hard jab to the jaw landed firmly and O’Shea staggered noticeably. But the larger man recovered his balance immediately and took a long step forward, blocked a hook, and grabbed Marcks by the back of his neck. And then he pounded his right fist into Marcks’s cheek, followed by a crushing blow to his temple.
Marcks’s legs buckled and his eyes rolled back.
O’Shea grabbed Marcks by his thick charcoal gray hair and flung him like a discarded sack of potatoes across the room and into the wall. Marcks stuck his left arm out and, with a resounding thud, broke the impact.
It was nothing, however, compared to the sound his skull made when it hit the tile.
An alarm sounded. Shouts from the approaching guards:
“Break it up!”
“Everyone against the wall!”
Three officers entered, two with their backs to Marcks, facing the prisoners, while the other attended to him as he writhed feebly on the wet floor, moaning as he attempted to get to his knees.
Alarms sounded in the distance, fading off as he dropped in a heap to the cold, blood-slimy tile.
◆◆◆
“HE NEEDS AN MRI. I can set his broken ulna, but there’s no point. They can do that at the hospital. He needs to get there STAT. I’ll ride with him.”
Marcks kept his eyes shut. But he knew that voice well: Sue Olifante, Potter’s nurse practitioner. The doctor, Lester McQuade, or More-or-Less McQuack, as the inmates called him, was off on Saturdays. Rumor had it that he worked for the Bureau of Prisons because he was not good enough to have his own practice and could not secure a position at a clinic anywhere in the country. Once word of that broke, the prisoners did not hesitate to mock him at every opportunity. McQuade took the abuse—because he
had to. And because it was true.
Why any sane person would want to spend his days around dangerous, hardened, violent criminals—the scum of the earth, as he once put it—was clear: because he did not have a choice. Student loans, years in school, mouths to feed at home … Olifante and McQuade were cut from the same grease rag: hacks who could earn a decent salary at Potter, even if it meant spending their days knee deep in the filth.
But Olifante had found a confidante in Roscoe Lee Marcks. Marcks was a good-looking man who knew how to talk to a woman, how to charm her, how to make her do what he wanted. He put such skills to work on Sue Olifante, and to a good end.
“I’ll have the transport van brought around back,” the correctional officer said.
Olifante glanced at the man. “Double time it. He’s hurt real bad and every minute counts. Head trauma’s very serious.”
He ran off. Olifante gathered up a cast-like brace and slipped it over Marcks’s left forearm, then inflated it.
Moments later, three guards appeared with ankle and wrist restraints.
“What do you think you’re doing with that?” Olifante asked, hands on her hips.
“Prisoner’s gotta be secured for transport,” one of the officers said.
“And just how are you going to do that with his fractured ulna? Best I can tell, it’s broken in at least three places.”
The guard moved closer to evaluate the situation.
“I’ve got a compression splint on him,” Olifante said. “The cuffs won’t fit—and even if they did, they’d do permanent damage if they tore the median or ulnar nerves. Just secure his ankles. With this head wound, he probably won’t even regain consciousness.”
“If he escapes,” the young guard said with a shake of his head, “this is gonna come back on me. I got a wife and—”
“You are?”
“Sanders. I’m accompanying the prisoner to the hospital.”
“I’ll be in the van with him, too,” Olifante said. “If he escapes, I’m the first one he’s going to kill. You think I’m suicidal? I’ll be fine. And you’ll be fine, too.” She secured the IV line with tape and checked the drip chamber. “Besides, he’s not going anywhere with this needle in his arm. I’ve got him sedated.”
The Darkness of Evil Page 5
