The Darkness of Evil

by Jacobson, Alan

  “We’ve got choppers up flying routes around and near the daughter’s house,” Hurdle said, “since we know Marcks was there when he killed Greeling. But that’s not gonna continue 24/7 with a spotlight and thermal imaging equipment running one or two grand an hour. Not to mention that Marcks was probably long gone before we even arrived on-scene.”

  Hurdle stole a look at the time, which was spelled out in a red LED display above the computer workstations.

  Vail’s eyes ticked over as well and she cursed under her breath. She was late.

  “Everyone get some dinner and be back here at 10:00 PM sharp. I’ll hand out assignments and we’ll get started. Vail thinks he’s gonna kill again. I think she’s right. We’re a little handcuffed at night, but we can at least get organized so we can hit the ground running once the day starts. Keep your phones on and always nearby. I don’t want to hear any excuses about not getting my texts.”

  Everyone got up and started shuffling awkwardly toward the door, slowed by the cramped quarters. Morrison had trouble with the handle but ultimately got it open, and they filed out into the frigid, damp night air.

  “Where you headed?” Hurdle called after Vail.

  “Home. I’ve got dinner guests and I’m already late.”

  “Just be back on time.”

  “Yes sir,” Vail said as she walked briskly toward her car. “Heard you the first time.”

  13

  Vail phoned Jasmine the moment she got into her car. The seat was cold and the steering wheel was colder. Snow was predicted, but she hoped it would fizzle out.

  “You okay?” Vail asked as she pulled out of the police department parking lot.

  “I’m fine,” Jasmine said. “A little rattled—check that, a lot rattled—but I’m holding up.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Safe. Which is more than I can say about being in my home. You told me I’d be okay there.”

  “I thought with the cop posted … we figured that if the guy wanted to hurt you the first time, he could have. Curtis thought he was just trying to scare you. I agreed.”

  “Well, I don’t think the cop who was lying there dead on the side of the house would agree with that analysis.”

  Probably not.

  “So you’re not going to tell me where you are.”

  Jasmine hesitated. “I think it’s best no one knows. Besides, I’ll be moving around. Just in case.”

  “You need me to pick up some stuff from your house? Clothes?”

  “That’d be great. I figured I’d just have to go shopping. I’ve got a suitcase in the hall closet.”

  “I take it you heard the news,” Vail said as she navigated a turn on the dark street and accelerated.

  “About my father? Once I saw that deputy lying there, I knew. That’s why I’m not telling anyone where I am. And now that my father knows I’m not at my house, he won’t be going back there. I’m still gonna stay away, though. Who knows if he’s got someone keeping an eye out for me.”

  “Why do you think he knows you’re not there?”

  “Because he’s smart. And because he knows me. And because he probably saw me drive away—or he searched the house and knew I’d left. It’s the only logical conclusion. Cops have an officer stationed there to protect me, so I’m going to be there, right? He kills the cop and searches the house but I’m not there. Obviously I left when I realized something was wrong. Thank God for that neighbor. If she hadn’t found the body and screamed, I probably would’ve ended up like that cop.”

  No one knows that better than me. “I don’t know what more I could’ve done, but I’m sorry you had to go through that. And I’m relieved you got away.”

  “What’s being done to find him?”

  “Don’t worry about that. We’re working on it. Actually, a whole task force is working on it. Law enforcement is deployed all across the state.” She glanced in her mirror.

  No headlights. No one’s following me. Jesus, Karen. Why would anyone be following you? This whole business with Marcks and the task force and Jasmine’s paranoia—although well deserved—had spooked her. Not an easy thing to do.

  “Let’s meet tomorrow. I need to go through some things with you about your dad, things that may help us find him. And I’ll go by your place on the way. Okay? A quick breakfast. My treat.”

  “Only if you make sure you’re not followed. Can you do that?”

  “I’ve got some experience with that, yeah. Text me the time and location and I’ll be there.”

  14

  The Virginia winter was proving more brutal than Roscoe Lee Marcks had remembered. The sweaters and knit shirts that he had pilfered from a house owned by the Jensen family somewhere along the way between Strasburg and Cub Run had reached the limits of their insulating capacity.

  The bottle of foundation he found in the wife’s bathroom drawer helped cover some of the bruising on his face, while the car he had taken from the Jensens’ garage—though nothing special—was proving useful. He had parked it a mile down the road in an area not visible from the street to prevent the cops from finding it and proceeded on foot in search of shelter. He had to stay hydrated and fed, and avoid the extreme overnight cold.

  The flashlight he borrowed from the Jensens’ kitchen, however, was not as serviceable. It was the type that used an old incandescent bulb, which produced a pathetically dim beam that had diminished significantly in the past fifteen minutes. Its yellow hue covered only a few feet in front of him.

  However, at some point this afternoon, he lost the cell phone Sue Olifante had bought him. He had made the calls he needed to, so it was not a tragedy, but having it would have made life easier. Where it was, he had no idea—it could be somewhere along the side of a rural road or buried in a snowdrift where he had stopped to take a piss. He knew that in the hands of law enforcement—if they figured out it was his—it would provide them with some insight as to who he had contacted … and how to apprehend him. He hoped it would remain where he had left it, untouched.

  But of course he could not take a chance. He had to alter his approach.

  It was merely another obstacle he would have to overcome. Hell, he had escaped a maximum-security facility. Whatever lay ahead might be considered infinitely easier.

  He now trudged along in a rustic, forested area that was dotted with occasional homes. Some two dozen yards in the distance, illuminated slightly by the faint moonlight that made its way through the barren tree branches, was a clapboard house and, more importantly, what looked like a large detached shed. A bedroom with a mattress, running water, and toilet was unquestionably better—and he had no compunction about doing what was necessary to the home’s inhabitants—but the fewer breadcrumbs he left in his wake, the better. He could hide in the shed, get some sleep, and map out a plan of action in the morning.

  The problem he had now—how to find Jasmine—was at the crux of all he had to solve. Everything else was a matter of survival … though he had to stop and take a deep breath of chilled air from time to time, smell the flowers, enjoy his freedom for as long as it lasted.

  If he was careful, and a little bit lucky, he would have the luxury of taking his time working his way to Canada. Or Mexico. He would have to think on that. He had originally figured he would go south, to get out of the cold. But that was perhaps too obvious. He had to start thinking with a contrarian point of view … do the opposite of what he should, or would, do.

  After what he had done—especially after what he had done—the authorities would be looking for him en masse. Like death and taxes, that much was a given.

  As he approached the shed, he could see it was more like a small barn—and the main house was larger than he had thought. He broke the rusted lock and pulled open the wooden door only enough to slide his body inside.

  He winced at the creak of the hinge as he drew
it closed behind him.

  There was equipment of all kinds from what he could tell. Although there was a light switch on the wall where he had entered, he would not dare turn it on.

  The homeowner was a handy guy, it seemed: he had an extensive assortment of tools mounted neatly on pegboards, with workbenches, drill presses, ladders … and a variety of power saws.

  Marcks gathered up an old tarpaulin, scattered straw, and rags he had found in a lawn bag by the door. As he assembled his bed, the cold now penetrating down to the bone, he tried to think of a way to get close to Jasmine.

  First he had to find her. He was sure she would not go back to her house. He knew she had left her old job. But where did she work now? He had no idea.

  That presented a problem. Just as he began to feel like he was looking for a needle in a haystack—appropriate given where he was—he hit on an idea.

  Yes, he thought. That’ll definitely work …

  15

  Vail arrived home thirty minutes late. After hanging up with Jasmine she called Robby and apologized, then told him she was en route. He took it in stride and was not surprised.

  She ran into the house, looking frazzled, as if she had just come from a crime scene—which was not far from the truth.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  Aside from Jonathan and Robby, DEA Special Agent Richard Prati and his son Ryan were seated in the family room. She stepped around the ottoman and stretched to shake their hands when Hershey pushed his way in to greet her. They all laughed as she cuddled his head in her left palm while extending her right toward Prati.

  “Good to see you again, Karen. Working a case?”

  “You heard about the escape of Roscoe Lee Marcks?”

  “It’s all over the news,” Prati said.

  “That’s mine. Working on a Marshals’ fugitive task force.” She turned to the nineteen-year-old. “Ryan, good to meet you.”

  “Same here, Agent Vail.”

  “Karen, please.” She leaned left and gave Jonathan a kiss on the cheek. “How are you, sweetie?”

  “Good. Just found out Ryan’s a Beta.”

  Vail straightened up. “You pledged Beta too? What school are you at?”

  “University of Florida. I’m in for a quick visit to see my parents, then it’s back at it.”

  “I’m going to check on dinner,” Robby said. “Let’s go take a seat at the table.”

  As they gathered up their drinks and walked into the dining room—which was meticulously set—Thank you, Robby—Vail asked, “What’s your major?”

  Prati laughed. “Ryan has some pretty career-specific plans.”

  “Following in your dad’s footsteps?”

  “In a way. I’m going to join the Navy, see if I can hook on with the SEALs.”

  “That’s a pretty demanding program. I know some former Special Forces guys if you want to talk to them. I’m sure I can get one or two to sit down with you.”

  “That’d be cool.”

  Prati placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Ryan’s already a certified advanced SCUBA diver, lettered in track, swimming, cross-country, wrestling, and lacrosse.”

  “You’re kidding,” Vail said.

  Robby poked his head out of the kitchen. “Actually, he’s not kidding. That’s one impressive young man.”

  “No shit.”

  “He’s also a licensed sky diver—”

  “Dad,” Ryan said. “They get the picture.”

  “I have the utmost respect for Special Forces,” Vail said.

  Robby stepped in carrying a steaming tureen and gave her a look.

  Okay, fine. I better shut up. I’m not supposed to talk about that stuff. “Jonathan’s taking fencing,” she said, changing the subject.

  “Really?” Jonathan asked mockingly. “I’m taking a class in fencing? That’s supposed to be impressive?”

  “Hey,” Robby said. “Don’t sell yourself short.” He elbowed Ryan. “Jonathan’s very good.”

  “It’s something I’ve wanted to learn,” Ryan said. “You like it?”

  “You need a lot of lower body and core strength—obviously that wouldn’t be a problem for you—and like any sport you’ve really got to practice a lot to be good. Things happen very fast, so you’re reacting instinctively rather than thinking. The more you do it, the better prepared you are to respond. If you’ve got to take a split second to think, you’re done.”

  Ryan was nodding. “Definitely would like to get into that.”

  “And how are things with DEA?” Vail asked as she took the casserole from Robby and set it in the center of the table.

  “Never a dull moment,” Prati said. “I’m sure Robby can attest to that.”

  “No kidding. Law enforcement’s a tough career for a family.” She picked up the bottle of wine and began refilling Prati’s and Robby’s glasses, then poured one for herself. “Between his work with DEA and mine with the Bureau, we have to work to make time for each other.”

  “And I can attest to that,” Jonathan said. “Like today.”

  Vail blushed. “Sorry, sweetie. Not how I envisioned it going. But I really had no choice.” She turned to Prati. “I was giving a talk to one of Jonathan’s criminal justice classes when all hell broke loose. Marcks escaped, a police officer who was guarding his daughter was murdered—and both calls came through at the same time … about a minute or two into my talk.” She placed a hand on Jonathan’s. “We’ll get it rescheduled, I promise.”

  He grinned slyly. “It was kind of cool, actually.”

  “Cool?” Robby asked as he set bowls of broccolini, sautéed spinach, and kale/beet salad on the table.

  “Everyone could kind of figure out there was something serious going down. It was a bit dramatic. Especially when you dropped the F-bomb in front of the class.”

  Robby covered his eyes and shook his head.

  “It sounds worse than it was,” Vail said, giving Jonathan a disapproving glance. “Everybody, eat up.” She started passing around the dishes and unfurled her napkin. “Robby tells me you guys went to the same college in LA?”

  Prati swirled his wine glass. “When he called me to help you out on that domestic bombing case a couple of months ago, I googled him, just to see who I was dealing with. I realized we both went to UCLA. A few years apart, but we had some of the same classes. And instructors.”

  “From there you went into the DEA?”

  “My degree was in chemical engineering. Then I did an internship with Dow and realized I didn’t want a career in corporate or research work. Too boring for my taste. But someone at Dow mentioned there was a need for chemists in law enforcement.” Prati set a spoonful of broccolini on his plate. “Started out with Florida Department of Law Enforcement, then hooked on with ATF.”

  “ATF,” Vail said. “Impressive. What’s the hire rate, 5 percent of applicants?”

  “I think it’s even lower. No question I was fortunate. The six years I spent with them was an important six years. Learned a hell of a lot about arson, explosives, firearms trafficking—and the criminal elements that play in those sandboxes. The most eye-opening experience was the training I got at the fire research lab in Beltsville.”

  “What’s a fire research lab?” Jonathan asked.

  Prati chuckled. “A place where people go to play with fire. Seriously, it’s a huge facility dedicated to the study of fire. Fire scientists use every imaginable piece of high-tech instrumentation to measure heat release rate, burn rate, something called heat flux, and a bunch of other things important in forensic reconstruction of fire-related crimes. Only one like it in the world. They even construct actual buildings and re-create an arson scene that they videotape to demonstrate burn patterns for investigation and court testimony.”

  “I’d love to check that out,” Robby said. />
  “I can probably get you a tour. Just stay away from the dead pigs.”

  “Is that a joke?” Vail asked.

  Prati laughed. “Pigs have the same makeup of skin, fat content, and body mass as we do, so the scientists use them to simulate the burning of a human body. Those studies helped me break the last case I worked for ATF. A string of arsons that ultimately turned out to be crime concealment fires.”

  “We’ve got one of those right now at the BAU,” Vail said.

  “They can be tough, especially if the arsonist is good.”

  “Still getting info on the other crime scenes but it definitely looks serial.”

  “Can you pass the chicken?” Robby asked. “Which case is this?”

  Vail lifted the serving dish to her left and handed it to him. “Not one of mine. It’s Art Rooney’s. But we’ve got those Wednesday presentations where we put our heads together, help each other out.”

  “I’ll have some of that, too,” Jonathan said, receiving the platter from Robby. “I assume a crime concealment fire is what it sounds like?”

  “Pretty much,” Prati said. “Killer sets fires to cover his tracks. It’s a way to destroy any evidence they inadvertently left behind. Like if they touched things without realizing it. This way, they get rid of everything and don’t have to worry about it.”

  “But they have to know a fire like that will attract attention,” Ryan said. “Obviously the fire department’s gonna be all over it.”

  “And the police,” Prati said, “if not the ATF. But they’re figuring that whatever evidence they’ve left behind linking them to the crime will be destroyed.”

  “And if they’ve killed someone,” Vail said, “they’re hoping they’ve completely removed the ability for investigators to determine that it’s even a homicide. No body, you can’t even be sure the person in question was home at the time.”

  Prati finished chewing and pointed his fork at Vail. “Yeah, but arson investigators are really sharp. They find all kinds of stuff the offender has no idea these guys can find. They can usually tell it’s an arson.”