The Darkness of Evil

by Jacobson, Alan

  “Talk to me,” she said as she approached Hurdle.

  “Deceased is a resident of that house,” he said with a nod of his chin west of their location. The gray, snowy sky was darkening, evening approaching rapidly.

  “And that?”

  “That,” Curtis said, “is a barn. It’s also our crime scene.”

  Vail lifted her brow. “Really. Let’s go check it out.”

  “Already seen it,” Hurdle said. “Want me to tell you what I think?”

  “Actually, no. You’re not a homicide investigator.”

  “Neither are you.”

  “I was,” Vail said. “Been there, done that. So, yeah. I know my way around a crime scene.” She snapped on gloves and struggled to pull booties over her wet shoes.

  Hurdle squared his shoulders. “So do I.”

  “Let me back up,” she said, straightening and stamping her foot to reseat her boot. “I want to walk into that barn and see it for myself, without your biases.”

  “My biases?”

  Vail scratched a phantom itch along her right temple. “I don’t want you to interpret things for me. Nothing against you or your investigative skills.”

  Hurdle held up his hands. “Fine. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

  As Vail and Curtis approached the barn, Leslie Johnson emerged, pulling off her rubber gloves as she exited.

  “Hey,” Vail said.

  Johnson gave her a nod. “You might be disappointed.”

  “Is there a dead body in there?”

  “Matter of fact, no.”

  “No?”

  “Like I said, you might be disappointed.”

  “Do we have a body?”

  “We do,” Hurdle said. “Neighbor’s dog dug it up. That’s why Fairfax County PD got called.”

  Johnson handed Vail a flashlight and Vail entered, Curtis right behind her.

  A couple of bare bulbs hanging from the canted ceiling gave off inadequate illumination, but Vail could make out a puddle of what looked like dried blood pooled on the cement, a few feet from a workbench where dozens of tools were mounted on a pegboard.

  Vail shone her beam from left to right, sweeping the area. She stopped and focused on a spot ahead of her, then stepped closer. “Uh, what the hell?”

  Curtis came up beside her. “What?”

  “Blood smear. See?” Vail directed the light to the middle of a crosscut hand saw, its metal surface pocked with rust—and the remnants of dried maroon bodily fluid. She shifted her light a bit farther along the workbench and stopped on a long, round tool. “That’s one nasty gizmo. What the heck is it?”

  It had sharp, saw-like teeth but it was shaped like a screwdriver.

  Curtis tilted his head, sizing it up. “Looks like something you stick into a hole to make it larger, like a reaming tool—but with a lot more teeth. Not sure what it is, but it makes for one wicked weapon.”

  She examined it and then turned to Hurdle. “Let’s get the crime scene tech back in here, make sure she got some good photos of these bloody tools.”

  He nodded and whistled.

  “Time of death?”

  “Sometime this morning.”

  Vail turned and looked at the blood stain on the ground. “So I’m thinking he stabbed the victim with that long—whatever the hell it is—and killed him here. Then he moved the body.”

  “Who lived here?” Curtis asked. “Do we know who the vic is?”

  “William Reynolds, seventy-three,” Johnson said, reentering the barn. “Wife died last year. Lived alone.”

  “And why were we called?” Vail asked. “I mean, why did they assume Marcks is the offender?”

  “Simple,” Hurdle said. “We’re notified of any violent crime in the region. With an escaped fugitive on the loose, let alone a murderer, the first assumption is it’s related to our case.”

  Makes sense.

  “There was also a report of someone matching his description here last night.”

  Vail drew her chin back. “Wasn’t it checked out?”

  “Cruiser came by.” Hurdle chuckled. “But the officer didn’t look in the barn.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “What can I say? He knocked on the door of the house, looked around, didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, walked the grounds, then left. They screwed up.”

  You think? Vail sighed. “I’ve seen it before. It happens. But it’s always a head shaker.”

  “Did he take Reynolds’s car?” Curtis asked.

  “There’s an old ’69 Dodge registered to him and it’s still in the driveway.”

  “That’s interesting,” Hurdle said.

  “Maybe.” Vail gave a glance around the barn interior. “I was Marcks, I’d think twice about taking Reynolds’s car because it’s a unique year and model and people in these parts know it’s his. If they see a strange person driving it, they call Reynolds, don’t get an answer, maybe stop by and see the blood.”

  “Riskier to flag down a hitchhiker,” Johnson said.

  Probably true.

  Vail gave a final look around, her gaze settling on the pooled blood. So he stabbed Reynolds right here. She glanced back at the saw, then let her gaze drift a few feet to the left where a shovel leaned against the back wall. Oh, shit. Don’t tell me. “Where’s the body?”

  “Well,” Hurdle said, “I used the term ‘body’ loosely because—”

  “He cut it up, didn’t he?” Vail pulled her eyes away from the rusty tool.

  Hurdle shoved both hands in his pockets. “He did.”

  “Didn’t want it found,” Curtis said. “Ever.”

  “So much for the best laid plans of men.” Vail shook her head.

  “You wanna see the body parts?” Hurdle asked. “You know, so you can form your own opinions. Without bias.”

  Smartass. “Let’s go take a look.”

  Hurdle lifted his brow. “Detective, what about you?”

  “I’m good,” Curtis said.

  “I got this.” Johnson gestured with her chin. “Follow me.”

  Johnson led the way out back, trudging through the snow, which was still falling—though it had slowed to a flurry.

  “You sure you want to see this? Or has the marshal gotten under your skin?” She glanced at Vail and flashed a wide smile.

  Vail shared the laugh. “You know me too well, Leslie. Posturing aside, though, still a good idea to take a look.”

  They walked up to a temporary tent where three crime scene technicians were kneeling over a shallow grave, bright Klieg lights flooding the area.

  Vail stepped up and introduced herself. “Find anything unusual?”

  The lead crime scene detective was working with a grid, taking a photo of what looked like a hand. “You mean other than a hacked up body buried behind a barn?”

  Okay, I deserved that. “Yeah. Other than that.”

  “He knew what he was doing. Cut through the joints. Shoulder, knee, hip.”

  “But why? I mean, what if someone sees him hacking away at the body?”

  “We have to take a better look around tomorrow,” Johnson said, “when we’ve got some daylight. He probably cut the body up somewhere safe, where no one would see. Maybe inside the barn.”

  “Fair enough. He probably enjoyed doing it, too. He’s been under extreme stress since the escape. Could’ve been a pressure release valve for him.”

  Upon returning to the barn, Ray Ramos was there with Travis Walters and Jim Morrison.

  Hurdle peered around Morrison when the door opened and found Vail. “I told them all to get their tails over here rather than sitting in the command center by themselves. We’ll go through some things, then break for the night.”

  “I gave them all a quick and dirty rundown of what we’re dealing
with here,” Curtis said.

  “You get some good impressions?” Hurdle asked.

  “I did,” Vail said. “Body parts were severed at the joints, which was unnecessary. He could’ve buried a whole body just as well as one in pieces.”

  “Easier to dig a smaller hole,” Ramos said.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Vail said. “I’m no carpenter, but I’m pretty sure it takes a lot longer to use a wood saw to cut up a body than it does to dig a larger grave.”

  “Affirmative,” Walters said. “I dabble in my spare time. With woodworking.”

  I didn’t think you dabbled with severed body parts.

  “But not only did he have to dig a hole,” Ramos said, “he had to dig a hole in frozen ground—after he cleared the snow away. A smaller hole makes sense.”

  “All true,” Walters said. “But it’s still easier than sawing through multiple joints.”

  “Either way,” Vail said, “he was taking a big chance. He had to stick around a substantial amount of time to dig the hole or sever the limbs—which is extremely messy and a lot of effort. Even if he did the cutting in a place where he wouldn’t be seen, it’s still taking a huge, unnecessary risk. It’d fit a smaller grave, yeah, but cutting it up doesn’t make it harder to find.”

  “Meaning what?” Morrison asked.

  “Meaning that this could be significant. If this was a new case where I didn’t know the killer, I’d say this is part of his ritual. But we know who this offender is. I’m not talking about identity but his psychological basis for the behavior he engages in.”

  “And?” Hurdle said.

  “And I can’t say this makes a lot of sense. It would if it fit the ritual we’ve seen in his past murders. But it doesn’t.”

  “So how do you explain it?”

  Vail thought about that a moment. “This wasn’t a typical victim. If I had to guess on the sequence of events, he was cold and hungry and tired. He came upon the house, saw the barn, and figured he’d take the path of least resistance. Spend the night there, keep out of sight, then in the morning stake out the house, wait for the owner to leave, then break in and get some food, maybe take a shower and get a change of clothes. Cash, if there was any in the house. If he was lucky, a firearm.

  “But William Reynolds needed something in the barn and found Marcks sleeping.”

  “How do you know he was sleeping?” Walters asked.

  “I don’t. But if he wasn’t sleeping, he probably wouldn’t have still been in the barn. And based on the blood here, our vic was killed in the barn, not in the house.”

  “Your point?” Ramos asked.

  “Just that this wasn’t a planned kill. Probably the opposite. It was one of necessity. Once Reynolds stumbled onto Marcks, he was a goner. Marcks couldn’t take a chance on Reynolds blabbering about his whereabouts.”

  “I thought this guy was smart,” Morrison said.

  “He is. But even smart criminals make mistakes. Just like smart cops make mistakes. And he’s been on the run in the dead of winter—in a snowstorm. He’s tired and hungry and he might not be thinking clearly. So he saw the tools and went to town on the body.”

  “He does have a history of cutting,” Curtis said. “He just took it further this time.”

  “Okay,” Hurdle said. “So we know Marcks was here last night and this morning. Anyone else have new information?”

  “We do,” Curtis said. “Karen and I tracked down one of his buddies, Vincent Stuckey. He’s been in contact with Marcks but nothing that’s gonna help us. Stuckey’s a little slow, so we don’t have a problem with the veracity of the information he gave us.”

  “Slow,” Morrison said. “As in …”

  “As in his bulb ain’t too bright.”

  “He suffered a GSW to the head when he was a teenager,” Vail said. “And that brings us to an incident with Marcks back when they were fourteen. Turns out Marcks’s first murder was potentially involuntary manslaughter if you believe the lone witness—which was his friend, another guy we’ve gotta look into. Lance Kubiak.”

  “Kubiak,” Ramos said. “You sure of that?”

  Vail glanced at Curtis, who nodded. “Yeah. Lance Kubiak. He was a childhood friend of Marcks. Kubiak, Marcks, and Stuckey were supposedly hanging out, getting high, when this loner comes up to them, a kid they knew. Name was Eddie. He brought a gun to the gathering and Marcks and Eddie got into it, the gun went off, killed Eddie and wounded Stuckey. No charges were brought.”

  Ramos had his pocket spiral notebook out and was flipping the pages. “Kubiak. Lance Kubiak.”

  “Like I said. Yeah. Why?”

  “Because Lance Kubiak also happens to be the name of a correctional officer at Potter.”

  23

  Marcks stood in the backyard, which was well shielded from surrounding homes by dense trees and hedges. Even in winter, they provided more than adequate concealment.

  He inched over to the back door and looked through the large picture window: leather sofas, stone flooring of some kind, indirect lighting that shone up toward the ceiling rather than down toward the floor.

  A redhead, thirties, attractive, with a substantial diamond ring and matching tennis bracelet, flitted by. She was rushing about the kitchen putting together a snack of some sort as the child, maybe four or five, sat in front of a flat-panel television that filled the wall opposite the couch.

  They had plasma TVs before he went away to prison, but nothing this big, this bright. He would not mind spending a few nights in this place. He would have to see how things transpired in the next hour or so to determine if that was feasible.

  Marcks tried the doorknob, to no avail. He had learned a long time ago to always check because you never knew; people were funny that way, thinking that for some reason it was safe to leave their houses unlocked—while others just could not be bothered or did not give it a second thought.

  No matter; it just made the intrusion a little bit tougher. One of his former cellmates, Orlando, schooled him in the best way to approach such a situation. He could have pulled it off without Orlando’s tips, but why not learn from someone who had experience? Of course he asked Orlando, not so tactfully, if the reason for his ending up in the slammer was from a failed home invasion. It was not, so he felt confident that the counsel Orlando was meting out was solid.

  Marcks checked the door one last time, evaluating it like his former roommate had described. Then he kicked it in, using just the right amount of pressure to pop the lock. Do it wrong and you could injure your knee and ankle, and he wanted no part of that.

  The noise from the TV partially masked the bang. He was careful not to let the door swing open so hard that it struck something on the rebound and shattered the glass. That was sure to attract attention.

  The woman turned, locked eyes with Marcks—and froze. Her body recoiled in fear, shoulders drawing forward, hands coming out in front of her—as if that would stop him.

  She opened her mouth to scream, but Marcks was prepared. And faster. He leaped forward and clamped his large hand down on her fine-boned face.

  “No need to make noise,” he said calmly into her ear. “I’m not going to hurt you or your daughter. If you cooperate and do what I tell you to do. The opposite’s true, too. Do anything that puts me in a bad way and I’ll kill you both and worry about the consequences later. It’s survival instinct, understand?” He leaned back, appraised her face. She was terrified, eyes glazed and straining left, trying to see her little girl. “Nod if you understand everything I just told you. No noise, no problems for me, you and your daughter live. Got it?”

  She nodded vigorously, indicating that she had a grasp of the situation.

  “I’m going to let go of your mouth. Tell me your name. Calmly. And quietly.” He glanced over at the girl; she was still engrossed in her cartoon. It was an animated sh
ow featuring animals. Now there’s a unique concept. “Here we go,” he said as he released the pressure on her face.

  “Victoria,” she whispered.

  “Good, Victoria.” Orlando had told him to use their names as much as possible. “And your girl’s?”

  “Cassie.”

  “Very nice. I like Cassie. Now, in a minute you’re going to introduce me to her as a guest and tell her that she should make me feel welcome. Got it?”

  Victoria nodded.

  “When’s your husband due home?”

  Victoria’s gaze went wild: up, down, left, right. Orlando had told him to always read the eyes because they held the key to what the person was thinking.

  “No, no, no, Victoria. A lie will only piss me off.” He clenched his jaw. “And I’m getting kind of angry even entertaining the thought that you’d think of lying to me.” He left his fury exposed, using it to show her that he could turn on her at any second. It was just like training a dog. Do as I say and I’ll give you a treat. But do something bad, pee in the house, and you’ll be very, very sorry.

  He pointed his finger at her, put it right in her face, inches away from her eyes. “Tell me truthfully. When’s your husband due home?”

  “In—in—what time is it?” She blurted it and Cassie turned, perhaps thinking that her mother was asking her the question.

  “Now, Victoria,” he said under his breath. “I’m a guest. Tell her.”

  Victoria tried to make her face smile. “Cassie, honey, we have a guest. He’s come by for … for dinner. Let’s make him feel at home, okay?”

  Cassie slid off the couch and walked into the kitchen. She leaned against her mother’s right leg and wrapped her arm around her thigh, sizing up Marcks. “What’s your name?”

  “It’s Lee. Nice to meet you.”

  Her gaze drifted around his body and face. He had not showered and his clothing did not fit well, so he probably looked a bit ragged.

  He did as Orlando suggested: forge ahead, not allow them any time to think.

  “So how old are you, Cassie?” He let his voice rise and fall like he did with Jasmine when she was young. Regardless of what she said about him, he treated her well.