The Darkness of Evil

by Jacobson, Alan

  “I work here,” Vail said. “Unless you guys voted me off the task force while I was away on vacation.”

  “Not what I meant,” Hurdle said. “Shouldn’t you be at a hospital?”

  Vail sat down at one of the workstations. “You mean because my head’s spinning? I’ll be okay. No time to sit in an ER.”

  “You’re a mess. Your face looks like hell.”

  “Thanks. Not what a woman wants to hear, ever. Remember that, Hurdle, and it’ll save you years of grief when you get married.”

  “I’m divorced.”

  “See what I mean?”

  “Karen—”

  “I’ll get some ice later. It’s just swollen.”

  Hurdle looked at Curtis, who held up a hand. “Already tried talking sense to her, boss.”

  Hurdle took a breath and cocked his head. “Suit yourself. Ramos and Tarkoff are on their way, just ran something down for me. Be here any minute. You should at least drink some water.”

  Vail shrugged. “Okay. Why?”

  “Stop arguing.” He poured her a glass from the refrigerator spout and handed it to her, then pulled out several ice cubes and dropped them in a Ziploc baggie. “Put this on your nose. And your jaw. And your eye.”

  Vail took it and gently pressed it against her skin. “This feels worse.”

  The door swung open and Ramos, Tarkoff, and Morrison entered.

  “Great. Three of you. Grab a seat, let’s get caught up.”

  They gave Vail a pat on the back as they passed her chair.

  “So that Buick,” Ramos said. “It was sold from a used car lot on Fairfax Boulevard in Fairfax. Owner’s Oliver Aldrich. Old guy, pushing ninety-five. Pretty good memory, though. Remembers selling the car to a guy matching Marcks’s description. I showed him the mug shot and yeah, we got a positive ID.”

  “We already knew that, more or less,” Vail said, moving the ice over her swollen jaw.

  “Right,” Ramos said. “Paid a hundred twenty bucks, cash.”

  “Did he seem stressed?” Hurdle asked.

  “Marcks? Not at all.”

  “Took it for a test drive,” Tarkoff said, “if you can believe that.”

  “Marcks took the car for a test drive?” Curtis shook his head. “Jesus. That’s one cool dude. Not a worry in the world.”

  “With me,” Vail said, “he was alert and in control, even when I had the knife against his carotid.” Too bad we didn’t hit a bump. “It’s like he’s steps ahead of us.”

  Hurdle slammed his hand on the table. “Yeah, well, that’s our goddamn fault! We’re not doing our jobs.”

  “All due respect,” Morrison said, “he’s had time to think this through. Years to plan it.”

  “Bullshit. Bottom line is that he’s a felon on the run with limited resources. He’s just more resourceful than we are, apparently.”

  Vail fought off a wave of vertigo and got up from her seat. “I think I should go lie down.”

  “Finally, some common sense,” Hurdle said. “Curtis, drive her home.”

  “I can make it. Just a little dizzy.”

  “So much for common sense.”

  “I don’t want to take any more resources away from the task force. I’ll be fine. I’m not that far. I’ll drive slow.”

  AS SOON AS THE DOOR swung closed, Hurdle’s phone rang. He listened a moment, then said, “Text me the address.”

  He hung up and gestured to Curtis. “You’re with me. They got an ID on the guy we found in Great Falls park. He lives—lived—in Falls Church. They went by his house and found his wife and daughter bound and gagged. They’re at Fairfax Hospital.”

  THEY WAITED AN HOUR until the emergency room physician, David Pryor, came out to speak with them.

  Hurdle badged Pryor and they identified themselves as federal agents on the fugitive task force tracking Roscoe Lee Marcks. That got the man’s attention.

  The doctor swung his stethoscope around the back of his neck. “You think Mrs. Anderson and her daughter know something about Marcks?”

  “That’s why we need to talk with them,” Curtis said. “Might be something they can tell us that’ll help find him. How are they doing?”

  “They came in moderately dehydrated. Another day for the girl and a couple of days for the mother and you wouldn’t have had anyone to interview.”

  “Are they well enough to talk? We’ll keep it short.”

  Pryor made a mark on the chart. “You can talk with Mrs. Anderson. Cassie’s still undergoing treatment. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “We’ll take what we can get,” Hurdle said.

  Pryor led them to a curtained-off area and explained to Victoria who the men were.

  “Thanks, doc,” Curtis said. “We’ll take it from here.” In fact, Curtis and Hurdle had agreed to have Curtis do most of the questioning, since this was his forte and they did not want to overwhelm Victoria.

  “Five minutes is all you get,” Pryor said as he slipped out of the treatment area.

  “Mrs. Anderson, I’m Erik Curtis, this is Lewis Hurdle. We—”

  “Are you the ones looking for my husband?”

  Curtis shot a glance at Hurdle. Apparently no one had done the death notification. But if they told her now, they would likely be unable to question her.

  “No, the Fairfax police are in charge of that. Can we ask you some questions about the man who held you hostage, who … tied up you and your daughter?”

  “He came in through the back door. Nathan wasn’t home yet.”

  “The man who did this to you is Roscoe Lee Marcks, the escaped convict from Potter Correctional. We know that much.”

  “Oh my god. I heard about that. That—that was him? A serial killer?” She shuddered and turned away, looked at the far wall, as if reassessing her contact with him.

  “What did Marcks want?” Hurdle asked.

  Her eyes canted up toward the ceiling. “Money. Jewelry. And our car.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “He took our Mercedes. Nathan’s. It’s one of the S-class models.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “No—no, he was very threatening but he didn’t hurt us. He—he made us drink some medicine. Benadryl.”

  Curtis looked over at Hurdle, who was a foot to his right and slightly behind him—letting Curtis control the conversation. “Sounds like he was drugging them.”

  “Makes sense,” Hurdle said. “Very smart. I’m getting kind of tired of saying that.”

  Pryor walked back in. “Okay, that’s good for today.”

  “Excuse us for a minute,” Curtis said to Victoria, then moved to the corner of the room with Hurdle and Pryor.

  “How long will you be keeping them?” Hurdle asked.

  “Mrs. Turner, another day for observation. Should be able to release her at that time. Cassie—at least one more day, maybe two, depending on how she responds.”

  Curtis leaned in closer and whispered in the doctor’s ear. “Her husband was found murdered. She hasn’t been notified. I think I should do it now, if you think she can handle it.”

  Pryor sighed. “Not ideal, I have to tell you,” he said, matching Curtis’s volume. “Mental state is crucial to recovery. But it’s important for her to know, and it’s probably best to tell her in the hospital, where we can monitor her.”

  Curtis turned around and faced Victoria. To say that this was his least favorite part of the job was an understatement. But he would rather do it with compassion than have some rookie patrol cop dispatched to handle the duties.

  He walked to her bedside and placed a hand on hers. “Victoria, I’ve, uh, I’ve got some news on your husband.”

  She read his face, and in that instant Curtis knew that he did not need to say anything further.

  44

 
Marcks got out of the cab a few blocks from the used car lot. He trudged through the freezing snow, doing his best to keep his balance and avoid slipping on the slick ground. The last thing he needed was to hit his head, lose consciousness, and be taken by ambulance to the hospital. The stupid cops may just get lucky and realize that the guy in the ER was the escaped prisoner they’ve been looking for.

  He arrived a few minutes past six. Oliver was approaching with a key in hand, no doubt to lock up for the evening. But Marcks stepped inside with seconds to spare, the edge of the door nearly catching Oliver in the nose.

  “Looks like I got here just in time.” Marcks stuck out his right hand. “Buddy. Remember me?”

  “Yeah,” he said, his eyes open wide. “I remember you.” He returned a weak shake as his gaze traveled Marcks’s face. He stepped back a few stuttering steps, jawing absentmindedly, his shoulders tense.

  Marcks knew his secret was out: the Buddy cover was not going to work. Had Oliver seen a news report? An FBI bulletin with his photo? Or had Vail or the police connected that old Buick to Oliver’s used car lot?

  He swiveled and took a quick look at the street. No cops. If they had been watching the place he was sure they would have been on him by now.

  However the old man found out, it meant he was going to have to get rid of him. He did not want to have to do that, but Oliver left him no choice.

  “Didn’t ’spect to see you again.”

  “I know, but the Buick you sold me, well, it had a limited useful life. It was real old and we both knew it didn’t have much time left. Served me well, though. Worth every dollar I paid.”

  “What can I do for you?” Oliver asked, his gaze settling on the phone as he turned and walked toward his desk.

  “Well, I need another car.”

  “Uh-huh.” He stood behind his ratty chair, holding the back as it rolled a bit left and right with his shaking hands. “Well, I’m about to close. I was on my way to lock the door. I usually get out of here by 5:45 but I fell asleep at my desk. How’s about you come back tomorrow, 9:00 AM?”

  Marcks pursed his lips, as if he was considering Oliver’s suggestion. “Well, being that I’m here now, and it only takes a few minutes, I sure would appreciate it if we can take care of this right now. I’ll give you a few extra bucks. You’ll be on your way and I’ll have a set of wheels.”

  Oliver jawed his lips but did not reply.

  Marcks studied him a moment. “So the cops paid you a visit, huh? That it?”

  Oliver looked away, shuffled his feet a bit. “They came by, yeah. Said you were dangerous, escaped prison. Seemed angry I sold you a car.”

  “Well, how were you supposed to know?”

  Oliver’s gaze swung back to Marcks. “That’s what I told ’em.”

  “What else did they say?”

  He shrugged. “Just, you know, to let ’em know if I saw you again.”

  “And? You gonna do that?”

  Oliver danced a bit, looked around the room—everywhere but Marcks’s face.

  “I’ll make this easy on you, Oliver. Because you’ve been good to me. You sell me a car and I’ll be on my way. Give me a ten-minute lead. Then, if you see fit to call the cops …” He gave a casual shrug as if it were no big deal. “I’m good with that. You have to do what you have to do. Your civic duty. I get it.”

  “Fought in the war, you know? Killed some Germans. Now them Nazis, they was bad guys. You, you don’t look so bad.”

  Marcks laughed. “Things get blown out of proportion in the news. Half the stuff they say about you isn’t true. The cops exaggerate. Lie. I’m not tellin’ you anything you don’t already know. Now—” He held up a hand and dipped his chin—“I’m no saint, I gotta tell you. But who is?”

  Oliver nodded, his jaw working out the nerves.

  “So why don’t you and me take a walk outside and I’ll pick a car that works for me?”

  “Don’t have no more that cheap. They’re all more expensive.”

  “That’s okay. I brought some more money with me tonight.” He gestured with his left hand, waving Oliver to follow him to the door.

  The man complied and they walked onto the fairly well-lit sales lot. Marcks did not want to stay under the lights too long for fear a passerby would recognize him and call it in. Not to mention the circulating police cars, many of which he was sure were added to a round-the-clock patrol to search for him.

  He ducked his head down and tried to angle his face away from the avenue that fronted Oliver’s Used Cars.

  He grabbed hold of Oliver to prevent him from slipping on the ice that coated the asphalt. “Just trying to keep you from falling. You hit your head at your age, could be fatal.”

  “Need to put salt down, melt this stuff.”

  “You want, I’ll throw some down after I pick out a car.”

  “’Preciate that.” He lumbered along a few feet then asked, “How much you lookin’ to spend?”

  “I need something newer. Leather interior, air-conditioning, traction control. Maybe a Mercedes or BMW.”

  Oliver stopped shuffling and turned stiffly to face Marcks.

  “I’m kidding, Oliver. A guy can dream, right?” He laughed—and got a cigarette-stained smile from the proprietor. “How about a sedan, late 1990s or early 2000s?”

  “You still dreaming? Because you’re talking a lot more money, like two or three thousand. You got that much?”

  “I can spend about three. Show me what you have.”

  Oliver turned left down a row of cars, passed a dark gray Chevrolet Impala and shuffled up to an adjacent Toyota. “Now there’s this here one, or down the next—”

  “This one’s perfect, actually. The Chevy.” It was better than Oliver could know because it was parked in a darker area of the lot, and farther from the avenue. More importantly, the vehicle had tinted windows, which would reduce the risk of being seen—and identified.

  Oliver turned and glanced at the Impala—he knew the price without looking at the sign in the window, which read $3800: a little more than his customer’s budget. “But this is an ’05.”

  “And it’s perfect for my needs.”

  Oliver, either knowing the first rule of sales that you did not try to talk your customer out of a more expensive product, or realizing it would be better not to argue with Marcks, nodded his head and upper body, which moved stiffly, in unison. “Okay.” He reached to the bulging carabiner on his side and selected the correct key and unclipped the quick release. Tried it in the door and it worked. He left it hanging out of the lock and turned to Marcks. “I can give this to you for $3500. Cash price.”

  “That’ll work.”

  He moved behind Oliver, as if he was examining the car, then put his forearm around the man’s neck and pulled, held it firm. Oliver squirmed and grabbed at Marcks’s meaty limb, but a moment later, Oliver lost consciousness and stopped resisting.

  Marcks supported him while he opened the Chevy’s back door and pushed his limp body onto the seat.

  He walked around to the front, turned over the engine, and drove Oliver to the office. After making sure no one was watching, he shut off the dome light and offloaded the body. He carried him to the desk and set him in the chair, Oliver’s head resting on the blotter. He found a length of rope and strung it around the man’s neck, tied it tight.

  He grabbed Oliver’s winter hat, black calfskin on the outside with a lamb’s wool lining and large ear flaps, and pulled it over his own head. Warm, yes, but it also obscured more of his face than the ball cap. And given the temperature, no one would question it.

  Marcks stopped and considered his course of action. If they found Oliver’s body, they would know he had returned and taken another car, then killed him. Maybe Oliver kept an inventory of vehicles. Maybe he didn’t—but Marcks could not take the chance. The cops did, after all,
track the Buick back here, so there were records of ownership somewhere. Of course there were.

  If Oliver had family and reported him missing, it might be a day or two or three. And the police might just think Oliver was scared about Marcks coming back, so he disappeared for a while. That uncertainty was better than his body being found—which if he left him in the office would happen in the morning as soon as the first customer came knocking and saw him through the window, unresponsive at his desk.

  Taking Oliver with him was definitely the better way of going about it.

  Marcks looked around the office and found Oliver’s old cell phone in the bottom of the cash drawer—which contained $900—and shoved both the money and the handset in his pocket. He found the charger dangling from the wall outlet and took that as well.

  Marcks lifted Oliver off the seat and put him in the car. He would find someplace to discard him later tonight, when potentially inquiring eyes were fast asleep.

  Problem solved. All in all, a productive evening.

  But body disposal aside, he was not finished.

  45

  Jesus Christ.” Robby tossed the messenger bag off his shoulder and ran over to Vail, who was sitting on the couch, a gel pack by her side. “What happened?”

  “I got slugged a few times by Roscoe Lee Marcks.”

  “You caught him?”

  Vail chuckled sardonically. “More like he caught me.”

  Robby squinted confusion. “He kidnapped you?”

  She sucked her bottom lip and nodded. “Yep.”

  “Where?”

  “Mason District Police Department parking lot.”

  Robby sat there a long moment staring at her, apparently realized she was serious and said, “How the hell does that happen?”

  “He’s a smart son of a bitch.”

  “Are you okay? Your face—”

  “Is swollen. But it looks redder than it really is because I’ve been icing it.”

  “Did you see a doctor?”

  “No fractures. Mild concussion.” Or maybe two.

  “Headache?”

  “Oh yeah.”