The Darkness of Evil

by Jacobson, Alan

  Vail sat back. “No.”

  “Have they ever protected a victim from a serial killer?”

  “Their specialty is witness protection.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Well,” Vail said, “not to my knowledge, but—”

  “I’m not a witness who’s waiting to testify. My father isn’t your ordinary criminal, some mafia thug who pulls out a submachine gun or sets off a bomb. So this is different on just about every level.” She turned to Robby. “You’re a federal agent. Tell me what you think I should do.”

  Robby glanced at Vail in mid-chew, a flick of the eyes to tell her she had better bail him out.

  “I don’t think we should put Robby in the middle of this.”

  “What exactly does that mean?” Jasmine asked as the waiter brought the lamb and naan and set them by the edge of the small table.

  Robby swallowed. “It means that I think you should listen to Karen. No one understands the criminal mind better than she does. No one understands a serial killer’s mind better than she does. So if she tells you that staying in a safe house guarded by US Marshals is the way to go, that’s what you should do.”

  Jasmine looked at him a long moment.

  Robby broke her gaze and started dishing out the lamb. “This smells great.”

  “You’re just saying that,” Jasmine said. “Because you have to. I can tell.”

  “If I had a witness like you and it was my case,” Robby said, “that’s the advice I’d give her.”

  “And if it were you? Or Karen?”

  “Different. And irrelevant. We’re trained law enforcement officers.”

  Jasmine did not say anything further about it—nor did Vail.

  And if she was not going to accept protection, that meant Vail needed to put the tracker in Jasmine’s purse at some point fairly soon—without her noticing. I should’ve given it to Robby, then asked her to go to the bathroom with me.

  Vail thought of slipping it to him under the table, but if Jasmine—whose powers of observation were sharp in her heightened state—happened to notice her secretly passing something to him, she would become suspicious. And if she discovered it was a device meant to report on her location, she might never talk to Vail again—even if the tracker was meant for her benefit.

  Vail thought about lovingly taking Robby’s hand and placing the microchip in his palm. But it was small and if he was not expecting it and dropped it … Shit.

  Robby checked his watch. “Almost lost track of time.”

  “Yeah,” Vail said, “I know. The night’s flying by. But that was yummy. Great picks, Jas.” She folded her napkin and set it on the table. “I’ve gotta use the little girl’s room.” Maybe if she sees me go, she’ll think of following. If I can get back to the table before she does …

  But Jasmine did not bite. She stayed at the table, chatting away with Robby.

  When Vail returned, Robby had already signed the credit card bill. Jesus, that was fast. Panic crept into her chest; her heart rate increased and she cursed herself for not thinking it through better. Then again, she had a concussion. She had to cut herself some slack. Since when?

  “Thanks for dinner,” Jasmine said. “And thanks for your help, Karen. And for caring. I know you mean well. I just think I’m better equipped to handle this than you give me credit for.”

  “I get it. I’ll back off. I’ve said what needed to be said. I just … I came face-to-face with your father today and honestly, if it was you instead of me, you wouldn’t be here to talk about it.” She looked deep into Jasmine’s eyes and let the comment penetrate.

  Jasmine twisted her lips and gathered up her jacket and purse. “Obviously, I hope you’re wrong about that.”

  “Here,” Robby said, “let me help you on with your jacket.”

  Vail reached out and Jasmine instinctively handed her the purse as Robby held out the coat and Jasmine slipped her right arm into the sleeve. But Robby had squeezed the material in his fist and her hand got stuck.

  “Oh, hang on. Sorry. I—” He shook the material and then guided her fingers into the opening. “There you go.”

  She shrugged it into position and buttoned it as they walked to the exit. They hugged and Jasmine promised to reply when Vail texted or called her.

  As she got into a cab, Robby turned to Vail. “Did you do it?”

  “I did. Thank you—that was quick thinking. I didn’t plan it out very well.”

  “It’s okay. I saved the day.”

  Vail stood on her tiptoes and gave him a kiss. “Yes, you did.”

  47

  Marcks sat in the dark sedan, wanting to turn on the radio but preferring not to risk running the battery down on a frigid evening. He did not know how much life it had left and the fewer people he had contact with, the better: even a tow truck driver responding to a jump-start call could identify him.

  So he chose quiet solitude, moving his feet and pumping his calves to keep the blood flowing. While he was tired and cold and hungry, he tried to keep it in perspective. He was free, calling his own shots, and directing his own destiny—and that was worth cherishing.

  Earlier in the evening, while parked down the block from Vail’s house, Marcks had seen her husband pull into the driveway—and ten minutes later they were back in his vehicle, headed into DC.

  That he and Vail were meeting Jasmine was an unexpected bonus. It was what he had been hoping—and planning—for because he had no other way of finding her. What’s more, the timing could not have been better: the darkness would serve as an accomplice to what he intended to do.

  Now, as his buttocks began to go numb, Jasmine exited the restaurant, followed by Vail and her husband. When Jasmine climbed into the back of the taxi, Marcks started the Impala’s engine and pulled the gearshift into “drive” as the cab pulled out onto M Street.

  The sedan continued on to an area in the outskirts of the city, passing alongside the Potomac on the George Washington Memorial Parkway and into Alexandria. Snow started falling again and he switched on his wipers.

  Marcks grew increasingly cautious, as the longer he spent on the road following the taxi the greater the likelihood that the driver would notice and mention it to his passenger. Or he would keep looking in the rearview mirror, which his daughter would inevitably note. She was sharp, like her mother. Too sharp for her own good.

  As the area turned residential, Marcks began to wonder if he should break off pursuit and think of some other way of finding out where she was staying. But how would he go about locating her when he could not risk contact with anyone?

  Just as he pulled the Chevy against the curb, the taxi stopped and let Jasmine off. She glanced around and then continued on foot, plodding through the snow.

  After watching Jasmine trudge along for another block, Marcks wondered aloud what the hell she was doing. Why did she get out of the car? Was she short on money and had to walk the rest of the distance? In this biting cold? In the snow? On the ice? No decent cabbie would let a woman off at night, in this weather, just to save a few bucks.

  Maybe she got out so no one would know where she lived—not even the taxi driver. A bit extreme … but then again, she had to know he would keep coming after her until he found her—and killed her. Viewed that way, it made perfect sense.

  He pulled back into the street and drove slowly after her. But how long could he follow her at a low speed before she caught on? Jasmine would notice such a thing.

  Just as he was mulling that question, Jasmine stopped. She turned and faced him. And she knew. She took off running, slipping and trying to stay on her feet, then turned right down a side street.

  Marcks accelerated, then swerved around the corner and slammed his wheels against the curb. He cut the lights and engine and got out, running after her, falling twice but getting to his fee
t and keeping a bead on her. In fact, he was gaining. He was taller than she was, so his strides covered more ground than hers.

  The residential area was relatively dark and because of the snow and cold, no one was out. At nearly 10:00 PM, many were no doubt already asleep.

  He pushed the last fifteen yards and tackled her, brought her down hard. She tried to scream but he got his large hand around her mouth. She kicked and squirmed, the slippery snow making it harder on both of them: neither could get enough purchase to gain significant leverage.

  But his right knee suddenly slid out from under him and Jasmine landed a direct blow to his groin. It took his breath away and he sprawled facedown, snow infiltrating his mouth and nostrils.

  Marcks groaned and struggled to his feet—but Jasmine was already running away, awkwardly slipping and sliding, going fast enough that he knew she was going to get away before he would be able to give pursuit.

  He dropped to his knees and waited for the pain to subside, then hobbled back to his car and drove away.

  48

  The next morning, with snow flurries continuing to fall, Vail awoke to an improving but persistent headache.

  She called Richard Prati and asked if he had time to answer a few questions about the arsons they had previously discussed. He agreed to meet her near the National Counterterrorism Center in McLean, Virginia, in half an hour—which was perfect, because Vail was only ten miles away.

  While en route, a thought occurred to her. She called Robby and he answered immediately.

  “Everything okay?”

  “The car. I may’ve seen it parked out front.”

  “What car? What are you talking about?”

  “The raccoon. We looked out the window, I saw an old car. But it was down the street, behind a truck. It may’ve been the one Marcks was driving when he grabbed me. What if it was him? He’d know where we live.”

  “How would he figure that out? I mean, that information isn’t secret but—”

  “If you know what you’re doing online, twenty-five bucks can get you access to county records.”

  “Yeah, but he was imprisoned, what, seven years ago? He probably doesn’t know you can do that.”

  “Wait—there’s an even easier way. He knows I work at the BAU. Assuming he can find a listing for it—it’s probably out there somewhere—he goes there and waits for me.” We’ve always wondered if something like that could happen. Now we know. She slapped the steering wheel. “I saw that Buick in the unit’s parking lot right before he kidnapped me.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure I saw it in the parking lot. Not so sure it was the same one outside our house. But it would make sense. We need to stay somewhere, move my aunt. Unless we stay, lure him there.”

  “Use you as bait?”

  “We could install surveillance cameras outside the house, small ones that can’t be seen. Park a Marshals Service undercover van a few blocks away, monitoring the feed.”

  “No.”

  “It might work. And we’d get to test your theory.”

  “My theory?” Robby asked.

  “Forgo a safe house, look after ourselves.”

  “It’s not the same and you know it.”

  “Yeah, I know it. But I’ve gotta give you shit anyway.”

  “I see you’re feeling better.”

  She called Hurdle and asked him to get it set up—quietly, in case Marcks was in the area. Whether or not they actually slept at the house was unimportant. She would figure that out later. But if Marcks showed up, they would capture him on camera—and maybe capture him in the flesh.

  She walked into Greenberry’s Coffee at 9:45 AM, a few minutes before Prati, taking the time to peruse the two shelves of pastries—the large black and white cookie tempted her—and settled on a carrot muffin and two cups of the decaf Guatemalan coffee of the day.

  Prati entered in a dark suit and stamped the snow from his dress shoes.

  “I got you decaf.”

  “That works, thanks.”

  He sat down at the square wooden table and dumped some sugar in the cup.

  “What happened to your face?”

  Vail snorted. “You don’t want to know, trust me.”

  “Nothing I need to talk to Robby about?”

  She laughed. “No. If he raised a hand to me …” She decided to skip the joke because, given her history with her ex-husband, it really was not funny.

  “So you’ve got some questions about one of your cases?”

  “Not one of my cases, exactly. About those fires.”

  “You’re not commandeering that arson case, are you?”

  Vail laughed nervously. The Bureau had been accused of such tactics—but that was a long time ago. “No, I’m looking at it because it’s got some common elements to my fugitive serial offender case.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “The offender uses ether as the accelerant.”

  “Ether?” Prati bent his head to the left. “Seriously? I don’t know if I’ve ever heard of a case like that. I mean, there are so many efficient, low-cost accelerants. Why use that one?”

  “Are you familiar with it?”

  “Yeah, ethers are well-known chemicals, been around forever. In various forms, they’ve been used as a refrigerant, anesthetic, antiknock gasoline additive, solvent—I think it’s even used in paints. In 5 to 10 percent concentration it causes shallow breathing and loss of consciousness. But it’s not used as an anesthetic anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “It was discovered about a hundred years ago. We’ve got more efficacious modern chemical compounds now, with better patient risk profiles—and most importantly, they aren’t flammable.” He laughed. “If the anesthetist weren’t careful, he’d either cause a blue flame that’d singe wool and hair or actually blow up—exploding the patient’s lungs, killing both him and the patient.”

  “Art Rooney, the profiler who’s working the arson case, said there are also better, more efficient, more common accelerants. Why use this one, which might draw more attention? And why use one that can connect the serial murders to the arsons?”

  “You’re assuming someone would make that connection. Sounds like, until now, no one has.”

  “How easy is it to get hold of?”

  “Not hard at all—for nonmedical uses. You can even buy it on eBay. It’s also fairly easy to synthesize.”

  So much for that.

  “Why?”

  “As with anything criminals use, if access is broad and not too restrictive, it’s harder for us to track down the source or supplier.”

  “Right.” Prati pulled the lid off his coffee and added another packet of sugar. “Unfortunately, I don’t think that’s going to help you much here.”

  “Anything else I should know about it?”

  Prati swirled his drink with the wooden stick. Steam spiraled up from the hot liquid. “Years before ether was put into service as an anesthetic, it was used as a recreational drug, sniffed from towels or handkerchiefs. I think it was called ether frolics. Nowadays, it still has a secondary market as a recreational inhalant drug, kind of like amyl nitrite, or poppers. It’s popular during sex, especially for homosexuals, because it facilitates anal intercourse. It relaxes smooth muscle—including the ones in the anal sphincter.”

  Vail was staring at him, her mind suddenly racing.

  “Did I say something wrong? You’re spacing out on me.”

  “No—no, that might be incredibly helpful. My case, the offender’s gay, so that would make sense as to why he’d use it. If he had it around for sex, why not use it for an anesthetic, to subdue his victims?” She nodded. “That answers the question Art had.”

  “Did the killer deploy the anesthetic on a soaked rag?”

  “How’d you know?” />
  Prati took a drink of his coffee. “The inhaled concentration would be very high, so a couple of breaths would stun the victim for several minutes. Very effective.”

  “We found a soaked rag at one of the crime scenes.”

  “Did you also find a glass container?”

  “Not that I remember. Why?”

  “Part of what made ether so effective, aside from it being fat soluble, is that it’s a solvent. It’d dissolve most plastic containers—or anything else that’s not inert, so he’d have to keep it in amber-colored glass. Most likely scenario is he soaked the rag somewhere else ahead of time—because ether has a distinct chemical smell—then put it in the vial, which had a silicone seal. He’d then bring it with him to the crime scene and remove the rag at the last minute and hold it over the victim’s nose and mouth.”

  “So the question is, How does that connect to the arsons?”

  “Ah, well,” Prati said with a grin, “that’s for you guys to figure out.”

  “No kidding.” Vail blew on her coffee, which was still throwing off steam. “The earlier fires were set while Marcks—my offender in the serial murders—was doing time in North Carolina and West Virginia.”

  “Any chance he had a partner in crime?”

  “Yeah, there’s a chance. Thomas Underwood, the profiler who worked up the original assessment years ago before he retired, he thought there could’ve been an accomplice.” And I think I may know who to look at first. “I’ve got some homework to do.” She took a long drink but did not even taste the coffee. “Still, why take the risk?”

  Prati lifted the cup to his lips. “How do you mean?”

  “Well, let’s say he did have a partner. Marcks gets caught, he goes away. If his partner keeps killing with the same MO, we’d know there’s a problem—we’d know that we got the wrong guy or he had an accomplice. So the partner keeps killing and he modifies his MO so we don’t connect the dots, or—”

  “Or he sets crime concealment fires so you can’t see what he’s done to the body, which is his calling card.”

  “Right. Because what he does to the body is much more difficult for him to modify—it’s a big reason why he’s doing it. But why take the risk of using the same chemical to set the fires that he uses to anesthetize his victims?”