Rooney pursed his lips. “Worth looking into.”
Vail elbowed him. “I think you’ve kept me in suspense long enough. What’d you want to tell me? When you called.”
Rooney chuckled. “Sorry. This morning I ran a search in VICAP for offenders who used anesthesia during the commission of their crimes,” he said, referring to the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program database. “And I found something rather surprising. There was a case where the UNSUB used ether.”
Vail shrugged. “That offender isn’t the first, or only, one to use an anesthetic.”
“Ah, but it’s the only one that Thomas Underwood handled. Before he was a profiler. Right before the BSU was started, in fact.”
“That was Underwood’s case?” Where’s he going with this? “There’s more, isn’t there?”
“There is more. That same offender was later found to have started plying his trade as … anyone?”
Vail halfheartedly raised a hand. “An arsonist.”
“An arsonist.”
“And did he use ether as an accelerant?” Vail asked.
Rooney pointed at her. “Indeed he did.”
And now I can’t get in touch with Underwood. He said he was in Hawaii. But was he really? What are you thinking, Karen? Don’t be ridiculous.
“So where does this leave us?” Hurdle asked. “Sounds like you think Underwood might be involved in this in some way.”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Rooney said. “But I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that I didn’t start thinking what you’re all thinking right now. For a fleeting moment. Because there’s no way that Thomas Underwood is a killer. Serial, arson, or any other kind you can imagine.”
“You sure about that?” Hurdle asked, fixing his gaze on Rooney. “I think we need to ask him about it. Don’t you?”
Vail looked from Hurdle to Rooney, whose face remained impassive.
Hurdle spread his arms apart. “Let me put it another way. Can you guarantee me that Underwood is not part of this?”
Rooney snorted—but did not answer.
“Art?” Vail said.
Rooney looked away. “No. I can’t. No one can guarantee something like that. But—”
“Plain and simple,” Hurdle said. “Better not to assume. One of us needs to sit him down. Curtis, you worked with him.”
Curtis drew his chin back. “Well, yeah, but it’s not like I know the guy. We worked the case, what, ten years ago? We exchanged some ideas. I didn’t exactly hang out with him.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Vail said. “I left him a message earlier today but he’s out of town and hasn’t returned my call yet.”
“There are other explanations,” Rooney said. “That case with the ether is in one of Tom’s books. His first, Killer Instincts. Never read it, but when I googled the offender and victim, Tom’s name came up in a Miami Herald article. A quote from the detective who handled the case. He made a point of saying something like, ‘Agent Underwood’s thoughtful analysis of the arsonist’s motives put him on the right path.’”
“Why was the FBI involved?” Curtis said. “You said this was before the BSU started consulting on serial cases.”
“After quickly incapacitating the vics with the ether, the offender threw them in his car, injected them with a drug, and drove them from Florida—where he got his victims—into South Carolina, where he killed them. Crossing state lines.”
“And why is this relevant?” Hurdle asked.
Rooney spread his hands. “At the very least, if we look at the most logical or most likely scenario, it tells us that Roscoe Lee Marcks and/or his partner, assuming he has one, read Killer Instincts and took the idea for himself.”
“It also may explain why Marcks is wise to what we do and how we do it. Maybe he did read these types of books. True crime, case studies, that kind of thing, to learn how, and why, we do what we do.”
“Should we look over Underwood’s books,” Hurdle said, “to see if there are other things the killer—or he himself—is mimicking?”
Vail chuckled. “I think he’s written seven. It’s gonna take a while. I only read his third one, Profilers Unmasked, which focused on the history of the BSU and its split into the research unit and what became the BAU. He gave some great insight into the thinking of the early profilers. But Douglas has written a few books, too, and so have Ressler, Hazelwood, and Safarik. We’ve got no reason to think Marcks was limiting his reading to Thomas Underwood.”
Rooney shook his head dubiously. “Might not be a good use of our time.”
“We can expand the task force as needed,” Hurdle said. “We’ve got assets at our disposal. Vail, I want you to track down Underwood. Leaving voice mails is not enough. I want him in a room.”
Vail shifted her weight, uncomfortable with that prospect.
“If you can’t do that, let me know and I’ll have someone else handle it.”
“We’ve got these books at the Academy library,” Rooney said as he pulled out his Samsung. “I’ll arrange to have them brought to your command center.”
“And I’ll arrange to have several agents put on reading duty,” Hurdle said.
“The one with the ether,” Vail said. “Killer Instincts. I want to read that one myself. Art, can you have the library hold that one for me?”
Rooney shrugged. “Of course.”
“I’m heading there right now.”
52
Vail walked into the Academy library, a bright, modest-size square room with adjoining reading areas and a two-story atrium that gave it an airy grandeur.
Vail identified herself to the assistant behind the administration counter, and the woman handed over the near-pristine hardcover of Underwood’s first book. Either this is a new copy or it’s not seen much activity among agents.
She could not pass judgment, given that she had not read it herself. Then again, with the Bureau’s intense pivot toward counterterrorism, and now cybercrime, agents’—and new agent trainees’—time was better spent on reading law enforcement periodicals and books covering those topics.
Vail glanced at the jacket and saw Underwood’s bio on the rear flap. The snapshot was not the usual, posed FBI picture, taken in a suit against the backdrop of the American flag. This was designed to project the individual’s humanity—a man with his dog; in this case a golden retriever.
As she looked at his photo, she recalled her one and only meeting with him, a few years ago. Is that the face of a killer?
She skimmed his professional accomplishments and had to resist comparing her own career to Underwood’s. Pulling her eyes away from the cover, she opened the book and perused the table of contents.
A moment later, Vail found the case Rooney had mentioned: Michael Neal Coleman, an UNSUB dubbed The Planner, was an engineer who began by killing colleagues he worked with at a nonprofit agency. He was methodical and calculating and plotted his kills with the precision of an NFL coach’s game plan. Contingencies were mapped out. He studied his potential targets for weeks, watching for patterns, determining weaknesses, and then striking with alarming efficiency.
To hear Coleman describe it later during interviews with Underwood in 1979, killing became boring because he was so good at it—too good. It lost its appeal and no longer presented a challenge. That’s when he began starting fires. It was something new to master, and in the process he discovered the tremendously destructive power of a well-constructed blaze. It triggered a long-buried fascination with fire that he had passed over in favor of killing. It was only then that he realized he could do both.
It was like learning a new skill and then perfecting it. For most people, the hobbies they took up included woodworking. Photography. Baseball. And then there were the deviants, who enjoyed discovering new and interesting ways of dominating other human beings, ending their lives and def
iling their bodies.
The use of ether as a means of securing his victims and as an accelerant for setting the fires received only cursory mention by Underwood—more as an example of the UNSUB’s cunning than as an exceptionally different MO not previously encountered.
Well, regardless of how little significance Underwood gave it in his book, it made an impact on our offender.
But something was not quite right. That note left in Aida’s mouth was a departure in ritual. Why? A threat? Or was it a clue, since I took over Underwood’s cases, and I was “next in line” at the unit?
Vail told herself not to overthink it. She pulled out her phone and texted Hurdle.
anything on the surveillance cameras outside my house
His response came almost immediately:
youll be second to know
Vail tried Underwood again and left another voice mail. “Got a question on one of your old cases. I know you’re swamped, but it’s time sensitive. Can you give me a call as soon as you get this?”
She opened the browser on her phone and looked up Underwood’s television show, to see if there was information on where they might be filming. If Underwood was not answering his phone, she needed to track down someone who worked on the production, who would.
Ten minutes later, Vail came up empty—so she decided to call the network. After being transferred multiple times, she scored the producer’s mobile number. Figuring she would get a better response if she used the library’s landline—which displayed “FBI Academy” as its caller ID—the man answered on the second ring.
Vail explained that it was vital that she speak to Underwood. “We talked a few days ago and he told me he’d be filming until next week.”
“I’m sitting in a café in Hollywood, Agent Vail. We wrapped two weeks ago.”
A chill shuddered through her torso.
Why would he lie to me?
“Do you know where he is now? Have you had any contact with him since you finished?”
“No and no. Sorry I can’t be of any more help.”
“Did he seem to be himself? Was he stressed or acting strangely?”
There was a pause. “What’s this about? I thought you had questions on a case you’ve got. Sounds more like Thomas Underwood is a suspect.”
“No offense, but I’m the one who needs to be asking the questions here. Can you just save us both a lot of time and trouble and answer me?”
“He seemed to be himself. We film three episodes at a time, then we take a month break, and then he comes back and we do another three episodes. Nothing was unusual this time out.”
Vail thanked him and sat a moment thinking it through. Then she went back to his book and finished reading about The Planner. Half an hour later, her phone rang.
“Karen, sorry for not returning your calls. We wrapped filming later than scheduled and I didn’t even have time to go home. Had to prep for the trial on the flight from Oahu and buy a suit at the airport during my layover in LA. Headed off to Philly.”
“I’ve got some questions about The Planner.” I’ve got other questions, too, but those will have to wait.
“Yeah, I’m about to board my flight so I’ll have to get back to you on that.”
“Well—can you at least answer a few—”
“Okay,” he said sternly to someone nearby. “I’ll be right there.” Back to Vail: “Look, I’ve still got a lot of trial prep to do. Email me your questions and I’ll reply when I get a break in testimony. Couple of days, maybe sooner. You know, I did a pretty comprehensive write-up on that case in my first boo—”
“I’m reading it now.”
“Then you’re not reading carefully enough. Read it again.” The phone was muffled a second, then: “Wish I had more time. Send me that email.”
“No, wait. I need you to come—” But she realized he had hung up. She called him again and it went straight to voice mail.
Vail felt like slamming the handset down. She took a breath and went about composing her message, keeping it as short as possible while touching on the salient points of her analysis. And questions. Questions that were carefully constructed to potentially glean information as to whether or not he could be involved—without tipping him off. Not an easy task with a skilled profiler who literally wrote the book on interview techniques.
Vail sent it off, then stared at Underwood’s book.
She opened the browser again and searched for the Philadelphia court case that Underwood was testifying in. After picking through a dozen links dealing with everything from jury selection to recaps of each of the murders, she found an article from two weeks ago mentioning that the trial had been continued for three months because of new evidence.
Another lie. Shit, could Hurdle be right? One of us, a partner in crime … a mutilating serial killer? An arsonist?
If she called Hurdle and briefed him, he would likely shift substantial assets to Underwood. Was that the right move? Was it her call to make?
Vail phoned Tarkoff and told him to have officers start contacting the airlines to determine if Thomas Underwood was booked on a flight—domestic or international—and if he was, to find a reason to detain him.
Vail sat back and played the case through her mind. Start from the beginning.
Marcks’s wife’s death was ruled accidental. But what if it wasn’t? What if it was his first kill? Well, his first intentional kill.
She pulled out her laptop and opened the audio file of the 911 call that Jasmine had made:
OPERATOR/WOMAN’S VOICE: Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?
JASMINE: It’s my mom, she slipped on a roller skate, she hit her head and--and she’s …”
OPERATOR: She’s what, darling? Where’s your mommy now?
JASMINE: She’s on the floor, she’s not moving.
OPERATOR: Are you okay? Anyone there with you?
JASMINE: My daddy’s here, he’s holding my mom. He’s very upset. [Garbled] I’m--I’m scared.
OPERATOR: Is your mom breathing?
JASMINE: No. I--I don’t think so.
OPERATOR: I have your address. I’m going to send an ambulance. Meantime, tell me what happened.
JASMINE: We were in the other room, me and my daddy, we heard a loud noise, like a bang and we, we ran in and she was on the floor. [Garbled] And she’s not moving. She’s not moving!
The sound of a child wailing nearly drowned out the operator’s voice. The woman stopped talking and waited for Jasmine to compose herself, then continued:
OPERATOR: Can I talk to your daddy?
JASMINE: [Garbled] I--I think so.
There was muffled noise as Jasmine called out for her father, a disturbing hysteria permeating her voice. Frantic movement, more crying. Tears welled in Vail’s lower lids. It was tough to listen to, the pain in Jasmine’s voice. She could not imagine what she was thinking, looking at her mother’s unmoving body lying on the floor. Her life forever changed.
In the parentage of a soon-to-be serial killer.
Vail shuddered. I’ve gotta find Marcks. This has gone on long enough. I have to find him.
MARCKS: My wife’s dead. What do I do? I mean, what am I supposed to do with the body? Are you sending an ambulance?
Vail shook her head. Calm, cool, collected. Clinical.
His wife just died. He should be distraught. But he referred to her dispassionately—the body, not her body. While it was possible he was in shock, the most obvious conclusion, given what they now knew of Marcks, was that he killed her.
Did Jasmine see what happened? She said she was with her father in the other room. Was she just covering for him? Little girls love their daddies. Maybe he told her what to say. Did he threaten to kill her, even back then when she was a child, if she told anyone what really happened?
If that were the case, on
e would assume she would have covered that in her book. But there was very little on her mother’s death—largely what was in the police report and on the 911 tape, as well as the medical examiner’s conclusions.
Vail pulled out her Samsung and called Jasmine, but it went to voice mail. “Jas, it’s Karen. I’ve got a couple of questions for you. It’s important. I hope you’re okay.” She tried the other cell number Jasmine had used and left a similar message.
Vail set her phone down on the desk beside her laptop and went back to Underwood’s book. She thumbed through the next case, and the one after that. Then her eyes caught something: an offender who left a note in the victim’s mouth.
It was blank. Except that indented writing was discovered.
Vail felt a chill run from her shoulders to her legs. The hidden message the UNSUB left was, “Next in line.”
She paged back to the beginning of the chapter and started reading: the offender was Desmond Robert Branson, also known as the Atlanta Strangler.
None of the behaviors Underwood discussed had any obvious connection to the Blood Lines case. There were no similarities she could find other than the note. Branson had killed seven prostitutes by asphyxiation. He was almost caught by the detective—but Branson got the upper hand and disabled the cop and took him hostage.
Vail sat there thinking. There was nothing, other than the communication with law enforcement, via the concealed message, that bore any resemblance to her current case.
You’re not reading carefully enough. Read it again.
She sat staring at the page—but not seeing anything. Why would he say that? What am I missing?
Unless he was saying that to throw me off.
Vail took a breath, then returned her attention to the book, speeding through some of the subsequent chapters before forcing herself to pull back and slow down.
Focus, Karen.
An hour later, she checked her watch, then dialed Jasmine again. Voice mail. Dammit. She got up, rubbed her forehead, paced a few times, then launched the app Uzi installed on her phone.
The Darkness of Evil Page 30
