He laughed again.
“Take me to the journalist working on the story. The one we saw at Mary Grant’s house.”
Russell snorted. “It’s late. They’re long gone.”
“Don’t be so sure. They’re going to be working on that story. Front page stuff.”
“You mean home page?”
Vail chuckled. “Both.”
“We don’t even know which paper it was.”
“You don’t know what paper it was. Speak for yourself. He’s with the Waikiki Vacationer.”
“Are you clairvoyant too?”
“Just observant. Printed on a placard in his car. And on the lanyard around his neck.”
He pursed his lips. “Impressive.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late,” Vail said, closing her eyes. “But that’s a good thing. Maybe it’ll keep me awake.”
16
They arrived at the offices of the Waikiki Vacationer in downtown Honolulu fifteen minutes later.
Russell pulled to a stop at the curb. At this time of night, parking was not an issue.
Vail popped open her door—as did Russell.
“Wait here,” she said.
“Why?”
“Whatever connection I have with this guy, there’s some kind of personal element to it. He knows me from somewhere. May be easier to establish a professional rapport if it’s just him and me.”
“Fine.”
“Unless I pissed him off big-time on a case or gave him some sarcastic remark when he asked for a quote.”
“In which case he may tell you to take a hike.”
“He won’t do that.” Vail fought back a yawn. “He’s gonna try to get me to talk about what’s going on. He wants to confirm that it’s a serial killer. I do that for him, he can confidently report his story. A serial killer/profiler headline will sell papers. And his name will be associated with breaking the news.”
Russell pulled open the glovebox and extracted a protein bar. “Here. It’s got some chocolate and quinoa, green tea ext—”
“All you had to say was chocolate.” Vail grabbed it and tore it open, took a large bite.
“What if …” Russell stopped, thinking.
Vail chewed, waited. “What if what?”
He shrugged and pulled his door shut. Vail did the same. “Maybe this is splitting hairs, but why can’t you tell this reporter it’s not a serial killer?”
“You mean lie?”
Russell shrugged. “Maybe not. I mean, is there a real definition of serial killer? Why not just tell him it’s not a serial case. If he presses you, you can call the guy a … a, I dunno, a spree killer? Then you wouldn’t be lying.”
Vail laughed. “That’s a loaded question.”
He lifted his brow. “I thought it was a good question.”
“Nothing wrong with the question per se. But there’s a story behind it. Back in 2005, the BAU held a serial murder symposium in San Antonio. Idea was to bring together experts in the field to definitively define serial murder.”
“Isn’t it obvious? I thought the definition of serial killer is common sense. A series of murders committed by the same individual.”
“Yes and no. Bureau’s had a definition—and Congress even legislated one to help determine which cases the BAU could legally get involved with in terms of jurisdiction. Not for taking over cases, but for assisting local law enforcement. But different definitions were used by detectives, clinicians, academics, and researchers. They differed in terms of the number of murders committed by the offender, his motivation, and the time periods between murders. Important details.”
“And that created problems.”
“For ViCAP alone, yeah. If we define these cases differently, they’ll be reported differently and we may not link them properly—or we could miss out on linking them at all. Might skew the results and detectives could end up missing something important.”
“I don’t get why this makes my question complicated.”
“During that symposium, the definition of serial murder was formalized as the killing of two or more victims by the same offender or offenders in separate events.”
“So our killer definitely appears to fit the definition. But why can’t he be a spree killer? Is there some fudge factor we can, I don’t know, exploit? A white lie.”
Vail pointed at Russell. “That’s the dicey part. Before that symposium, spree murder was considered two or more murders committed by an offender or offenders, without a cooling-off period.”
“Okay, so basically the lack of a cooling-off period was the difference between spree and serial. But how long is a cooling off period?”
“Yeah,” Vail said with a chuckle. “Exactly. That was never defined. And because it was ambiguous, it was open to interpretation. The symposium’s panel voted to get rid of spree as a separate category and to shift those cases into serial at one end of the spectrum and mass murder at the other.”
“So spree doesn’t exist? As a category?”
“Not in the Bureau’s lexicon.”
“How’d that work out?”
Vail bobbed her head. “Some may say okay, others, not too good. Problem is, there are hundreds of cases that don’t really fit. A mentor of mine, Mark Safarik—who was at that symposium and voiced his objection to getting rid of spree—wrote a book with Katherine Ramsland, a well-known violent crime researcher. After studying all these cases, they proposed restoring the category and broke it up into lots of subcategories. It removed a lot of the ambiguity and confusion because there are lots of cases that don’t really fit the serial or mass murder definitions—but do fit spree.”
“What’s the new definition?”
“Spree is three or more victims in two or more locations with the first murder acting as the inciting incident, continuing the spree. So different locations, but one event. Serial is two or more victims in different locations with some undefined intervening time period. Key point is that serial has some passage of time between victims and it involves separate events.”
“So there’s a difference,” Russell said, glancing off into the distance, disappointment permeating his tone.
“I couldn’t in good conscience call it spree, even if it serves our purpose of protecting our ability to catch the offender.”
He grunted. “How about the greater good? Throw him off the scent, kill his story’s impact to save some lives of future victims?”
“Greater good.” She took in a deep breath and sighed audibly. My OPSIG colleagues have made that very argument on just about every one of our black ops missions. Vail shook her head. “I’d rather try to influence him to see it our way without lying.”
“I admire your moral compass. Good luck.”
“Bar hit the spot. Infused my brain with glucose. I can think straight again.”
“Oh, great. Now we’re in tro—”
“Adam,” she said firmly. “Don’t finish that sentence.” She winked at him, then got out and made her way into the building.
The facility was aging—it was a structure that was probably showing its years the last time she was in Oahu.
She pushed into the lobby and found that security was surprisingly lax—there was none—but media budgets were under intense pressure these days, so money was cut wherever possible. There were just so many writers and editors you could lay off before you no longer had a viable enterprise that could cover the news. No matter how much of a deterrent armed guards were, they did not pay the bills or increase subscriptions.
Vail made her way up to the Waikiki Vacationer offices, which were identified by a small wood sign on the wall beside a nondescript entrance at the end of the corridor.
She tried the knob, but it was locked. After a couple of raps on the wo
od, a woman in her forties pulled the door open, hair tied back and wearing no makeup. “Can I help you?”
Vail held up her badge. “I’ve got some questions for a reporter who was at a crime scene today. In Wahiawa.”
“Ah. That’s Travis.”
“Yeah. Travis.”
Travis? Not ringing a bell.
Vail was led down a long hallway, boxes stacked on one side and reams of paper on the other. They navigated the obstacles and ended up at a small office. The woman motioned Vail in.
“Travis, you have a visitor.”
Vail entered, turned around, and realized they were now alone. She swung back toward Travis, whose mouth was agape with shock.
“Didn’t expect to see me?”
“Uh, no. Not after you blew me off.”
“Wasn’t personal. But that’s actually why I’m here.”
Travis tilted his head left. “That right?”
“Where do we know each other from?”
“You really don’t remember.”
“Travis, I can be a sarcastic bitch. So when you ask stupid questions, expect to get stupid answers.”
Travis snorted while nodding. “Of course you don’t remember, otherwise you wouldn’t have asked.”
Vail pointed at him. “Exactly. So …”
“You used to be a detective. Why don’t I let you figure it out where we know each other from?”
“Why don’t we not?”
Travis smiled.
Now he’s starting to piss me off. But he probably knows why I’m here. He’s toying with me.
“Let me get right to the point. I don’t want you to print that story.”
Travis laughed. A hearty belly laugh, the kind that—at 11:00 pm or 5:00 am, whatever time it was for her—she did not appreciate.
Vail counted to ten, knowing that Robby would be so very proud of her for not grabbing Travis by the shirt collar and pinning him against the wall. Because then a complaint would be filed and Thomas Gifford, her assistant special agent in charge, and her often unreasonable unit chief, Stacey DiCarlo, would get pissed at her and make her apologize … as well as have to pull strings so that the newspaper did not publish a nasty account of the altercation. Which would inevitably be picked up nationally.
Vail realized that she had been daydreaming so long that Travis had stopped laughing.
“You didn’t find that funny,” he said.
“Oh. Was I supposed to?”
“Look, Agent Vail. You’ve been around the block a few dozen times, right?”
Seriously? How old does he think I am?
“What’s your point?”
“You know how this works. We report the news. We’re not in bed with the police. If we compromise our journalistic values, society will lose its faith in us. And I don’t even have to get into the First Amendment issues your request raises.”
“Whoa. Before you go all US Constitution on me, I’m just asking that you delay publishing your story for a few days.”
“Define ‘a few.’” He grinned. “Sorry. I’m a writer. Words matter.”
“That they do. They matter to FBI agents, too.” She grinned back.
“Right. So, to you, a few means?”
“Three days.”
“Hmm.” He leaned forward onto his paper-strewn desk, steepled his fingers in front of his lips. “What you ask is difficult, Agent Vail.”
“Only if you make it difficult.”
“Karen …” He shook his head in pity. “Can I call you Karen?”
Oh, now he’s really getting on my nerves.
She shrugged good-naturedly. “Why not. After all, I’m calling you Travis. If calling me Karen makes you more amenable to my request, of course.”
He chuckled. “Sorry. Doesn’t enter into the equation.”
“Then ‘Agent Vail’ will suffice.”
Travis nodded and smirked—as if thinking, “That one I deserved.”
“C’mon. Three days is not too much to ask.”
He spread his palms apart. “What if the News gets wind of it. Or the Times. Channel Four. Or—”
“That’s a risk, I get it. And if I find out about it, I’ll ask them to delay the story, too.”
Travis leaned back in his creaky old secretary chair. “Why is this so important to you?”
“Good question. And I’m glad you asked.”
“I’m paid to ask good questions.”
Here we go. Moral compass.
“We don’t think the offender knows that we know these are murders.”
Travis squinted, as if that was a stupid comment. “He killed the woman. How could he think the police wouldn’t realize it’s murder?”
Vail bit the inside of her bottom lip. “Active investigation. I can’t—”
“How predictable. You want something from me but you won’t give anything to me. One-way street.”
“It’s not for me, Travis. That’s where you’ve got it wrong. I get nothing from it. I’m gonna be out of here in a few days or so. But if I can’t help catch this killer, more women are going to die. So do it for your fellow Hawaiians.”
He snapped his fingers. “You used the term ‘offender.’ And you referred to ‘murders.’ Plural.” His cadence increased. “And you’re here, and you believe more people are at risk. So it is a serial killer.”
Vail did not deny it, keeping the needle pointing north.
“Damn, I knew it. Thanks for confirming that.” Travis threw his head back and groaned. “You make a compelling case. As much as I hate to admit it.”
“So you’ll do it?”
He closed his eyes.
“Three days, Travis. That’s all I’m asking for.”
He sighed audibly and slowly raised his lids, locked gazes with her.
“Be like the Nike goddess of strength,” Vail said. “Just do it.”
He spread his hands. “How could I not?”
“Do what?”
Vail turned around and saw the woman who had let her into the office standing in the doorway.
Travis sat forward. “Agent Vail has asked me to delay publication of the story on the Wahiawa murder.”
“The suspected serial?”
Travis’s eyes flicked over to Vail’s. “Confirmed serial.”
“Yeah,” the woman said. “Not gonna happen.”
Vail rose from her chair. “And you are?”
“Sorry we weren’t formally introduced. I’m Liz Warren, editor, publisher, and owner of the Vacationer.”
I don’t think she’s got enough titles.
Vail took Warren’s hand and shook—less than enthusiastically.
“Sounds like you’re asking us not to print a story, Agent Vail. Do I have that right?”
“Not at all. I’m asking you to delay it for a few—for three days.”
Warren sighed. “Can’t do it. I’m sure you understand.”
“Funny. I was going to say the same thing to you.”
“I understand you’re asking me to do something that threatens to erode the public’s trust in our paper. We’ve worked hard every single day to earn our stellar reputation. I’m not going to throw it away by doing you a favor.”
“Let’s get something straight. This is not a favor for—”
“If it gets out that we had a story of interest to the people of Oahu—one affecting their safety and security—and we chose not to warn them that there’s a serial killer on the loose, we’ll never be trusted in the same way again. Trust affects everything, from people who subscribe and read our paper to impeding our ability to work within the community to investigate and get answers from police, executives, and politicians.”
“Adherence to high ethical standards is the first thing drilled into the head of every cand
idate attending the police academy,” Vail said. “But this isn’t a question of ethics. I’m asking you to delay publication temporarily, not permanently.”
“We understand what you’re asking.” Warren folded her forearms across her chest. “Many years ago in journalism school at the University of Missouri, my professor and mentor gave us two criteria to use when evaluating a decision we were about to make. First was, ‘Can I justify my decision if it’s made public?’ And the second was, ‘How would I feel if my decision made the front page tomorrow?’”
Vail nodded thoughtfully. “Sounds like he forgot to teach you the third criterion: the part where your decision costs the lives of innocent women. Because some of these offenders are inspired by what the media reports on. What you write, what you don’t.” She stopped and studied Warren’s face to gauge if she was getting anywhere. “So let me give you two of my criteria to consider when evaluating what to do.” Vail held up her right thumb: “Can you justify your decision if more women die because you chose to ignore our request?” She added the index finger. “And second, what if that makes the front page tomorrow?”
Warren forced a smug smile. “Agent Vail. Travis and I appreciate you coming by and enlightening us as to your philosophy regarding journalistic ethics. If I ever resign from the university staff or hear of a professorial position open up, I’ll be sure to suggest your name to the department chair.”
Wow, she took Bitch 101. And 102. She’s good.
“I’m in awe of your sarcasm.” Vail glanced at Travis with a raised brow. “If you move forward with this story, Ms. Warren, and the offender goes off because of it, I don’t think you’ll need to resign from the university.”
“She means you’ll be fired,” Travis said.
Warren frowned. “Thank you, Travis. I gathered the meaning.”
“Very good then.” Vail clapped her hands together. “I see this has been time well spent. Thank you so much for your understanding and wisdom.” She shot one last look at Travis, again wondering where she knew him from, then turned and skirted Warren’s left shoulder on her way out of the room, giving it a gentle brush. It was not much, but it was enough to send a message. A little whiff of testosterone.
Red Death Page 9
