Russell patted Bachler’s right shoulder. “Thanks Harry. This case feels like it’s in danger of spiraling out of control. We need to get a handle on it. Or we’re not gonna be sleeping much.”
“I hear you. That’s part of what makes you such a great detective.”
Russell gave him a half-grin, then turned and motioned Vail after him as he headed out. “Remember you said you were thinking about the case?”
“A few minutes ago?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not senile yet. Of course I remember.”
“Good,” Russell said, scratching the back of his head. “I was reading last night about something that might help us.”
“Oh yeah? Like a crystal ball?”
“Tried to order one last week. Amazon was sold out.”
Vail laughed. “So what’s this thing that might help us?”
“I hope you don’t think I’m crazy, but I found—”
“That train’s left the station. I wouldn’t say ‘crazy,’ but maybe mentally—”
“Karen.”
“Sorry,” she said, holding up a hand. “Go on, Adam.”
Russell pulled the exit door open. “I found something called geographic profiling. Some guy named Kim. Uh, Kim—”
“Jong-un.”
“Who?”
“The weird North Korea dude.”
Russell stopped and looked at her. “I’m being serious.”
“And I’m not. Again, my apologies. If you’re talking about geographic profiling, you’re referring to Kim Rossmo.”
He snapped his fingers. “That’s it.”
“And why do you think geo profiling would help us?”
Russell shrugged. “We’re on a small island and yet most of our vics are concentrated in a relatively small portion of it.”
Vail squinted sideways at him. “How far did you get into your research?”
“I wouldn’t call it research exactly. It was a case study. I used it to put me to sleep.”
“Ouch. I won’t tell Kim you said that.”
“You know this Kim Rossmo guy?”
“I’ve worked with him on a few cases. But I don’t think his methods are gonna help us with the Soap Killer.”
“The what?” Russell squinted and tilted his head. “The Soap Killer? Did I miss something?”
“Adam.” She shook her head in pity. “You’ve missed a lot of things.”
Russell nodded, conceding defeat. “Feel better?”
“Not really.” She bobbed her head. “Maybe a little.”
“The media’s really started calling him the Soap Killer?”
“No. I just made that up. But it fits, doesn’t it? He’s so slippery we’re having a hard time catching him. Just when we think we’ve got a grip on things, he squeezes through our grasp.”
“Nope,” Russell said with a frown. “Soap Killer doesn’t do it for me.”
“How about the Aconite Slayer?”
“Now you’re going Game of Thrones on me.”
“Just be thankful the media doesn’t know enough about the case—or how he kills—to brand him.”
“So you were saying.” He began walking again and pulled out his keys, chirped the remote. “About geographic profiling.”
“You’re right that it’s useful,” Vail said. “If you have a killer who finds his vics by going in search of them, it would have more relevance. Rossmo classifies his killers according to how they go about selecting and trapping them. He calls them poachers, hunters, trollers, and trappers. Each one goes about finding his prey in different ways. He further categorizes the offenders by the way they approach their prey: ambushers, raptors, and stalkers.”
“I think I’m glad I fell asleep when I did. Otherwise I’d have been up all night.”
“Point is, our offender isn’t really any of these—because the victims come to him—at least, that’s my current thinking. Wherever it may be, they buy the soap from him. Maybe he’s got a little raptor in him, but he doesn’t really attack. He gives them a ticking time bomb. He probably gets his jollies during the interaction with the vic. And he gets an additional rush when he sees the obituary. I wouldn’t be surprised if he clipped the obits from the local paper—or took a screenshot and saved them as a trophy.”
“Unconventional.”
“Everything about him is unconventional.”
Russell nodded, got into the car, then slumped in the seat.
“So you see why I’m not sure a geo profile would help us?”
“Thought I had something.”
Vail was staring at the interior, working through a thought, then finally sat down. “Maybe you did. Sort of.”
“You trying to make me feel better?”
“No. You forced me to rethink something that’s been bothering me. Not only doesn’t he hunt for his victims, but he only interacts with them minimally. And not at all after death. This ‘distance’ flies in the face of a core principle of what we see with these offenders.”
“I thought you sorted that out.”
“I did. But that doesn’t mean I’ve accepted it. I don’t want to make the facts fit our model. I want to go with the facts and see where they take us. That’s the best approach. The long held, accepted model should guide us. It’s done well by us for almost four decades. But new types of offenders and trends do come up. They inform our model and help us improve it as more data becomes available.”
“Makes sense,” Russell said, shoving his key into the ignition.
“But the underpinning concept still needs to be addressed. How’s our UNSUB getting off on these murders? These offenders need to feel something. Not in the emotional sense—because most of them are psychopaths—but they have to get something out of the murders. That’s the part that’s been eating at me. And I think I just figured it out.”
“I thought the selection of the victim is what stirs his drink.”
“Yes. Not sure that’s enough. Even if he sees their obituary and collects them as a trophy, he’s not … fulfilled.”
“Fulfilled?”
“Sexual fulfillment. Reliving the murder, fantasizing about it.”
“Okay.”
“That’s why I’m thinking he might go back to the scene after he sees the obit.”
Russell twisted his torso in the seat to face Vail. “That could be huge.”
“Could be. Yes.”
“We could put an undercover at the crime scene and scope it out in case he shows up.”
“Worth the manpower expense, I think. This time don’t mention my name when you make the request.”
Russell chuckled. “No shit.” He pulled out his phone and asked for Ferraro. After a moment of explaining what he wanted, Russell glanced at Vail. “Nope, my idea … Completely … No, she’s out getting java.” He rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Chief.” He hung up and shook his head.
“Sorry I came back empty-handed,” Vail said. “Starbucks was all out of coffee.”
“He’s really got a hard-on for you.”
“I think we should send forensics back to the crime scenes.”
“All of them?”
Vail chewed on that. “Maybe not all. The homes. The ones that are easy for our UNSUB to get to without anyone seeing.”
“What are they looking for?”
“Semen.”
Russell cringed. “What?”
Vail popped open the door.
“Where you going?”
“Back inside. Gotta pee.”
Russell followed her toward the building. “You think the killer’s jacking off at the thought of the woman having died there?”
“I do. Fulfillment. Sexual release.”
Russell contorted his mouth, as if he had bitten into a bitter lime. “That’
s sick.’”
“Par for the course, Adam. Welcome to my world.”
30
Vail headed to the restroom while Russell intended to use the time to catch up on his emails. But as he opened the app, his phone started vibrating.
It was the deputy chief. Good news or bad?
“Chief.”
“We’ve got a lot more heat on us because of that damn news article. Reporters calling from all over the country. I told you Vail would fuck things up for us.”
“Wasn’t her fault. The media was already there before we—”
“Not interested in excuses. Are we any closer to catching this knucklehead?”
After Russell quickly updated him, Ferraro expressed his displeasure with the “lack of progress.”
“Not sure what more we could be doing, sir. Actually, though, I’m glad you called. Something’s been bugging me. Agent Vail.”
Ferraro sneered. “Had enough?”
“Huh? No. Not what I mean. Nothing like that. I haven’t had any issues with her. I just wanna know what happened between the two of you. Just so I can keep an eye out, be ready.”
“I gave you fair warning. That’s all you need.”
“All due respect, I—”
“If you’re half the detective I know you are, you’ll figure it out. Maybe even before it’s too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“Joan was supposed to call you but she’s been fielding the media calls.”
“Call me about what?”
“Vail’s going home. Tomorrow morning. There’s a flight at 9:00 am and there are seats available. I want her on it.”
“What?” Russell stopped pacing and craned his neck toward the ceiling. “Let’s take a breath here, Chief. Everything’s fine. Everything will be fine.”
“And you’re guaranteeing that?”
“I am.”
Ferraro was quiet for a long moment. “She’s got two more days. And then I ship her back. Anything happens, it’s on you.”
Russell swallowed hard. “Two days?
“Two. Got it, Detective?”
“Yeah. I mean, I guess so. But why don’t we see how things are going and then reass—”
“Two days.” He hung up.
Russell stood there staring down the empty hallway, thinking. He was perturbed by Ferraro’s attitude toward Vail and had been worried he would pull the plug on her involvement at the slightest mistake they made—or even the perception of one. Now that worry was realized.
He needed all the help he could get with this case. Surely Ferraro understood that. Vail provided a unique perspective, a different way of looking at homicide, even if the “Soap Killer” did not fit the traditional serial killer model in terms of behavior. That might render her experience less relevant, but he liked the way she thought and processed facts.
Russell heard someone approaching. He turned to see Vail.
“Ready?”
“Yeah.” He forced a grin.
“What’s wrong?”
“Why do you think something’s wrong?”
“This isn’t my first rodeo, Adam.”
“All’s good. Just feeling some pressure to catch this bastard.”
Vail held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded—unconvinced but apparently letting it drop.
He started walking toward his car. “So how many rodeos have you ridden?”
“Enough to leave me with a number of broken bones. A perpetual pain in the ass. And a lot of bulls that would like to skewer me through the heart.”
Given his conversation with Ferraro, Russell had every reason to believe that assessment was true.
31
Vail lay awake in bed, the balcony window open and the waves washing in and out, a calming rhythm as she stared at the ceiling, hoping to feel the pull of sleep on her eyelids.
At least the ocean’s relaxing repetition stood in contrast to the drone of cacophonous rotor noise they endured in the Black Hawk.
Her phone rang a bit after 11:00 pm. She grabbed for it, hoping it was Robby.
It was Russell.
“I got the list of Marys that fit our killer’s MO. That’s the good news.”
“We’ve got a list of names? That’s what constitutes good news these days?”
“Well, that’s only because there’s also bad news, so it’s good by comparison.”
“What’s the bad news?”
“Techs didn’t find any aconite-infused wrappers in the house or neighborhood. ME didn’t find aconite on her clothing or skin. Still checking for the metabolytes.”
Vail sighed. “How’d you know I was awake?”
“Seriously?” He laughed. “How could you sleep?”
Vail sighed. “Yeah.”
“So now what? Obviously, we’re left to wonder. I hope at some point it’ll all add up and make sense.”
“We weren’t expecting there to be aconite on the body, Adam. And other than her name and age, I mean, it could just be that an older woman had a heart attack and dropped dead. Genetics. Fate. Karma. Whatever you want to call it.”
“Right. Just a coincidence her name was Mary and that she happened to be the right age.”
“You have to admit that it’s not much to base an investigative theory on.” She heard rustling on the other end of the phone. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for a rock in my house to kick.”
That made her smile. “You said it yourself. You can’t rule something out based on the absence of evidence. It was super windy. What if the soap wrapper blew away?”
“Wasn’t windy inside her house. And they didn’t use bars of soap, remember?”
“Yeah.” Vail yawned. “So maybe you’re right. Just a coincidence. But I don’t really believe in coincidences.”
“Me either.”
“I’m tired.”
“So am I.”
“But I want to solve this. I’ll be up if you want to run anything by me.” She waited a moment, but Russell did not reply. “Adam? Yo. Adam.”
Vail heard a snore, hit end, and went back to staring at the ceiling.
32
New York City
December 23, 1998
The Daily News headline was bold and screamed at Scott Meece as he passed the stand packed with unsold papers:
Chief Justice William Rehnquist To Preside
Over President Clinton’s Impeachment Trial
Scott continued on to the rear of the store. He did not concern himself with politics. That had been Phillip’s domain, an interest he adopted when he joined the army. Scott had more problems than worrying about whether or not the president had oral sex with an intern in the Oval Office. Or whatever it was.
Christmas music was playing in the bodega as Scott rummaged through the refrigerated section. Goddam Christmas. People happy, celebrating with family and friends, buying presents for others, going to parties.
Scott was not happy.
He had no family to celebrate with.
He had no friends.
He gave no presents and received none.
The fucking music made him crazy.
He checked his watch—just past 11:00 pm. He started to look away but kept his gaze on the timepiece. It was a black G-Shock, nothing special—except that it was worn by Phillip every day he served in the military. It even had a piece missing in the black bezel where, presumably, a round nicked it. It wasn’t there the last time he had seen the watch when his brother was home on furlough. Maybe the damage was from the shot that killed him.
But the damn thing still worked. Even if it didn’t, Scott would still wear it. He slept with it, showered with it. He had not taken it off since the army delivered it to the house along with Phillip’s other personal effects.
A jingling bell in the background jarred him from his reverie. He pulled open the glass refrigerator door and grabbed a six-pack of Corona from the shelf. Seconds later, he hoisted it onto the counter. The man made small talk and they exchanged cash. Scott reached for the beer.
“Merry Christmas.”
Scott stopped and looked at the guy. “What did you say?”
“Merry Christmas.”
In the background:
Ring, ring, ring the bells,
ring them loud and clear …
“I’m so fucking sick of hearing about Christmas!” Scott slammed the six-pack down on the counter. “Merry Christmas,” he mimicked. “Happy music. Happy this and happy that. Well, I’m. Not. Happy!”
The man held up his hands and took a step backward. “Okay, okay. I get it. Want me to shut the radio?”
Scott grabbed his temples. “I just want everyone to leave me alone.” He swung his body right and lurched out of the store and into the frigid night air. He pulled his jacket around him but instantly felt the nineteen-degree chill nipping the top of his ears.
He wandered down the street, then two or three or four … he was not paying attention. He leaned his right shoulder into a door and pushed into Lefty’s, a neighborhood bar.
It was loud with chatter. But thank god, no Christmas music. He made his way to the counter and sat down.
“I’m Gary. What can I get ya?”
“Blanton’s. Straight from the Barrel. Neat.”
“You got it.” Gary moved off to prepare the drink. Scott closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. He had a few days off from work, but it was doing him no good. Left him alone with his thoughts. His anger and frustration and loneliness.
“Here ya go,” Gary said.
Scott opened his eyes and watched as Gary placed the tumbler down and poured from the decorative squat, deep honey-colored bottle. Scott took the glass of high-proof bourbon and threw it back. The burn against his throat lifted some of the numbness and fog clouding his thoughts. Reminded him he was alive. “Another.”
Gary squinted—no doubt wondering why his customer would order expensive, flavor-filled alcohol and guzzle it without savoring it. But that was not his job. He shrugged, gathered up the bottle, and did as requested.
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