Vail turned to Vaughn. “Stephen, it’s now or never. Tell me who has your van.”
“What makes you think I know?”
“Because you groomed someone to take over for you. It took him some time, but he’s now killing.”
“So why should I give you his name?”
“Because he’s stealing your thunder. They’re gonna forget you. He’s doing it better than you did. He’s the one they’re gonna remember, not you. But if we find your van, it goes in the museum. It’ll be you who’s memorialized. And your protégé will be nothing more than a footnote. At best.”
“Okay, that’s it,” the officer said.
She had reached the end. She had to take a flyer. “Is the protégé—is it Harrison, your son?”
Poker face. “Don’t know what he’s up to. He visits but he don’t say much. I know one thing—doesn’t seem to be interested in women.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. You know that.”
Vaughn shrugged. “He’s not your guy.”
“Agent Vail, it’s time. The death warrant has to be read to him and Mr. Vaughn’s attorney and spiritual advisor are waiting for him. Follow Jack here. He’ll escort you out.”
He knows who it is, I can feel it.
“Stephen,” Vail said. “If it’s not Harrison, who is it? I need the name.”
Vaughn closed his eyes. The officers walked to his side and pulled him up.
“Agent Vail.” Jack gestured with his chin. “This way.”
Vail accompanied Jack up to the locked gate. Buzzers sounded, metal clanked, and all Vail could think about was that she had failed. She wanted to smash her fist against the nearby bars.
As she walked down the corridor, she glanced back over her shoulder at Vaughn, who was being led through a door in the opposite direction.
Vail joined Bledsoe in a small administrative area.
“Well?”
“Close. No cigar.”
“Shit.” He looked away. “How close?”
“I needed another few minutes.”
“You kidding me?”
“Nope.”
“They wouldn’t give it to you?”
“Already gave me extra time,” Vail said. “This thing…it’s a highly orchestrated event.”
“It is, but still. Lives are on the line. A young woman—”
“I know, Bledsoe. I know.” She turned to the guard behind the glass. “Can you have someone take us to the witness gallery?”
The man radioed for assistance.
“Let’s have Kearney check on Vaughn’s son, Harrison.”
Bledsoe nodded. “Yeah. He’d be, what, early thirties now?”
“Could be our offender. Vaughn denied it, but let’s find him and put him in a room, get an alibi. If he was anywhere near that SmartLots—”
“I’m on it,” Bledsoe said as he pulled out his phone.
Seconds later, an escort led them down a few short hallways walking in a three-sided square. Apparently, they had been relatively close to the execution chamber all along.
Vail figured the holding cell where she had met with Vaughn was purposely adjacent to the chamber to reduce the chances of anything going wrong in the last minutes. With things so tightly managed, there was no time to deal with unforeseen occurrences.
11:57 PM
They entered the semi-circular witness gallery, a few rows of stadium-style seats rimming a glass-enclosed theatre of death. White walls and sparse stainless steel stared back at them.
The room was small; although the theater had some width, it was only a few rows deep. All attendees were afforded a close-up view of what would transpire.
A gurney sat close to the window, no more than ten feet from where Vail and Bledsoe were sitting. A red wall-mounted telephone—a direct line to the governor—sat unused in its receiver.
Also unused—but soon to be deployed—was a trio of rubber surgical tubes protruding from a short divider and snaking up to the gurney. Virginia followed a three-drug execution procedure. The first rendered the inmate unconscious, the second caused paralysis, and the third stopped the heart. Two of them—midazolam and potassium chloride—were made by a nearby compounding pharmacy. Vaughn was the first prisoner to use this form of midazolam, so the weeks during the run-up to his date of reckoning were not without handwringing controversy.
A door opened on the left side of the execution chamber and two burly guards entered, followed by the star of the show, Stephen Raye Vaughn, and another two imposing corrections officers.
Vaughn’s face harbored a look of hatred and contempt as he gazed out at the glass that separated him from his witnesses. Vail knew it was a two-way pane that permitted them to see Vaughn, but the prisoner was merely staring at a reflected image of himself.
Vaughn was led to a gurney with crisp white linens. He sat down and laid back, two guards fastening thick leather straps to his limbs.
A curtain was drawn across the viewing window. Regardless, Vail knew that intravenous lines were being inserted into his heavily tattooed arms. She pictured Vaughn staring blankly at the ceiling, a feeling of helplessness enveloping his soul as reality struck him in the head like the mallet he had used on his victims’ skulls.
Vail looked at the wall-mounted clock. It was black and white, like justice is supposed to be. Good and bad. Truth and lies. She watched the hand jerk along the hashmarks painted on the clock face. One second at a time.
And one minute to go.
“You did the best you could,” Bledsoe said, settling himself into his seat.
Vail fell into hers. “For what that’s worth.”
“Déjà vu all over again.”
“How so?”
“Richard Singletary. Tried to get him to talk, give up info on the Dead Eyes killer. How could you forget?”
“Forget?” Vail snorted. “Never. I just try not to think about it.”
The curtain was pulled aside and the prisoner was once again visible.
“Stephen Raye Vaughn,” Warden Doheny said, his voice sounding loud, but tinny, through the speakers. “You’ve been sentenced to death for your crimes. Do you have any final words?”
Vail squeezed her eyelids shut tightly.
C’mon, asshole. Give us the name.
Vaughn was silent.
Just like Singletary. When am I gonna learn?
“I wanna kill him,” Bledsoe whispered.
“The state’s going to do that in less than a minute.”
“Too late, if you asked me.”
“Decades too late.”
“He’s gonna take the name to his grave, isn’t he?”
Vail sighed. “Looks that way.”
“Yeah,” Vaughn said. “I got something to say. Agent Vail out there?”
“I’m here,” Vail said, rising from her seat and waving her hands at the glass. She realized that was unnecessary. The warden knew she was present.
“She’s here,” Doheny said.
“Tell her the van’s license plates begin with a W T F. Don’t remember the rest of it.”
“That it?” Doheny asked.
“I want it in that museum,” Vaughn said. “Near the Unabomber.”
Fat chance of that happening. After forensics is done with it, it’s going straight to the scrap heap. And I’m driving it there.
“That right?” Bledsoe said, nudging Vail with his elbow and starting to type on his phone.
“No. He’s fucking with us. W T F, Bledsoe?”
He looked up from his screen. “Oh.”
“The killer’s name is,” Vaughn said through the speakers—“is Agent Vail listening?”
Doheny turned toward the viewing gallery, even though he could not see those in attendance. “She’s listening, Mr. Vaughn.”
There was a long moment of silence. The warden looked down at Vaughn and waited, then said, “Mr. Vaughn? What’s the name you want to give Agent Vail?”
Vaughn lay there a long moment.
; “Mr. Vaughn,” Doheny said, “I’m gonna need you to finish that sentence. Time’s up.”
Vaughn chuckled sardonically. “Time is up warden. Not just for me. It’s up for the kidnapped woman, too. Tell Vail the name of the killer is John Q. Public.”
Doheny frowned and looked out at the glass, as if knowing Vail was thinking about putting her fist through the large pane—and hoping she waited until Vaughn’s heart had stopped beating.
Doheny shook his head and nodded to a guard five feet to his left. “Let’s do it.” He looked down at Vaughn, leaned in closer and said, “Have a good trip to hell, sir.”
A smile flitted across Vaughn’s lips.
Vail sat heavily and canted forward, leaning both elbows on her knees and burying her face in her palms.
Bledsoe placed a hand on her back. “I’m sorry, Karen. You tried.”
Vail sat up, tears filling the lower lids of her eyes. One spilled over its threshold and raced down her cheek.
The tubes protruding from the divider jiggled a bit, one more than the others, and Vaughn’s eyes began blinking rapidly. He took a few deep breaths, his eyes fluttered and slowly closed, as if he were falling asleep. In fact, he was. But this was one nap he would not wake up from.
His chest continued to rise and fall—and then it ceased to move.
Doheny summoned the doctor over. He put a stethoscope to Vaughn’s chest, nodded, and then backed away.
“Time of death,” Doheny said, looking at the wall clock, “12:01 AM.”
Vail leaned back in her chair, neck fully extended, eyes examining the plain ceiling.
As they exited the penitentiary, Vail was uncommonly quiet.
“You should be happy. I mean, I know he didn’t give it up, but—”
“He smiled, Bledsoe.”
“Smiled? What are you talkin’ about?”
“Vaughn,” Vail said. “Before they injected him. After he told us to fuck off with that John Q. Public bullshit, he grinned.”
“I didn’t see a grin.”
“I’m telling you, he smiled.” She stopped and heaved a mouthful of vapor into the night chill. “What the hell was it for? They were about to inject him. His life’s over. What’s so funny about that?”
Bledsoe shrugged. “He didn’t give up the name. We were there, waiting for something he was never gonna give up. Joke was on us.”
Vail considered that, replayed it in her mind. “No, it’s more than that. Like he knew something we don’t know.”
Bledsoe snorted. “Here we go again. You’re reading into it.”
“Maybe. But my intuition is usually semi-accurate.”
“This time it’s wrong.”
“Hey,” Robby called as he trotted over to them. “Get what you came for?”
“I got closure on my old case,” Vail said. “I didn’t get the name of the offender who kidnapped the kid. On balance, it was not a good evening.”
“Sorry.”
“And there’s something else. And it’s bugging me.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” Bledsoe said. “She’s reading into things. Manufacturing something where there’s nothing.”
Robby looked at Vail. “Not so sure, Paul. You know Karen.”
Bledsoe’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out and glanced at the device. “Got the roster of visitors who came to see Vaughn. There were a bunch.”
“Such a friggin’ celebrity,” Vail said. “And?”
“Kearney did his homework,” he said, scrolling down the document. “Backgrounds and bios on all of them. Wanna take a look? Maybe one will jump out at you.”
“He jumps out at me, he better be prepared for a swift kick in the balls.”
“Just texted it to you.”
Her phone rumbled and seconds later she began reading while Bledsoe and Robby huddled together to share Bledsoe’s screen.
Finally, Vail spoke up. “This one. Vincent Caruthers. Herndon.”
“You sure?”
Vail looked at Bledsoe. It was a look that spoke volumes.
“Okay, I get it. An educated guess.”
“An educated guess. Best I can do right now. No crime scenes, no behaviors to analyze.”
“Understood. Let’s roll.”
As they began walking, Bledsoe grabbed Vail’s arm. “I still got the chopper here. It’s hot. Much faster.”
Vail turned to Robby. Her face probably said all he needed to know.
“Meet you at home,” he said.
She nodded. “Don’t wait up.”
“Really, Karen? I’ve learned that’s a losing proposition.”
Vail and Bledsoe jogged toward the helipad.
“You shouldn’t be running,” Bledsoe shouted, the noise building as they neared the whipping rotors.
“Yeah, I know.”
They got into the chopper and put on their headsets. X-ray raised the collective and they lifted off into the midnight sky.
“Swat is en route,” Bledsoe said. “Detective Kearney’s gonna meet us there, too.”
“Looking forward to meeting him,” Vail said absentmindedly, her attention on her Samsung’s screen, going through the list of individuals who had visited Vaughn over the years.
She recognized a number of national journalists, which was not surprising. Vaughn liked the attention and the media loved running stories on depraved minds who killed gobs of people. It was a match made in Internet eyeball click-bait heaven.
But then a name caught her gaze.
“Hang on a second. Bledsoe, look at this.”
He leaned over and snatched a look at her phone. “Lots of names there. Can you be more specific?”
“Here.” She zoomed the screen on Harrison Vaughn.
“So? It’s his son. Besides, you asked Vaughn about him. Didn’t get anything.”
Vail replayed that exchange.
“You ever talk to him when you were doing your victimology on Vaughn?”
“Of course. Family history’s important. Never married, no girlfriends. Menial labor. Not as sharp as dad and didn’t seem to exhibit psychopathic tendencies. But I eliminated him as an accomplice with the few facts we had. Tenicia was a big part of that. She said it was just Vaughn. Which made sense because if he had help, no way she would’ve escaped alive.”
“So he visited Vaughn in prison. How many times?”
Vail scanned the document. “Pretty regularly.”
She looked up. “We need Harrison’s address.”
“But you said Caruthers—”
“SWAT’s en route. Let them handle Caruthers. Could be our offender. But Harrison…I’ve got a feeling about him.”
“Christ,” he said as he pulled out his phone. “Another one of your intuition things?” He tapped out a quick text and hit send as the helicopter banked slightly to the right.
“What if I was right about the smile?” Vail said. “What if Vaughn was laughing at us because he knew his son was carrying on in his footsteps?”
“He didn’t smile.”
Vail shook her head. “I know what I saw.”
“Why can’t it be a regular old copycat? Excuse me, a guy patterning him—”
“Copycat’s fine. Just wanted to make sure you knew it’s more like inspiration, rather than duplication, of what the killer did.”
“So why can’t it be a copycat?”
“They can only emulate those things the killer’s done that are written in a book or news article. No one’s written a book about Vaughn yet. And we withheld certain things from the media—including the white 70s Chevy panel van. So the only way he’d be able to ‘copy’ such things is if he—”
“Knows the killer.”
“Right. And I’m betting it’s more than that. It’s personal. Vaughn coached him. Personally mentored him.”
“But Harrison was only eighteen when Vaughn was arrested. You’re saying he taught his son how to kill when the kid was young. A minor. So Harrison knew what his dad was doing and h
ow he was doing it.” Bledsoe shuddered. “That’s friggin’ awful.”
“Let’s assume Harrison hasn’t offended until now. If Vaughn desensitized his son when he was young and impressionable, maybe he reinforced it when meeting with him in prison over the years. When he felt Harrison was ready he egged him on, pumped him up.”
Bledsoe stared out the window a long moment, then nodded. “If true, that’d mean he hasn’t done this before. Makes sense. But why hasn’t he acted until now?”
“Maybe he’s been afraid to. The visits with his father could’ve served as encouragement, like you said.” Vail turned her attention back to the phone and scrolled to the far right of Harrison’s name. “He visited Vaughn several times recently. Last time was—” She looked at Bledsoe. “A week ago.”
“When you visited Vaughn and asked for his help, he knew his son had finally done it.”
Vail clenched her jaw. “I inadvertently told him junior had pulled the trigger. Made his day, I’m sure. That’s what the smile was about.” She looked out the side window, peering into the darkness of the Virginia countryside. They were over Caruthers’ home. The top of the parked assault vehicle was barely visible in the moonlight, but she did not see the deployed officers. “Hover here a minute.”
“Copy that,” X-ray said.
“What do you think?” Bledsoe asked.
“I think we let SWAT do their thing and we go check out Harrison.”
Bledsoe thought a moment, then his phone buzzed. He looked at the display, then nodded. “Let’s do it. X-ray, change of plans. Got a new address for you.”
They approached the home of Harrison Vaughn twenty minutes later, located in a dark, sparsely populated area of Charlottesville, Virginia.
Vail adjusted the headset mic in front of her mouth. “X-ray, sitrep from SWAT?”
“Negative. Stand by, I’ll check.” A moment passed. “Suspect Caruthers wasn’t home. In process of clearing house. No sign of Debra Mead or indications she, or any other woman, has been held there. Over.”
“Copy that,” Vail said.
“Could be he has another place where he’s planning to off her,” Bledsoe said.
“Or he’s not our guy.”
They were now within view of the house—which was more like a home-built cabin in the middle of an evergreen thicket.
Nothing Good Happens After Midnight: A Suspense Magazine Anthology Page 4
