Vail 01 - The 7th Victim (40 page)
He remembered that day quite well. Certain memories just stick in your mind like a piece of chewing gum on the bottom of a shoe. You pull and twist and stretch and the damn gum just won’t let go.
He shut down the laptop and put it aside. He had a little less than an hour before students started arriving for his advanced pottery class and he needed to decompress, turn his thoughts away from his childhood. He grabbed an unfinished sandwich from the small refrigerator and switched on the television. But of course he wouldn’t be able to escape it altogether. After all, he’d made the news. Literally made it. The Dead Eyes killer was a nightly story, if only as a feature piece on public safety. But he was always mentioned.
Yet somehow, the police had managed to keep a tight lid on the Linwood murder. Guess it would kind of freak people out if they heard that the Dead Eyes killer had gotten to a state senator. If he could get to a senator, no bitch-whore would be safe. “You hear that? None of you are safe!”
He finished the sandwich, then sat in front of the TV kneading a hunk of clay. Kneading clay relaxed him, kept his hands and arms strong.
The six o’clock news logo swirled onto the screen with a building crescendo of music and a photo array of its anchors. Such drama. Just report the goddamn news and cut the fat.
“Good evening,” the anchor said.
Yes, it was indeed a good evening, thank you very much.
He felt satisfied, the way you feel after eating a well-cooked meal.
Yes, it was indeed a good evening, thank you very much.
He felt satisfied, the way you feel after eating a well-cooked meal.
“. . . the murder of Senator Eleanor Linwood has stunned members of the legislature and caused an outpouring of support across bipartisan lines. The senator’s husband, Richard Linwood, heir to the Linwood Shipping empire, was reportedly returning home from a business trip. Police are not releasing many details about the murder, except to say leads are being pursued. For more complete coverage on Senator Linwood’s long career, we go to Steve Schneiderman, standing by live. . . .”
He switched off the television, went to his freezer, and took out the container holding the beloved senator’s hand. He set the severed appendage on the table beside him and looked at it, observing it from multiple angles. “You were a very naughty bitch,
Senator.
Would anyone have voted for you if they knew the type of person you really were? Of course not. Of course not. Of course not.”
Senator.
Would anyone have voted for you if they knew the type of person you really were? Of course not. Of course not. Of course not.”
Well, he hoped she enjoyed their time together. He sure did. It was the most satisfying event of his life. He felt free again. Free . . . free to do whatever he wanted to, because she wasn’t there to stop him.
Almost
free. Because there were a few loose ends that needed to be tied up. But there was time for that. If there was one thing he could be sure of, it was that time was on his side.
free. Because there were a few loose ends that needed to be tied up. But there was time for that. If there was one thing he could be sure of, it was that time was on his side.
forty-three
V
ail had spent the afternoon at the hospital, holding Jonathan’s hand, stroking his hair, talking to him. Just in case. She told him she loved him about a hundred times, or maybe it was more. It didn’t matter. He was still comatose, and although previously his eyes only opened and closed, they now moved side to side and tracked moving objects. As time passed, it was increasingly difficult for her to get excited over “incremental improvement.”
ail had spent the afternoon at the hospital, holding Jonathan’s hand, stroking his hair, talking to him. Just in case. She told him she loved him about a hundred times, or maybe it was more. It didn’t matter. He was still comatose, and although previously his eyes only opened and closed, they now moved side to side and tracked moving objects. As time passed, it was increasingly difficult for her to get excited over “incremental improvement.”
But the doctor continued to be encouraging: “He’s taking small steps. No matter how small, they
are
small steps. We have to remain hopeful.”
are
small steps. We have to remain hopeful.”
Vail shook her head. It sounded similar to what Gifford and Robby had said. Maybe she needed to start taking their words to heart.
After returning to her house, she grabbed the Dead Eyes file and spread the paperwork out on the floor in her study. The profile and supporting information went in one pile, the crime scene photos in another, VICAP reports on each victim grouped with victimology analyses. Interview notes with family members, employers, and acquaintances were placed in another spot. Medical examiner, forensic, and lab reports were separated out and laid across the floor.
Vail stood up and looked at it all, neatly organized. Like the offender.
She sat on the futon couch beside the long wall of the eight-by-ten room and let everything flow through her mind, not stopping to analyze any particular item. The blood murals, the messages left at each scene after the disputed third victim, the severed left hand, the knives through the eyes. Disemboweled vics, easily disabled. Substantial planning involved. Intelligent offender.
Organized.
Her thoughts had come full circle.
Organized.
Her thoughts had come full circle.
The doorbell rang. She pulled herself off the futon and meandered to the front door. Robby was standing there with a bouquet of flowers. “Good afternoon, Miss, care to make a contribution to the Police Officer’s Foundation?”
Vail pushed opened the screen door and said, “Sure, Officer. Here’s my donation.” She reached out, grabbed his lapel, and pulled him down to her height. Planted a hard kiss on his lips. She leaned back and studied his face.
“I’ll make sure you get a receipt. For tax purposes.”
He bent over and lifted her off her feet, carrying her in his arms into the family room, where they kissed again. They fell onto the couch, tongues probing, hands exploring—
Suddenly, Vail stopped. She rested her head on Robby’s chest, a hand on his shoulder.
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t want anything to ruin the moment. Can we just lie here for a few minutes?”
“Of course.”
Seconds passed. She asked, “Do you mind if we slow it down a bit? I just need some time. I’m not sure what I want. I mean, I know what I want. It’s just that with so much going on right now, maybe it’s best to wait—”
Robby pressed fingers to her lips. “You want to wait, we’ll wait. I think I can withstand a few more cold showers.” They smiled.
“Thanks.”
“We’ll grab some dinner. A movie, too, while we’re out. I think we could both use a good escape.”
She nodded against his chest. “In a little while. For the moment, I just want to stay right where I am.”
forty-four
“
So teach me more.” Robby grabbed his rolled burrito and held an end of it in front of his mouth. “About profiling.”
So teach me more.” Robby grabbed his rolled burrito and held an end of it in front of his mouth. “About profiling.”
Vail unwrapped the foil that cocooned her food. “Not exactly the sort of conversation made for dinner. But if it doesn’t bother you, I’m game.” She sighed, eyes down, searching the table between them but seeing nothing. “Typing the offender is an important consideration. With Dead Eyes, it’s a question I’ve grappled with over and over again. What type of offender is this guy?”
“I thought he was organized.”
“He is, yes. But there’s more to it than just organized or disorganized. Kim Rossmo—the guy who I asked to do a geographic profile, talks about classifying offenders by the way they search for their victims, and the way they go about attacking them. He classifies them as
hunters, poachers, trollers,
and
trappers.
I’m fairly sure Dead Eyes is either a hunter or poacher. A hunter uses his home as a focal point and goes out in search of a victim. A poacher also goes in search of a victim but chooses a different place as his focal point. Could be where he works or some other place he’s comfortable around—even if he has to travel to get there.”
hunters, poachers, trollers,
and
trappers.
I’m fairly sure Dead Eyes is either a hunter or poacher. A hunter uses his home as a focal point and goes out in search of a victim. A poacher also goes in search of a victim but chooses a different place as his focal point. Could be where he works or some other place he’s comfortable around—even if he has to travel to get there.”
“Okay, so he’s an organized hunter or poacher.”
She held up a hand. “It’s not quite that simple.”
“Somehow I knew it wouldn’t be.”
Vail smiled. “If it was simple, you guys wouldn’t need people like us.” She took a sip of her ice tea, then continued: “There are three victim attack methods. A
raptor
attacks a victim as soon as he sees her. A
stalker
finds his victim, then follows her for a while before attacking her. An
ambusher
behaves like a spider, luring her to his safe place, where he can be in total control, and then attacks. Based on the fact that Dead Eyes attacks them in their own home, and appears to be of high intelligence, I’d think he spends some amount of time casing out the house and the neighborhood before going in for the kill. That’s why he only chooses front doors that are hidden from the street.”
raptor
attacks a victim as soon as he sees her. A
stalker
finds his victim, then follows her for a while before attacking her. An
ambusher
behaves like a spider, luring her to his safe place, where he can be in total control, and then attacks. Based on the fact that Dead Eyes attacks them in their own home, and appears to be of high intelligence, I’d think he spends some amount of time casing out the house and the neighborhood before going in for the kill. That’s why he only chooses front doors that are hidden from the street.”
Robby swallowed. “Then he’s an organized hunting or poaching stalker. How does this help us?”
“First of all, it’s another tool in establishing linkage. Linkage is an issue for vic three—we know that—but also with Linwood. At first glance, she appears to be the work of the same offender, but in some respects not. Aside from linkage, a geographic profile uses the search and attack classifications to create a distribution of where the offender has already struck, and where he might strike next. If we overlay this analysis on top of a map, we can make certain inferences. And if he’s not a poacher, it might even give us an idea where he lives.”
“When will this geographic profile be done?”
“Hopefully soon.”
Robby took another bite of his burrito, then nodded.
THE CLOUDS HAD RETURNED. Gray skies and the threat of rain hovered like salt in sea air. After dinner, Robby and Vail went to a movie and made out like pimply-faced high school kids. Their next stop was Davina’s Creamery for dessert, before ending up at Robby’s place. They fell asleep on the couch in each other’s arms, their empty dishes of ice cream resting on the coffee table. The next morning, Robby drove her home on his way to the task force op center.
Upon pulling up to the curb by Vail’s house, he nodded at the open front door. “Please tell me you’re expecting someone.”
She followed his gaze. “What?” Her eyes narrowed as they found the door. She reached for her Glock and got out of the car in one motion.
Robby drew his weapon and followed her oblique path across the lawn. Using hand signals, Vail indicated she’d go right and he should go left. She rested her back against the brick; Robby ducked below eye level and scrambled across the front of the house.
She nodded to him, then turned the screen door’s knob and pulled it open. He held it in place with the toe of his shoe as she entered in a crouch, gun tip out in front of her. She moved through the hallway, Robby at her heels.
She motioned him into the kitchen, while she went left, into the living room. They converged in the hallway and continued on toward the bedrooms.
Vail toed open the door to her study and peered in. She cleared the room, then took in the mess of documents scattered across the floor. Her copy of the Dead Eyes file, rifled through. At first glance, with such a blizzard of papers, it was impossible to determine what was missing.
They finished clearing the house, then returned to Vail’s study. She sat on the futon, her face resting in her hands.
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