Vail 01 - The 7th Victim (45 page)
One might have also assumed he had done quite well for himself since leaving the FBI. “So why did he have such a hard time with Karen?” Robby asked.
“Male ego,” Bledsoe answered. “She got something he wanted. Those types of wounds take a long time to heal.”
Bledsoe stood in the living room and ran a hand along one of the leather sofas. “Pricey stuff. Feels like a lambskin coat my father wore.” He directed one of the forensic technicians into the house. “We’re looking for anything and everything pertaining to a murder. Hair and clothing fibers to match against what we’ve got on our vics. Blood. Blunt objects used as weapons. You know the drill.”
“We’re going to vacuum first,” the head tech said. “As we clear each room, you’ll be allowed in.”
Robby thanked the tech, then headed out of the house to wait. “He’s had time to clean up,” he said to Bledsoe. “You think we’ll find anything? Hancock knows the drill, he’s been on our end of things.”
Bledsoe shrugged. “I’ve never seen the perfect murder, Hernandez. Even if he’s Mr. Clean, there’s bound to be something he left behind.” They stepped outside into the blustery winter air, where Chase Hancock stood ten feet away, buttocks leaning against his Acura, arms folded against his chest.
Robby turned to Bledsoe. “Whatever that
something
is, I just hope we find it.”
something
is, I just hope we find it.”
fifty-one
V
ail checked her voice mail from her cell phone on the way to visit Jonathan. Thirty messages were logged when her machine started refusing additional calls. As she started to go through them, she realized they were all requests from media outlets across the country, including a couple from overseas. She thought about deleting the messages, then realized she had better review them in case any were regarding Emma or Jonathan—or herself: OPR, Gifford, and Jackson Parker were all possibilities.
ail checked her voice mail from her cell phone on the way to visit Jonathan. Thirty messages were logged when her machine started refusing additional calls. As she started to go through them, she realized they were all requests from media outlets across the country, including a couple from overseas. She thought about deleting the messages, then realized she had better review them in case any were regarding Emma or Jonathan—or herself: OPR, Gifford, and Jackson Parker were all possibilities.
She inserted her Bluetooth headset and listened as she drove, fast-forwarding to the next message as soon as she ascertained the source of the caller. She finally deleted all of them when she had reached the end. Nothing important.
She arrived at the hospital and made her way up to ICU. As soon as she headed down the hall, she was accosted by a man in his thirties wearing a pair of khakis and an oxford dress shirt cuffed at the sleeves. A microcassette recorder, held tightly in one hand, hovered near Vail’s face as he asked her a question: “Agent Vail, how do you feel about being targeted as the Dead Eyes killer?”
She knocked the recorder out of her face and continued walking, but did not say anything.
“I personally don’t believe you’re the killer,” he continued, “but how does it make you feel to have your picture pasted all over the front page?”
Vail stopped and turned to face him. He was younger than she had originally thought when she had looked at him peripherally. “How long have you been on the beat, kid? You’re the only one of the press corps bright enough to find a way up to this floor, and you come up with lame questions like those? Even if I felt like talking, which I don’t, you didn’t earn an answer from me.”
The reporter was stunned into silence. His arm, holding the recorder, dropped to his side in defeat. Vail turned away and continued walking.
“How about giving me another chance?” he shouted down the hall. “We could meet for lunch—on me. . . .”
Vail noted a man in his midtwenties dressed in scrubs hovering down the hall near Jonathan’s room. Her instincts told her it was Bledsoe’s undercover man, and when she made eye contact, he dipped his chin at her. Obviously, he had been well briefed and knew who she was on sight . . . or he’d heard enough of the exchange with the reporter to make the connection.
She stopped at the nurse’s station and asked her to page Dr. Altman. The woman gave Vail a cautious look, then backed away slightly and reached for the phone. She didn’t take her eyes off Vail as she dialed.
“Unbelievable,” Vail muttered, then walked away and pushed through the door to Jonathan’s room. She stood by her son’s side, waiting for Dr. Altman. She had the feeling neurologists dreaded cases like these, where there was little for them to do but make their rounds—that is, go through the motions—look over the patient’s vitals and talk with the concerned parents . . . having nothing of value to tell them. Certainly there were those victorious moments when the child regained consciousness. Perhaps those were the ones that kept the doctors sane, that allowed them to deal with the ones who didn’t recover. A few successes and happy endings made the intolerable failures more palatable. Sometimes. At least in theory.
Vail pressed her lips to Jonathan’s forehead, then took his hand. A tear trailed down her face and dropped onto his cheek. She gently wiped it away, then stood there watching him breathe. She talked to him and let him know she was there. Beyond that, she felt as helpless as she imagined Dr. Altman felt. The doctor poked his head in the door and smiled when he saw Vail. He stepped in, shook her hand, and picked up Jonathan’s chart to scan the nurse’s notes.
“I suppose you want to know how your son is doing,” he said absentmindedly.
“I’m not here selling Girl Scout cookies.”
Altman looked at her, his face conveying the realization he had asked a stupid question. “No, of course not,” he said, setting the metal chart on the table beside the bed.
“I’m sorry,” Vail said.
Altman shrugged. “No need to apologize. I’ve seen the papers, I know the stress you must be under. But I do have some good news. Watch.” He leaned close to Jonathan and clapped his hands in front of the boy’s eyes. Jonathan blinked. Altman looked at Vail for confirmation, as if he had just revealed something wondrous. “Did you see?”
“See what? He blinked.”
“Exactly. He wasn’t doing that before. He’s recovering mental function. His brain is regaining consciousness, so to speak.”
Vail’s eyebrows elevated, then she blew some air through pursed lips. “This really is a case of small steps.”
“That’s the nature of the condition. A small step translates into a huge advancement. I’m very encouraged by his progress.”
“This is what you live for, isn’t it? I mean, I guess it’s a lot like an investigation, tracking a killer. Small pieces of evidence at each crime scene add up over time to help us get a full picture. The small steps make a difference.”
Altman smiled. “They sure do. The day-to-day improvement may be painstakingly slow for some, but I look at it like doing a jigsaw puzzle: I’ll search for the next piece, and the one after that, and the one after that. Piece by piece, until I finally complete the puzzle. Because to answer your question, ‘what I live for’ is the completed puzzle.”
Vail nodded, buoyed by the new perspective.
The law enforcement analogy was one she could grasp. As long as the evidence kept coming, as long as the clues were adding up, she would break the case. If the same principles applied to Jonathan, she could deal with the slow but steady progress.
She thanked the doctor, who nodded and then left the room.
Little by little, she thought. Vail kissed her son’s cheek and whispered in his ear. “Come on, Jonathan. Just like when you were a baby learning how to walk. One foot in front of the other, one step at a time. You’ll pull through this. You’re gonna make it. You hear me, sweetheart?” She waited for a blink, a twitch of his mouth . . . but got nothing.
Wiping away the tears, she walked out of his room and left the hospital, moving past a few members of the press who had camped out near the exit, “no commenting” as she pushed by them.
What she needed now was slow, steady progress on Dead Eyes. As if in response to her thoughts, her cell phone rang: someone at BSU, the Behavioral Science Unit, had information for her.
fifty-two
W
ayne Rudnick of BSU was cagey about what he had discovered regarding the Dead Eyes case but told her he couldn’t wait around for her to drive to the Academy. He had an exploding toothache and was heading out to an emergency dental appointment. He suggested they meet tomorrow morning instead.
ayne Rudnick of BSU was cagey about what he had discovered regarding the Dead Eyes case but told her he couldn’t wait around for her to drive to the Academy. He had an exploding toothache and was heading out to an emergency dental appointment. He suggested they meet tomorrow morning instead.
Vail went back to Robby’s place and found him with an apron on, mixing a pot of tomato sauce. Boiling water sat on the stove beside it, awaiting the introduction of a handful of stiff spaghetti noodles. As he dropped in the pasta, the water calmed like antacid on a queasy stomach.
“Smells good,” she said as she approached the kitchen. Robby’s house, inherited from his mother several years ago when she passed away, showed its age. Nails, tape, and other items permanently embedded in the plaster walls’ surfaces had been covered over by repeated coats of paint. The old casement windows were drafty and needed to be replaced. New carpet had been installed, and it looked as if Robby had made an attempt at home decorating. But it still lacked warmth.
Vail stepped up to the pot and sniffed. “Smells better than it looks. Is that Ragu or Prego?”
“Hey,” Robby said, wooden spoon in hand. “Are you insulting me?”
She looked into the pot again. “Just stating my observations. But if I’m wrong—”
“It’s Prego.”
“I see. Guess I’ll have to help out a bit. Do some of the cooking.”
“You’re definitely insulting me.”
Vail moved into the living room and sat down heavily on the couch. “Jonathan’s showing some more improvement.”
Robby lowered the flames beneath the pots, then settled onto the sofa beside her. “That’s great,” he said, taking her hand in his own. “What’d the doctor say?”
“He’s encouraged, feels it’s all going the way he’d expected. Small steps.” She kicked her shoes off and brought her feet up onto the couch, rested her head in Robby’s lap. “Raising a kid is tough. It’s easy to see how things go wrong, you know?”
“How do you mean?”
“On the drive over, I was thinking about Deacon, and how bad an influence he’s been on Jonathan the past year or so. It’s the kind of stuff that leads to the development of the twisted personalities the offenders develop.”
“Oh, come on. A child of yours becoming a killer?”
“Sounds silly, huh? But I worry about it sometimes. If it wasn’t for Deacon, it’d be the furthest thing from my mind. But he’s such a bad influence. When you’re in a relationship for so many years, and you know he’s going through tough times and you’re trying to help him through it. . . .” She shook her head. “I overlooked a lot of things. It took me months to step back and see there was nothing I could do, that he was beyond help. I realize that now. But what if he did things I never knew about, when Jonathan was younger. . . .” Her body tensed. “It’s not unusual with killers, in their youth, to withdraw into themselves. They’d never talk about things that happened to them when they were young. It hurts me just to think about the possibility.” She let the words hang in the air, then continued: “I keep playing things back in my mind, memories, things I saw in Jonathan’s behavior. Searching my memory for the warning signs.”
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