When they drove up, Vail noted that the parking lot to Crooked Oak Vineyards in the Georges Valley District was full of unmarked county vehicles. Even Lugo was in a plain vanilla white Chevy Impala. Vail and Dixon got out and walked past the parked cars, looking for their comrades. Approximately a hundred feet away, amidst an adjacent, well-kept vineyard, they were all huddled around something, their heads down, hung low. Looking at a body, Vail surmised.
But as she and Dixon got closer, Vail was not prepared for what she saw.
VAIL STOOD OVER THE BODY trying to process what she was seeing. But no matter how hard she tried to focus, she couldn’t hone in on what she was feeling, what she was thinking. Come on, Karen. They’re all looking at you—to you—for answers.
But I’ve got nothing.
“Karen,” Brix said again. She barely heard his voice, off in the distance. Then a hand on her shoulder. “Karen, what’s the deal?”
Vail kept her gaze on the victim. On the male body that lay before her. The right shoe and sock were removed. And the second toenail had been forcibly extracted.
VAIL KNELT BESIDE THE BODY. Buying time. Trying to figure out what the hell was going on here. “Forensics?” she asked.
Lugo said, “On the way.”
“This vic, he’s a guy,” Brix said.
“Yeah, I got that. Thanks for pointing it out.” Vail tried to push the confusion from her thoughts. She needed to focus. Look at the body. See it. See the behaviors. Her mental checklist said: right second toenail missing. Breasts—or where they would be had the victim been female—had been sliced away. Bruising over the neck, so they would likely find a crushed trachea. There was linkage to the other murders—the toenail was a detail only those on the task force knew about. And the coroner.
“We’ve got linkage,” she said, hoping that talking aloud would help put it together and bring her to a logical conclusion. “The toenail, the . . . breasts, and the COD—I think we’re going to find out his trachea was crushed. Just like the others.”
“But the others were women,” Brix said.
Vail fought the urge to respond with a sharp retort. Brix was merely looking for answers, and it was anger at her own inability to mentally process this victim that was threatening to bubble to the surface.
“I don’t know,” Vail finally said. She looked up at everyone. They were huddled over the body, looking down at her. “I don’t understand it.”
They seemed to slump en masse. Or maybe she was projecting her sense of inadequacy onto them. Imagining their disappointment. Perhaps she was giving herself too much credit and they were thinking nothing of the sort. They were professionals. Cops, investigators. This was their business.
But they hadn’t dealt with serial crime. Not like this.
And, Vail suddenly realized, neither had she.
TWENTY-THREE
Vail looked over the immediate vicinity: well-pruned rows of leafy grapevines stretched a few football fields into the distance, leading up to tree-dense mountains that rippled the muscular countryside.
The new victim was nestled in the gently concave dirt floor of the area between the vines, with a dark blood puddle pooled beneath the body, the liquid having largely been absorbed into the porous earth. Vail closed her eyes and cleared her mind. “It’s not unheard of for a male to be a victim of a serial killer,” Vail said. “But like I told you yesterday, there are specific circumstances. Usually it’s a killer who targets homosexuals. Or the offender takes out the male in the house to get at his real target, the woman. But when he kills the male, he does it in the quickest way possible and he doesn’t engage in postmortem activity with the body. The behaviors—the things he leaves for us at the crime scene that we see with the female—just aren’t there.”
Everyone stood there, silently absorbing Vail’s analysis.
“Okay,” Brix said. “So let’s figure out what we have here. Same killer, right?”
Vail opened her eyes. “Looks like it, yes.”
“He killed again, right after we spurned his demand to go public,” Brix said.
“Not to mention the text message,” Dixon said.
Fuller asked, “What text message?”
“Karen got a text message,” Dixon said, “about three hours ago, after the article was posted to the Press’s website.”
Brix shot her a look. Vail interpreted it as, Why weren’t we told about this?
“There was no point in notifying everyone,” Dixon said. “There was nothing we could do but wait for something to happen.”
“Well, something happened,” Fuller said.
Vail stood up. “You’re the one who reads all the profiling books, Wonder Boy. What do you have to say about this?”
Fuller’s face flushed the burgundy side of Cabernet. His eyes surveyed the faces of everyone, who were now looking at him, as if they were expecting an answer. “I—the texts don’t address this.”
“I can tell you this,” Vail said. “His actions fit those of a narcissistic killer, and I think it’s important we start treating him like one. It’s entirely possible this kill was meant to get our attention, a response to our decision to reject his demands.”
“Your decision,” Fuller said.
“My decision,” Brix said. “We discussed it, and based on what we had, I felt this was the way to go. No one has all the answers. But goddamn it, we’re doing the best we can.”
“I need some time to digest this,” Vail said. “For now, let’s get back to basics. First off, I don’t think the victim was killed here.”
“Why not?” Lugo asked. “The body’s here, and obviously the blood drained underneath it.”
“Yes, the blood,” she said, motioning to the soaked soil. “So it’s safe to say this is where the cutting was done. But assuming the guy’s MO hasn’t changed, we’ll find that the trachea was crushed. Like I demonstrated back at the sheriff’s department, he’d need to force the victim up against a wall using his forearm, remember? That’s his MO, and it’s worked well so far, so no need to change it. But there’s no place for him to do that here. So I think he was killed somewhere else, somewhere close, then brought here and sliced and diced.”
Dixon said, “But we’ve got something new here. It’s a guy, which means, theoretically, at least, he chose a victim that wasn’t as easily subdued.”
Vail nodded. “That’s part of what bothers me. Why he suddenly changed. Could mean our UNSUB is extremely confident that he could overpower his victims. He’s either skilled in some form of martial art that enables him to efficiently control or debilitate an individual, or—”
“He knows them,” Brix said.
“Exactly. He knows them, so they don’t see him as a threat. Could also be he’s a person of authority or standing, so he can get close without someone seeing him as a threat.”
“If that were the case,” Brix said, “how does that fit with the wine cave at Silver Ridge?”
“Hard to say at this point. Someone of authority in a place like that would stand out, the employees would tend to remember him. Unless, of course, it’s someone they’re accustomed to seeing there.”
Brix stared at her.
Vail figured he thought that comment was intended for him—which it was—but only as a jab, not because she thought he was the offender.
“This guy could be changing his appearance, too,” Lugo said. “He may’ve worn a uniform for this kill, but regular clothing for the wine cave murder so he wouldn’t stand out.”
“Uniform,” Fuller said. “You saying it’s a cop?”
Lugo squinted at his colleague. “Lots of people wear uniforms, Scott. Gas, electric, water department workers, security guards. But yeah, it could be a law enforcement officer. Why not?”
“We’ve got nothing that says it’s a LEO. That’s why not.”
“A bigger question,” Vail said, “is how he got my cell number. The only place that’s listed—other than at the Bureau—is at the sheriff’s department.
If it’s not a cop, it could be support personnel.”
Lugo nodded. “I’ll get a list, see if it leads anywhere.” He started to turn, then stopped. “What about data backups? Where are they kept?”
Brix raised his brow. “Don’t know. But that’s a good point. Check it out.”
“Who found the body?” Dixon asked.
Brix knelt and pointed at the ground, where paw prints were evident. “Dog must’ve smelled the blood and tracked through it. When he went over to that house out there,” Brix said, indicating the structure where they had all parked, “he had blood all over his paws. The owner freaked out, thought her dog was hurt. She cleaned him up and saw it wasn’t coming from him. She called 911 and dispatch called me. I’ve already spoken to her about the importance of not telling anyone about this.”
“Did she seem cooperative?” Vail asked.
“I was pretty firm about it, gave her a little incentive.” He used his fingers as imaginary quotation marks. “I don’t think she’ll be a problem.”
A loud whistle came down the long dirt row between the vines. Trudging toward them with his thumb and middle finger between his lips was the tall and thin CSI, Matthew Aaron. He stopped a few feet from the body and looked down. “Looks like we’ve got a freaking party here. Sure you don’t want to extend the invitation? I think we need more bodies trampling through my crime scene.”
“Just do your thing and let us know what you find,” Brix said.
He surveyed the immediate area, then chose a spot to set down his toolbox. “I’m gonna need each of you to retrace your steps outta here. And stop by the lab at some point today so I can get castings of each of your shoes.”
As they moved out of the vineyard and back to the parking lot, Vail’s phone rang. It was Frank Del Monaco.
“VICAP?” Vail asked.
“VICAP,” Del Monaco said. “So here’s the deal. The toenail thing is unique as far as the database is concerned. So either no one thought much of reporting a missing toenail, or none of the murders that involved a missing toenail were submitted to VICAP. Or these are the only kills this UNSUB’s committed.”
“Makes sense, because I’d never seen or heard of it before.”
“And I’m looking into that other thing.”
Vail joined the knot of task force members, who had congregated around Brix’s vehicle. “What other thing?”
“Rooney asked me to look into something. He was at the airport, dialed me up and said I got to look into some guy you’re working with. A Detective Scott Fuller.”
Vail was standing five feet away from Fuller. She glanced over at him to see if he’d heard his name. She couldn’t tell. “Hang a sec.” Vail moved off a few paces and said, “What exactly did Art want you to look into? And why? The guy’s a bit of a showoff, trying to impress everyone with his knowledge. But he’s harmless, nothing I can’t handle.”
“Rooney was a little more concerned than that. You know how he is. Someone crosses him, he goes for the jugular.”
She made a mental reminder never to get on Rooney’s bad side. “Okay, but what’s there to look into?”
“He sent me on a fishing expedition. Anything and everything I can find on the guy.”
Vail glanced over at Fuller. “I think he’s overreacting.”
Del Monaco laughed. “You want me to tell him that when he gets here?”
“No,” Vail said a little too quickly. “Leave it be. I don’t know what he saw, but I assume something caught his attention.”
“Yeah, and he might’ve been right. A sealed record. Have no idea what it is, but I’m on it.”
“Could be nothing.” Or, it could be something. “Keep me posted.” She ended the call, put away the phone, and stood there observing. The late afternoon wind blew her hair back off her face. What was it Rooney saw that she hadn’t seen? Was it something obvious, something she should’ve recognized, or merely a feeling he’d gotten in their brief interchange in the conference room?
Whatever it was—or wasn’t—she would keep her eyes open, but carry on until she heard otherwise. There were too many things she had to deal with, and this, at the moment, seemed like a distraction.
She walked over to the others and got the sense they were still talking about the new victim when her phone rang again. It was Robby.
“Hey there. What’ve you been up to?”
“Went to the outlets and did some fabulous shopping, bought you the most marvelous clothing and a dear—”
“Robby, the gay thing doesn’t work for you.”
“No? Fine. I got you some clothes. Hope you like ’em, but I gotta say it was a bit of a crapshoot.”
“Much better,” Vail said. “I’m sure whatever you got will work for another few days. And what about a place to stay?”
“I booked us into this darling inn with a wonderfully frilly duvet and cherry—”
“Robby?”
“Cut it out, right?”
Vail rubbed her eyes with thumb and index finger. “Yeah.”
“Okay. I got us a room at the Heartland B&B in Yountville, a few blocks from downtown.” He gave her the address. “Meet me there in an hour? Or do you want to go straight to dinner? There are a few nice looking restaurants downtown, within walking distance.”
“Works for me. I need to get out of these shoes. I’ll meet you at the B&B, do a quick change, and then we can pick a place to eat.”
She shoved the phone into its holder, then walked over to Dixon. “So what’s the deal?”
“Aaron is still with the body.” She glanced at the setting sun. “But he’s gonna need some fixed lights brought in if he’s gonna be here much longer.”
Lugo closed his phone and said, “He said he’ll be done in about twenty. He needs someone to hold the lantern for him.”
“Unless you think he could be our UNSUB, I’ll do it,” Vail said. “I’ve got some time to kill before I can get into my B&B.”
Brix slammed his trunk closed and said, “I’ve known Matt a dozen years. If he’s our guy, he’s fucking got me fooled. But if you’re concerned about it—”
“I can handle it.” She flashed momentarily on her recent romp with the Dead Eyes killer, but pushed it from her mind. She couldn’t do her job effectively if she let things like that change the way she operates.
“Good,” Brix said. “I’ve got a car arranged for you at St. Helena PD. A green Ford Taurus that was used by its investigator before the position was canned. It’s yours. I’ll have Aaron drop you off there when he’s done. Keys will be in a magnetic case in the driver’s wheel well.”
Vail nodded her thanks, wished everyone a good evening, then headed out to the vineyard to assist Aaron. As it turned out, it was to be the start of an unexpectedly dangerous evening.
TWENTY-FOUR
John Wayne Mayfield stood on the hillside, Carson binoculars pressed against his face, watching the police try to make sense of his latest job. He couldn’t make out fine details of their facial expressions at this distance—and in the fading light—but he could get a sense of what they were thinking and saying by their body language.
And they didn’t look happy.
But he had warned them. He told them what would happen. Did they not believe him? Next time they had better listen or he’d make them pay again.
As he crouched and watched them debate what they had found, he realized that maybe he hadn’t been convincing enough. Maybe he needed to speak louder for them to hear him.
AS THE LAST of the task force members drove off, Vail watched a car pull up behind Matt Aaron’s vehicle. At the wheel was Austin Mann.
“I’ll be right back,” Vail said.
“Wait—where are you going? I need you to hold—”
“I’ll just be a couple minutes,” Vail called back, and continued down the path toward Mann.
Mann slammed his door and maneuvered around the car. “I just got the text. Who’s the vic?”
Vail stopped, blocking his pa
th, and shoved her hands in her rear pockets. There he was, only a dozen feet away now. Prosthetic arm at his side. Vail pulled her gaze from the device and looked Mann in the eyes.
“Glad you’re here.” She had to handle this carefully, tactfully—a laughable thought. If there’s one skill Karen Vail never could master, it was the art of diplomacy.
“Who’s the vic?” Mann asked again, craning his head around her, toward where Matt Aaron was bent over the body.
Crush (Karen Vail Series) Page 17