Crush

by Jacobson, Alan

  “Back to the other question, then,” Dixon said. “Do we go along with what he’s demanding?”

  “Yes and no,” Vail said. “I suggest we do just enough to keep the line of communication open. We negotiate. But the bottom line is we keep him talking to us. The more we learn about him from his communications, the better it’ll be for us. At some point he’ll give us something he’s not aware he’s giving us. And that could lead us to him.”

  Brix looked around the room. “Comments?”

  Fuller shrugged. “Vail was pushing for us to give this to the media, which would’ve been a disaster for the community. And instead of doing that, the guy contacts us.”

  Dixon said, “What are you saying, Scott?”

  “That maybe it’s not always best to listen to what she’s telling us to do. Before she got here, we did just fine handling murders.”

  “You have, what, two murders a year?” Vail paused, realizing she may have inadvertently insulted them. She bowed her head and said, “Look, I’m only here to help. You can take my advice, or not.”

  “Help,” Fuller said. “Now we have an arson to investigate, too. That kind of help we don’t need.”

  “That’s not fair,” Lugo said. “She didn’t ask to almost be burned alive. Let’s not lose sight of the fact that we’re all here for the same reason. To catch this goddamn killer. Because I don’t know about you, but I think this is a big fucking problem. And if we’re not careful, this guy is going to go on a spree and then we won’t have control of anything. But we’ll have a lot of uncomfortable questions to answer.”

  Vail didn’t agree with the “spree” terminology, but the sentiment behind Lugo’s comment was accurate. She decided to sit back and not force the issue; let them come back to her.

  Timothy Nance, who had been stealthily observing the discussion, stood up and approached the table. “Congressman Church is very concerned about what’s going on. I don’t want to report back to him that his own Major Crimes task force is at odds about what to do. I need to tell him we’ve got things handled, and that you people are all on the same page and that you have a valid plan of attack. Now, I don’t know about you, but it seems to me the FBI’s had a lot of experience dealing with serial killers. And this guy is a serial killer, am I right, Agent Vail?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I would like to see us seriously consider what she has to say. Let’s talk about it. Debate it. But in the end, I want what we decide to make sense, and leave the politics and egos out of the equation.”

  Vail silently applauded Nance’s speech. Perhaps she had the guy pegged wrong. Perhaps he was merely providing the political voice his boss needed and expected.

  “Okay,” Brix said. He approached the whiteboard. “This is what I want to do. We’ve got two investigations going, the murder and the arson. I want to make sure we handle both properly, but I don’t want one interfering with the other. So we’re going to split the task force: Gordon, you and Mann will run the arson investigation. If you need bodies, let me know and I’ll assign some people. Whatever you need, I’ll make sure you get it.”

  “I think between us and CalFire, we’ll be fine.”

  “Good. Check in with me regularly in case the two crimes were both committed by the same asshole. The rest of you, you’re staying on the Crush Killer with me.” He turned to his right, where an overhead projector arm was mounted to the desk. “Karen, bring that letter over here. Let’s look at these demands and figure out how we’re going to reply.”

  DIXON SWUNG THE CAR along the curving road that led from the sheriff’s department building to Highway 29, headed toward downtown and a quick lunch.

  Before leaving, Vail had suggested they meet only a portion of the killer’s demands. They would know in a short time whether it satisfied his needs. There was debate—Lugo thought it best to give him what he wanted—if he truly stopped the killing, that would accomplish their goal in the short term while they continued to search for him.

  But Vail insisted he would not comply—he would kill again, because he had to. Even if he honestly intended to honor his agreement, he couldn’t. Killing, to him, was a deeply seated psychosexual need, one that he wasn’t fully aware of. So his offer was not valid. Instead, Vail stressed that the goal was to keep him talking with them. And what she devised was designed to do just that. It also risked angering him in a way that could trigger another murder. But there was nothing she could do about that. Because if they didn’t catch him, there would be many more murders, not just the one she may or may not have instigated. They had to keep him engaged and talking with them.

  Lugo continued his objections, however. He said that if they don’t give the killer what he wants, what’s stopping the guy from calling up the TV station, identifying himself as the Napa Crush Killer, and telling them about Victoria Cameron’s murder? The story would be assigned to a reporter, who’d follow up with the speed of an Olympic sprinter. They’d make a few calls and it would be a national story in the space of an hour. So they may as well try to get a deal out of it, he reasoned, because maybe, just maybe, he would honor his word.

  Vail couldn’t help but shoot him down. If the killer was going to contact the media, she explained, he would’ve already called them. But there was no fun doing it that way. He wanted to force their hand, have the story come from them, from a police department acceding to the demands of a killer because they were helpless against his genius. With narcissistic killers, they needed to feel that others recognized their superiority.

  Lugo steamed silently. And Brix decided they would go forward, for now, with Vail’s plan.

  They filtered into the parking lot, with Brix, Fuller, Lugo, Mann, and Gordon going their separate ways.

  “We’ve got forty-five minutes,” Vail said, as Dixon accelerated onto 29. “By the time we finish lunch, I have a feeling we’ll know if this was the right way to go.”

  JOHN WAYNE MAYFIELD sat in his vehicle, eyes on his cell phone clock, which he knew was accurate. When the digital display read 12:00, he headed into the Java PC cybercafé in downtown Napa. There were no surveillance cameras—he had already checked.

  He bought a fifteen-minute pass in cash, logged in, and went to the Napa Valley Press website. Scrolled down, then up, and down again. Refreshed the page. Nothing there about him. He glanced at his phone: 12:05. Navigated to a different website, then back again to the Press. And there it was.

  The headline read: Napa Crush Lays Down Roots in Community.

  What?

  He read the teaser paragraph. It said something about a startup company that was launching a new soft drink that had roots in the valley, a rebirth of the wine cooler—

  He fisted his right hand and was shaking it, holding back, wanting to pulverize the monitor but knowing that would draw attention—and possibly the police.

  Instead, he shoved his curled fingers into his mouth and bit down. Waited for the anger to subside. Finally, he calmed enough to turn his attention back to the screen. There had to be something here. Why else would they post this article if there wasn’t information contained within to address his demands?

  He read the article, looking for an embedded message of some sort. Then he found it: a quote attributed to Karen Vail, the company’s director of marketing and promotion. “We thought long and hard about how to launch this product, and we had demands that we couldn’t comply with. But we’re willing to work with the local leadership to show them how much we respect them and their abilities. We’re looking for ways of working with them so all parties can be satisfied. Anyone interested in contacting me can do so at NapaCrush@live.com.”

  Mayfield logged off, rose from his chair and walked stiffly toward his vehicle. He had to get out of there before he did something people would notice. He drove down the road, reached beneath his seat, and pulled out a case. With one hand, he flipped open the lock and lifted the lid. Gleaming knives were nestled in soft velvet holders, blades down, ready to be used. />
  He had a victim he’d marked for killing, and there was a date by which he had planned to act. It was still a week off—but doing it now would be dramatic. And it would send a powerful message to Karen Vail, FBI profiler and “director of marketing and promotion.”

  The concept of sending a message appealed to him. Figuratively—and literally. He pulled over to the side of the road as cars sped by. Tourists and wine aficionados out for a memorable time on the town. I’ll do my bit for making it memorable, no need to worry.

  He reached into his pocket and extracted a disposable cell phone. He turned it on and waited for it to find its cell service. Then he went about his business.

  He shoved the phone back in his pocket, yanked the gearshift back into Drive, and returned to the highway. I’m in promotion, too, Agent Vail. Of my own services and handiwork. So be prepared, because sooner or later you’ll want to make me happy. You’ll come around. You’ll have to.

  He reached over, then removed one knife from the case and lifted it toward his face. The bright sun glinted off the highly polished chrome.

  Promote this, Agent Vail.

  FOLLOWING LUNCH, Vail and Dixon were killing time, awaiting word the UNSUB had gotten the message. An email, a phone call to the sheriff’s department. Something.

  “I’ll give you a tour of Silverado Trail,” Dixon had said. “Beautiful road.”

  As they passed notable wineries, Dixon played tour guide: Hagafen Vineyards—“an award winning kosher winery”; Regusci—“they fooled the Feds by operating secretly during Prohibition to produce bootleg wine”; and, “There, coming up on your left, is Baldacci Family Vineyards. Their vines go back ninety years and give some of the best Cabernet—”

  “It’s 12:24, Roxxann.”

  Dixon glanced over at her. “I’m just trying to take your mind off it.”

  Vail’s elbow rested on the window frame while she rubbed at her forehead. “He’s seen it by now.”

  “Probably,” Dixon said. As she drove past Baldacci, she said, “What do you think will be his next move?”

  “He probably knows the sheriff’s department is on alert, monitoring the entrance and lobby area. Watching for him. Let’s hope he reads the article and sends me an email.”

  Just then, Vail’s BlackBerry buzzed on her belt. She leaned left and pulled the device from its holster. “He just texted me.”

  “Texted?” Dixon asked. “How is that possible? You didn’t put your cell number in the article.”

  Vail stared at the screen. Her body had broken out into a nervous sweat. “I don’t know,” she heard herself saying in response to Dixon’s question. Because she didn’t know—but it would be something she’d have to think hard about. Her larger concern at the moment, however, was the message she received.

  She closed her eyes. “He said we didn’t comply, so we should expect a new victim in the next few hours. And to expect a surprise.”

  “I don’t like surprises,” Dixon said.

  Vail didn’t reply. Her mind was flooded with emotions ranging from fury to guilt to anxiety-ridden frustration.

  “We knew the risks,” Dixon said. “You can’t feel responsible for what this asshole does.”

  “I know that intellectually, and I still feel it was the right way to go. But when I stare at the next woman’s mutilated body, I can’t help but ask myself if it needed to happen. Was I responsible?”

  “The guilt. Comes with the territory, I guess. A perk of the job.”

  Vail sat back. She thought about the killer stalking his victim. If he was organized, as she was sure he was, he would’ve already had his next target chosen. He might have been stalking her, waiting for an excuse to strike. And she just gave it to him.

  Yes, this emotional torture did come with the territory. Vail knew the risks. But to remain effective on the job, she had to tell herself that this was the right thing to do, that the goal of catching the offender before he killed on a grander scale was more important than this one life.

  It didn’t help. And there was nothing she could do now but wait for the call.

  IT CAME EXACTLY three hours later. Brix sent a text message blast to the task force members that was as chilling as it was short:new vic. meet me.

  And he gave them the address.

  Dixon made it there in ten minutes, driving the speed limit—keeping it a low profile approach, at Vail’s urging—despite her desire to floor it, lights blazing.

  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. B
ut 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.”