The 7th Victim kv-1

by Alan Jacobson

  A crime scene was often a mixture of the two—elements of organization blended with elements of disorganization—making the UNSUB’s identification harder. Though Vail had initially thought Dead Eyes was more disorganized than organized, she was beginning to have doubts.

  Vail heard a noise in the hallway, followed by a loud voice: “Yo! Where’s the dick that bleeds?”

  “In here, Mandisa,” Bledsoe called from the bathroom. He opened the door and stepped out just as Spotsylvania County Detective Mandisa Manette, one of the former Dead Eyes Task Force members, entered. Manette was a lanky woman with broad shoulders and a smile that stretched across her face. Cornrows lifted off her head and stuck out like a loose bundle of ropes that bounced when she walked. She always wore platform shoes, a move Vail felt was aimed more at power and control than fashion. With the added height, she hit six feet and was a good three inches taller than Vail. Vail had come to think it was Manette’s way of keeping Vail one notch below her in the pecking order.

  Vail pulled herself out of the chair and tried to bring her mind back into a state capable of socializing. She reached the doorway in time to see Manette’s reaction to Melanie Hoffman’s demise.

  “How you doing, Mannie?” Bledsoe gave her a quick hug. Vail had not seen Manette since the task force had been suspended—and judging by their reactions, she figured Bledsoe hadn’t either.

  “How’s my favorite dick hanging?” Manette asked Bledsoe.

  Vail cringed. She was no prude, but after a while, the sexual innuendoes wore thin.

  “Divorce is in the books,” Bledsoe said. “Trying to move on.”

  “You deserve better, Blood. You do.” She grabbed a hunk of Bledsoe’s ample cheek and squeezed. “Maybe a fine thing like me would consider taking on a work like you.”

  Bledsoe turned a bit crimson and rolled his eyes.

  Manette threw a hand up to her chest in mock surprise at seeing Vail. “Kari! My least favorite shrink. Still lookin’ for that trapdoor that’ll take you into the killer’s mind?”

  Vail turned away, preferring not to get into it with Manette. “I’ll be back in five,” she said to Bledsoe. She walked out of the house, moving beyond the crime scene tape to clear her mind and regain her concentration. The smell of death was rank, even with Mentholatum on her lip, and stealing some brisk, moist air of a misty winter day provided a needed respite.

  Lacking a caffeine-laced soft drink, Vail bummed a Marlboro from a nearby technician and lit it. She had given up the awful habit when she left Deacon—considering it part of his curse—and hadn’t smoked since. She tugged on the end and sucked in her fix of stimulant. After blowing a few rings in the air and snubbing out the barely smoked cigarette, she saw a car pull up across the street, behind two parked police cruisers. Acura, late model, navy blue. Too pricey for an unmarked, unless it was left over from a search and seizure.

  The driver leaned forward and Vail got a clear view of the man, despite the high gray sky reflecting off the tinted glass. She stormed back into the house and sought out Bledsoe.

  “What the hell is Hancock doing here?”

  Bledsoe twisted away from Manette. “Hancock?”

  “Chase Hancock. Arrogant, pain-in-the-ass SOB.”

  “Don’t hold back, Kari. Tell us what you really think of him.”

  Vail opened her mouth to respond, but the electronic tone of Beethoven’s Fifth interrupted her.

  Bledsoe rooted a cell phone from his jacket pocket and answered the call. He shook his head, walked a few feet away, and appeared to put up a mild protest. Seconds later, he disconnected the call, then threw a furrowed look at Vail.

  “Well, well, well. Karen Vail, Paul Bledsoe, and . . . who is this lovely creature I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting?” Trim but thick, with a mound of slicked back blond hair, sky blue eyes, and a divot of a dimple in a square chin, Chase Hancock was all smiles. His extended right hand hung in the air in front of Manette.

  Manette looked Hancock over and nodded her approval, but she did not offer her hand in acknowledgment—thus making her assessment known: she did not care for anything else other than the physical package.

  “Interesting name, Hancock,” Manette mused. “Kind of sounds like—”

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Vail asked.

  “He’s here on order of Chief Thurston.”

  Vail’s frown shifted toward Bledsoe. “What?”

  Bledsoe looked away. “Hancock’s been named to the task force. Just got the call,” he said, holding up his cell phone.

  With Vail’s fisted hands turning white, Bledsoe led her out to the front of the house. “Let’s take a walk,” he said as they stepped onto the cement path that fed the sidewalk.

  “Did you think I might hit him?”

  “I never know with you sometimes.”

  Vail shoved her hands into her coat pockets. “Just because I hate the guy?”

  “He’s got an ego the size of DC, that’s pretty damn obvious. But what’d he do to you?”

  “Before he hooked on with Senator Linwood’s security detail, Hancock was a field agent for a dozen years.”

  “He was a fibbie?”

  “Don’t call us that.”

  “You call us dicks.”

  “Only because some of you are.” Vail nudged Bledsoe playfully with a shoulder. He rocked a bit onto the neighbor’s front lawn before regaining his balance. “Anyway, Hancock applied for the open position at the profiling unit same time I did. I’d worked a couple of crossover cases with him and his work was, well, shitty. I mentioned it to my partner, who told my ASAC. Next thing, I get the promotion, Hancock doesn’t.”

  “You’re giving yourself a lot of credit if you think the Bureau was swayed by your opinion, Karen.”

  “They weren’t. My ASAC swore he never said anything to anyone about what my partner told him. But Hancock knows I thought his work was shitty, and my field reports didn’t pull any punches. I called a spade a spade, basically saying Hancock’s an incompetent idiot. He thinks he got passed over because of me.” She drew in a deep breath and sighed. “He threw a fit, brought a discrimination suit, left the Bureau.”

  “He win the case?”

  “Nah, it was bullshit. Judge threw it out.”

  They stopped walking and looked around at the quiet residential street. Modest, well-kept one- and two-story brick houses sat like silent witnesses to the recent murder.

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Little over six years. Word was he found a spiffy job in the private sector doing security work for some Internet company.”

  Bledsoe kicked at a rock. “And now he heads up Linwood’s security detail.”

  “Pretty boy found a new roost.”

  “Hey, it works for Linwood. The senator gets a relatively young guy with a dozen years in the Bureau. Asshole or not, that’s good experience to have on your side.”

  Vail shivered and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “So why did Chief Thurston get involved? What’s his stake in all this?”

  “Don’t know. Sounded important to him. Something important enough to pull strings.”

  Vail turned and started heading back. “Something? Or someone.”

  Bledsoe pursed his lips, then nodded.

  WHEN THEY RETURNED to Melanie Hoffman’s house, Hancock and Mandisa Manette were huddled over the victim’s body with Bubba Sinclair, a detective from the FCPD, Fairfax City Police Department. Sinclair, head shaved bald and his face peppered with scars from childhood acne, was nodding at something Manette had said. When he saw Vail, he stood from his crouch and smiled. “Hey shrink, how goes it?”

  “Good, Sin, good. Except we got us another Dead Eyes vic.”

  Sinclair nodded. “This one’s real bad. Worse than before. Sure it’s our guy?”

  “Signature’s right on. Vics done in their beds, their own steak knives rammed right through the eyes. Organs eviscerated. Left hand severed. Blood smeared on the walls.
Afterwards, offender takes in a meal at the scene, watches the tube. Want me to go on?”

  Sinclair shook his head. “Nah, enough for now.”

  Manette’s arms were resting on her hips. “Looks just like them other vics. One and two.”

  Vail knew this was a slap at her opinion that victim number three was also one of Dead Eyes’s jobs, even though the crime scenes looked markedly different from the previous two. Different even from Melanie Hoffman’s.

  “I’ll need to get up to speed,” Hancock said. “Review all the files. Victimologies, photos, interviews—”

  “We know what’s in the files, Hancock,” Vail said.

  Bledsoe held up a hand to keep the peace. “Task force is my responsibility. I’ll make sure you get what you need.”

  Hancock nodded, rocked on his heels, and threw a sideways glance at Vail.

  “So how’d you pull this assignment?” Manette asked.

  “Simple,” Hancock said. “I asked for it.”

  Manette’s head jutted back. “Who you with?”

  Vail grunted, then turned to walk away. “He’s not a LEO.”

  “Not law enforcement?” Manette looked from Hancock to Bledsoe. “Don’t you be telling me he’s a reporter—”

  “Agent Chase Hancock.” He again extended a hand toward Manette, but again she ignored it and instead turned to Vail.

  “Agent Hancock? He’s one of yours?”

  “I’m agent-in-charge of Senator Linwood’s security detail,” Hancock said. “The senator’s appalled over this offender’s boldness and is shocked by the ineptitude of local law enforcement in catching this guy.” He looked at Vail. “Including the FBI.”

  Sinclair stepped forward. “What gives you the right—”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Bledsoe said. “How about we get back to the crime scene? In other words, do what we get paid to do. We can powwow later and lay our thoughts on the table then.”

  That quieted the group and, despite a grumble from Hancock, they dispersed.

  Vail made her way over to Melanie Hoffman’s body and stood there, letting her eyes move from the bare feet up to the head. Staring at the protruding knives . . . wondering: Was she dead when he plunged them into her brain? If she was like the other two victims, the answer would be yes. What was the significance of stabbing the eyes? Was it sexual in nature? And what was the meaning of the message the offender left on the wall?

  A knock at the door interrupted the background clicks and flashes of the criminalists’ cameras. “Hey everybody.” In walked Roberto Enrique Umberto Hernandez, the six-foot-seven Vienna Police Department Detective whose small-town murder case gave birth to the Dead Eyes killer. Vail met him at the doorway and they hugged briefly.

  “Karen, how’ve you been?” He looked over at Bledsoe, who tipped his head back in acknowledgment. Manette reached over and touched her fist to Robby’s. “What’s up?” Robby asked Manette.

  “I think we should stop meeting like this. Take in dinner, a movie instead.” Manette ran her hand across his thick forearm and winked at him. Even with his darker complexion, Vail could swear that Robby blushed.

  Robby had gotten into law enforcement for the same reason many cops had, because of the violent death of a loved one. In his case, his uncle, who had served as a surrogate father. Robby had witnessed the killing himself, a particularly brutal job carried out by gang members. His uncle was an honest, hardworking man, and why he would be a gang target Robby never understood. But it changed Robby’s life in ways he could not anticipate. Like upping in the LAPD. That turned some heads in the old ’hood, especially when he made detective and was stationed in the Pico District, LA’s premier Hispanic gang neighborhood.

  But even though Robby had a gentle soul, at six-seven, with a square jaw and deep-set eyes, his body language said, “Don’t fuck with me.” To hear Robby tell it, not many did. Vail was inclined to believe him.

  Robby’s eyes found Melanie Hoffman’s body, and his shoulders sagged forward. He cleared his throat.

  “Roll up your sleeves and dig in,” Vail said.

  The next half hour passed without much discussion. The crime scene unit continued their work, and the task force did theirs. Robby broke away from the trio of detectives and crouched next to Vail as she studied the congealed pool of blood beside the bed.

  “I’m thinking of applying to the Academy.” Robby said it near her right ear, barely above a whisper, but it snagged her full attention.

  Vail’s eyebrows rose. “Yeah? Had enough of Pocatello?”

  “Vienna’s a small town. Not a whole lot to do, you know? Counting the Dead Eyes vic, three murders in fourteen years.”

  “A waste of your talents?”

  Robby shrugged. “I guess you could put it that way. Just so many robberies, car thefts, and dom vio’s you can take before you’re staring out the window, hoping for something more . . . challenging. Sounds bad, huh?”

  Though Vail hadn’t known him all that long, she had come to learn that Robby was very intuitive. When they first started working Dead Eyes, she found they could talk to each other without words, and often did.

  “Why the Bureau? Why not apply for a slot with Bledsoe’s department? Plenty of action there.”

  “I was thinking about profiling.”

  Vail gave a sideways glance at Hancock, who appeared to be listening with half an ear. She took Robby’s elbow and rose from her crouch. “Let’s go get some air.”

  They moved outside, and the chill struck her body like a slap to the face. She sunk her hands into her pants pockets and walked over to the curb. “You know, Robby, there’s another option. The International Criminal Investigative Analysis Fellowship. It’s a two-year understudy training program. You’d have to be sponsored by an agency, one that’s big like Bledsoe’s. You’d spend the last month with my unit, then take a test. You could then do profiling for the police department.”

  Robby shrugged, then said, “Not quite the same.”

  Vail nodded. “Okay, but you can’t just apply for the profiling unit. You have the street experience, but you’ve got to be an agent for a while. You know, pay your dues, meet some pretty rigid criteria. There are a lot of candidates for very few openings.”

  “You don’t think I have the talent.”

  “I didn’t say that. From what I’ve seen, I think you’ve got great natural instincts. But it’s a lot more than that. A good profiler is open-minded. He can see the big picture and keep his feelings and emotions in check. He needs to be able to look at a scene and instantly analyze things logically: why did the offender do this—or not do that? He has to be able to think like the offender. I haven’t really assessed you in those terms. I’d need to work more cases with you before I could say you’ve got all the tools.”

  “My mom’s friend thinks I do.”

  “Man, it’s cold. Gotta walk, move the blood.” She started down the sidewalk and Robby followed. “So your mom’s friend thinks you’ve got the knack. That’s great, Robby. But who the hell’s your mom’s friend?”

  “Thomas Gifford.”

  “My ASAC?” Vail asked, referring to the Assistant Special Agent-in-Charge of the profiling unit.

  “Yeah.”

  Vail stopped walking and turned to face Robby. “You never told me that.”

  “Never came up. I wasn’t that close with my mom till she got sick, when I moved back here to take care of her. Gifford came around from time to time to see if she needed anything. I got the feeling they might’ve had a thing once. Anyway, after she died, suddenly the guy’s in my life, trying to help me out with all sorts of stuff. Probably made my mom a promise.”

  “So you want to be a profiler. Well, you’ve got a good ‘in,’ which will definitely help.”

  “I don’t want my mother’s friend pulling strings to get me a job, Karen. I want it legit.” Robby glanced up at the high sky as rain-drops began to dot the pavement. “Come on, we should get back.”

  They turned a
nd headed toward Melanie Hoffman’s house.

  “Wanting to earn it on your own is fine, but don’t ever overlook inside contacts. Sometimes merit means shit. Good people, better people, get passed over all the time.”

  “Fine, so I’ll use one of my inside contacts. Teach me, be my tutor.”

  Vail looked up at the man who was a foot taller than she. “It’s not that easy. I mean, yeah, I could teach you stuff. But unless you have a good footing in psychology—”

  “I was a psych minor at Cal State Northridge.”

  Vail hesitated. “Well, that’s a start, I guess.” She continued on another few steps as she considered his request. “I guess there’s no harm. Just keep it from Hancock. Think of him as your enemy and you’ll be fine.”

  “Hancock—that the GQ dude in there?”

  “His history is short and sweet. Used to be with the Bureau, got passed over for the one vacant profiling position—which went to me—got pissed off, and left. He now heads up Senator Linwood’s security detail.”

  “So he’s got a chip on his shoulder.”

  “Not just a chip, the whole rock.”

  They shared a laugh.

  “Okay. Lesson one. You ready for this?”

  “Hey, I’m a dry sponge.”

  “Somehow that image doesn’t work for me, Robby.” They arrived at the house and stood by the front door, under the eave. “We were all in Melanie Hoffman’s bedroom looking over the crime scene. But we were seeing different things. You, Bledsoe, Manette, and Sinclair were following the criminalists’ lead, hoping to find a fingerprint, an errant hair fiber, a milligram of saliva. Something that’ll identify the monster who did this. I was looking at the offender’s behavior.” She paused a second and noted Robby’s furrowed brow. “A profiler isn’t concerned with fingerprints and DNA. We look at the behaviors the offender leaves behind at the scene. They’re crucial to helping us understand him, so we can figure out the type of person who did it.”

  “What do you mean by ‘behaviors’?”