“Doesn’t look like it. Especially since he’s using a public cybercafé, logging on, sending his message, and logging off quickly. But our people are still working on it. Next time he sends us a message, we’ll be better prepared to track it. If it’s possible, they’ll find a way.”
“And the murals?” Bledsoe asked. “You said there was some significance to them.”
“I’ve been thinking that this guy may suffer from OCD.”
“Obsessive Compulsive Disorder?” Sinclair asked. “How do you get to point Q from point A?”
“The repetitive nature,” Vail said. “And the amount of time he spends with the body. It’s excessive, taken to the extreme. The need for perfection. To him, the victim is an art medium, the crime scene his canvas.”
“And this locket?” Robby asked. “Where does that fit in?”
Bledsoe said, “I’ve got copies of the locket photos being circulated to area jewelers, in case any of them recognizes either the piece itself or the style of design. Maybe we’ll get lucky and someone has seen something like it before.”
“What about Linwood’s husband?”
“We faxed him a photo. Claims he’s never seen it before. I’ve got a uniform taking a color photo over there to be absolutely sure.”
“Freaking weird if you asked me,” Sinclair said.
Manette brought both hands to her hips. “Like any of this is normal?”
Sinclair shrugged, conceding the point.
Bledsoe collected the photos and handed them to Manette. “Pin these up on the wall, will you?” To Sinclair, he said, “What’ve we got on the blood angle?”
“We’re building a database. Guy in my office is running what we’ve got. Some hits on infected male Caucasians in the target age range. We narrowed the list by eliminating one who was dead, another who’s a double amputee from diabetes, and one who was confined to a hospice with advanced AIDS. The remaining seven we’re checking out. No obvious ties to any of our vics, but we’ve got a lotta ground to cover. Still got a little more than half the labs and hospitals to hear back from.”
“I’ve got a list of painters,” Robby said. “And carpenters, potters, sculptors, glass blowers, graphic artists, and interior designers. Last count we were up to forty-one hundred names.”
“I told you,” Bledsoe said.
“May not be so bad. Next step is to cross-reference them all. Once we start mixing in all the parameters, the numbers should drop off and leave us with something manageable.”
“When can we have everything collated?” Bledsoe asked.
Robby looked up at the cottage cheese ceiling, his mind crunching numbers and estimating tasks. “I’d say three, four days. If everyone gets me their lists by tomorrow.”
A groan erupted. Bledsoe raised his hands. “Hey, the longer we take to develop suspects, the longer this guy’s free to roam. And the more women are at risk. I don’t like body counts. As it is, I’m frustrated as hell we haven’t been able to run in any mopes for questioning.”
The phone rang and Bledsoe moved to answer it. He nodded at Vail, then tossed her the handset. It was the office manager at the last assisted care facility on her list that could take her mother. She had only seen photos of the place on their website, as she had not had time to tour the facility. But the woman was now assuring her that Silver Meadows was among the finest in the state, and that Vail “absolutely had to come see it for herself.” Vail told her she would, then hung up.
She didn’t bother telling the woman the only other facility on her list was not a viable option, that Silver Meadows was her last hope. She stood in the kitchen and thought of her mother, when it finally hit her: with her mother’s mental acuity fading, her childhood house due to be sold, and her biological mother dead, the last links to her past were wilting away, drying up, and crumbling like a spent rose.
Vail made her way out of the kitchen and into the main room of the op center, where everyone had left except for Robby, who was sitting on the edge of a desk, waiting for her.
He stood and walked toward her. “Everything okay?”
She nodded, but she knew her face was betraying her. “Guess as I approach middle age, I’m having a hard time coming to grips with the issues that crop up.”
“Your mother?”
“Kind of a role reversal. In some ways, she’s like a child now—and I’m the parent. That visit the other day was like cold water in the face. It really shook loose some old memories, got me thinking.” She rubbed at her forehead. “Going through all her stuff is going to be tough. Who knows what I’ll find. Like that photo album.”
Robby leaned a shoulder against the wall. “After my mom died, I had to take care of her affairs. I found some things buried in that old apartment that gave me a different perspective of who she was. Explained a lot of things, turned around everything I knew about her. It bugged me, a lot. Friend of mine suggested I go for counseling. So I did—just a few times, but it helped me out. One of the things the doc told me is that change is part of the natural order.” Robby went silent a moment, then shook his mind back to attention. “Eventually, everything comes to an end.”
Vail looked at the wall of crime scene photos: Marci Evers, Noreen O’Regan, Angelina Sarducci, Melanie Hoffman, Sandra Franks, Denise Cranston, Eleanor Linwood.
“Some things,” she said, “end sooner than they’re supposed to.”
fifty-five
He was hungry again and fighting the urge to do something. He couldn’t hold himself back much longer, which meant he needed to start planning his next target. He already knew who it had to be, but it would be a tough one. Much tougher than the others. Tougher for reasons only he knew.
But as the old man had said time and again, “You gotta be fuckin’ tough.” There wasn’t much worth taking from the man, but that was one thing he never forgot. Because when dealing with that bastard, you had to be tough just to survive. But his definition of “tough” differed from his father’s. The old man meant for others to take what he had to give, to endure the pain. Taken another way, it meant having the strength emotionally to defeat him. To eventually find a way out, an escape.
And as time passed, that way out became clear—at least, it was a method by which he could deal with it all. As he sat in his studio, the kiln cooking his class’s ceramic work, he sat down at the keyboard and thought of the time when the light finally came on, when he realized who he was and how he could deal with his situation.
Like any thirteen year old, I’ve got my limitations in dealing with adults. They’re bigger and stronger. But I’m getting bigger, too, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let him continue to take advantage of me without some kind of consequence. So I’ve been putting up a fight.
But that hasn’t stopped him. Now he knocks me out from behind and ties me down. I know because when I wake up I’ve got a bump on my head and rope burns on my wrists and ankles.
But he still hasn’t found my secret room. I can get there from outside the house now, through the crawl space. Caught me a ’coon who was trying to move in on my place because it was warm. Reminded me of Charlie, but his eyes were bigger, and I didn’t like the way he looked at me.
He’s not a problem anymore. I took care of him, and that was that. My secret room is the only reason I stay here. It’s my place, I call the shots. And I don’t want anyone in here, not even animals.
Sometimes the simplest of goings-on makes you realize how things really are, and what needs to be done. Once you see how straightforward it all is, how the solution was right in front of you all the time, you get mad and promise yourself you won’t make the same mistake twice. You learn from what you’ve done, get smarter.
As he flipped through his photos, the ones he stole from Super Agent Vail, he realized that he’d missed out on an incredible opportunity. What a perfect way to relive the kill. He could buy a camera, take photos of the bodies like the cops do. He could store them on his laptop and view them anytime he wanted. Even bet
ter—a camcorder—one of those small ones—could be set up on a tripod to record everything. Then he could watch it. Play it in slow motion. His pulse quickened just thinking about it.
And he could walk into any store and buy one. A normal Joe buying a camcorder like any American who wants to tape his kids, grand-kids, nephews, bitches.
Out to tape his bitches. Dead and alive.
Ultimately dead.
fifty-six
The tour of Silver Meadows Assisted Care was longer than Vail would have preferred. She had much on her mind, and the last thing she wanted was a sales pitch that had more shine than shoe polish. Especially since she had no other alternative. At least she could move in her mother without reservation about the quality of care she would receive. Only the monthly cost would cause her concern. But, as her mother had once told her, “It’s only money.”
She thanked the woman, whose smile seemed to sport more teeth than a shark, and was heading back to her car when her phone rumbled. These days, the vibration set her heart racing: odds were it meant either important news about Jonathan or the discovery of another Dead Eyes victim.
The text message belonged to Bledsoe. She was to meet him at the task force op center in fifteen minutes to discuss “a major break” in the case. Vail pulled up to the curb one minute sooner than expected, and Bledsoe met her in the street. As Robby arrived behind her, Manette, Sinclair, and Del Monaco walked out of the house and the group convened on the front lawn.
“I guess Dead Eyes is bored with sending emails. Didn’t get enough of a rise out of us,” Bledsoe said. “A letter was received this morning by Richard Ray Singletary at Rockridge Correctional. Ring a bell?”
“Singletary, yeah. Serial killer, North Carolina,” Del Monaco said. “The Mohawk Slasher. Took out seven college freshmen before he was caught. It was one of Thomas Underwood’s first profiling cases. Underwood met with Singletary a number of times. Part of BSU’s program to interview serial offenders to develop an understanding of why they did what they did.”
Vail said, “A lot of the stuff they learned from those interviews formed the basis for our current understanding and approach. The work was so fresh and new—and accurate—that it became legendary. So much so that some people at the BAU are afraid to embrace change and new ideas because Underwood and his colleagues’ research findings are as good as written in stone.”
Del Monaco frowned at her comment, and she stared him down. The others picked up on the silent interplay and kept quiet. Finally, Robby spoke. “They have the letter in custody?”
“They do now. Singletary wouldn’t give it up. Said it was his ticket. His ticket to what, I’m not sure.”
“Bargaining chip,” Manette said. “He don’t have much. Letter’s a way of getting privileges.”
“Privileges for what?” Bledsoe asked. “He’s scheduled to be put down in five days.”
“Put down, like lethal injection?”
“Like, that’s all she wrote. The big sleep. End of the line.”
Del Monaco shrugged. “Then something to add spice to his last few days.”
Robby asked, “So what’s the plan, boss? How do you want to handle it?”
Bledsoe rubbed a thick hand across his chin. “Vail and Del Monaco will go with me to meet the guy. Letter’s en route by courier to the FBI lab right now. As soon as they’d found out what he had, they sealed it in an evidence bag. I don’t know if we’ll get anything useful out of it, because a bunch of people already handled it. But we’ll talk with Singletary, see what he has to say.”
Vail’s eyebrows rose. “One question I have is, why him? Why did Dead Eyes send the letter to Singletary?”
“I know we’re all stretched beyond our limits,” Bledsoe said, “but we need someone to compile a roster of all violent offenders who’ve served with Singletary since his incarceration.”
Manette raised a hand. “I got it.”
“Good. Manny, it’s yours. Get it to me as soon as possible. Okay, then. That’s our plan.”
“Do we have clearance to meet with Singletary?” Sinclair asked.
“Give me a few minutes,” Bledsoe said. “I’ll make some calls.”
THE FLIGHT INTO Henderson-Oxford Airport was bumpy and turned Vail’s stomach. It wasn’t that she disliked the act of flying, it was the concept that bothered her. How a plane the size of a large dinosaur could slice through the air and rise, then descend slowly and land safely, was a wonderment she could never fully understand. She felt more comfortable wading through the minds of deranged killers than with the physics of aerodynamics.
As they entered the lounge area after deplaning, a CNN special report flashed across the television screen. “Convicted murderer Richard Ray Singletary claims he has received a letter from the Dead Eyes serial killer, who is reportedly responsible for Virginia State Senator Eleanor Linwood’s death as well as the deaths of six other young women. . . .”
“So Singletary’s leaked the story,” Del Monaco said. “For what, another fifteen minutes of fame? He’ll be getting that when he’s executed.”
“Yeah, but this is good press. Executions tend to be . . . somewhat negative,” Vail said with a hint of sarcasm.
Del Monaco, Bledsoe, and Vail met an off-duty correctional officer, who transported them to the prison. They arrived at three o’clock, the way to the meeting being paved by the prisoner himself, who declined legal representation. They checked their guns and were transported to the maximum security building by bus.
Half an hour later, they were in the eight-by-ten interview room, where a small metal table sat bolted to the floor. There were two seats—one for the prisoner and one for his visitors. Vail took the chair; she wanted the center stage to ask the questions, while Del Monaco stood in the background, arms folded across his chest, content to melt into the wall and analyze Singletary’s facial and body language. Bledsoe was behind a large one-way mirror in an adjacent room.
Singletary was led in by two uniformed guards. The prisoner, a slight man with close-cropped pepper hair and pleasing facial features, was shackled at the ankles and wrists. His face was a pale white, the mark of someone who had spent time in solitary confinement—or who had been restricted to his cell for bad behavior. Yet despite the dehumanizing restraints, Singletary’s shoulders and hips moved with a noticeable swagger. The agents watched as the guards unshackled Singletary’s hands and refastened the handcuffs to a steel bar mounted at the center of the fixed metal table.
“All yours, ma’am,” the guard said to Vail. “We’ll be watching. You get into trouble, just holler.”
Vail thanked the men but wondered why, if she encountered trouble with the prisoner, she would need to holler if they were observing. She pushed the thought from her mind and focused on the man in front of her. “Mr. Singletary, I’m Special Agent Karen Vail, this is Agent Frank Del Monaco.” Singletary had already been told who he would be meeting with, but it was a good way to break the ice.
Del Monaco nodded with disinterest, playing his presence low key, as if he did not want to be there. He and Vail had discussed their strategy in detail on the plane.
“We were told you received a letter yesterday. From someone who claims to be the Dead Eyes killer.”
“That’s right.” Singletary’s voice was smooth, his smile bright and white.
“The letter’s at our lab right now, being analyzed.”
“Waste of taxpayer dollars. I can tell you it’s authentic.”
“How’s that?” Vail pulled a copy of the letter from her pocket and unfolded it. “What makes you so sure it’s from Dead Eyes?”
“See the sentence ‘Evil rides the ocean and the sky turns all the rivers gold’? He made that up a long time ago. It became kind of a saying for us.”
“You know the Dead Eyes killer?”
“I just said that, didn’t I? Man, I thought you people were smart.”
Vail felt like reaching across the table and slapping the guy but kept her face neut
ral. “Who is he?”
Singletary burst out laughing. A smoker’s cough quickly overwhelmed him, and Vail had to turn away to avoid the explosion of germs from the man’s uncovered mouth. “You expect me to just give you the guy’s name?”
“I thought you might, yes.”
“Then you’re stupider than I thought you were. But you are a fine lookin’ thing,” he said, then stuck his tongue out and waved it like a lizard’s. “I got two demands. One is, I only talk to Thomas Underwood. Second, I want my death sentence commuted, to life in prison.”
Now it was Vail’s turn to laugh. She did so boisterously, purposely to annoy the man who thought he held all the cards. It was his nature to try to gain the upper hand, to seek control and power. She was not going to give it to him. “Thomas Underwood isn’t with the Bureau anymore. I doubt he’d want to waste any more of his time talking to you.”
“Then you’d be wrong, Agent Vail. Because Thomas has already said he’d meet with me. He said it on MSNBC, just about a half hour ago.”
Vail resisted the urge to glance at the one-way mirror, behind which Bledsoe was seated. “Why Underwood?”
“The guy understands me. It’s a familiar face. This is important information. I deal with him.”
“You want something, you deal with me,” Vail said.
“Ooh. Tough woman. That turns me on, Special Agent Vail. Did you know that? Because if you didn’t, I can tell you Thomas Underwood does.”
Vail ground her teeth. She wanted to grab the guy’s jumpsuit lapels and shake him. Hard. But she counted backwards from five to calm her anger. “I’ll make a call, see if I can get Underwood here. As to getting your sentence commuted, I wouldn’t count on it. I can get you some T.V., a steak dinner every night—”
“Yeah, that’s good. MTV. I want my MTV. Add that to the list.”
“Mr. Singletary, I’ll make the calls, convey your demands. I just wouldn’t hold out much hope.”
The 7th Victim kv-1 Page 30