As was usually the case, in practice things were a lot different than it seemed they would be. The romantic notions of catching a serial killer were long gone. Vail spent her time in the trenches where psychotic criminals roamed, peering into minds of men who deserved to be gassed. Better yet, to be sliced and diced and tortured like they often did to their victims.
Vail settled into a chair in the corner of Melanie Hoffman’s room and took in the scene, looking at its entirety. The blood all over the walls, the grotesque mutilation of the victim. She slipped a hand into her pocket and removed a container of Mentholatum and rubbed the gel across her top lip, masking the metallic blood odor and reek of expressed bodily fluids.
As she sat there, she tried to get into the mind-set of the killer. Though there were a couple dozen FBI profilers who traveled the world educating law enforcement personnel on what profiling could and could not do, word of mouth was slow. And defunct TV shows, where the FBI agent could “see through the killer’s eyes” only made their job of education more difficult, their credibility more suspect.
Two years ago, a cop asked Vail to touch a piece of the victim’s clothing so she could “see” the killer’s face and describe it to him. He seemed genuinely disappointed when she told him that was not the way it worked.
In reflection, Vail now found herself smiling. In the middle of a brutal crime scene, she was smiling. Smiling at the stupidity of the cop, at the irony and ineptitude of her own skills at times, and how sometimes she could not see even the obvious tangible things right in front of her . . . let alone phantom images through a killer’s eyes. Profilers don’t see what the offender sees. But they do symbolically get inside his head, think like he does, imagine what he felt at the time of the murder—and why.
But that was not to say she did not get something from being in the same room as the killer. She did, though she had never been able to classify these feelings, be they intuition, an intense perception or understanding or identification with the offender and what she thought he’d felt at the time. But whenever possible, she spent a few moments alone with the body. It beat color photos, videotape, and written descriptions.
She shifted her attention back to the victim. To Melanie—Vail always felt it was better to use their names. It kept it personal, reminded her that someone out there did this horrible thing to a real, living, formerly breathing human being. It was too easy to slip into the generic “vic,” or victim reference, and sometimes she wondered if the law enforcement brain did it by necessity, as a self-protection mechanism against emotional overload . . . the mind’s way of forcing them to keep a distance. To stay sane.
Bledsoe’s comment that the killer might have known his victim, if correct, would mean it was a relatively easy murder to have committed. The offender could get close to her without much difficulty. And if he’d gotten to know her so he could increase her comfort levels and decrease her defense mechanisms, that said a lot. It meant this killer was smart, that he had spent considerable time planning his crime. If that was the case, it would indicate an organized offender.
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. Sou
nds 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.”
The 7th Victim Page 3