“I did a search of tax records, figuring if he owned a house, or condo, or some land somewhere, I’d get a hit. Came up a big goose egg.”
The simultaneous rings of the telephone and fax machine shifted their attention. Being the closest to the kitchen, Vail grabbed the handset. She listened to the technician provide details on what they had found, then jotted down some notes. “And the other stuff?” She waited a beat, thanked the person, and hung up. She stepped back into the living room with a smile on her face. “That was the lab. They lifted several latents and ran them through AFIS. They got a hit.” She paused for emphasis, then said, “Patrick Farwell.”
“Bingo,” Bledsoe said.
Manette rocked forward in her chair, then lifted the page from the fax machine. “Patrick Farwell, that’s our dude.” She examined the mug shot the lab had faxed, then handed it to Vail. “And he looks a lot like you, Kari.”
Vail cocked her head, assessing the image, instantly noting—and regretting—the obvious likeness to herself. “Daddy,” she finally said, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
sixty-six
The task force snacked on bagels, muffins, and a tank of coffee Sinclair had retrieved from the local café a short time after 7 A.M. It was only fifteen degrees when he left, and when he returned he babbled on about how growing up in Oak Park, Illinois, should have prepared him for days like this. Everyone was too tired to object to his bellyaching, and eventually he took his seat and hugged a large mug of hot coffee.
In fact, java flowed freely to anyone with a cup. They were now going on twenty-four hours without sleep, with no break in the foreseeable future. As they took in their fill of sugar and caffeine, they analyzed all the information that began rolling in shortly after the clock had struck eight.
They had learned that Patrick Farwell had also been arrested fifteen years ago for aggravated sexual assault of a minor. He had served time at Pocomona Correctional Facility before being transferred to the newer maximum security Greensville campus halfway through his sentence because he had been stabbed by an inmate who took his assault on the minor personally.
But his parole eighteen months ago only served to rid the system of the scourge that had been Patrick Farwell. He broke ties with his parole officer and was never seen again. As far as the Department of Corrections was concerned, Patrick Farwell disappeared. After an extensive search, it was theorized he had left the state and gone underground. But the warden had another theory, and that was that Patrick Farwell had taken on an alias and was still living somewhere in the Commonwealth of Virginia. It was only a hunch, but the warden noted that his hunches, though based only on his limited knowledge of each particular inmate, were usually accurate.
“His pent-up anger boiled over when he got out,” Del Monaco said. “As soon as he disappeared, there were no controls on him anymore. No guards, no parole officers. The guy was unleashed, literally and figuratively.”
Robby nodded. “And his break with parole coincides with the first Dead Eyes murder. My vic, Marci Evers.”
“Any suggestion of computer skills?” Bledsoe asked.
Robby rubbed his eyes. “Like what? Classes, things like that?”
“Anything,” Bledsoe said.
“Nothing I see in the record,” Robby said. “But computer training is available lots of places, and most of it isn’t tracked or recorded anywhere.”
“And the kind of software used for the untraceable email is available online,” Vail said. “Based on what I was told, advanced training isn’t required.”
“Well,” Manette said, “I say we go for it. We’ve got the name, fingerprints, and background on this guy, and from what I’m hearing, he fits nicely. All we need is . . . him.”
Bledsoe clapped his hands together. “Then let’s get moving. Hernandez, talk with the postal inspector. Find out if there was ever a forwarding order submitted for Patrick Farwell. Sin, check with the IRS, see if any W-2’s have been filed. Then check the regional jails. Possible this guy got picked up on a traffic violation or a drunk-in-public. He could already be under lock and key.” Bledsoe looked at the fax. “And I’ll get this circulated. Have the lab send it to every PD and SO in the state.”
“Shouldn’t we go national?” Sinclair asked.
“Can’t hurt to get something out to NCIC,” Bledsoe said, referring to the National Crime Information Center.
Vail shook her head. “Farwell’s local. He’s bold, aggressive, and sure of himself. He thinks he can operate without consequence, and unfortunately we’ve only reinforced those feelings by being unable to generate any substantial leads.”
Robby held up an index finger. “Until now.”
“Until now. Point is, we’ve given him no reason to leave his comfort zone, which is outlined in the geoprofile. For now, I say we keep it statewide. And hope we get lucky.”
sixty-seven
With the investigation now focused and well on its way toward bringing in its first suspect, Vail took a break to run over to the hospital to check in on Jonathan.
She informed the nurse she wanted to talk with the doctor, then sat and held Jonathan’s hand for nearly half an hour before Altman walked in. They exchanged brief pleasantries before he said, “You remember our discussions about the importance of small steps.”
“Have there been any since you last examined him?”
“Yes. Come closer.” He removed his penlight from his jacket pocket and leaned over Jonathan’s face. He turned on the light and brought it close to the youth’s eyes.
“He blinked,” Vail said. “He did that before.”
“That’s right. Now, watch this.” Altman stepped back and grabbed a wad of Jonathan’s forearm and squeezed. Jonathan moved the limb, pulling away from Altman’s grip. “Purposeful movement in response to pinching.”
Vail moved to Jonathan’s side and instinctively rubbed his forearm where Altman had made his mark. “And that means?”
“It’s a very, very strong sign that Jonathan is coming out of the comatose state.”
“How long?”
“Before he’s completely out of it?” Altman shrugged. “There’s no timetable. Could be tomorrow, could be weeks or months. It’s impossible to say.”
While the agony of uncertainty would continue, at least she had substantial reason for hope. The odds that Jonathan would come out of the coma had just increased. “Thank you, Doctor.”
“I noticed your limp has gotten worse. Mind if I take a look at it?”
Vail smiled. “I’d meant to ask you about it. I twisted the knee a couple weeks ago. Then I slipped on the ice, and it’s been killing me ever since.”
She sat down and watched as Altman moved her leg through a normal range of motion, then gently pushed and pulled in a variety of directions. Vail grabbed the arms of the chair and tried not to scream.
“Orthopedics isn’t my specialty, but it looks like you’ve torn some ligaments. You should have an MRI and a more comprehensive exam.” He pulled out a prescription pad and jotted down the names of two physicians. “Don’t put it off too long, it’s only going to get worse.”
She took the paper and thanked him. After Altman had left the room, Vail leaned close to her son and ran the back of her index finger across his face. His left eye twitched in response. “Jonathan, sweetie, can you hear me? It’s Mom. I wanted to tell you how proud I am of you. Keep fighting. You’re gonna beat this.”
She reached down and took his hand in hers. “I’m making progress, too, on my case. Tell you what. When you wake up, we’ll ditch this place and go out for milk shakes. Just the two of us, okay?”
She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, then kissed his forehead.
“I love you, champ.”
sixty-eight
“We’ve got Farwell’s full file from Greensville,” Bledsoe said, tossing it on the table in front of him. Robby and Vail had arrived at Izzy’s Pizza Parlor at nearly the same time. Bledsoe had already ordered, and a large pizza pie
gleaming with cheese and pepperoni sat in front of him. He moved over to allow Vail into the booth beside him. Robby’s size automatically bought him the entire opposite end of the table. “Farwell was in the general population. There was a note in the file that he was particularly close with one inmate.”
“Richard Ray Singletary,” Robby said.
“The one and only.”
Vail sighed. “Well, that makes me feel a little better. That we didn’t let Singletary take the secret to hell with him. At least we found the information before anyone else died.”
“What else is in the file?” Robby asked.
“According to prison records, home address is listed as a PO Box in Dale City. Manette’s on her way over there to see if it’s still active. If it is, she’ll sit on it, see if he shows. But we also got a fifteen-year-old employment address. Timberland Custom Cabinets in Richmond.”
“A carpenter,” Robby said, eyeing the pizza.
“Yes,” Bledsoe said, lifting a large slice from the aluminum platter.
Robby followed his lead and dug in. “I take it we’re on our way there after lunch.”
“Already spoke with the guy. He’s a real by-the-numbers prick. I put a call in to the DA to get a warrant. Should be ready by the time we’re done here. Hopefully they’ll have more than just a PO Box in their file.”
Robby sprinkled red pepper flakes on his pizza. “Even if he doesn’t, it feels a whole lot better having a scent to track. Sooner or later, we’ll find him.”
TIMBERLAND CUSTOM CABINETS was a sprawling industrial complex on a potholed asphalt road that dead-ended against the back lot of an adjacent lumberyard. The main structure was a tin-roofed brick building that probably had not looked a whole lot better when it was new.
Vail took one last pull on the straw of her Big Gulp of Coke—high octane to keep her mind working and her feet moving—and followed Robby and Bledsoe into the building. Bledsoe served the search warrant and asked for the personnel records pertaining to Patrick Farwell. Ten minutes later, a heavyset black woman emerged from another wing of the office with a dog-eared manila file folder in her hand. She handed it over without a word, then returned to her desk.
They thumbed through it, the three of them huddling over the paperwork, scouring it as if it contained the highly guarded secret formula for Coca-Cola.
“Same PO Box,” Bledsoe commented.
“And nothing on the application to indicate he’d ever been in the slammer,” Robby noted.
“You didn’t really expect him to be an honest citizen when filling out his job app, did you?” Vail asked. “Would you hire a rapist who’d done time?”
“So we’re left with interviewing the employees,” Robby said. He turned to the receptionist. “Can we talk with the personnel director?”
“You’re lookin’ at her.”
“You have any employees who’ve been with the company longer than fifteen years?”
She looked at the ceiling, searching the exposed pipes and ventilation ducts. “We got four. No, three. Then there’s the owner.”
“They in?” Bledsoe asked. “We’ll need to talk to each of them.”
“They’re in. I’ll call them.”
Vail held up a hand. “Hold it. We’ll take the owner first. Then we’ll talk with the three workers.”
AL MASSIE WAS A SQUAT MAN in his early fifties. His thick, short legs rubbed together when he walked, causing a side-to-side gait that resembled a waddle. He had a flat pencil stuck behind his right ear, and frazzled gray hair interspersed with saw dust. His left thumb was missing its last joint.
“I’m Paul Bledsoe, Fairfax County Homicide. These are my associates, Special Agent Karen Vail and Detective Robby Hernandez.” Pleasantries were exchanged. “We were wondering what you could tell us about Patrick Farwell. Worked here three years, nineteen—”
“I remember Patrick. Good worker, kept to himself. Didn’t know nothing about what he was doing, though. I had nothing to do with it. I told the police everything, which wasn’t much.”
“We’re not here about that case,” Vail said. “We were just hoping you could provide some background for us on Patrick. Anything you could tell us would be helpful.”
“Don’t remember much. That was a long time ago.”
“How about friends he had?” Vail continued. “Was he close with any of the workers?”
“From what I remember, Patrick was a loner. There was one guy he used to work with a lot, Jim Gaston. Did a lot of finish work with him. Jim’s still here. You talk to him yet?”
“No, we figured we’d start with you.”
“Jimbo’s your man. If Patrick said anything to anybody, it woulda been to Jimbo.” He looked at Bledsoe and Robby, then took a step backward. “I’m in the middle of a wall unit, and yes, I may own the place but I still keep my hands in the sawdust. Don’t like running the business, that was my father’s job before he passed on. Anything else you need me for?”
Bledsoe shook his head. “That’s good for now. If something comes up, we’ll find you. Thanks for your help.”
JAMES GASTON NEEDED A DENTIST. His left front tooth was missing, and his lower teeth were crooked and caked with plaque. He had a receding forehead and a strong chin, giving him almost a prehistoric appearance. He, too, had a flat pencil tucked behind his ear, and his apron was covered with paintbrush strokes of stain.
“I remember Patrick, sure,” he said in response to Bledsoe’s question. “Strange guy. Didn’t like to talk much unless he had some beer in him. He’d sneak some during lunch, then he’d open up. Talked about these women he’d had, but I didn’t pay him much mind. Thought he was blowing his own horn, you know? Then when he got arrested I started thinkin’ maybe he wasn’t shit-tin’ me.”
“He ever say anything about where he lived, places he liked to go or hang out?” Vail asked.
“He lived on an old family ranch or something like that. Lotta land. Hunted fox in the winter, fished in the summer. ’Bout all I remember. We wasn’t friends or nothing, just worked together on cabinets. He was real good, though, had the gift.”
“The gift?”
“Good hands. Born with it, I’d say. You can just tell. Steady hand, good eye.”
Bledsoe asked, “When was the last time you saw him?”
“The day they put them cuffs on him and hauled him outta here.”
Robby blew on his hands to warm them, then asked, “You know anyone he may still be close with, someone we could talk to, maybe find out where he is, or where his ranch is?”
“Don’t know anyone. It’s not close, I can tell you that. Big drive to get here every day.”
“Hey Jimbo,” a man called from thirty yards away. “We gotta move this thing outta here!”
“I gotta go,” Gaston said.
Robby thanked him, then handed him his business card and asked him to call if he remembered anything else. Fifteen minutes after returning to the office, they had completed their interview of the remaining workers who had been at Timberland when Farwell was employed there. None of them knew much about Farwell, but all confirmed he kept to himself and did his work with extraordinary precision.
As they got back into their car, Bledsoe said, “Gaston said Farwell had a family ranch. But when you did your search, nothing came up.”
“He also said the ranch was old. If we take him at his word, then it’s possible the ranch was purchased before the cutoff date of the records I reviewed on microfiche. I think it was sometime around 1900. If they bought it in 1899, I would’ve missed it. The other records will have to be searched by hand.”
Bledsoe turned the key and started the engine. “Then I know where we’re headed.”
THEY ARRIVED at the County Department of Land Records at noon. It was a typical government building built decades ago, one story and sprawling with a sloping roof. They spoke with the clerk and half an hour later, Robby, Bledsoe, and Vail were sitting at a long wooden table with volumes of bound records dati
ng back to the late 1800s laid out in front of them.
They each picked a volume and began searching for land owned by anyone named Farwell. The task was tedious, and as the hours passed, the combined effect of lack of sleep and stagnant blood flow began to creep into their bodies. They had each dozed off at least once, despite the cans of Coke they had bought from the lobby vending machine.
“I’d better go stretch my legs,” Vail said. “I’m not doing much good falling asleep. I think I’ve read the last entry on this page five times.” But as she stood, Robby stopped her.
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