“A message. If it really came from Roscoe Lee Marcks, you’re going to have to get some answers to figure out what it means. And verify that he actually sent this. Because there aren’t any latents worth talking about other than yours and Jasmine Marcks’s. We’ve got hers on file from when we had to rule hers out in the house when Fairfax County PD was drafting the arrest warrant for her father.”
“What’d the message say? How long are you planning to keep me in suspense?”
Meadows made a point of checking his watch. “I guess this is long enough.” He turned an LCD screen toward her and she saw the words:
Remember what happened to Sparky?
“Do we know what happened to Sparky?”
Vail swallowed. “Yeah. And it wasn’t good.”
“Do we have known handwriting samples on file for Marcks?”
“I—I don’t know.” She turned to Meadows. “I’m sure we do. But I came into the case after all the work had been done. I studied Underwood’s behavioral assessment, read through the file to see if I could reconstruct his thought process, follow how he arrived at his conclusions. I didn’t worry about the physical evidence too much because Curtis, the Fairfax detective, was dealing with that. Of course, in retrospect that seems ridiculous. But back then I was a rookie. What the hell did I know?”
“I suggest you find out. And you may want to pay Roscoe Lee Marcks a visit.”
He may be in more of a mood to meet with me now. She smiled inwardly. Thing is, even if he’s not, he may have no choice.
6
Potter Correctional Facility
Hardy County, West Virginia
Potter Correctional Facility was a prison that exemplified punishment not merely by its strict rules and regulations but by its rustic building: over a hundred years old, its walls were roughhewn from stone, the mortar cracking and crumbling, moss coating its northern surfaces and weeds taking root just about everywhere.
It was cold in winter and, because of its West Virginia location and poor air circulation, hot and humid in the summer. For thirteen years there had been talk of closing it and relocating the inmates, but for various reasons the plans never moved beyond discussion and debate, cost projections and the politics of every special interest that had a hand in the pie. Litigation was tied up in the courts. The status quo continued—as did the complaints.
Potter was filled with murderers, rapists, arsonists, and child molesters. Truth be told, the prisoner rights groups and their paid legal counsel were the only ones who cared about the subpar conditions. Everyone else seemed to adhere to the sense that maximum crimes brought maximum security, which in this case begat maximum suffering. Or close to it.
After leaving the lab, Vail phoned Frank Del Monaco, another profiler in her unit, and asked him to locate handwriting samples for Roscoe Lee Marcks that they had on file and to scan and email them to Meadows.
Del Monaco was less than pleased to be given the unscheduled task, but Vail had done her share of favors for him over the years.
Vail followed the correctional officers to the interview room. Although the assistant warden had wanted her to meet Marcks with a slab of super-strength Lexan Plexiglas separating them and a phone line connecting them, Vail wanted a more informal environment given the strategy she had devised for their discussion. She listened to each of the man’s objections then politely explained why she needed to do it her way.
Problem was, she had little control over how the interview was conducted: this was Bureau of Prisons’ domain and her only recourse would be to go above his head to the warden, and she did not want to burn the bridge unless absolutely necessary.
He ultimately agreed and she now sat in a small room with two officers behind her. Marcks was led in, all six foot two and two hundred fifty pounds of him, and shackled to the table.
“Leave him handcuffed,” Vail said. “But not to the table. I want him to be comfortable.”
“Sorry, ma’am. I can’t—”
“Agent. Or Special Agent. Or Special Agent Vail. But not ma’am.” She faced Marcks but spoke to the guards. “Now please go check with Assistant Warden Thibeaux and you’ll see that Mr. Marcks is to be handcuffed but not shackled.”
The guard gestured to one of the other men, who left the room.
“He’ll be right back to remove those,” Vail said with a wink.
Marcks squinted. “Why are you going out of your way to make me comfortable?”
Vail shrugged. “I want to have an honest conversation with you. Hard to do that when you’re chained to a table and your back and shoulder muscles start to burn.”
Marcks canted his head slightly as if doing so would help him get a better angle on assessing her motives.
Vail needed to build a rapport with the man, to gauge the threat to Jasmine, to feel him out. In a best-case scenario, it would take multiple sessions. But she had to do it the right way if she had any hope of getting anything from him.
Seconds later, the door opened and the officer removed the shackles, then cuffed Marcks in front without a word. But on his way out, he turned to Vail and said, “If he bashes your head in, it ain’t my fault.”
She nodded at the two guards behind her. “You guys can go, too.”
They gave her a look—probably similar to the one Robby, her fiancé, would give her if he knew what she was doing.
When the men left, and it was only Vail and Marcks sitting a few feet from each other, he laughed. “You carry a lot of weight around here.”
“The assistant warden thinks I have a nice ass.”
“I agree.” Marcks laughed heartily—exactly the reaction she was hoping for. Break down the barriers that—had she sat down in a room with only a phone connecting them—would have prevented her from getting anything useful.
As he shifted his hands on the table, Vail noticed a three-letter scar on the inside of his left forearm spelling out “D.I.E.” It reminded her of a similar mark she had seen years ago when a woman had used an eraser to obliterate her skin, the resulting wound healing with a thick keloid, as Marcks’s had. More significantly, self-mutilation was one sign of childhood sexual abuse.
“And that may be the only time I’ll ever agree with anything the assistant warden says, darlin’. Mind if I call you darlin’?”
Vail grinned. “What do you think?”
He pursed his lips and pretended to study her, then said, “Nah. I think you want to be respected.”
She nodded slowly. “You’re right, Roscoe. Would you mind if I call you Roscoe?”
“It’s my name.”
“I would appreciate the same respect I’m giving you. Is that a deal?”
“I can live with that.”
“Do you know why I’m here?”
Marcks shrugged his large shoulders. “The Behavioral Analysis Unit’s ongoing research project to study and assess serial offenders, continuing the work of Ressler, Hazelwood, Douglas, and Underwood.”
Vail hiked her brow. “I’m impressed. Word for word from my letter.”
“Letters,” Marcks said. “I think we’re up to six now, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You’re not.”
“You’ve been very persistent, Agent Vail.”
“It’s my job. I think you could help us.”
Marcks leaned back in his chair. “Now why would I want to do that? I mean, respect for you aside.”
Vail tilted her head left, letting her red hair fall partially across her eye. She brushed it aside gently, an alluring enough move to be seductive yet ambiguously innocuous. She was sure it got his attention. “I was hoping that respect for me would be enough.”
Vail knew he had not been in a room alone with a woman in about seven years. She had put on Robby’s favorite perfume and was wearing a form-fitting blouse and well-cut pants. She wanted him distracted.
And she wanted him to enjoy talking with her—because she needed this to become a regular occurrence while she built a relationship. Of course, that was her objective before Jasmine received the letter.
While that did change things, it did not alter her approach appreciably—because threats from inside a max-security prison like Potter generally did not present a clear and present danger. Generally. But there were exceptions. Still, Roscoe Lee Marcks was locked away for life without chance for parole. Unless he had someone on the outside to carry out a threatening act against Jasmine, she was safe.
If not unnerved. Or at least she would be when Vail shared with her the contents of the “blank” letter.
Marcks shrugged his shoulders again. “So what do you want to know?”
Wow. Can it be this easy?
“I’ve got a lot of questions.”
“I’ll give you three. How ’bout that? We’ll start with those and go from there.”
All about control. He’ll dole out the answers, leave me asking permission for more.
“Fine,” Vail said. “We’ll start with three. You slice thin lines on the abdomens of your victims using an odd-shaped knife. A karambit. Why do you do that? What does it mean to you?”
“I count two questions there, Agent Vail. You sure you want to burn two at once, so quickly? And can I call you Karen?”
“Karen’s fine. And the two questions are basically the same thing, just worded differently. So how about, “What’s the meaning behind the thin lines you carve in your victims’ abdomens?”
Marcks sucked his top teeth a moment, rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “I don’t like that question. Ask another. Not about the lines. And not about the murders.”
Guess that’s my answer. Not gonna be so easy.
“How about we talk about your daughter. Jasmine.”
Marcks frowned. “Was there a question there?”
“You two had a unique relationship and I’d like to explore—”
“She had a normal childhood. She was loved. End of story.”
“Except that she grew up—in her formative teen years—without a mother. It happens, but it’s not entirely normal.”
“I did the best I could. She had no female influence, you know? That was hard.”
“You developed a strong bond with her.”
He hesitated. “Yes.”
“Why did you have to think about that?”
“We had a special relationship. A unique relationship.”
“How so?”
Marcks laughed, then he raised his handcuffed wrists and pointed an index finger at her. “You’re a sneaky little devil, you know that, Karen? Get me talkin’ and not noticin’ you’ve asked about a dozen questions when I only agreed to three. That’s not really building trust, is it?”
How does he know about building trust? Has he read Douglas’s or Underwood’s books? He couldn’t have—unless he read them before he was caught. Maybe it was just a good guess. “I thought we were having a conversation.”
He yawned, making a show of it. “You know what? I didn’t sleep too good last night. There’s some shit going on in here and I have to watch my back. I’m really fuckin’ exhausted. Can we do this next time? Promise we’ll talk about my daughter.” He looked past her, as if about to call for the guard.
But Vail was not ready for the interview to end. “How do you feel about Jasmine?”
Roscoe slowly settled his gaze on Vail. It was a threatening move, eerie in its deliberateness. “How do I feel about her?”
“She turned you in. You were caught because of her. You’re behind bars. No chance of ever getting out. Because of her.”
Marcks held her eyes a moment, then shrugged. “Wasn’t a highlight of our relationship. How am I supposed to feel?”
“Did you read her book?”
“A news station sent me a copy hoping I’d give them an interview. Yeah, I read it.”
“Did it make you angry?”
His right fist curled into a white-knuckled mace. “You have no idea.”
“You want to get even?”
“How do you mean?”
Vail let the left side of her mouth drop sardonically. “You know.” She leaned forward, as if sharing a secret. “Revenge.”
“Against my own daughter? Because of some bullshit book?”
“Yeah. Like hurt her. Kill her. Cut off her limbs.”
Marcks leaned back, narrowed his gaze, measured his response. “Now let’s say I could do harm to my own daughter. My own flesh and blood. How would I do that?”
“You tell me.”
He looked at her, long and hard. “Do something for me, Karen. Tell my little darlin’ to be careful.” He looked past her and banged his large fists on the table. “Guard!”
7
As Vail drove back toward Jasmine’s house, she phoned Tim Meadows. After the disturbing end to her visit with Marcks, she wanted to know if they had supporting evidence that he had sent his daughter the letter.
“You get the handwriting sample Del Monaco sent over?”
“I did,” Meadows said, “and I’ve got some good news. There’s one characteristic in particular that’s a bit unusual. A hitch in the uppercase S.”
“But.”
“How’d you know I was gonna say ‘but’?”
“There’s always a but with you.”
“Well, here’s the thing: both the known exemplar and the indented writing are small samples. It’s a little tough to say conclusively based on only a few words.”
“So … it’s a probable match.”
“Well, that’s part of the but. In Questioned Documents examinations, the identification is either conclusive or inconclusive. There’s some individuality and similarities in these writing samples, but …”
“There’s not enough to go on.”
“Right. If I was a betting man, however, I’d say he wrote it.”
“Are you a betting man?”
“Nope. But that’s irrelevant.”
“I think I’m more confused than before I called you.”
“Let me translate for the lower IQ agents I’m forced to work with: I believe it to be a match, but my report’s gonna say inconclusive because to say otherwise would be asking for a sharp defense attorney to tear me a new asshole in court. Does that clear it up?”
“Now let me translate: you think it was written by Marcks but you’re not gonna stick your neck out because you’re covering your large buttocks.”
“Now there’s a language we can both understand.” He paused a second, then said, “You think I’ve got a big rear end?”
Vail hung up and called Potter Correctional. Ten minutes later she had confirmation that a letter had been sent three days ago from Roscoe Lee Marcks. It contained a torn-out magazine advertisement and a blank piece of paper. They knew Marcks had a daughter, so they figured he was sending her a picture of a stuffed animal. Since it contained nothing overtly dangerous, they let the parcel pass.
Indented writing was covert, not overt, so she could not fault them for letting it through.
As Vail approached Jasmine’s house, she received a text message from Stacey DiCarlo. She glanced at her Samsung Galaxy while driving and decided not to reply, mimicking those annoying announcements she saw in the movie theater: “It can wait.” And when it came to her unit chief, she was more than happy to do just that.
Jasmine looked surprised to see Vail so soon. She had changed into workout attire—but she appeared to be nervous, as if she had spent the day stressing over the letter she received from her father.
“So there was something written on that paper,” Vail said.
Jasmine studied her face a moment. “Come in.”
Vail followed her into the kitchen again and they sat down. “Can I get you some
thing?”
“I’m fine.” Truth was, she was starving—but she did not plan on staying long.
“And what did it say?”
“It went with the picture of the stuffed animal. It read, ‘Remember what happened to Sparky?’”
Jasmine banded her arms across her chest and shivered slightly.
“Obviously, it was a threat. But we have to keep it in perspective. He’s in a maximum-security facility. He’s never getting out.”
“So you don’t think I’m in any danger.”
Vail hesitated. “I think we have to be smart about this. You should file a police report so that we can get the Fairfax County PD involved.”
“Why?” Jasmine said. “It’ll just mean endless questioning and a whole to-do over nothing. It is nothing, right?”
Vail averted her eyes. “I honestly don’t know. But it’s better to be safe than sorry. If your father has friends or if someone on the outside owes him for something, you could be in danger.”
“Did you meet with him?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“And …” Shit, do I tell her what he said? “For the most part he had normal reactions to my questions. He gave the impression he would never hurt you because you’re his flesh and blood. …”
“But you didn’t believe him.”
“He’s a violent criminal skilled in manipulation. No, I didn’t believe him. He’s telling me what he’s supposed to say. And he did say I should tell you to be careful.”
Jasmine clenched her jaw and nodded slowly. “I still don’t want to report it. Just do whatever needs to be done.”
“Jasmine, I’m … getting way outside the scope of my job. My unit chief’s on my case. No pun intended. She—” Before Vail could finish the sentence her Samsung buzzed again. She held it up and said, “That’s her. She wants me back at the office. She’s concerned that I’m hand-holding you.”
Jasmine stood up from the chair. “Okay. I’m sorry. I know, you’re not a detective.”
Not anymore. But sometimes I can’t resist playing one. “Know anyone who was friends with your dad the police can look at, anyone who might be willing to do things, favors, for him while he’s inside?”
The Darkness of Evil Page 3