Jasmine glanced around the kitchen, her eyes moving from one wall to the next but seeing nothing. “He didn’t have many friends from what I can remember. A few, I guess, that he went drinking with. But there could be others I never met. One guy who’s really scummy has probably had contact with my father. I saw him a few months ago at the market.”
“You talked to him?”
“I caught him staring at me from the back of the store. Creeped me out. I turned and went back the other way and got the hell out of the place.”
“Remember their names?”
“Vincent Stuckey and Scott MacFarlane. Those were his friends. At least the ones I knew. Booker Gaines, he’s the creep I saw in the store.”
“Gaines could be the guy to watch out for. He may’ve been keeping tabs on you when you saw him. It might not have been a chance meeting.”
“You mean he may’ve been following me? For my father?”
“When did that article on you come out in Time?”
Jasmine’s mouth dropped open. “About a week earlier.”
Vail looked at her with a raised brow. No words were necessary.
“Fine.” Jasmine massaged her forehead. “I’ll file that police report so the detective can follow up.”
Vail rose and gave Jasmine’s right shoulder a squeeze. “Good.”
“Should I just call the same detective who handled my father’s case? Erik Curtis?”
“That’d be a good place to start. Give him those names. And if any of them contact you in any way, even if you happen to see them anywhere near you or your house, call Detective Curtis immediately.” Vail’s phone buzzed again and she glanced at the display. “Let me know if you have any problems. Or if you get more letters from your father. I’ll be going back to see him again. If I find out anything else, I’ll let you know.”
She gave Jasmine another hug, then headed out the door, dialing DiCarlo on the way back to her car.
8
Erik Curtis sat down in front of Vail’s desk. “Never been here before. Interesting place.”
Curtis’s New Orleans roots could still be detected in his speech. Someday she was going to invite him to a barbeque just to see if he showed up with a slab of alligator meat to throw on the grill.
“It’s not as interesting as the subbasement at the Academy where the unit was started. Dark, quiet, deep below ground. This is just office space.”
“I was picturing something more like the TV show. You know, Criminal Minds.”
“Seriously. Hollywood? That was what you thought my reality was like?” Let me go summon our private jet. Wheels up in fifteen.
Curtis shrugged. “Guilty as charged.”
“Speaking of guilty,” Vail said, taking a file and setting it in front of her. “Roscoe Lee Marcks.”
“Bastard’s still a thorn in my side, all these years later.”
“Hey, at least he’s a thorn who’s residing in a federal penitentiary, locked away forever.”
He worked his jaw slightly, as if conceding Vail’s point. “So let me see this letter.”
Vail pulled out a copy of the document and handed it to Curtis. “Not really a whole lot to ‘see.’” She described the envelope Jasmine received and how she determined—or concluded—that Marcks had sent it. “No one else knew about what was done to Sparky. At least, no one who’s still alive.”
Curtis shifted his right leg, crossed it over his left knee. “So we basically know this douche bag is the one who sent the letter and he’s … what? Toying with Jasmine? Or really threatening her?”
“Could be both. Don’t know enough to say. Yet. But we have to take it seriously.”
Curtis mulled that for a bit. “So what are you thinking?”
“Protective custody.”
“Don’t think I could sell that to my lieutenant. Not based on this.” He glanced again at the paper Vail had handed him.
“Maybe start with regular well-checks, investigate Marcks, see if you can get a line on anyone he could be using for a job—guys who visited him, known associates. Maybe we can get a handle on whether or not he’s actually going to act on this threat.”
Curtis gave a tight nod. “I can do that.”
“Jasmine’s going to be contacting you to file a report. She’s also got the names of three known associates of Marcks worth looking into. One may’ve been following her. Name’s Gaines. Coincided with a front page Time magazine article—”
“I saw it. I’ll follow up with her, look into it.”
“Good. Now get outta here so I can get some real work done. I’ve got a unit meeting and my boss is on my ass.”
“Speaking of asses, how’s your husband?”
Vail looked up and locked her gaze on Curtis. “He’s dead, Erik. Long story. I’m engaged to a DEA agent.”
“Good for you. I think.” He got up from his chair. “I had the hots for you. You know that, right?”
I do now.
“I—” she swallowed. “Nope, did not know that. But I’m … flattered.”
“Yeah, well, you were married, had a kid. Jonathan?”
Vail rose and gathered up a case file. “Jonathan, yeah. Freshman at GW.”
“Good. That’s good.” Curtis rocked back on his heels. “You’re lookin’ good, Vail. Guess you’re the one that got away.”
“Sorry.” She glanced up at him, trying not to laugh. “You’ll find someone.” It’d help if you cut your hair and joined a gym. But hey, there’s someone for everyone. “Keep me posted on what you find, okay?”
Curtis shrugged. “Of course.”
VAIL WALKED INTO the conference room a couple of minutes late. Gifford frowned, but it was DiCarlo’s head shake that irked her. Yeah, I’m late and I’m sorry, but get over it, lady. I was working. On that hand-holding babysitting case.
Standing at the front, remote in hand, was profiler extraordinaire Art Rooney, one of two ATF agents—Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives—in the Behavioral Analysis Unit. He winked at Vail and turned back to the room, where nearly every one of the seats were taken.
“So as I was saying.” Rooney hit the button and the first image splashed across the screen. “This was a month ago. Out in the sticks, this house had three acres around it. Fire marshal believes the blaze was set in the living room and spread rapidly—a key indicator of an arson.”
“Accelerant?” Frank Del Monaco asked.
Rooney twisted his lips, hesitated, and said, “Denatured and jellied alcohol. Sterno.”
“From those catering canisters?” Vail asked. “Not a very effective way of starting a hot fire. Or sustaining it. Right?”
“Right.” Rooney forwarded to another photo, and then others: wide angle shots showing the crime scene and surrounding land and close-ups of the fine ash and burned rubble—remnants of kitchen appliances. “They’re still analyzing samples from the house. My guess is there was something else used other than Sterno because that fire was damn hot. With intense fires we typically see color changes or spalling in concrete, melted aluminum, deformation of steel, that type of thing—and we see some of that here.
“There wasn’t much left of the structure—cinderblocks for the fireplace, the back and front steps outside, some metal from a dishwasher and refrigerator. And that’s about it. While those are generally unreliable indicators of the presence of an accelerant, I’m convinced that the intensity of the fire is significant. I’m sure we’ll find something more potent than Sterno. Oh, we also found traces of bone. There was apparently a body, which is why homicide was called.”
“Identification?” Tom van Owen asked.
“Not a whole lot left. No teeth, no long bones. They’re running DNA. Homicide dick is Kevin McBride.”
“And that’s why we caught this case?” Vail said. “Almost no forensics?”
>
“Yeah, that. Plus this isn’t the first fire matching the MO. McBride said there were four more before this one, spread across a wide area. All in Virginia. And another they’re now looking at from five years ago.”
“I’m confused,” Del Monaco said. “What in this crime scene says homicide? Sterno? Could’ve been left over from a party they had. The body could’ve been the homeowner. Smoking, watching TV, falls asleep, place goes up. Not like that doesn’t happen. A lot.”
Rooney’s military demeanor helped him maintain his composure at times like these when others—Vail being the definition of “others”—would lose it with Del Monaco. “Too hot,” Rooney said evenly. “I’m telling you, Frank, we’re going to find a bonafide accelerant. And if not, we’ll be going over those other cases to see if there’s something that can clue us in on what to look for. We just need to dig deeper. The more info we have on the behaviors he left behind, the better we can establish linkage. And if we can establish linkage—well, you know the deal. If it is the same offender, we’ve gotta find him. He’s not going to stop. These guys love their fires too much.”
“And,” Vail said, “if he’s setting fires with people inside the houses, that’s a whole other ballgame.”
“Were there any distinguishable vapors at the scene?” van Owen asked. “Weather’s been cold.”
Rooney nodded. “Good point. Accelerant odors are sometimes detectable when the investigators make their initial inspection of the fire scene—and those smells are usually sharper on cold mornings. I’m told that they smelled something but couldn’t identify it.”
“Thank you, Art,” DiCarlo said. “Agent Vail, you want to give us an update on Jasmine Marcks?”
He’s “Art” but I’m “Agent Vail.” What’s up with that? Vail did not bother walking to the front of the room. She had no PowerPoint to present. Just a verbal update, if that. “Some of you remember the Roscoe Lee Marcks case that Thomas Underwood handled before I joined the unit. I inherited the case and Marcks has been sitting behind bars at Potter Correctional doing LWOP,” she said, using cop speak for life without parole. “Everything’s been quiet until his daughter wrote a book about him. That seems to have stirred her father’s pot.”
“Why would he care?” Dietrich Hutchings asked.
“Because Jasmine was the one who turned him in.”
“Oh, right. Duct tape or something?”
“Among other things,” Vail said. “The profile was pretty much spot-on, but the nail in the coffin was the evidence she gave the cops. Her testimony blew away the thin alibis he had on the more recent murders. Not to mention the forensics they found at two of the later scenes. Anyway, Jasmine got a threatening note from him and—”
“And,” DiCarlo said, “Agent Vail appears to have allowed herself to be drawn in to act as a babysitter.”
Vail kept her death-ray gaze away from DiCarlo. And she held her tongue—both improvements in her demeanor that she had been working on the past few years, at Gifford’s urging. She glanced at Hutchings instead, but he was wearing a politically correct poker face. “Fairfax County PD is taking it seriously, which I agree with. Detective Erik Curtis.
“I met with the offender at Potter Correctional, which I’ve been trying to do for years. After threatening his daughter, I felt he may have something to say and be more open to a sit down.”
“And? What’d he say about his daughter?” Del Monaco asked.
“Nothing useful.”
Hutchings spread his hands. “What was the threat? We can’t be of much help if we don’t have some details.”
Vail told them.
Rooney, now seated across from Vail, lifted his brow. “Three issues here. One, is it credible, and two, if so, is he going to act on it, and three, what can he do about it? My sense is that you have to treat it as credible.”
“Curtis and I agree. He’s looking into known associates, tracking down visitors he’s had the past year, the usual stuff.”
“Is this surprising for Marcks?” Rooney asked.
Vail had to think about that. “I think so. He’s a bad dude, no doubt about that. Underwood felt he exhibited some traits of psychopathy, but not the whole cluster. So he may have the ability to exhibit certain emotional responses. And if that’s the case, it could simply be a case of building anger over the years. Disappointment, betrayal. And then the book comes out and it sets him off. He’s pissed, he sends a letter that’s designed to freak her out.”
“I’m confused,” DiCarlo said. “So you don’t think there’s a threat here?”
“It could be a case of frustration and anger. Or it could be something a lot more serious. We can’t take that chance, especially when dealing with an offender like this, whether Jasmine is his own flesh and blood or not.”
“Best guess?” Gifford asked.
“Best guess is this is a legitimate threat.”
Vail’s Samsung vibrated and she glanced at the display. It was someone calling from Potter Correctional Facility.
“I’ve gotta take this.” She held up the handset as she rose from her seat, hoping neither of her bosses would object. They did not and she made it into the hallway. “Vail.”
“I’ve got assistant warden Thibeaux on the line. Please hold.” A couple of seconds later, Thibeaux picked up. “I had a message to call you.”
“Actually, I think it’d be better if we do this in person.”
Thibeaux paused. “Works for me. Don’t you have a bit of a drive?”
“I’ll need a couple hours.”
“Call when you’re fifteen out.”
Vail started walking toward her car, dialing Curtis as she went. He answered almost immediately.
“Second thoughts about your engagement? Thinking that maybe you’d give me a shot?”
“Yeah. No. I got us a meeting with the assistant warden at Potter. Wanna take a ride?”
“YOU KNOW WE’RE probably gonna hit horrendous traffic on the way back.”
“Worry about that later,” Vail said as she glanced around at the rolling hills, forestland, and scattered farms. “I just figured, we want him to take this seriously, we need to sit across from him and look him in the eye.”
They pulled into the Potter parking lot, the remaining daylight draining from the sky and the dense chiaroscuro clouds thick with the threat of precipitation.
They secured their guns in the trunk of the car and headed into the main entrance of the administration building. They signed in and were handed red laminated placards to clip to their clothing, a bold black V on the front. They were escorted from the visitors center to the main maximum-security cell block down a decrepit hallway, up two flights of stairs, and through another corridor that needed a paint job and some modern technology—on the order of fluorescent bulbs.
“You know they’re doing away with incandescent lights,” Vail said.
Their chaperone turned and glanced at her over his shoulder. “And this interests me, why?”
They arrived at Sean Thibeaux’s office a moment later. The paunchy middle-aged man appeared through an adjacent doorway and waved them in. “I didn’t know someone was joining us,” he said to Vail’s companion. “You are?”
“Erik Curtis, Fairfax County Police Department. Homicide.”
“Curtis handled the Roscoe Lee Marcks case,” Vail said. “I brought him up to speed on—well, what I’m here to discuss with you. Called him en route, thought he should come along.”
“Uh-huh. Great,” he said with the enthusiasm of a banana slug. He gestured to two guest chairs opposite his metal desk: standard 1940s-era seats that had never been reupholstered.
The hard, worn-out foam surface hurt Vail’s bottom.
“So Marcks actually talked with you,” Thibeaux said, settling his thick body into an office chair that looked considerably more comfortable. “You had
a conversation that lasted more than three sentences. And he didn’t bash your face in. I was surprised.”
“We had a very nice chat,” Vail said.
“Really?”
“No. He’s a narcissist who tried to control the conversation. I let him run things because I was trying to establish a rapport. But it took a lot of effort to play along.”
“And? Learn anything?”
“Just that he’s a scary dude. Scratch that. Already knew that. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit it creeped me out. Not to leave this room.”
“He won’t hear it from me,” Thibeaux said.
“I’ve got another meeting with him next week. Assuming he doesn’t cancel.”
“So we’re here because of the threat,” Curtis said, clearly not wanting anyone to forget he was in the room.
“Heard about that.” Thibeaux brushed a lock of hair off his forehead and looked to Vail for an explanation.
“He sent a letter to his daughter.”
“Okay. What’d it say?”
“It was a veiled threat.”
The creases on Thibeaux’s face deepened as he leaned forward in his chair. “And my guys let that through? What’d it say? I wanna see it.”
“It was a blank piece of paper. Along with a magazine clipping—”
“Of what?”
Damn, I knew he’d ask. Hell, I’d ask. “Of a stuffed animal.”
Thibeaux looked at her, a blank sarcastic look that said, “You gotta be kidding me.” She knew it well because she had used it herself, many times. “A blank piece of paper and a photo of a stuffed animal. And you’re calling that a threat?”
“There was indented writing. It asked if she remembered her stuffed animal from her childhood—her favorite stuffed animal, which had been dismembered and left in her bed.”
Thibeaux sat back, his eyes narrowing in apparent thought. Then: “I’ll loop in the warden, get his take, see what he wants to do. But he’s a low-key guy, he doesn’t overreact to things. And I have a feeling he’s going to say this is nothing with nothing.”
The Darkness of Evil Page 4