The Darkness of Evil

by Jacobson, Alan

  The door opened and two correctional officers stepped into the medical suite, fastened the ankle restraints, and pushed the gurney out to the sally port.

  A moment later, Marcks was loaded into the back of the twenty-foot-long cabover transport vehicle. It doubled as an ambulance during times like these—which had become more frequent in recent years. Potter’s decrepit condition was not limited to the prison blocks and administrative wing, but the medical facilities as well. The surgical suite was rudimentary and borderline functional for simple procedures. The x-ray machine, however, dated back to the 1920s, the early days of its use as a valuable diagnostic tool, and the CT scanner was a first-generation unit purchased secondhand twenty years ago when the local hospital closed its doors.

  Olifante watched as the dour-faced Sanders and another guard secured the gurney to a locking mechanism on the interior wall. After the other officer left, Sanders checked that his sidearm was firmly seated in its holster. “You sure you wanna make this trip? It’s twenty-five minutes each way.”

  “I’m fine,” Olifante said. “Let’s go. Every minute counts.”

  “All right, let’s move it out!”

  The doors clanked closed and the truck lurched, pulling out of the sally port and eventually onto I-95.

  “He’s a fucking serial killer,” Sanders said. “If he goes, he goes. Know what I mean? Why do you care so much?”

  Olifante snorted. “I’m a medical professional. Every life has equal value. That’s all that matters. Right now he’s my patient. What he’s accused of doing doesn’t matter to me. And unless we get him to the hospital quickly, he may not live much longer.”

  Ten minutes later, Marcks stirred on the gurney. Then he moaned.

  “He’s regaining consciousness,” Olifante said.

  Sanders shifted in the stool he was sitting on in the corner of the cargo area, no more than eight feet from the gurney. “I thought you had him sedated.”

  “Have to be careful with brain trauma. Too much sedation and I could kill him.”

  Olifante moved closer and pulled a stethoscope from her scrubs pocket. She took something else out and palmed it.

  “That’s close enough,” Sanders said.

  “And how am I going to listen to his heart without touching his chest with the stethoscope?”

  Sanders gritted his teeth. “Be quick about it, then back away.”

  Olifante threw him a look of disgust, then leaned over Marcks’s torso, placing an object in his left hand out of view of the guard.

  With leopard-like quickness, Marcks grabbed the back of Olifante’s neck with his right hand and yanked her close. She screamed: nothing fake about it. Pure, unfiltered surprise. And horror.

  “Fuck!” Sanders drew his sidearm.

  Marcks dug his thumb into her windpipe. “Drop that gun or I’ll choke her to death.”

  “I’m not dropping my gun,” Sanders said firmly. “But you’re gonna let her go.”

  “You know who you’re talking to, boy?”

  Olifante struggled, her face shading deep blue.

  “I’m gonna give ya to three,” Sanders said, raising his SIG to eye level.

  That was when Marcks produced the scalpel that Olifante had slipped him and brought it against her carotid. He had an awkward grip with the splint in the way, but what mattered was the exquisite sharpness of the blade against the woman’s skin. One movement, a sudden lurch of the truck, and she would bleed to death.

  Olifante cried a muffled plea, as best she could with what little breath she had left in her lungs.

  Sanders rushed forward and shoved his gun against Marcks’s groin. “Drop the fucking scalpel!”

  But Marcks was too skilled a criminal. And Sanders was too hapless an officer to stop him. In an instant, Marcks drew the blade across Olifante’s neck, spurting blood into Sanders’s face—and then stabbed the guard in the eye.

  Sanders screamed—a shrill cry. He dropped his SIG and Marcks sat up in one motion and grabbed Sanders by the hair. He yanked the man’s face toward his and shoved the protruding scalpel deep into his brain.

  Sanders’s knees buckled and he sagged against Olifante’s fallen body.

  Marcks gathered up the SIG, located the guard’s key, and unlocked the ankle restraints.

  He pushed Olifante’s dead body aside and slid off the gurney. He was surprised the driver had not heard Sanders’s shriek of alarm. Then again, with the road noise and what sounded like the radio playing in the cab, the man appeared to be unaware of what was happening. The truck continued on its course, not slowing or changing direction.

  Marcks pulled the slide back and chambered a round, laughing at the guard’s poor training. The weapon was not even ready to be fired. Jesus Christ, he thought. Don’t they teach these guys anything?

  There was no window into the cab, so there was some guesswork involved. But Marcks did his best, lined up his shot, and pulled the trigger repeatedly until he had emptied the magazine.

  The noise was deafening in the closed cargo space. But the truck veered onto the shoulder of the road, then struck something and rolled onto its side.

  Once it came to a rest, Marcks righted himself and searched Sanders’s pockets. He found fifty bucks but no ammunition. The handgun was now of little value, so he tossed it aside. Until he could find a knife, which would be a great deal easier to obtain than a firearm, the scalpel would have to suffice.

  He pulled another thirty dollars from Olifante’s pockets. Although there was some risk involved, he would at least be able to feed himself for a while. But the true prize was a cheap cell phone Olifante had purchased for him, programmed with the numbers he had requested. Without question, Sue Olifante was a godsend. He owed her his freedom.

  He gave her a kiss on her bloody forehead, then exited the vehicle.

  11

  George Washington University

  Phillips Hall

  Room B152

  Vail stood at the front of the modest lecture hall, Jonathan seated in the third row at the far right. He had declined to introduce his mother, instead letting the professor do the honors, not because he was embarrassed by her or was afraid of public speaking, but because he felt it would seem self-serving.

  The professor, however, did not share the same concern, as he made it a point to note that the FBI profiler guest speaker was the mother of one of their fellow students. Vail could not tell, but she was fairly certain that her son’s face shaded red.

  She turned away and focused her gaze on the outsized circular white column that was situated directly ahead of her, in the middle of the room.

  The professor finished his remarks by noting that her talk was being recorded by “lecture capture” so they did not need to worry about taking notes.

  Wonderful. Better watch what I say.

  Vail stepped in front of the substantial oak lectern, which was wired with audiovisual equipment, a computer monitor, keyboard, and mouse.

  “Thank you, Professor Winfield. It’s an honor to be addressing you guys this afternoon.” She inserted a flash drive, double-clicked her PowerPoint file, and swiveled to face the expansive motorized projection screen behind her to make sure it was displaying her first slide.

  “I remember sitting in one of my criminal justice classes when a detective came to speak to us. I found his talk inspiring and I hope to do the same for some of you today. I also think back very fondly on the time an FBI profiler came to speak to my class, and, well, that ended up changing my life.

  “I’m going to leave the last twenty minutes for questions because hopefully what I’m about to discuss will get you thinking. Listen to what I’m saying. Challenge it. Ask questions—because thinking critically is a key to just about anything you do in law enforcement, whether it be forensics, prosecuting offenders or—God forbid—defending them.” She smiled,
but they all wore serious expressions.

  Get on with it, Karen. You haven’t won them over yet. Jonathan’s probably rolling his eyes. Don’t look at him.

  Vail swiped her finger across the screen and the next PowerPoint slide appeared: a red and black header reading “Violent Crime” appeared above a photo depicting a puddle of blood beside a victim’s chalk outline.

  But as she opened her mouth to speak, her phone vibrated. She pressed a hand against her pocket, hesitated a second, then pushed forward.

  “Many of you have heard of the Behavioral Science Unit from the movies or TV shows. Although it’s been renamed the Behavioral Research and Instruction Unit, its focus has remained the same since it was started in the early seventies.”

  Her phone vibrated again, and again she let the call go to voice mail. “Simply put, the goal behind behavioral science is to study, and understand, human behavior. More specifically, BRIU, as it’s called—because the government loves its acronyms—focuses on criminal behavior so we can gain insight into who these offenders are, how they think, and why they do what they do. If we can understand that, it’ll help us solve crimes and potentially head off future criminal activity. Now if we drill down a bit deeper, the criminal behavior we’re most concerned with in the BRIU, and my unit, the Behavioral Analysis Unit, is violent crime.”

  Her Samsung vibrated a third time.

  Someone’s determined to reach me. Vail glanced at Jonathan, then the professor. “Excuse me for a second.” She fished out the phone and checked the display: Erik Curtis. Answer it?

  Vail did just that—and got an earful.

  “Jesus, Karen, were you on the shitter or something? I’ve been trying to reach—”

  “I’m teaching a class at GW—”

  “Oh—sorry. Sorry. But I thought you should know that the officer we put on Jasmine’s house is, well, he’s missing.”

  “Missing? What the hell does that mean? He’s a goddamn police officer.” She caught herself, glanced up at the class. Jonathan’s gonna hate me. If not for the interruption, for—

  “He’s not reporting in or responding to his radio. Karen, you there?”

  “I’m here. I assume you’re searching for him? Is Jasmine okay?”

  “She’s fine. I’m on my way but I’m told she’s not there. Trying to verify. Can you get over there? She’s got some kind of bond with you, a women’s th—”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Give me an hour.”

  She hung up before Curtis could object. I’m not supposed to be babysitting her. Curtis can handle this.

  “I apologize for the interruption. One of my cases.” She rubbed the creases in her forehead, looked at the PowerPoint, and gathered her thoughts. “Okay, so let’s pick up where we left off. The BAU, where I work. Anyone interested in understanding why offenders do what they do? How about walking into a crime scene and picking up on hidden clues about the killer that no one else sees? But you see them because you’re trained to see them, to put it all together, to understand who committed the crime—and why.

  “It’s very powerful. Think of it like a foreign language that you don’t know how to speak. It sounds like gibberish. But once you learn it, you start to see things differently, you understand what’s being said. You understand the nuances of a language very few others can comprehend. Let me give you an example.”

  Her phone buzzed again. She closed her eyes as she fished out the cell. A text message from Curtis.

  found missing officer

  hes dead

  killed like the others

  like the other blood lines vics

  wtf

  Vail swallowed. She was staring at her screen, her thoughts zipping by so fast she could not process them. None of this made sense. The Blood Lines killer was behind bars ninety minutes from here. For life.

  “Agent Vail,” the professor said. “Are we interrupting?”

  “I, uh—I’m sorry, a case. It’s—”

  Her phone vibrated again—in her hand. It was Gifford.

  She slowly brought the handset to her face, almost afraid to answer it.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Karen, I know you’re offsite at GW, but you need to take a rain check.”

  She brought two fingers to the bridge of her nose. “I heard about the officer.”

  “What officer? I’m calling you about Roscoe Lee Marcks. He escaped two hours ago.”

  Vail felt dizzy. This can’t be happening. Fuck.

  She glanced up, hoping she had not verbalized that thought. All eyes were on her but no one appeared shocked. Then again, these were college students.

  “US Marshals have mobilized,” Gifford said. “Call Deputy Lewis Hurdle. DiCarlo’s texting you his contact info.”

  Vail swallowed and looked across the lecture hall at Jonathan. “Yes sir.”

  “Leave now. I’ll have Lenka call the professor and reschedule you.”

  “Okay sir. Yes sir. On my way.” She slipped the phone back in her pocket, adrenaline hitting her bloodstream with the abandon of a broken dam. “I’m uhh … I’m very sorry. I must sound like an idiot, but I’ve been ordered to—I’ve got a—there’s a situation I have to deal with and—we’ll have to reschedule.” She grabbed her flash drive and the screen behind her went blank.

  “My office will be in touch,” she said to Winfield, avoiding Jonathan’s gaze, as she bolted for the door.

  ◆◆◆

  VAIL DID NOT have to call Deputy Hurdle. He phoned her by the time she reached her car.

  “On my way,” Vail said as she chirped her car remote.

  “No need,” Hurdle said. “We got this.”

  “What do you mean, ‘We got this.’ I was ordered to get with you, help the task force find Roscoe Lee Marcks.”

  “I know what our job is. All I’m saying is you don’t need to do it. We got this. We’re good.”

  Vail turned over the engine and pulled out of the parking spot, trying to restrain her building anger. “Who’s we?”

  “Capital Area Regional Fugitive Task Force. This is all we do, Vail. We catch assholes like Marcks. And we do it better without anyone meddling in our business.”

  “Good to know. What address am I driving to?”

  Hurdle slowed his speech and lowered his voice. “Am I not making myself clear?”

  “Crystal. I’m ignoring you. Now, you can give me the address of the command center, or I can have the FBI director talk with the attorney general and have him get the address for me. I’ve got the director on speed dial.”

  I love saying that.

  There was a pause.

  So predictable.

  “Check your phone.” The line went dead.

  And the info hit her cell seconds later.

  VAIL PULLED INTO the parking lot of the Mason District Station of the Fairfax County Police Department, where a black RV sat, gold lettering proclaiming “U.S. Marshals Service Mobile Command Center,” along with the five-pointed silver star that dated back to the agency’s origin in 1789.

  A conspicuous satellite dish and corkscrew communications array projected from the top of the vehicle.

  As she started to get out of her car, Curtis’s Ford glided into the spot next to her.

  She had called Curtis and told him to divert there, if possible. He said he could, as his partner was already on scene at Jasmine’s house.

  “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  “Figured you’d want to be looped in from the start.”

  “You figured right. Gotta watch these marshals. They think they know everything there is to know about catching bad guys.”

  “They do.” She noticed Curtis’s look, so she added, “Hey, I give credit where it’s due. The marshals on the fugitive squads know their shit. They’ve got fugitive tracking i
n their blood.”

  “You admit that?”

  “Before we walk in that trailer?” she said, gesturing at the RV. “Hell yes. But they’ll also piss you off because they don’t pass up any opportunity to let you know that they’re the best.”

  “This isn’t your first rodeo with them.”

  “I’ve heard stories.”

  Curtis gave her a dubious look. “I could tell those stories. Did a couple years on the task force a while back.”

  “We’ll just make this a meet ’n greet so we can get over to Jasmine’s place. I know you’ve got a guy there now, but—hey, who’d they give you?” Vail knew that Curtis’s former partner died of leukemia. “Anyone I know?”

  “She’s new. Out-of-state hire. Checkered history, what I’m told. Lucky me.”

  Vail locked her car door and started toward the marshals’ command post. “You ask her about it? You’ve gotta know who’s covering your back.”

  “I will. We only met yesterday. They had me with some burned-out train wreck after Lonny died. He finally retired—actually, he’d checked out a year ago, but I convinced him to make it official before he got us both killed.”

  They ascended the wooden steps and pulled the trailer door open. It was well outfitted, with built-in workstations and LCD screens lining the periphery. She had seen one of these mobile command centers before, on a larger scale, in New York City.

  Several people were there, including a man in his early forties dressed in tactical pants—her favorite 5.11s, by the look of them—with a two-day beard and a rumpled button-down concealed carry shirt … the professional’s way to pack a weapon without anyone noticing while keeping it instantly accessible. “Lemme guess. Vail. Right?”

  “What was your first clue? The red hair? Or the breasts?”

  His eyes gave her the once over. “FBI badge on your belt.”

  Good save, buddy. “The badge does attract attention.”

  “Just like you people.”