“Art had a case where the body was pretty well gone but not completely consumed. They were able to tell that the cause of death wasn’t the fire but some other kind of traumatic injury.” She turned to Ryan. “Unless the offender’s an insider, they don’t know all the things we can do. Like the guy who kidnapped and killed that family in DC. While waiting for the ransom payment, he ordered pizza. We got DNA off the crust in the garbage, ID’d him, and nabbed his ass.” Vail stuck her fork into another chunk of chicken. “Everything’s really good, honey. Thanks again for taking care of dinner.”
“Yes,” Prati said, “everything’s perfect. I appreciate you asking us over.”
“I’m glad we got to meet Ryan,” Robby said.
“How’s GW?” Prati asked.
Jonathan wiped his mouth with the napkin. “I’m really enj—”
Vail’s phone vibrated noticeably, crawling along the table. Her eyes drifted over to Robby’s. He shook his head subtly, telling her not to look. But she had to. She was now working a case that was time sensitive. She had been warned about not missing a text.
Except that it wasn’t a text. It was a phone call.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I’ve gotta take this.”
“No worries.” Prati laughed. “Just goes to what we were saying before. And hey—any questions about fire, I’m happy to help.”
She thanked him, apologizing again as she gathered up the Samsung and walked into the family room. It was Hurdle.
“I thought you said to be back at ten.”
“Something’s come up.”
“Wasn’t the protocol a group text message?”
“This is only for you and Curtis. Don’t bother going back to the command post. You were right. There’s a new vic. Tarkoff’s texting you the address.”
In times like these, I hate it when I’m right.
16
It was a county road a few miles off George Washington Memorial Parkway, pitch-black in all directions except for the rhythmic pulse of the law enforcement vehicles’ candy-colored lights and their focused high beams, which bored directly ahead into the stand of pines.
Vail pulled behind the line of cars as snow flurries began to fall, twinkling in her headlights like wayward lightning bugs zipping this way and that. She got out and blinked away the snowflakes that stuck to her eyelids, then came up alongside Hurdle, who was standing at the perimeter puffing on a cigarette.
“Curtis’ll be here any minute,” he said, not bothering to turn to look at her. He blew smoke out the side of his mouth, away from Vail. “How’d you know he was gonna kill again so fast?”
“He’d been in the slammer for seven years. Most incarcerated offenders are able to turn off the instinct, the hunger. They don’t have any choice, really. Marcks appeared to be one of them—but as soon as he was free, he was like a kid in a toy store. So many potential victims, all he had to do was choose one he wanted. And strike. This had been building inside for years.”
“Like pulling a cork out of a champagne bottle.”
“What was wrong with my kid in a toy store simile?”
“Like mine better.”
Two headlights threw their shadows against the black tree trunks of the tall pines. Vail turned and saw Curtis get out of his car.
“Haven’t even had time to digest my dinner,” Curtis said as he made his way toward them.
Victim could’ve probably said the same thing.
“Let’s go do this.” Hurdle dropped the butt to the ground and squished it with his shoe into the wet asphalt.
They slipped booties on and ducked beneath the crime scene tape, where a patrol officer with a flashlight directed them to another cop, who was standing below ground level, in a slight clearing next to a body.
Lindy Dyson was there, her kit splayed open and a few portable lights standing on tripods surrounding the corpse.
“Do we know who she is?”
Without a word, Dyson handed back a Virginia driver’s license.
Vail took it and used her phone light to read it. “Tammy Hartwell. Thirty-four. Corrective lenses.” Vail looked up and scanned the body. “She’s not wearing any glasses.”
“Contacts?” Curtis said. “Or maybe she wasn’t driving when the perp came upon her.”
“Or maybe they fell off in the struggle.” Behind them was Leslie Johnson. “Got here as soon as I could.”
“We had a theory on MO,” Curtis said. “He entraps them when they’re driving, uses a ruse to get them out of the car, then gets close enough to easily and quietly disable them. Maybe he makes believe his car is having problems. They stop and come over to help him, and that’s when he anesthetizes them. He takes them somewhere and tortures them, brings them to a secluded area, usually a park or a wooded area, and dumps the body.”
“Well, that seems to fit,” Hurdle said.
“Doesn’t pose them,” Vail said, “at least not overtly. He leaves them face-up, probably so we see the bloody lines. Abdomen’s laid bare. As we discussed, those lines mean something to him. He wants us to see them.”
“Well, he succeeded,” Hurdle said. “We see ’em.”
Curtis licked a few flakes of snow off his lips. “And the excised genitalia. Don’t know about you, but that’s just friggin’ gross.”
Vail turned to him. “Did you think we’d find that anything but gross?”
“How long’s she been out here?” Johnson asked.
Dyson checked her watch. “I did a liver poke. I’d say about four hours. Lucked out that a hiker found her before some animal realized he hadn’t gotten enough to eat today.”
“Cause of death?”
“Severed carotid,” Dyson said.
Curtis looked up into the falling flurries. “Like the others.”
Like the others. Vail considered that. Except that this was not exactly like the other murders.
“Problem?” Curtis asked.
“Nah, just giving it some thought. It’s like the other MOs, and yet it’s different. He usually spent time with the body before dumping it. But he didn’t do that here. He’s not been out long enough to ‘enjoy’ his time with the victim. Why would he spend so much less time with this woman?”
Hurdle crouched to get a better look at the body. “What you said earlier. Maybe he was so excited to be free, to be able to kill again, that he couldn’t contain himself. He was so eager to kill that he had to do it. He couldn’t wait. Kind of like premature ejaculation.”
“Not a bad analogy. I guess that’s possible. But for him, it’s not just the kill that he’s after. It’s the whole process, the interplay with the victim, the power he exhibits over her while he tortures her. He skips parts of his ritual, it won’t be nearly as enjoyable for him.”
“Makes sense to me,” Curtis said. “But that still leaves us with the question of why he rushed through it.”
“Could be something as simple as he had no place to bring the body,” Vail said, “where he could take his time. He’s been in prison and he’s on the run.”
“And he doesn’t know how long he’ll be out,” Johnson said, “how long he’ll be free, so he’s doing his best to get in as much ‘fun’ as he can. Yeah, he takes less time with the body, enjoys it a little less, but he’ll make it up in volume.”
Vail filled her lungs with frigid, moist air. She exhaled and sent a robust cloud of vapor into the forest. “Hope you’re wrong, Leslie. Because that would really suck.”
HURDLE LEFT SHORTLY thereafter, but Vail, Curtis, and Johnson remained at the crime scene another ninety minutes, passing theories back and forth. They decided that until they knew more about Tammy Hartwell—who she was, where she frequented, and what could have brought her into the crosshairs of Roscoe Lee Marcks—they were playing with a deck of cards missing all the suits: you didn’t get very far and the
game was not much fun.
Hurdle had excused Vail and Curtis from returning to the command post until the morning. Given their past experience with, and knowledge of, Marcks, their time was better spent working the new homicide—for the moment. When he got the call about the Hartwell murder, he had directed Tarkoff to hand out assignments to the task force members. They could deal with the “fugitive 101” items that they had discussed before they broke for dinner. And if there were things they needed help with, he could pull more men and women from the Marshals Service as well as the county police force.
When Vail walked into her house at midnight, she found Richard Prati sharing a glass of port with Robby in the family room. Jonathan had driven Ryan home, then gone on to his dorm because he had an 8:00 AM class.
“You two still at it?”
Robby sat up and drained his glass. “We were swapping stories about growing up in Los Angeles.”
Vail wondered if he had disclosed some of the most significant ones, those he had told Vail a few years ago. His face was impassive and she could not read it—a rarity.
“We had some similar experiences,” Prati said. “Why we got into law enforcement.”
Vail picked up a pillow from the couch and fluffed it, put it back in the right place. “I’m glad you two connected. It’s good to have those kinds of relationships where you work.” God knows it took me awhile to find them.
“We’ve got each other’s backs. Figuratively.” Prati laughed. “I’ve got a good gig doing what I do. Something opens up in my unit …” He shrugged. “We’ll see. Robby may be interested.”
Vail studied him intently—but his expression did not reveal anything. “If you had it to do over again, Richard, would you leave ATF for DEA?”
“I’ve been lucky to have spent time with two law enforcement agencies I admire and respect. I cherished my years at ATF. And I wouldn’t trade my work with DEA for anything. So, tough decision. But yeah, I’d do it again.”
Robby pushed himself off the couch. “I’ve gotta get up early.” He gave Prati a man hug. “We’ll have to do this again. Hopefully a time when your wife can join us and Karen won’t get called away.” He glanced at Vail. “Miracles have been known to happen.”
Vail grinned. And clenched her teeth. I love you, honey.
“Maybe catch a Nats game next season,” Prati said. “A buddy of mine has season tickets.”
Vail gave Prati a hug and backed away. “Great seeing you again, even if it was only a short visit.”
She had washed her face and pulled off her clothes when she heard the front door close. After she fell into bed, Hershey climbed in beside her and cuddled up against her body.
Off in the distance, she heard Robby talking to her. But that was the last thing that registered as she fell into a deep sleep.
17
What do I do about the book tour?”
Jasmine and Vail were sitting in a McLean, Virginia, Starbucks. Vail had pulled the lid off her venti Americano and was stirring in a packet of raw sugar.
The snow had stopped during the night but the cold temperatures persisted. The café was warm and cozy, the inside of its windows dripping with condensation.
“That’s going to have to be put on hold. I just don’t see a way around it.”
“If I can’t promote my book, I might be in breach of my contract. My publisher—”
“Will be very happy with the press and media attention. They’ll do fine. In a way, this is the best possible thing that could’ve happened for them.”
Jasmine stared out the window, wrapping her hands around the coffee to warm them. “We’ll see. If I’d known this was gonna happen …”
Vail took a bite of her egg sandwich as she waited for Jasmine to finish.
“You’re going to say you never would’ve written the book?”
“Hell no. It was cathartic in more ways than one.” She glanced around the café and lowered her voice. “It wasn’t something I planned to do. It just sort of happened when I began reflecting on everything, how I’d lived with a man who had brutally murdered young women and men, how that man had kissed me and held me when I was afraid. The most important man in my life.”
Jasmine started peeling away the corner of the cardboard cup jacket.
“That’s how I came to write the book. Started with some thoughts, kept writing night after night after night. I realized I probably saved some lives by turning him in. Eventually the guilt subsided. But it’s never completely gone away. And now he’s out and killing again. Because of me.”
“Look,” Vail said. “No one could’ve foreseen your father’s escape. Well, I guess he did—he’s likely been planning it for a while—but there’s no way you could’ve known what was going to happen when you wrote your book. I’m sure your publisher will understand that your safety has to be the top priority here.”
“My agent is talking to them today.”
“Hopefully we’ll catch him fast and it won’t be an issue.” She snapped her lid back on the cup. “Speaking of which, is there anything you can tell us that would be helpful?”
“Like what?”
“Like his bank. Is his checking account still open?”
Jasmine laughed sardonically. “Like a dutiful daughter, maybe out of guilt, I’ve made sure it stayed open. Every so often I make a small deposit to generate some activity so they don’t close it. Kind of stupid, isn’t it? I mean, he’s in prison for life.” She shook her head. “Definitely guilt.”
“I’m not judging you. Whatever the reason you did it, it’s a good thing. That’ll help us. But stop for now. We need to monitor it for activity.”
“Okay.”
“Which bank?”
“Sutter Savings. I’ll text you the account number.” She took out her phone and opened the messaging app. “What else do you need?”
“Those friends of your father, the ones you told me about. Anything more you can give me on them? Places he used to go when he wanted to unwind. A bar, a restaurant, anything you can think of.”
Jasmine took a bite of her blueberry scone and chewed as she thought. “He did go out drinking. But I never knew where. It’s not like he accounted for his whereabouts to me. Or to my mom.”
“What was their relationship like?”
Jasmine’s gaze wandered around the café, pondering the question. “It’s hard. I keep trying to think about signs, things I saw in how they interacted, that could’ve tipped me off to the fact that he was … murdering people.” She shook her head. “Their relationship was fine, I guess. They spent time together. Sometimes they fought, sometimes they didn’t. He never hit her, at least not that I ever saw.” Jasmine looked down at the table, no doubt replaying her childhood in her mind’s eye. “They weren’t very demonstrative.”
“Demonstrative?”
Jasmine shrugged. “They didn’t hold hands in public. I never saw them kissing. It’s—it’s almost like they were more friends than lovers.” She stopped talking, then took a bite of her scone.
“Some couples are like that,” Vail said. “I wouldn’t read too much into it.” But it could definitely be significant. “Do you think it’s possible he’s gay?”
“What?” Jasmine began rolling the edge of the cardboard jacket between her thumb and index finger. “Why would you ask that?”
“Just something we’re looking into.” Vail watched her a second, sensing there might be more to it than she was letting on. Now did not seem like the time to press it. “You going to tell me where you’re staying?”
She hesitated a moment. “I think it’s best that no one knows. For now.”
Vail nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll respect that.” For now. She drained her cup and dabbed her mouth with the napkin. “But I want you to promise me you’ll stay in touch. I text you, I want you to answer me right away. I could ha
ve something important to tell you, for your safety, and I need to know you’re getting my message. If I call, answer it.”
“Got it.”
Vail frowned. “I still don’t like it. Who knows where your father is? You have habits you’re not conscious of, things that he knows you do, places you go—and have gone.”
“I’m doing my best to be aware of things like that.” She placed a hand on Vail’s. “I’ll be okay, Karen. I may not be trained in this kind of thing, but I’ve got my intuition. And so far, it’s served me well.”
“You’ve done okay. Lucky?”
“Nope. Just being smart about things. Really, I’m going to be fine.”
Vail crumpled up the wrapper and dumped her empty cup in the recycling bin behind her. “I have to get back.”
They stood up and Vail gave Jasmine a hug. “I’ll be in touch. Be careful.”
Jasmine grinned weakly. “Always. Especially now.”
18
Marcks awoke with a start. He had fallen asleep a short time after preparing his bed, which, when he settled into it, was more comfortable than he thought it might be when he gathered up the sundry materials. Then again, he had been sleeping on prison cots that dated back five or six decades. Anything better than that would feel like duck feathers.
He sat up, taking in his environment: he was in the barn and light was streaming in through cracks and spaces between the wood slats that formed the walls.
And there it was again. The creak of rusted hinges. It’s what had jostled him from a deep sleep, deeper than any he’d had since his arrest—definitely not his intention when he put his head down last night. He did not have a watch but it looked to be late morning. He thought for sure he would be up at dawn, his routine at Potter. Now free, without the regimen of a highly structured schedule, he should have realized that his body might react differently.
And right now it had apparently let him down.
He relaxed, his normally razor-sharp senses going on vacation. He would not let that happen again.
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