The Darkness of Evil

by Jacobson, Alan

  “You help us out,” Curtis said as he came around to Vail’s side, “you’d be a hero.”

  That’s not his motivator. “I can even see about getting you some reward money.” She pulled out her wallet, removed a twenty, and offered it to Stuckey.

  He snatched it with the alacrity of a cheetah.

  “Okay?”

  Stuckey nodded sheepishly. “Yeah, okay.”

  AS THEY PULLED away from the curb, Curtis looked back at the apartment building. “You think he’ll call us?”

  “More relevant question is whether Marcks will call him again.” She was silent a minute, then said, “Poor guy.”

  “Drugs, guns, and stupidity are a bad mix.”

  “We’ve gotta find that juvie case. It’s obviously sealed. There was nothing like that in Underwood’s file—or in yours.”

  “Nope.” Curtis looked out at the passing snow-covered foliage. “Think it went down like Vincent said?”

  “Knowing our buddy Marcks, no. He probably killed the kid. No struggle necessary. But who knows. Maybe it was just a dumb fight between two kids who were high.”

  “Either way, probably doesn’t matter.”

  Vail tilted her head. “Actually, it does. Because now we’ve got another friend of theirs to follow up on. This Lance joker.”

  “Vincent said he never saw him again after that.”

  “Vincent didn’t see him again. Doesn’t mean Marcks didn’t.”

  20

  Curtis hung up his phone. “That was the sergeant in charge of the records room. It’s a bit of a quagmire.”

  “How so?” Vail negotiated a turn onto Chain Bridge Road, then slowed behind a line of cars. The temperature had dropped and snow had begun falling again.

  “Fairfax County used to be on an old CAD—computer-aided dispatch system. Back in ’97 or ’98, we brought in Northrop Grumman and migrated over to new records management software. Idea was to go to a paperless reporting system. Problem was, the integration was a massive data dump. All sorts of shit happened, records got … well, not lost per se, but misplaced. Well, not really misplaced. They weren’t compatible with the new system so they didn’t transfer over.”

  “So does this Marcks file still exist or are we wasting our time?”

  “It won’t show up in the new CAD system, but the original paper reports were archived. Too expensive to digitize all the incompatible records because there are thousands of them. So generally speaking, when we access the database, it’s as if these files don’t exist.”

  “So if you don’t know what you’re looking for, you have no idea they’re there.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But since we know that these records exist,” Vail said, “we know to request them.”

  “And that’s what I just did. I asked for all PD-42 initial reports and PD-42s, the supplementals. Basically, all ROIs,” he said, using cop speak for reports of investigation.

  “That explains why we didn’t know about this case when we were looking into Marcks for the Blood Lines killings. Kind of an important thing not to be aware of.”

  “Shit happens in police work. Especially where records and technology are involved. You know that.”

  “Had a thing like this in New York. So yeah, I know.”

  They arrived at police headquarters, formally known as the Public Safety Center or the Massey Building, an aging 1960s-era structure with leaking pipes, malfunctioning air-conditioning, and its most endearing feature, asbestos.

  They got out of the car and started trudging forward in the fresh layer of snow.

  “The new HQ will be finished later this year,” Curtis said, gesturing to a partially constructed eight-story edifice. “We move in next year. Gonna miss that old building.”

  “Really?”

  “Nope.”

  They walked past the twelve-level public safety facility to the Massey Annex, the archive center commonly referred to simply as the “records room” by Fairfax County police.

  They passed a sign that divided visitors into two categories: citizens and police. They headed right, down a short alcove to a twenty-year-old woman with her hair pulled back in a bun.

  Curtis badged the clerk and explained what he needed. “Already spoke with the sergeant about it.”

  “He just called. Give me some time to find it.”

  As she walked off, Vail looked at Curtis. “She’s kind of young, no?”

  “Cadets. Prospective police officers. Gotta be creative with county budgets. Put the eager, low-cost bodies where you need ’em, where they can’t do any damage.”

  The woman returned an hour later with a thin folder. “Copies of the Marcks file. It’s a really, really old case.”

  “Not to worry,” Vail said. “Marcks is updating his body of work as we speak.”

  Curtis elbowed Vail away and gave the clerk a disarming smile. “Thanks. Appreciate your help.”

  They went back to the warmth of Vail’s car. She clapped her gloved hands together and looked over at Curtis as he pulled open the folder.

  He gave it a quick once-over while Vail turned up the heater and defroster.

  “So it looks like Stuckey was being straight with us. Assuming this Lance guy told the truth—and it’s a stretch to make that assumption—it went down like Stuckey said. When they arrested Marcks, he was charged with improper discharge of a firearm and involuntary manslaughter. But once they found and interviewed Lance—” his finger tracked down the page—“Kubiak. Lance Kubiak. When they sat down with him, they accepted his version of events and null prossed it.”

  Vail knew that was a bastardized version of a Latin term nolle prosequi, meaning they decided not to prosecute the case against Marcks.

  Curtis harrumphed. “Forensics didn’t exactly match up. Gunshot residue was inconclusive. There was residue on Marcks and a trace amount on Eddie Simmons, the deceased teen. But with Marcks in the wind for—” Curtis turned a couple of pages and consulted the paperwork—“three hours, that kind of ruined the evidentiary value. They expected to find more on Simmons’s hands if they were struggling for the gun. But it wasn’t enough to press forward with a case. Especially with their only witness corroborating Marcks’s version of events, tainted as that accounting was.”

  “So where does this leave us?”

  Curtis closed the file. “Not sure.”

  “Looks like Lance Kubiak knows what really happened. Assuming he’s still alive, he’s someone that Marcks put his trust in once before. Could be he does it again.”

  Curtis cocked his head.

  “What?”

  “I can’t see Marcks making that mistake. Tracking down old friends … he’s wise to that. He’s too smart, too careful to let us to trap him like that.”

  “Is he? He contacted Stuckey.”

  “And what did that get us? Something on a thirty-year-old case. Nothing on where Marcks is in the present day.”

  “We’ll see about that. For now, we follow the Marshals’ recipe. And a key ingredient of that recipe is watching known associates, family, and friends. Let’s find Lance Kubiak and see if he’s had contact with Marcks. It’s another bread trail.”

  Curtis checked his watch. “Speaking of bread, I’m starving. We totally blew past lunch.”

  “I’ll drop you off at your car. I’m running late for a meeting at the Academy.”

  VAIL STRODE INTO the administration building and signed in at the front desk, then texted Art Rooney to tell him she had arrived.

  He suggested that she meet him at the gymnasium. She passed through the magnetron scanner, then headed straight past the auditorium, library and classrooms, and on to the physical education wing. As she made her way down the hall, she saw Rooney opening the door to the pool area.

  “Art!”

  Rooney turned, n
odded at her. “Trying to squeeze in a short workout before heading off to an appointment. You mind?”

  “That’s fine. I got hung up over at Fairfax County PD. Took the clerk an hour to pull a file from archives.”

  “Normally I wouldn’t care but I’ve got a dinner appointment.”

  “Speaking of dinner, Robby and I had a guy over last night. Former ATF agent who did time in the fire lab.”

  He tossed a pair of swim goggles onto a railing and continued on to the stairs, which led down to the main level of the cavernous gym. “Anyone I know?”

  “Richard Prati, now with DEA Special Operations.”

  Rooney pursed his lips. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “We had a chance to chat about Crime Concealment Fires. Anything new on that case?”

  “Got back some forensics on the latest scene,” he said, grabbing a basketball off a wheeled cart. “Come shoot some hoops with me before I swim laps.”

  Vail removed her shoulder holster and placed it around the head of an oversize gray and black “Cuff Man” dummy, which was outfitted with Velcro and designed to teach the proper techniques for applying handcuffs.

  “Anything surprising?”

  Rooney took a shot and the ball swished but came off to the right toward Vail. She snatched it up and threw a bounce pass to Rooney, who caught the ball, dribbled left, then pulled up for a jumper. It hit the side of the rim and Vail again gathered it up, fed Rooney as he moved toward the basket and laid it in.

  “Hey, you’re good at this.”

  “I’ve played with Robby and Jonathan. They taught me well. Can’t shoot worth shit, but I’m good at rebounding and passing.”

  “So, the forensics.” He pulled up and took another shot. “I’ll have to show you everything when you’ve got some time. Getting close to identifying the accelerant.”

  “I thought it was Sterno gel.”

  “That’s the one we found but I knew he had to have used a more conventional, and effective, accelerant.”

  “And?”

  “And I should have an answer soon.”

  “Keep me posted. Sounds like this is shaping up to be an interesting case.”

  “Definitely challenging.” He dribbled once and took another shot. “But that’s not what you came here to discuss, is it?”

  “You had a case a couple of years ago. That homosexual serial. Padrova?”

  “Yeah, what about him?”

  “I wanted to pick your brain. I think Roscoe Lee Marcks might be gay. Something Thomas Underwood missed or overlooked. Or discounted. Nothing in his case file about it.”

  “Have you spoken to Tom about it?”

  “Left a message. Hasn’t returned my call yet. He could be traveling.”

  “Let’s say you’re right. The purpose of our assessment is to help identify the kind of person doing the deed. But we know who it is. He’s not an UNSUB. So is this just curiosity on your part or is there some relevance that I’m missing?”

  “If he is gay, then it could impact how the fugitive task force goes about looking for him.”

  Rooney nodded. “Okay. So then let’s talk homosexual serial killers. A lot of the well-known serials were gay. But there isn’t necessarily a predominance of gay serials relative to the general population. So it won’t be unusual if he is homosexual.”

  “Right. Again, it’s only significant in terms of finding him.”

  “If I remember right,” Rooney said, “Marcks excised the male genitalia, right?”

  “Correct. I’m thinking that could be his way of making the male body look more feminine. Cut away the penis and testicles, you’ve got a more female body type.”

  Rooney took a shot and it clanged off the rim, hit the backboard, and fell through the net. “And why would he do that?”

  Vail gathered up the ball and bounced it while she thought. “He’s uncomfortable with his homosexuality and he’s trying to make the men, who he’s attracted to, look more like women, who he feels he should be attracted to.”

  He held out his hands and she threw him a chest pass. “Could be. I’ll accept that. But didn’t he kill women also?”

  “Yeah. It was one of the things I was going to ask him about. Before he escaped.”

  “Two different killers?”

  “They found forensics at two crime scenes—one male victim and one female victim—that fingered Marcks.”

  “Okay.” Rooney took a shot. “Well, there are some killers who don’t have a preference for a particular type of victim, but most do.”

  The rebound caromed to Vail. “Right. So?”

  “So for those who do, it’s unusual for them to have more than one victim preference. But they can stray from that preference when their type isn’t available. So if he likes white females and the night he has the urge, he can’t find a white woman, he kills a Hispanic. Then he’ll go back to whites.” He gestured at her. “Go on, take a shot.”

  She dribbled and then launched a fifteen-foot jumper. The ball swished the net.

  “I thought you said you can’t shoot worth shit.”

  “I purposely set low expectations. See how impressed you were?”

  “You mean you lied.” Rooney laughed as he gathered up the ball and started walking toward the rack. “So you think that’s what happened with Marcks? His type wasn’t available so he went after a woman those times?”

  “Not sure. But I think there’s more to it. Someday soon I hope to ask him about it.” Her Samsung vibrated. It was a text from Hurdle:

  another marcks body

  need you and curtis here asap

  where are you

  She replied and asked for the address.

  “Problem?”

  Vail realized she had suddenly gone quiet, focused on her phone.

  “Another Marcks vic. Gotta go.”

  Rooney set the ball on the rack. “You want to talk some more tomorrow?”

  “I think I’m good for now. Let you know.”

  She jogged out of the gymnasium, trying to reach Curtis as she ran. He answered as she hit the door. Ten minutes later, she was driving through the security booth at Quantico, headed for a wooded area near Cub Run.

  21

  Sleepy Hollow Road

  Falls Church, Virginia

  Marcks stood in the shade of a large black walnut tree, its trunk a good three feet in diameter and offering solid cover from oncoming cars. The snow had not packed down around the tree, but was only a few inches deep. Its dense canopy of branches had shielded the ground from any significant accumulation.

  He was getting chilled again, which meant he could not remain here much longer. But his goal was not simply to find shelter for the evening. He needed cash and some decent food. A bed and a hot shower would be a good bonus.

  Marcks had ditched the Jensens’ sedan earlier in the day because there would be a stolen vehicle alert circulating among police officers. And with law enforcement patrols likely beefed up because of his escape, the risks of having the car now outweighed its benefits.

  He had selected a wealthy neighborhood and was waiting for a luxury automobile: Mercedes, BMW, Audi, Porsche … he wasn’t picky. When one came along and turned into a nearby driveway, that would be his first mark.

  He would observe for a while, scout out who was in the house and determine if it was a feasible target. Since there was only one of him, he had to maximize his odds of a successful intrusion. No dogs was his first screening criterion. His second was a fair amount of foliage around the front door, where he would likely enter, to block the view of anyone from the street. Third was no males—or it had to be one smaller than him.

  Good odds of that.

  It was late afternoon, so he figured that most men had not left work yet. Yeah, that was a bit of an assumption—more women were brea
dwinners in families nowadays, especially in cities and sleeper towns for corporate centers—but playing the averages, he figured most of the people in this affluent area had a high-earning male in the household … and chances were the woman was at home raising the kids. Or a nanny was—in which case, he could make her summon the wife home.

  As the minutes ticked by, he realized that the longer he stood there, despite the tree’s cover, his odds of being reported to police as a suspicious person increased. A neighborhood like this, where property values were exceptionally high and the power halls of Washington exceptionally close, cops responded in short order. You never knew who would get pissed at a slow rollup of a patrol car: a CEO, a lobbyist, a congressional representative, a State Department executive. Safer for dispatch to jump on it when a call came in—and for the officers to hightail it over.

  He bent his knees, attempting to get the blood flowing and restore sensation to his toes. As he flexed his fingers, a car moved down Sleepy Hollow, its xenon headlights a telltale sign that the vehicle was expensive. The turn signal flicked on.

  Marcks moved against the rough bark and watched as the vehicle slowed and then hung a right into the long driveway that led up to the single-story brick house set back from the street and behind a rolling berm of snow-covered grass.

  It was a Mercedes. Very good.

  He shifted left, keeping his hands on the tree trunk, and peered into the gray distance. The garage door rolled up and the sedan pulled to a stop. There was space for two vehicles, meaning—hopefully—the other one was for the husband and he was not home yet.

  Marcks moved out from behind his cover and walked toward the house, using the trees and hedges to shield himself from the neighboring home to his right.

  He stopped and watched as a woman in her late thirties or early forties got out. It looked like a child followed her from the rear driver’s side door.

  Like a tiger salivating over his prey, he licked his cold, dry lips.

  This was exactly what the criminal ordered.

  22

  Vail arrived at the crime scene almost forty-five minutes later. She knew Hurdle’s car by now and slid in between it and Curtis’s sedan. Vail figured that Johnson must be there too.