The Darkness of Evil

by Jacobson, Alan

  “What?” Victoria turned to Nathan and watched as he filled the cap. “Benadryl?”

  “Just looking out for your well-being. Drink it.”

  Nathan nodded and she tipped it back into her mouth.

  “One more, Nathan.”

  “Two? But—”

  “I said one more.”

  Victoria drank that as well.

  “Great. Now, Victoria, did you say anything to anyone while you were gone?”

  “Of course not. I did what you asked.”

  “Winter coats?”

  Victoria looked at Nathan, then indicated the hall closet.

  Marcks took hold of Victoria’s arm. “Nathan, go get three wool hats.”

  “How do you know we’ve got three wool hats?”

  Marcks stared him down. “Go get the hats.”

  Nathan’s left eye twitched—but he apparently calmed his anger and did not make trouble. He trudged off and retrieved the articles of clothing.

  Marcks took them and slipped one over Cassie’s head, covering her eyes. He stepped over to Nathan and held out his left hand. “Car keys. What do you drive?”

  “Mercedes.”

  “That’ll do.”

  Nathan hesitated, then pulled them from his pocket and gave them to Marcks, who turned to Victoria.

  “Seems kind of weird for me to say this, but thank you for following the rules, Vicky. Have a seat at the other end of the kitchen table.”

  Marcks secured her just like he had done with Cassie—except that for her, he stuffed a rag in her mouth before sealing her lips with duct tape. He pulled the second hat over her head and, as with Cassie, brought it down to the level of the bridge of her nose.

  “When does your cleaning person come?”

  Nathan recoiled. “How do you—”

  “By now you’ve gotta know I’m not some dumbshit criminal. Somebody with your kind of money doesn’t clean his own toilets and mop the floors. Just answer the question.”

  “Wednesdays. Around noon.”

  Marcks absorbed that, thought a moment. The timing would work. He would be far enough away when the maid would discover her subdued boss. “Give me your cell phone.”

  Nathan fished it out of his jacket pocket, but before Marcks took it, he said, “Call your office and tell them you’ve got a stomach flu and you won’t be in for a few days. Make it convincing.”

  When he finished, Marcks took the mobile from Nathan and switched it off, dropped it to the tile floor and smashed it with his heel. He then did the same to Victoria’s.

  He picked up the last wool hat and duct tape and turned to Nathan. “It’s just you and me. Let’s go.”

  “Go? I thought you were just gonna leave us alone. We did everything you asked!”

  “Calm down, Nathan. I don’t want to have to make you relax. Because I will.”

  “No. I’ve had enough. You want my car? Fine, take it. You want my watch? Take that too. But just leave—”

  Nathan never saw it coming. The first punch struck him in the abdomen and the second fractured his left cheekbone.

  Victoria and Cassie could not see what was happening but they could undoubtedly hear—and their imaginations filled in the rest. While their muffled cries expressed their emotions, they did nothing to reverse Nathan’s fortunes.

  Marcks hoisted Nathan over his shoulder and strode out to the Mercedes, chirped the remote, and was on the road thirty seconds later.

  26

  Vail and Ramos pulled into the Potter Correctional Facility parking lot at 6:00 PM. After securing their firearms they were led to the warden’s office. Jimmy Barfield was sharing a laugh with an officer when Vail and Ramos were led in.

  “Warden,” Vail said with a nod.

  The guard—doing his best to stifle his cackling—vacated the lone guest chair and made his way out of the small room.

  Vail and Ramos remained standing, sending the message that they were there on business.

  “You know,” Barfield said, “when I told you to come on back real soon, I didn’t really mean it. Figure of speech.”

  “Last time I was here, Roscoe Lee Marcks was still under lock and key. I was worried about his daughter, not him breaking out.” Nice work.

  “Well, things change. That’s life, Agent Vail.”

  “Anything we should know about since he escaped?”

  “Been fairly quiet. Any progress in your investigation?”

  “Some things, yes. But we’re not anywhere close to finding Marcks.”

  “Which is why we’re here,” Ramos said.

  “I was wondering about that, Agent Ramos. I really don’t see the need for you to interview my entire staff.”

  “We’re not interviewing your entire staff. Not tonight, at least. But we will. Including you. If fact, I now have an opening in my schedule tomorrow. So how ’bout you put me down for 11:00 AM.”

  I like this guy.

  Barfield ground his jaw. “I can do that.”

  “We’ll hit the other executive staff every thirty minutes after that. Please see that it gets done.”

  Barfield’s eyes narrowed.

  “Meantime,” Vail said, “we’re ready to sit down with Officer Kubiak.”

  “And what’s that about?”

  “That’s between us and Officer Kubiak.”

  “I’m the warden of this institution,” Barfield said. “And—”

  “And that counts for shit when we’re talking about a federal manhunt for a fugitive who’s already killed two people since his escape. Which—in case you hadn’t noticed—happened under your watch.”

  Barfield’s face shaded the color of blood. “Yeah, well, Kubiak’s not available to talk to you.”

  Vail stepped closer to Barfield’s desk. “And why’s that, Warden?”

  “Because I sent him away.”

  “Where, exactly?”

  “That’s for me to worry about.” He stood up and hiked his pants. “Understand something, Agent Vail. I’m the boss here. If there’s something you want to know, you go through me.”

  Vail glanced at Ramos. “That’s not how this is going to work.”

  “Says who?”

  Vail pulled her badge from her belt and slammed it on the table. “The FBI. You have ten seconds to tell us where Lance Kubiak is. Ramos and I don’t have time for ego and testosterone.”

  Barfield sucked his teeth, mulling it over.

  She made a show of checking her watch. “In five seconds we’re going to place you under arrest for obstruction. You’ll lose your job. And that means you won’t get another position with federal law enforcement.”

  Barfield’s face darkened. The vein in his right temple pulsed rhythmically.

  What’s this guy’s role in the escape? His posturing was about to cross the line into self-preservation, where cooperating would be more detrimental than stonewalling them. Vail pulled a set of handcuffs off her belt. “James Barfield, you are—”

  “He’s here,” Barfield said. “He’s down the hall. I’ll go get him.”

  “No,” Ramos said. “Tell us where. You stay here. We’ll go.”

  Following Barfield’s instructions, Vail and Ramos filed into the corridor and hung a left at the end of the institutional-tiled corridor. Three dozen feet later, they turned right and walked into a room where a middle-aged man sat. His face was taut, his eyes glassy and fatigued.

  “Officer Kubiak. I’m Karen Vail, FBI. This is Ray Ramos, HSI.”

  “I had an appointment with Agent Ramos for tomorrow morning. Why do we have to do this tonight?”

  Ramos shrugged. “Because my boss said we have to.”

  “We’re looking into the escape of Roscoe Lee Marcks. Are you familiar with Marcks?”

  “He’s an inmate here.
Of course I know who he is.”

  Vail nodded. “Good, good. Agent Ramos and I serve on the Marshals fugitive task force so we’re trying to track down any leads that may help us apprehend him. His daughter’s been cooperating and we’re real close, but it’d be great if you can help us speed up the process. People are at risk each day he’s in the wild.”

  “How well do you know him?” Ramos asked.

  “He’s not on my block, but I’ve seen him around. I don’t think I’ve said ten words to him.”

  Vail elbowed Ramos. “You got a picture of him?”

  “Don’t have one with me. Officer Kubiak, you know who he is on sight, right? You clear who we’re talking about here?”

  “Oh, yeah, of course.”

  “So where do you think he is? One of the things we try to do with this task force is compile information on who the fugitive might know, places he might go.”

  “No idea. Like I said, I’ve barely said ten words to him in four years.”

  You’re up on exactly how long he’s served at Potter? Someone you barely know?

  “Why are you asking me about that? What about the other COs? We’ve got guards who were on his block, who know more about Marcks than I ever could.”

  “We’ve already spoken with some of them,” Ramos said. “And I’m gonna be talking with others tomorrow morning. We’ll be talking to everyone.”

  “You know the nurse who was with Marcks when he escaped?”

  Kubiak’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah. Nice lady. Always had a smile, good things to say about people here.”

  “So you were surprised that Marcks killed her.”

  “We all were. I mean, why bother? What kind of threat was she to him?”

  “A guy like Marcks doesn’t need a reason to kill,” Vail said. “You’re a correctional officer. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”

  Kubiak made a show of agreeing with her—a bit too overzealously, in her opinion. If she did not already know he was deceiving her, that would have tipped her off that something was not quite right.

  “So you don’t have any information that can help us locate him,” Ramos said. “No one you think he’d contact, hang out with, ask for money, look to for help, that kinda thing.”

  “Wish I could help,” Kubiak said. “But no. I just didn’t know the guy. And since he wasn’t on my block, I have no idea about his personal life, people he may trust or lean on when he’s on the run.”

  “Do us a favor and call us if you think of anything that can help us.” Vail and Ramos handed him their cards.

  “Of course. I want this asshole caught soon as possible. Before he hurts anyone else.”

  Vail gave him a disarming grin. “Thanks so much, Officer Kubiak. We really appreciate your time.”

  THE COLD AIR HIT VAIL’S cheeks when they entered the parking lot, the breeze bringing the wind chill down to well below zero. At least the snow had stopped.

  Although the sodium vapor lights illuminated the area well, the isolation of the prison building gave it an eerie feel, as if it were the only sign of life for miles in all directions. “So we’ve got people listening in?”

  “If he makes a call,” Ramos said, pulling out his car keys, “we’ll know about it.”

  “Clock’s ticking. We should go get a bite to eat, use the restroom while we can.”

  Ramos laughed. “What, are you going all Special Forces on me?”

  “Special Forces?” Vail fought to keep a straight face. “I wouldn’t know anything about that stuff.”

  27

  Vail looked up at the racing flag-style sign, which read “BLUES” in red letters, protruding from a weathered vertical wood plank facing.

  “I think the owners of this restaurant missed an opportunity.”

  Ramos sat forward in his car seat. “What are you talking about?”

  “The sign says Blues and it’s red. Shouldn’t it be … I don’t know, is blue too obvious?”

  “All I care about is the food. Their barbeque pulled pork is awesome.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Vail was staring at Ramos’s plate. “I’m not sure about those fried pickles.”

  “What?” Ramos leaned back and appraised the side dish, tilting his head. “Are you saying they look like a bowl of penises?”

  “Kind of, yeah.”

  “Want to taste one? They’re very good.”

  “I’ll pass. But I will try one of those hush puppies.”

  “Go for it.” Ramos gestured at her meal. “How’s the crab cake?”

  “Very good. Glad I listened to you.”

  “I don’t get to Moorefield, West Virginia, very often. But when I do, I’ve gotta stop at Blues Smoke Pit.”

  She looked past his head at the framed Jackson Browne album cover on the wall. “I have that CD. People think it’s called ‘Saturate Before Using’ because those are the only words on the cover. But that’s just the label of a burlap bag that’s pictured in the photo on the cover. The album’s really only called ‘Jackson Browne.’ It was his first.”

  “Thanks for that bit of trivia,” Ramos said. “I can now die happy.”

  “Not a Jackson Browne fan?”

  “I’d rather talk about Roscoe Lee Marcks.”

  Vail stopped chewing. “Seriously? Hall of Fame rock musician or depraved serial killer and you’d rather talk about the killer? Over dinner?”

  “I’ve got an iron stomach.”

  Vail lifted her brow. “Suit yourself. But if you lose it, lean left or right. Don’t vomit all over me. Deal?”

  “You think I’m some kind of wuss?”

  “I’d never call you a wuss, Rambo. So what do you want to know about Marcks?”

  “What makes him tick? What kind of asshole are we dealing with? If I can get a sense of who this guy is, maybe it’ll help me think like him.”

  Vail pursed her lips and gave a nod. “I agree with your approach. So, I didn’t do the behavioral assessment on Marcks. I inherited the file when I joined the unit. And I was learning, feeling my way. I had a sense of things, but compared to what I know now, well, as in anything, you get better the more you do something. So I’m starting to think I should give his assessment a fresh look.”

  “The profiler who had the case before you did, he wasn’t any good?”

  “Thomas Underwood? Shit yeah. He was one of the founding fathers, he made the BAU what it became. Ressler, Underwood, Douglas, Hazelwood. Those guys were visionaries.”

  “But.”

  “But maybe Underwood was distracted, thinking more about retirement than about his last case. I don’t know. Maybe that’s not fair. None of us are perfect. Maybe he missed something. I’ve got a call into him to ask him some questions.”

  Ramos picked up one of the fried pickles and took a bite. “So what are you seeing now that conflicts with the profile?”

  “Can you not do that while I’m … just put that thing down. Given what I’m about to tell you, it’s in poor taste. So to speak.”

  Ramos looked at the pickle, then dropped it on the plate and sat back. “Done.”

  “I’m working on the theory that Marcks is a homosexual sadomasochist.”

  “Okay. Is that unusual?”

  “Not sure how to answer that. There’ve been a lot of them, relatively speaking. One of the legendary homicide detectives, Vernon Geberth, broke out the most common types of homosexual serial killers into three groups: those who target male homosexuals, those who go after both gay and heterosexual male victims, and those whose victim preference is young males and boys—pedophiles. Homosexual serial murders typically involve sadomasochistic torture and lust murders, as well as child and thrill killings.

  “In one variation or another, you’ve got some of the better known ones. Jeffery Dahmer. John Wayne Gacy, Wayn
e Williams. William Bonin. And two really sick bastards—as if the others weren’t depraved enough—Robert Berdella and Larry Eyler. If we look at common features across a broad spectrum of homosexual serial killers, we see role-playing, domination and control, humiliation, sadistic sexual acts. They often commit lust murders, where the offender focuses his attention on the sexualized areas of the body, like cutting or excising the genital areas.”

  “Like a penis or vulva?”

  Vail glanced down at the plate of pickles. “Yeah. And nipples, rectum, throat, or breasts. Evisceration is also common.”

  Ramos bit his top lip. “Okay.”

  “So Marcks exhibited some of this, as you know. But other key characteristics weren’t present. He didn’t engage in overt domination and control role playing—as far as we know. But another common feature, keeping a trophy of the killings, he did do. It’s the one thing that tied together a lot of the murders after he was arrested, at least circumstantially. Some, but not all, of the vics were represented in this trophy stash. He kept them stored behind a false wall in his bedroom closet.”

  “Them? What kind of trophies?”

  “The excised sexual organs.”

  Ramos contorted his face as if he had bitten into a lemon rind. He reached for his glass of water and took a long drink.

  “Wanna hear more?”

  Before he could answer, his phone rang. He snatched it up, no doubt to prevent Vail from continuing. “Rambo.” He listened, his eyes darting left and right. “You sure?” He waited a second, then said, “Got it. Thanks.”

  “Kubiak?”

  “Yeah. Made a call two minutes ago to—are you ready?—a guy named Booker Gaines. He’s on our list.”

  “Haven’t been able to find him.”

  “Kubiak obviously knows how to reach him. He told Gaines to get word to Marcks that he’s in trouble, that the feds think they’re closing in on him. And that his daughter’s been cooperating with them.”

  “You said you were with West Virginia State Police, right?”

  “Before HSI, yeah. Why?” He slapped the table. “You want to know if I still have any buddies on the force.”