Fatal Twist
A Short Story Featuring FBI Profiler Karen Vail
Alan Jacobson
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Copyright Page
Washington Circle
Foggy Bottom/West End Neighborhoods
Washington, DC
January 19
FBI Profiler Karen Vail stood on the grass several feet from a stone and bronze statue of George Washington, rain beating down on her slicker, wind slapping at her cheeks. And the twisted body of a young woman ten feet away.
Detective Paul Bledsoe, hands on hips, shook his head. “Whaddya think. This our guy?”
“Yeah.” Vail pointed her flashlight and ran it slowly over the body. “He’s escalating.”
Bledsoe took the gum out of his mouth and chucked it as far as he could, into the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue. “Just like you said he would.”
They had been working the Park Rapist case, on and off, for two years. The offender had now struck three times in the past six weeks. None of the victims had been brutalized as badly as this one. None of them had been killed.
“Wasn’t a tough call. I’ve seen this before.” Too many times. Vail glanced around. “This is considered a park, right? Where’s Park Police?”
“On their way. Metro responded because the crime scene stretches across the street—”
“And across the street’s Metro PD, not Park Police jurisdiction.” Vail shook her head. “Really? So Metro sent a dick for a couple dozen feet of crime scene?”
“Gotta love government bureaucracy,” Bledsoe said with a chuckle. “Seriously, though. Rules gotta be followed.”
Vail crunched her brow. “Last I checked, this is DC. Politicians and lobbyists. Who the hell here follows rules?”
“Whatever. The detective—Hurley—he’s over there,” Bledsoe said, pointing somewhere in the darkness. “You want to tell him to take a hike, be my guest. Not worth ruffling feathers.”
“May not come as a surprise to you, but I don’t have a problem ruffling feathers.” Vail squinted into the distance. “Where is he? Can’t see shit in this weather.”
Bledsoe put his hands to his mouth and yelled out Hurley’s name. Vail saw movement nearly a block away and a body with an umbrella turned, then began bobbing toward them. She pivoted back toward the young woman’s body. “Who’s our vic?”
“Valerie Trevelle,” Bledsoe said. “Twenty-one. Just graduated from Georgetown.”
“Witnesses?”
“Homeless guy asleep on a bench, other end of the park. Drunk, not really oriented to his surroundings. Saw a guy wearing a ski mask leaving the park around midnight. Don’t know how much weight we can put in that, but—”
“We never told the press the Park Rapist wears a ski mask.”
“Exactly.”
Vail moved further under the tarp serving as a makeshift tent to cover Trevelle’s body. “Man. He really beat this one. Looks like he used her face as a punching bag. Question is, why?”
“Overkill. It’s personal. He knows her.”
Vail shook her head slowly. “I don’t think so. Can’t rule it out, but we’re finding that the overkill theory is, well, overdone. Excessive violence isn’t always because of a personal connection between victim and offender. Some psychopaths enjoy inflicting injury. Nothing to do with how he feels toward her. They can sometimes experience momentary rage, but fact is, they don't feel much of anything, except a rush over what he’s doing.”
Bledsoe pointed toward the head. “Dress pulled up over the face. Depersonalization.”
Vail banded both arms across her chest. “Just curious. If you have all the answers, what do you need me for? I mean, really. Did you call me out here for a reason?”
Bledsoe looked at her, then gestured toward the body. “What the hell do you think?”
“Then let me just do my job.” Vail sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Sorry. I just…hate this. Another young woman.” She swiped the rain from her cheeks, took a breath, and forced herself to view the scene objectively. Like I’m supposed to do.
A moment later, she said, “We can’t draw any conclusions just yet. It’s windy. She’s wearing a long dress. Could’ve blown up across her body. Can’t say it’s an attempt by the offender to depersonalize her. It’s only covering half her face. It’s not a controlled, indoor environment. Aside from a blizzard or a desert, these are the worst conditions to have to process a body and evaluate behaviors. If I had to guess, it doesn’t look deliberate.”
“You sure?”
“No, I’m not sure. That’s why I called it a guess.” Vail glanced around the darkness, at the techs moving around in the circle of halogen lights, collecting what they could of the muddy, wet crime scene…and at the onlookers standing along the periphery, at the yellow police tape.
She cleared her mind, then turned back to Trevelle. “If the dress was down when she was knocked or pushed to the ground, it would’ve been caught underneath her.”
“So the wind couldn’t have blown it up.” Bledsoe nodded. “Good point.”
And when offenders push up the dress or shirt, it’s usually to allow access to the breasts or vagina.
“Bra looks like it’s sliced in half at the front. I take back what I said about the wind. You were right, this was deliberate.” She moved in closer, leaned over Trevelle’s torso. She cricked her neck and saw something along the edge of the left breast. “Bite mark. Have the techs take some one-to-one photographs and cast it with dental resin. I want to send that to Skip.” She pushed off her knees and stood up.
“Biting the breast. That’s new.”
Vail gestured at the woman’s face. “Looks like she’s got socks stuffed in her mouth, like the others.” Without turning, she said, “He could be watching. We got a videographer here?”
Bledsoe turned and whistled at someone. “Ted! A minute.”
A thin young man toting plastic-wrapped camera equipment slopped through the puddles and ducked underneath the tent.
“Get us some footage of the crowd,” Bledsoe said, “in case the bastard’s hanging around. Be discrete.” Ted hustled off, back into the rain.
Vail knelt down again and inched closer to the body. “What the hell is that?”
Bledsoe leaned in. “What’s what?”
“Find something?” came a voice from behind them.
Vail swiveled on her heels and looked up at the silhouette of a raincoated man holding an umbrella. “Vail. BAU. You Hurley?”
“Since 1961.” He wiggled a finger toward the victim. “What’re you doing?”
“Her left hand,” Vail said, swinging back to the body and shining her light on the appendage. “Fisted closed. Even in death. As if she was clutching something for dear life.” Vail extended her free hand back toward the detectives. “Either of you got gloves?”
Bledsoe handed them over and Vail carefully pried apart Trevelle’s fist. Holy shit—this could be good. “And that’d be a yes. Definitely found something.”
Hurley waved a technician over and seconds later he was handing Vail a plastic evidence bag. As she placed the object inside, Hurley asked, “That a necklace?”
“No,” Vail said, holding their booty in her hand and shining the light on it.
“No?” Bledsoe moved the bag to reduce the reflection. “Sure as hell looks like a necklace.”
“This,” Vail said, “is the break we’ve been waiting for.”
3040 M Street NW
Washington, DC
February 16
HER WRISTS AND ANKLES WERE BOUND to the bedposts, fingers and toes white from
lack of circulation. The ski-masked man sliced away her panties with his knife, along the seam, taking care not to cut the material. He moved deliberately, severing one stitch at a time, not only to extend the moment, but to prolong his victim’s terror…which fed his excitement.
Relishing how the silence unnerved her, he had not uttered a word since forcing his way into her apartment. Into her apartment. It was the first time he had done it this way—plying his trade in parks had gotten boring, yes, but more important was that after he had killed that woman a few weeks ago, the police had stepped up their presence at the outdoor venues across the nation’s capital and adjacent Virginia. Simply to increase his chances of success, a break with tradition seemed to be a prudent course of action.
And that meant shifting his thinking to something he had never done before: operating inside an apartment building. Potentially more witnesses on the way in—but once his hand clamped over the woman’s mouth and that front door closed, he could take his time because there would be no one to stop him. Certainly not his victim. He’d already scouted the place, so he knew she lived alone. And she had no dogs to worry about.
He had rolled up the ski mask to his hairline so as not to attract attention to himself—it was chilly outside, but not cold enough to warrant covering his face. Once the door opened, however, he yanked it down. It was dispiriting to only be able to see your attacker’s eyes. The unknown was terrifying—and that fed the power he craved. What had initially been a means of protecting his identity in public parks had morphed into something much more exciting to him, eliciting fear on the part of his victim.
Now, kneeling on the bed astride the woman, his exhilaration got the best of him. He could not slow his respiration and he was on the verge of hyperventilating. He turned away, took a few calming breaths, and a long moment later, despite a heart still thumping forcefully against his chest wall, he was ready to proceed.
The woman cried out—as best she could with socks stuffed in her mouth so far her jaw joints were close to dislocating. He smiled, knowing that it elicited a migraine-intense pain, no doubt unlike anything she had ever experienced.
But as it turned out, it was nothing compared to what he was about to do to her.
HOMICIDE DETECTIVE Cameron Diemond, secluded in a narrow alley safely out of view of passersby, keyed his two-way. “Eyes on Eleventh and the apartment building across the street. Nothing.”
“Roger,” replied his partner, rookie detective Raymond Croft. “Same here. We’re running low on time, Vulture. We need to wrap this up.”
The twenty-three-year veteran ground his molars. Thanks for stating the obvious. He surveyed the street, then made his third pass among the shops. The shooter was extremely well hidden or he wasn’t here. Diemond thought of doubling back and rechecking the building roofs, but they were hemorrhaging minutes.
“I’m calling it,” Diemond said. “Rendezvous at the next stop.”
Diemond jogged back toward his car, furiously squeezing the rubber ball in his overcoat pocket. If they didn’t apprehend LeRoy Washington—and soon—Diemond was going to find himself in an extremely tough spot.
FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit
Aquia, Virginia
KAREN VAIL POINTED TOWARD THE CONFERENCE room screen, at a crime scene photo of a workout facility dominated by a blood-soaked body.
It was Wednesday morning, and that meant it was time for the profiling unit to present cases to one another, to brainstorm and ensure they were on the right track, and that they had advised the investigating law enforcement agencies properly.
“This is that case from a few months back,” Vail said. “The pro football player, Rayshawn Shines. Not your typical vic. A large male, six-five, three-hundred pounds.”
“A very large male,” Art Rooney, another profiler, said.
“And that,” Vail said, “means that the offender we’re looking for—” The door opened, bathing the screen—and Vail—in bright hallway light.
“Agent Vail,” said Lenka, the unit secretary, “sorry to interrupt. I’ve got an urgent message.” She handed Vail a slip of paper.
Vail held it up to the projector light to read it. A splash of adrenaline set her heart galloping. “The Park Rapist.” She looked up at the roomful of agents. “We’ve got the name of the owner of that necklace.” And that means I’m very likely looking at the name of our offender…
VAIL MET BLEDSOE AT the DC Metro Police special operations division at Twenty-third and L Streets. They left Bledsoe’s car in the parking lot amongst the dozens of cruisers, and took Vail’s Ford. Twelve minutes later they were standing at the last known address for Charles Henry Reed, the man forensics had identified as being the suspected Park Rapist—now Park Murderer. A partial print on the gold necklace’s smooth back side scored a hit with reasonable certainty for Reed.
After standing at the front door of the small, run-down colonial house in the Northeast area of the district and waiting a long minute, Bledsoe turned toward Vail. “Not here.”
“Or he made us as cops and he’s not answering.”
“Let’s get a look around the perimeter, give his phone a call.”
After getting voicemail and seeing nothing untoward on the grounds that would give them cause to forcefully enter, Vail leaned against a tree within view of Reed’s home.
“Work address just came through,” Bledsoe said, staring at his phone.
Vail pushed off the trunk and said, “How far?”
“Minutes.”
LEROY WASHINGTON WATCHED the black Hummer limo pull to the curb in front of Sarducci’s. The chauffeur circled around to the rear curbside door and opened it.
Washington’s heart leapt in his chest—there was his target, exposed and in the open. If Washington had been a professional assassin, he’d have confirmed this limo belonged to the dapper twenty-five year-old, Milo Stoneham. He’d have been set up well in advance, his sniper’s nest properly laid out and ghillie suit in place.
LeRoy Washington was a trained sniper, military grade, and knew how to kill people on the battlefield. He’d taken out terrorists, rogue heads of state, and other undesirable characters intent on wreaking havoc on the global community. But operating solo, on domestic soil, he was out of his element. The planning and logistics had always been handled for him. All he had to do was bring the tools, make his calculations, and shoot.
But Milo Stoneham needed to die and Washington would do whatever was necessary to make that happen. He’d be a fool, however, not to acknowledge he was a minnow swimming near a pool of sharks.
Except this minnow had a high-powered rifle—and the skillset to use it.
Washington lowered his scope as Stoneham disappeared into Sarducci’s. One thing he did bother to evaluate was his target’s habits—the man always used the same table in this restaurant, and with the proper equipment and conditions, Washington could make the shot. All he had to do was be patient. And then…execute.
DIEMOND SCREECHED THROUGH THE streets of DC, skidding on rain-slick pavement, cutting corners short, then pulling to a hard stop at the curb beside Raymond Croft’s midnight blue Crown Victoria. The tip they had gotten told them the hit was going down today—in an hour, in fact—but the details were scant, and basic police work coupled with some leaps of logic led them to three potential locations. They’d been to the others—strikes one and two—and were at risk of whiffing. Unless their informant had thrown them a curveball, and unless they’d made an error in scouting the prior two locations, this had to be it.
Diemond met Croft by the Ford’s rear bumper and unfolded a color-coded MapQuest printout across the trunk. “This is our last shot. If we’re wrong and Stoneham dies, we’re in the shit.”
“You sure we can do this alone? We should call for backup—”
Diemond gave Croft a look that could blunt a knife blade. “Raymond. We’ve been through this.”
“I’m just saying. Think it through for a second. If it doesn’t go well—”<
br />
“I know the risks. And I know what I’m doing. Now,” he said, pointing a thick finger at the map, “if I’m him, there are only three places he can hole up to pull this off. Here, at A, here, at B, and here, at C.” He looked over at Croft and got a nod in reply.
“Okay then. You take A and I’ll take C. From C’s vantage point, I can get a decent eyeball of B.” He looked into his partner’s face, assessing and measuring his confidence that Croft was on board. “Okay then. If something’s really going down, it’s gonna happen at two. That gives us eleven minutes.”
They broke their huddle and split in opposite directions, huffing it through the cold, damp air into position, working to keep their movements natural and unhurried—not an easy thing to do when you’re tracking a perp who’s about to pull the trigger on his target.
With time running tight, Diemond had to take more risks than normal. In unusual assignments like this, sometimes things came together quickly. And other times you just had to force the parts and hope they fit together without breaking.
Diemond turned onto a broad avenue. On the west side, a ritzy Italian restaurant anchored the limestone-faced apartment building above it, and sported a three-foot brushed silver sign that read, 1000 G Street. A seven-story, steel-and-glass office building sat across the street.
The first storefront Diemond came upon was an upscale men’s clothier. He strode to the front desk and badged the woman, then pulled out a snapshot of LeRoy Washington and nearly shoved it in her face. “This man. Seen him around?”
She leaned back to examine the photo. “The manager may have.” She indicated a salt-and-pepper-haired man in a charcoal suit. “Nelson?”
Nelson excused himself from a well-heeled customer, who looked less than pleased at the interruption, and examined the photo. “He was out front the other day. We thought he was homeless. I asked him to move on. Our customers are a bit…sensitive about that sort of thing around here.”
“Seen him lately?”
Nelson’s face crumpled and he nodded his head like a chicken. “You know, I think I saw him about an hour ago. He was walking by the store, and I thought, here we go again. But he kept going, so—”
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