Stevie Ray Vaughn may be famous, but Stephen Raye Vaughn…he was infamous.
Vaughn glanced over at the sterile black and white clock across the way and wondered: Was that enough?
With so little time left to live, it would have to be.
THREE HOURS EARLIER
Debra Mead gathered her reusable grocery sack against her chest and trudged toward her Subaru. Taylor, her twelve-year-old son, sat waiting in the car playing a game on his iPad, not wanting to be seen with his mother shopping for groceries.
As she walked through an aisle of vehicles in the parking lot, a van door slowly opened. She heard it, rather than saw it, the sliding scrape of metal rolling on its track. As she turned her head in the direction of her car, something grabbed her shoulders and yanked her backwards. She felt her body falling through space, but before she knew what was happening, her head struck something hard and everything went black.
Debra awoke slowly, at first only vaguely aware that something was wrong. She was lying on her side, rocking to and fro as the vehicle she was in moved down the bumpy road.
With her vision and foggy thoughts clearing, she realized that her arms were drawn back behind her and her wrists were bound tightly with tape.
She tried to speak but a dry wad of cloth was shoved into the back of her jaw and a muffler was wrapped around her lips.
Debra forced some words from the deeper reaches of her throat. She meant to say, “Why are you doing this to me?”
It probably came out sounding more like a groan or even a poor attempt to hum a tune.
But the man turned around and glanced over his right shoulder. His right eye sat at half-mast and the brow was missing its hair, replaced by a thick pink scar. It gave his face an evil, tortured look.
“Everything’s gonna be fine.”
“Fine?” she tried to say, the disbelief no doubt registering in her furrowed expression.
“I just need your help with a few things. Then I’ll drive you back home. You’ll be on your way and I’ll be on mine.”
Debra looked in his expressionless eyes and knew she was in trouble. She did not think she was going to make it out alive.
Her thoughts turned to Taylor. His father had passed two years ago from a freak brain aneurysm. Now the boy was on the verge of losing his mother, too.
No, she told herself. I can’t let that happen. Somehow, I have to find a way out of this.
FAIRFAX COUNTY POLICE DEPARTMENT
FAIRFAX, VIRGINIA
Stalwart homicide detective Paul Bledsoe had just finished a call with the medical examiner when he noticed a shadow engulf his desk. He looked up to see James Kearney, about six foot five with an afro that was picked and puffed out, making him appear even taller. At five-eight, Bledsoe always felt like he was talking to Kearney’s collarbone.
“Sir, a question.”
“James, call me Paul. I know you’re a brand spanking new detective, but we’re colleagues.”
“Yes, sir. Paul.”
“Let me see your badge.”
“My—”
“Just let me see it.”
Kearney dug into his deep pants pocket and held up the metal.
“Whoa, buddy. That’s too friggin’ bright. You need to tarnish it a bit. People’ll think you just got it.”
“I did just get it.”
“You and I know that, but better if others don’t.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Yes, James. I’m joking. What’d you want?”
“Caught this case. Not sure what to make of it. I mean—I know what to make of it, but I think it sounds like a case Detective Argus handled.”
“And?”
“He’s retired, so I can’t ask him.”
“Okay, let’s hear it.”
“Well, we got a 911 call that a woman went missing. It’s only been a few hours, but the lieutenant said I should look into it instead of waiting the forty-eight hours.”
“I don’t deal with missing persons cases, so if that’s what the lew wants—”
“No, I mean I don’t think it’s just a missing persons case.”
“Argus didn’t work missing persons either. So you’re thinking this is a homicide? That the woman has been murdered?”
“Yeah.”
“Anything to back that up?”
“Nothing except, well, a feeling.”
Bledsoe nodded slowly. “Sometimes that’s all we’ve got.” Bledsoe’s neck was killing him from craning it back so far to see Kearney’s face. He gestured to the chair at the adjacent desk. “Grab that seat. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“So if I remember Argus’s case, it was that serial killer, Stephen Raye Vaughn.”
Bledsoe nodded. “I know a fair amount about that one.”
“I was told you were friends with Detective Argus.”
“Still am. But yeah, we tossed shit out about our cases all the time. Ran stuff off each other. Theories, that kind of thing. Like we’re doing now.”
Kearney scratched the back of his head. “So I’m thinking, what if this missing persons case is really a Vaughn case?”
“Vaughn is in a max security facility. Death Row. Ain’t him.”
“No, no. I realize it’s not him, but—”
“Let’s take a step back. Is there any proof at all that a murder’s been committed?”
“No. It’s just—”
“A feeling. Right. Okay, go on.” Bledsoe normally would have blown the guy off, told him he’s wishing too hard for a big case to cut his teeth on, that this is probably just a garden variety missing persons case—and the woman will show up in a couple of days. But he did not want to shake the new detective’s confidence.
He was not going to give him a free ride, either.
“Yeah, so the woman left her kid in their car and went to get some groceries at the SmartLots center in Bethesda.”
“SmartLots. That’s where Vaughn shopped for his vics. Uh—no pun intended.”
“Happened around the same time of day as Vaughn abducted his vics, too.”
Bledsoe squinted in thought. “Go on.”
“Woman was around the same age. I mean she’s brunette and most of Vaughn’s were blonde, but let’s put that aside for a moment.”
“Consider it on the side.”
Kearney hesitated, then realized Bledsoe was making a joke. “Right,” he said with a quick nod. “Okay, so that’s a lot of coincidence.”
Bledsoe waited, but Kearney sat there, then shrugged. “That’s it? Same age woman, goes missing from the same kind of parking lot—”
“No, the same SmartLots center that Vaughn got his second victim.”
“Same one?”
“Yes, sir. Paul.”
Bledsoe pursed his lips and bobbed his head left and right. “Could mean nothing. I already told you, can’t be Vaughn.”
“What if it’s a copycat?”
Bledsoe leaned forward in his creaky desk chair. “Can’t rule it out—except we don’t even know if anyone’s abducted her. She just went missing. Right?”
“Yeah, but…her kid was left in the car. Alone.”
“How old’s the kid?”
“Twelve.”
“Did they have a good relationship?”
“Just starting to work up the case, but according to Taylor, yeah. He said they were starting to argue a little more the last few months. But she’s a good mom. He’s a good student. Doesn’t do drugs. Not a problem kid.”
“So it doesn’t make sense she’d just disappear on him. Willingly.”
“My point.”
“What about other stresses in her life? Husband?”
“Deceased. Some kind of medical issue. Died suddenly. Unexpectedly.”
“Suspicious?”
“No, nothing like that. Something with his brain.”
“The mom. On medication? Psychiatric issues?”
“She’s young. Thirty-seven. Healthy. There’s no reason for
her to walk off on her own and disappear.”
“That you know of.”
“Right. So far. It’s just that, in Vaughn’s case, he didn’t keep the women around very long before killing them.”
Bledsoe grunted. “Less than 24 hours.”
“Which is why I don’t want to wait.”
“You know how to work a homicide case?” Bledsoe held out a hand, stopping Kearney’s mouth half-opened. “That was rhetorical. Tell you what, let me talk with the lew, see if he’ll let me spend a few days on it with you, see where it takes us.”
“I’d like that.”
“Caught yourself a good first case, James.”
“Guess so.” He clapped his hands on his knees. “So now what?”
“You’re gonna try to get hold of all security footage in the area of that SmartLots parking lot. I’m gonna call someone who knows more about the Vaughn case than I do.”
“Detective Argus?”
“Nope. He’s on vacation in Greece. The FBI profiler who consulted on the case with him.”
Karen Vail was staring out the passenger window, thinking about Stephen Raye Vaughn, when her phone rang. Since she and her fiancé, Roberto Umberto Enrique Hernandez, were driving in her car, the Bluetooth speaker automatically took the call.
“Bledsoe. What’s up?”
“Missed your voice.”
“Oh yeah? You’re on speaker. Robby’s driving.”
“Hey big guy. How’s DEA treating you?”
“Treating me great. It’s the cartels I seem to have problems with.”
Bledsoe chuckled. “How’s your knee, Karen?”
“Healing. Itches. Pain’s almost gone, except when I run.”
“This soon after surgery? You’re allowed to run?”
“Of course not.”
“I guess I missed more than your voice. You crack me up.”
“She cracks herself up, too,” Robby said. “She’s a terrible patient, you know that.”
Bledsoe laughed. “Terrible profiler, terrible patient. Nothing surprises me.”
Vail frowned. “You realize I’m still on the call?”
“I do.”
“It was minor arthroscopic surgery to clean things up from my last operation. Scar tissue, some frayed cartilage. I’ll be fine.”
“Good. ’Cause I got a case here. Not mine, exactly. I’m helping out on it for a few days. Rookie detective caught the case. He’s convinced his missing woman is the victim of an abduction, possibly a copycat.”
“Who’s he copying?”
“Stephen Raye Vaughn.”
“No shit.”
“Well, too soon to say. I mean, really too soon.” Bledsoe briefed her on Kearney’s theory.
“And yet,” Vail said, “you called me.”
“I didn’t want to shut him down. Kearney’s got promise and—well, you and I have had ‘feelings’ about things in the past. Sometimes they turn out to be right.”
“One thing that’s not right is we’re now finding that ‘copycat’ is a misleading term. They’re not copying per se but looking to successful killers for inspiration and guidance. Some serials—Dennis Rader was one—research other killers who’ve been caught. They don’t duplicate everything because they don’t want to go to prison. So they pattern themselves after a particular killer—but modify certain things to avoid the same fate.”
“Improve on the crime?”
“Yes—and making it their own to stand out. Some admit they were inspired by others. Some deny it, even though it’s clear they chose a specific offender as a role model. Keyes read true crime books about Bundy and avoided the mistakes Bundy made that led to his capture.”
“Okay, so Debra Mead’s kidnapper. He may be patterning himself after Vaughn. We should crack open his file in case there’re some details we don’t remember. Go through the media reports. Talk to Vaughn. Before he bites the dust.”
“He’s being executed in less than two hours.”
“You kidding me? I knew it was soon, like sometime in the next month or so, but…shit. Two hours?”
“I’m on my way over there right now with Robby to witness it. I’ll see if I can get in to talk with him.”
Bledsoe groaned. “Jesus Christ.”
“Hey, at least there’s a shot. He hasn’t been euthanized yet.”
“Euthanized?”
“He’s being put out of our misery.”
There was silence.
Robby gave Vail a scrunched face look—conveying something like, “Probably don’t want to repeat that again. Ever. To anyone.”
“Uh, Karen?” Bledsoe asked. “You sure you’re up to questioning him? I mean, you’re not still on narcotics, are you?”
“Never was. Motrin first day, then gutted it out. Go do your thing. Don’t worry about me.”
“I always worry about you.”
“You mean you always worry about me screwing up your case.”
Bledsoe laughed—as did Robby—but neither refuted her assertion.
“You want me to find out if he has any connection to a potential copycat killer,” Vail finally said. “Whether or not he was grooming someone else.”
“Exactly.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Let’s hope you can make him talk before he fries like an egg on an iron skillet.”
“He’s being lethally injected,” Vail said, “not electrocuted. I thought we just covered that. Get your metaphors straight, will ya?”
“He does paint a picture,” Robby said.
“That he does.” She scrunched her nose. “I don’t think I’m going to eat a fried egg ever again. Thanks so much, Bledsoe.”
“Any time.”
“So while we cozy up to Vaughn,” Robby said, “what are you doing tonight?”
Bledsoe snorted. “I’m grabbing a beer, frying up an egg, then getting some sleep.”
Vail rolled her eyes and shook her head dismissively. Robby chuckled.
“Hey Paul,” Robby said, “you want to meet us at Phelps Correctional?”
“Nope.”
Vail slumped in her seat. “Really?”
“Really. I’m tired. It’s late.”
“What if I can get something out of Vaughn? He didn’t keep his vics around very long.”
“I remember.”
“So if we get some actionable intel, it would be a time saver if you’re there, coordinate—”
“Shit, Karen. Robby, she did it to me again.”
Robby glanced at Vail. “Did what?”
“Guilted me into changing my mind. Not easy to do.”
“Maybe because she’s right,” Robby said.
“You both suck,” Bledsoe said. “I’ll text Robby when I get there, in case you’re in with Vaughn. Meantime, I’ve gotta see if there’s a chopper that can take me over to Phelps.”
After hanging up, Vail turned to Robby. “You better step on it. If I’m going to talk with him, we’re gonna need more time.”
Robby accelerated slowly but steadily. Because it was so late, traffic was light.
“Crap,” Vail said. “I forgot the popcorn.”
“Popcorn?”
“For the show.”
“Not funny.”
“To be clear, I do take the death penalty very seriously. But when it comes to scum like Vaughn—who’s guilty way beyond a reasonable doubt—I feel like justice is being served. That we got this one right. We caught him and he’s not out killing others.”
“I’ll never forget the look of profound sadness and pain on the faces of the victims’ families.”
“The ones with the deer-in-headlights look get to me more,” Vail said. “They know what’s going to happen but they can’t process the emotions. Should they be happy that the scum who took their loved one from them is finally going to get what he deserves? Or should they feel sad that we’re forced to take the life of a person to exact justice?”
“No matter what happens, their loved ones aren�
��t coming back.”
“But it does help them sleep a bit easier knowing there was a tangible price to pay. Not closure per se, because I don’t think there’s really ever closure, but the daily pain of knowing the killer is still alive and breathing, getting three meals a day, that pain eases and eventually goes away. It restores some degree of faith in humanity, that you pay a heavy price for taking a life.”
“I get it,” Robby said. “But do you enjoy seeing one of these heinous individuals put to death?”
Vail chewed on that a bit.
Do I enjoy it?
“Before I answer, I should call Phelps, see if I can get the warden to squeeze me in.”
“Don’t get your hopes up.”
“Especially since Doheny hates my guts.”
Robby laughed. “Then maybe I should slow down to the speed limit. Fat chance you’re gonna get in to see Vaughn.”
“You’re my fiancé and you don’t know me by now?”
“What do you mean?”
“Never count me out.”
Five minutes later, Vail hung up.
“I’m impressed,” Robby said.
“Because I got him to agree to let me talk with Vaughn?”
“No, because you were pleasant and conciliatory and tactful.”
“Ouch. That hurts. My own fiancé thinks I’m usually unpleasant, antagonistic, and indiscreet.”
“Well,” Robby said, no doubt realizing he had better choose his words carefully. “Not usually.”
Vail shook her head. “Wrong answer.”
“So to get back to my original question…”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“No, I’m going back to the original subject.”
“Which was?”
“Do you enjoy seeing a serial killer executed?”
Vail leaned her head against the chilled passenger window. “Not sure I’d say enjoy. I’m not a masochist. But I do get satisfaction in seeing one die. I feel…well, relief, when they pronounce him dead. I mean, I know how these guys are wired. They can’t be rehabilitated. We can’t ever release them and expect they’re going to refrain from committing murder again. They’ll never be a contributing member to society.
“So yeah, when their hearts stop, I feel like I’ve made a difference in helping get them off the street—and ridding the human race of such deep evil, of cleansing the gene pool of that abhorrent—and aberrant—behavior. And that’s how I’ll feel when Vaughn’s heart stops.”
Nothing Good Happens After Midnight: A Suspense Magazine Anthology Page 2