Karen Vail 01 - Velocity (23 page)

But the woman couldn’t be absolutely sure it was the same room, and she thought it was on the other side of the bed—but whichever room it involved was cleaned with some sort of organic enzyme. They had thought of hiring a company that did crime scene cleanup, but it was costly and the chemical worked wel enough that they did not need to replace the carpet. And the spouse, who had found her, did not want a police report filed, so the owner agreed to keep it quiet—

which certainly was in the B&B’s best interest, as wel .

Vail replied, thanking Dixon and tel ing her she’d met with DeSantos and had no sense of whether or not it was going to bear fruit. As she hit Send, there was a knock on her open door. She swiveled her chair around and saw the stoic Art Rooney. She smiled and leaped from her chair, almost running toward him. She gave him a firm hug and told him she was glad to see him.

“Yeah, I got that from the greeting. Good to see you, too. Back home in one piece. Sometimes I’m concerned about you, Karen.”

“If I had any sense, I’d be concerned, too.”

“Got a minute?” he asked.

“For you? Always.” She took her seat behind the desk and Rooney took the lone guest chair.

“I wanted to touch base with you on the Crush Kil er. Gifford said you guys found him?”

Vail leaned back. “Yeah, he won’t be plying his trade anymore. Ray Lugo shot him while I was questioning him, and he’s now in a medical y induced coma.”

“What the hel was Lugo’s problem?”

Vail told him. She described her interview with Mayfield, the shooting, meeting with Merilynn Lugo, the DVD, the Guevara connection and her less than legal foray into his residence, the discovery of the new victim, and the apprehension of James Cannon. And then she told him about Robby.

Rooney sat back in his seat and crossed his legs. His gaze roamed the smal office as he worked through the particulars of the case. “So we’re settled that Mayfield was a narcissist. And it sounds like Cannon was, to some extent, too—but his is an entirely different story. He was just learning to kil . Mayfield was his mentor. However it happened, they crossed paths and realized they had common inclinations. Mayfield took him under his wing and Cannon fol owed along, observing, learning. Then it was his turn to try his hand at the trade.”

“That’s probably why we caught him so quickly,” Vail said. “He wasn’t sophisticated as a kil er. He rushed into it, had not planned his cover. He kil ed in the same community in which he lived—and not so anonymously. Even after crossing paths with a cop and an FBI agent, and making a pass at one of them, he stil thought it was safe to kil .”

“Remember, these kil ers don’t think they’re leaving behind markers for us to fol ow. We pick up on things they aren’t even aware of.”

“Yeah, thank god for al that. Makes our job possible.”

“So that brings us to Detective Hernandez.” His eyes roamed the room again.

“There would normal y be no logical reason to conclude there was a relationship of any kind to John Mayfield or James Cannon. Far as we know, they hadn’t seen you with him. There’d be no reason why he’d have contact with either of them, no clear connection. So on the surface, I’d say you don’t have to worry about Mayfield’s comment about there ‘being more to this than you know’—at least as it relates to Detective Hernandez. Maybe he was talking about Cannon’s coming murders.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” She tapped her foot while she processed it.

Rooney pushed his chair back and rocked on the rear legs. “That brings us to the next question: what happened to him? Let’s approach this as a typical missing persons case. A ton of people go missing each year. The possibilities include someone who disappears because of a criminal act he’s committed and he drops under the radar. Another is because he’s witnessed a criminal act and is afraid for his life. Or the most common, he’s having an affair or escaping a failed relationship, and this is a less confrontational way out for him.” He let the chair fal forward with a thump, then rested his forearms on his knees. “How are you handling it?”

“I haven’t total y lost it. But I’ve come close.”

Rooney nodded slowly. “If it was me, Karen, until I saw a dead body, I’d treat it as if he’s alive; I’d need that in order to function.”

“I now know what a victim goes through when her child is taken, presumed dead .

. . but the body isn’t found.”

“Contrary to media myths, finding a body doesn’t bring closure. It helps a little, I guess, but the pain never goes away.” He waved at the air, as if dispersing smoke.

“That’s not what we’re dealing with here. We’l find answers—and we’l find Detective Hernandez.”

“Thanks, Art.”

“I’ve got this thing the president needs me to deal with. Looks like I’m shipping off to Iraq in the morning, but I’l be in touch. You need something, cal . If I go, I’l have a phone of some sort. Gifford wil have the number.”

“What number wil I have?”

Gifford was standing in the doorway, a stealth entrance—as was his style.

“My winning lottery ticket,” Vail said.

Gifford stared at her. “It’s so nice having you back, Karen. I missed the sarcasm and dry humor. Then again, I’ve missed my hemorrhoids, too, so that puts you in the same class. Now—we had a 9:00 AM appointment, did we not?”

Rooney rose from his chair. “César Guevara. He could be the key. I’l give Austin Mann a cal , touch base.” He gave Vail a wink, then walked out. “You hang in there, you hear?”

“Loud and clear,” Vail said.
But that’s one of those things easier said than done.

38

T
homas Gifford led the way to his office. Lenka, seated behind her desk, nodded to Vail as she passed.

Gifford sunk into his black leather chair, which sat in front of a large picture window on the building’s second floor. He rol ed the seat to the edge of his desk, grabbed a pair of metal-framed reading glasses, and stuck them on his nose. “This is your new case.” He reached for a file folder, then flipped it open. “Vic is a twenty-eight-year-old player for the PFL, the Pro Footbal League. It’s a start-up positioned to compete with the NFL. Vic’s name was Rayshawn Shines. Played for the Redskins for five years before being cut and hooking up with the PFL.” He stopped and removed his glasses. “Karen, you listening to me?”

Vail had to shake her head to dislodge the fugue into which she’d descended once Gifford began talking. “Yeah, of course. No. I’m—my mind’s on Robby.”

“Karen, I’m now talking to you as ASAC of the behavioral analysis units—”

“Since we don’t socialize, sir, have you ever spoken to me as anyone else?”

Gifford ignored her jab. “Get your shit together. You have a new case here. I need you to focus. I need a productive profiler, not dead weight.”

Dead weight? That hurts.
“You have a way with words, sir.” She may’ve understood, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. She rose from her chair. “Who’s the dick on the case?”

“He said he was going to touch base with you about it. Paul Bledsoe.”

“Bledsoe? He didn’t say anything—” But she immediately realized her mind hadn’t been tuned to matters other than Robby’s case. “I’l get with him right now.”

She turned and headed for the door.

“One other thing.”

Vail stopped and turned.

“Your appointment with Dr. Rudnick. I expect you to keep it.”

Vail twisted her mouth. “As if I don’t have more important things to deal—”

“Look,” he said, rising from his chair. “Your mental health is the responsibility of your unit chief and he and I have been concerned about al you’ve been through the past couple months. Dead Eyes, then the shooting at the White House, al that shit that happened to you in Napa—”

“No need for the recap. I know what my life’s been like. I’ve lived it.”

“Fine. Then look at this objectively. You may not be able to admit it to my face, but you know I’m right. Keep that appointment. That’s an order.”

“Yes sir,” Vail said with a mock salute. She pul ed open the door and left.

39

V
ail cal ed Bledsoe on the way back to her office and arranged to meet at the crime scene, John F. Kennedy Stadium, in thirty minutes.

Vail parked in the player’s lot and badged the security guard, who told her he was expecting her. She was to meet Detective Bledsoe in the fitness facility, adjacent to the clubhouse.

The hal ways were freshly painted and new industrial carpet had been laid recently, judging by the chemical smel s that teased her nose. Vail pul ed open the heavy metal door and stepped inside. An array of physical fitness equipment stared back at her, rivaling only the volume and selection of that found at Seattle’s University of Washington facility, which she had visited once on a case. The FBI Academy’s conditioning machines were impressive, but this was like an ocean compared to a lake.

“Karen. Over here.” Bledsoe’s deep voice from somewhere off in the distance was swal owed by the large room. The rows of equipment, combined with the floor-to-ceiling mirrors and awkward acoustics, made locating him a chal enge.

“You didn’t tel me we had a case together,” she said.

“I started to last night, in the car. You weren’t in the mood, so I left it alone.”

“I’m stil not in the mood. And I don’t have a lot of time.” She nodded at the bloodstained carpet, where white tape delineated the position and location of the corpse. “What’s the deal here?”

“Rayshawn Shines, offensive lineman for the D.C. Generals of the Pro Footbal League. One of their stars. Found right there, garroted. Stabbed multiple times postmortem. No defensive wounds.”

Vail stood over the bloody stain, as if looking at it would help her visualize the body as it lay the moment it had been found. It didn’t.

“So why am I here? It’s a homicide.”

“His penis and bal s were cut off.”

Okay, that changes things.
“So we’ve got a sexual homicide of a large male.

How large?”

“Six-five, three hundred. They don’t screen for drugs in this new league like they do in the NFL. Steroid and PED use is rampant. League’s built on the concept of a narrower field, stronger armed quarterbacks, faster wide receivers. No huddles and more touchdowns.”

“That glazed look in my eyes is boredom. But don’t take it personal y.”

Ignoring Vail’s remark, Bledsoe handed her a manila envelope. “Crime scene photos. Look ’em over in your spare time.”

“What spare time?”

“Hear me out. The PFL had to give fans something more exciting, right? To compete. The average NFL game runs from ten to thirteen minutes of actual playing time. The other three hours is the clock running during huddles, commercials, replays, and time-outs. The PFL got it right—fewer time-outs.

Twenty-nine to thirty-three minutes of action. Their games are very exciting, like a constant rush. But when you’re up against a powerhouse like the NFL, you need a bigger gimmick. If a league wanted to grab attention, get a ratings bump, this might be a way to do it. Star player gets offed, that’s big news.”

Vail contorted her face. “Kind of a negative way to do it, don’t you think? Bad publicity.”

“I thought there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”

Vail considered the severed gonads and what bloggers would say if that fact were made public. “Your buff star player getting emasculated is good publicity?”

Bledsoe snorted. “Good point.” Bledsoe picked at a spot on his forehead. “So what do you make of that sexual component?”

“That sexual component, yes.” Vail sat down on a padded weight bench and thought for a moment. “First impression is that when we see male-on-male sexual homicide, we’re looking at a homosexual offender. Or, it could be someone who’s confused about his sexual identity, or someone who was sexual y abused or exploited by a male figure as a child.”

“That it?”

“If you’re asking me to profile the offender, you know I can’t do it yet—not accurately. There’s only one vic.”

“But there are behaviors here,” Bledsoe said, craning his neck around.

Vail sighed. She wasn’t in the right frame of mind to do this. She wanted to be putting the pieces of Robby’s puzzle together, seeing if she’d missed something.

She pul ed herself up, took a deep breath, and cleared her thoughts. Tried to. She couldn’t. “Look, I’ve got an appointment I have to get to. I real y didn’t want this case. Each minute that ticks by . . . ”

“I know. But anything you can give me would help.”

Vail checked her watch. “I think he’l kil again. This may not be his first kil . No defensive wounds on a big guy like Rayshawn Shines? Your UNSUB knows what he’s doing. You can’t do this and hesitate or you’l end up dead yourself. So he exhibited very high levels of confidence. He probably looks at this kil as an accomplishment. He did
this
, he can do anything. Unless this was a personal gripe, this kil er enjoyed what he did. The garrote is an up close and personal kil . He enjoyed overpowering a big footbal star.”

Bledsoe absorbed al this, then said again, “That it?”

“Until this guy kil s again, there’s probably not much else I can help you with.” She held up an index finger. “Not true. If I can clear my head long enough to concentrate on this, I’l be able to give you more. Meantime, if you put together a list of suspects, I’l help narrow it down. And I can help map out an effective interview approach.”

Bledsoe looked down at the blood-soaked carpet. “Okay.”