The 7th Victim

absorbed in her anger she had forgotten to brush her hair or throw on some makeup. I probably look like shit. Bledsoe placed a hand around her shoulders and led her into the room that had once passed as a rudimentary kitchen. He sat her down and stood there looking at her, clearly at a loss about what to do.

A moment passed before he finally grabbed a seat in front of her. She realized he was in cop mode, which would explain why he was keeping his distance.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She didn’t know how to start. “Anyone else around? Manette, Hancock—”

“Came and went. No one else is here. Just us.” Bledsoe gave her a second, but she still didn’t say anything.

She noticed his eyes brighten—she figured the light had come on. Having worked with Vail so closely during the task force’s first tour of duty, Bledsoe knew the garbage she had to navigate during her custody battle with Deacon.

“Your ex, something happen with him?”

Vail nodded.

“Did he touch you?” Bledsoe waited a beat, got no response, and then was out of his chair, hands on his hips, pacing. “You going to file a report? I can write it up, assault, and have him brought in. Scare the shit out of him.”

She thought about it, then shook her head. “Truth is, I don’t know what happened. I went there to talk to him about changing our custody arrangement, and about an hour later I woke up on the floor of his living room.” She hesitated, unsure if she wanted to go any further.

He stopped pacing and pulled his chair beside Vail. He rested his elbows on his knees and looked into her eyes. “You know what happened. It’s enough to file a report. Get it on record.”

“Bledsoe, I don’t know what happened. I can piece things together, make inferences . . . but it’s not the same as knowing. Besides, it doesn’t look good for me to have gone to his place. He’ll just say I started the argument.”

Bledsoe sat there staring at her, then finally asked, “You think he raped you?”

“No.” Bledsoe was a good cop; she knew that—but she had never been on the receiving end of his investigative sensibilities. He had put it all together, perhaps seen something in her body language. He’d been around the block with enough victims to know what had transpired.

“But if you don’t remember what happened, how can you be so sure?”

She tilted her head and gave him a stern look. “I would know if he—if something penetrated me.”

Bledsoe stood up and faced the wall, as if he were studying the accumulated stains and layers of paint drips. Finally, he turned to her. “We gotta nail this guy, Karen. Just file the damn report.”

“Yeah, that’ll go over real well, especially when the investigating dick pulls out his pad and says, ‘So, Agent Vail, tell me what happened. ’ And I say, ‘Gee, detective, I don’t know what happened. I can’t remember.’ Even if he goes the extra mile for the uniform and runs Deacon, how’s it going to look in court? The defense attorney will tear me apart: ‘Are you saying, Agent Vail, that you reported being assaulted, even though you can’t remember actually being struck? Maybe you tripped and fell and hit your head. In fact, you can’t remember anything about what happened, isn’t that true?’” To say nothing about leaving my Glock in his house, then threatening to blow his brains out. She waved a hand. “There’s no case.”

And that’s when it hit her. “The case, shit. That’s what I was supposed to do at ten. Meet with my attorney about Jonathan.” Vail pulled out her cell phone and rescheduled the missed appointment, then called the school to get a message to Jonathan explaining why she hadn’t come for him.

When she hung up, Bledsoe’s face was still crumpled in concentration. “We can bring him in, I can lean on him, get a confession. I know I can, Karen. And even if I don’t, it’ll be worth it just to see him squirm.”

Vail slumped back in her chair. “I’ll deal with this in my own way. Thanks, though. I appreciate the offer.”

Bledsoe regarded her for a moment. “Just don’t do anything you’ll regret later.”

“I’ll let my attorney handle it, okay?” She managed a thin smile. “I’ll only regret it when I get his bill.”

eighteen

After talking with Bledsoe about Deacon’s attack, Vail settled down at the long folding table set up in the living room and began thumbing through the Dead Eyes file. She knew there was something in there she had missed. More than that, however, there was information she had not yet had time to adequately analyze.

Around one thirty, Mandisa Manette arrived with a shoulder bag slung across her back stuffed with files and supplies. She claimed her space in a far corner of the living room, stretched a piece of masking tape marked with her name across a filing cabinet drawer, then began setting out her paperwork and materials. Yellow pushpins held a couple of photos of a young girl to the wall. Other than a nod when she arrived, Vail did not even exchange a glance with her.

Bubba Sinclair was next to arrive, half an hour later. He chatted with Bledsoe for a bit about the Chicago Bears—his hometown team—and then took a spot at the table near the dining room. He set out a couple of picture frames that were facing away from Vail, and an autographed basketball.

Sinclair looked up and said, “We lock this place at night, right?”

“Locked and alarmed,” Bledsoe said. “They installed the system after you left this morning.”

“What’s up with that ball?” Manette asked.

“I helped some on Michael Jordan’s dad’s murder case. Did some legwork for Carolina PD. MJ appreciated the work I done, gave me a signed ball.”

“What’s it for, good luck?”

“Why not? We could use some. If this helps. . . .”

“Hey, rabbit’s feet, lucky charms, no problem,” Manette said. “Just don’t be chanting any incantations, okay? That’s where I draw the line.”

“How about this?” Sinclair pulled a large necklace from beneath his shirt.

“Dare I ask what that is?”

“My lucky hunting necklace.” He fingered the various animal teeth of disparate sizes and shapes strung together on the leather lanyard. “Took out each one of these. Bear, deer, even an elk. That was a tough one.” He found the bear tooth and held it up. “I don’t want to tell you what we had to do to take this one down.”

“Put that thing away,” Manette said. “I like animals.”

“Hey, I like animals, too,” Sinclair said.

Vail sat back and ignored the banter; she was formulating an opinion and needed her concentration.

Within the hour, Robby and Chase Hancock had arrived. They each carved out their own work spaces, with Robby predictably choosing one beside Vail, and Hancock taking a spot in the other room, facing away from her.

“I’ve got something worth looking into,” Vail said once everyone had settled in. They each turned their bodies, or at least their attention, in her direction. “I’ve been trying to understand the significance of stabbing the eyes. It holds a lot of importance to the offender. It’s comforting to him, serves a deep-seated purpose. The fact that he does this as part of his ritual and not his MO tells me it could hold the key to understanding who this guy is.”

“Why’s that?” Bledsoe asked.

“Because he doesn’t have to do it to subdue his victim. She’s already dead,” Hancock said.

Bledsoe turned to Vail for confirmation. She reluctantly nodded.

“So why would this guy stab the eyes?”

“That’s the question. My unit floated some theories last year on vics one and two, but nothing anyone could agree on. But I’ve got this feeling—I mean, theory—that he does it because he has a physical deformity. Scarring on his face, an old wound, acne, harelip, I don’t know exactly, but it’s worth looking into.”

“I’ll do a search,” Sinclair said. “Ex-cons released in the past few years with a history of violent offenses who had a facial disfigurement. We can cross match it against anything we pick up on the blood angle.”

“It’s just a theory,” Vail cautioned.