in. Either way, there’s planning involved.
“At the other end of the spectrum are lower IQ killers. They’re usually
“Hold it a second,” Hancock said. “Your profile indicates organization but the crime scenes show the opposite.”
Vail sighed. She was tired and didn’t feel like justifying her opinions to Hancock. But his confusion was understandable, and she figured that if he hadn’t asked the question, someone else would have.
“There’s a lot of blood, I know. That usually points to disorganization. But if we look at the blood not by volume but by what he does with it, the painting, the artistic nature of the images, then I think we have to consider it to be purposeful. Purpose indicates organization.”
“What about weapons of opportunity—”
“Every person has steak knives of some sort in their kitchen. Fact that he didn’t bring the knives to the vics tells me he’s smart. Why risk getting caught with knives that can be traced to other victims? He uses what’s there because he knows it’s likely going to be there. To me, that’s another sign of organization. But beyond that, stabbing the eyes is not how he kills these women, asphyxiation is. The knives are merely used for his postmortem behaviors.”
“What about the evisceration? That’s mutilation, disorganization for sure, even going by your own definition.”
Vail tapped her foot and hesitated before answering. “I don’t know. I can’t explain it, except to say that maybe this guy is a mix. Elements of organization blended with some disorganization. More often than not, that’s the case anyway.” Vail rubbed at her painful brow. “Wish I could give you more. I might be able to refine it a bit once I have time to go through it again, run it by my unit.”
“A lot of mights and maybes,” Manette said.
Vail closed the file on her desk. “Hey, a profile is just a tool, like an alternative light source or a compound microscope. It’s not going to give you a suspect’s name and number. You think you can do better, have at it.”
There was silence for a moment before Robby spoke. “I heard one of the forensics guys saying they found some dirt in Sandra Franks’s house.”
“Loose dirt in the hallway and bedroom. One tread mark that matched your shoe,” Bledsoe said. “So that’s of no help. As for the other dirt, they’re running it through the chromatograph and spectrometer. I don’t have the results yet.”
“We didn’t put booties on till after we chased him through the yard,” Vail said. “Ten to one that dirt comes back a dead end.”
Bledsoe shrugged. “We’ll know soon enough. Also looking over hair and fibers. Some latent prints were found, but no hits on AFIS. Except . . . one good latent was lifted from the murals. Judging by the commonly used items in the house as a reference source for Sandra’s fingerprints, seems he used the vic’s severed left hand to paint.”
“That’s just gross,” Manette said.
“All this shit is gross,” Bledsoe said. “Now, as for the other prints ... Sin, what’ve you got?”
Sinclair stood up and stretched. “I’m checking into Franks’s friends and family, just in case the prints are theirs. Some of the latents have probably been there awhile. But I doubt we’ll find anything: with all the blood at the scene, if the fucker wasn’t wearing gloves, he’d have left bloody prints all over the damn place. There weren’t any, so I think the latents are also gonna be a dead end.”
“And that puts us back to where we were. To hocus-pocus psychosymbolism,” Manette said.
A tiny watch alarm started beeping, and Sinclair glanced at his wrist with trepidation. “Got an appointment with one of the vic’s employer’s personnel administrators. This guy’s a real prick.” He pushed out of his chair and gathered up his weathered brown leather shoulder bag.
Bledsoe stood as well. “Okay, let’s get back out there. You know your assignments. Let’s dig a little deeper, see if we can come up with something.”
“DETECTIVE,” HANCOCK SAID, crowding Bledsoe’s space, “you got a minute?”
The other detectives were filing out the front door. Bledsoe shrugged, took a step backward. “Yeah, what’s on your mind?”
Hancock danced a bit, checked over his shoulder, and watched Vail leave with Robby. “I gotta talk to you.” He leaned close again, lowered his voice. “About Vail, I think it could be something.”
Bledsoe’s eyes narrowed a bit, then he turned and led the way into the kitchen. They waited until the front door closed, then he brought his eyes up to Hancock’s. “We’re alone, what’s on your mind?”
“I was reading the files you put together for me. Thanks, by the way, I appreciate it.”
“No problem. Is that what you had to tell me?”
“No, no. I found something in the crime scene manifest for vic number two.” He opened a file he had tucked beneath his arm. “Here, under fiber analysis.” He handed Bledsoe the report.
“Yeah, so? A red hair. What’s the problem?”
“Vail has red hair. The conclusion is that the comparison microscope study matched it to comps on Vail.” He paused, the corners of his mouth sinking, as if Bledsoe should’ve caught on by now. “Vail’s hair was found at the second vic’s crime scene. Why wasn’t anything done about it?”
“Done?” Bledsoe asked. He folded his arms across his chest and stared at Hancock. “What would you have wanted us to do?”
“Did you investigate her?”
“Karen Vail? Special Agent Karen Vail? The woman who has trouble sleeping because this killer is still out on the street?”
Hancock shifted his feet again. “You don’t know her like I know her. She’s devious, ruthless—”
Bledsoe held up a hand. “Okay, Hancock. Thanks for the tip—”
“You need to investigate her. She could be our killer.”
The statement left them both quiet. Bledsoe sighed, then settled into a chair. “That’s a very serious allegation you’re making, you realize that? Based on a strand of hair found at a crime scene?”
Hancock did not answer.
Bledsoe continued: “When an investigator steps into a crime scene, it’s possible his or her fibers, fingerprints, DNA—hell, any trace evidence could be deposited there. That’s one of the challenges we face when our guys answer a call. That’s why we rope off and secure the area—”
“Don’t talk down to me, Detective.”
“I’m explaining why Karen’s hair was at the vic’s house.”
“And you’re
Bledsoe shook his head in disgust.
“Vail was an art history major. We’ve got these blood murals all over the vics’ walls that look like the work of someone with a background in art. Still not convinced?”
Bledsoe pushed out of his chair and stepped up to Hancock, toe to toe. “Look, Vail told me you were a prick. I’ve tried to keep an open mind, because both of you have biases against each other. If this is a cheap shot to discredit her, to get back at her for your problems with the Bureau several years ago—”
“This has nothing to do with that.”
Bledsoe’s head was tilted back, his gaze fixed on Hancock’s eyes. Neither of them blinked. “You want to investigate Karen Vail on your own time, go for it. Have a picnic. Just don’t poison my investigation.” Bledsoe pushed past Hancock and headed out of the kitchen.
“You’ll see,” Hancock called after him. “You’ll see that I’m right.”
Robby walked Vail to her car and stood there a bit longer than necessary after she’d said good-bye and closed the door.
She opened the window and looked up at him, shielding her eyes from the sky’s dreary glare. “Something
