“No, Your Honor. I didn’t report it. I should have, but he’d knocked me unconscious and I wasn’t thinking straight. But I told Detective Paul Bledsoe about it right after that and he’ll corroborate my story.”
Harrison looked away, which Vail interpreted as a bad sign. “Paul Bledsoe is a fine detective, but he didn’t directly witness anything. I’m sure you understand, Agent Vail.”
“Cut to the chase, please.”
He was getting impatient, another bad sign. “We got into an argument, Your Honor, and tempers flared. He was gloating—”
“According to Officer Greenwich’s statement here,” he said, searching for the right document, “you claimed it was self-defense. Did he ever take a swing at you?”
“When I saw he wasn’t going to give me the book, I turned to leave. I didn’t want to get into it again with him. He grabbed my arm and pulled and . . . I swung at him.”
Harrison sighed. “I’m not a trial judge, and this isn’t a trial, Agent Vail. My purpose here is only to determine probable cause, and I believe I’ve got more than enough for that. You’re in a tough spot. I hope it gets resolved to your satisfaction.”
Vail bristled while watching the magistrate scribble his signature on a document, then pass it through the slot. “Officer, you’ve got your warrant.”
Greenwich took the paper and signed it, then handed it to Vail. “Your Honor, I’m required to request an EPO on behalf of the complainant.”
“An Emergency Protective Order? Against
Harrison stared back at Vail. “Agent Vail, when you make bond and are out roaming the streets, I need some assurance that you’re not going to go over to your ex-hubby’s house and blow his brains out.”
That was exactly what she felt like doing. But voicing her desires would surely land her in a heap of trouble. “I’m not going to do anything of the sort. I’m going to steer clear of him.”
Vail’s hesitation was not lost on Harrison, apparently, as he shook his head. “You waited just a tad too long for me there, Agent Vail. I’m reasonably sure you’re not going to do anything foolish, but you own a gun, you’re skilled in using it, there’s substantial bad blood between the two of you, and you’ve already demonstrated to me you have the potential for violence if the situation presents itself. I’m going to help you out here, Agent, though I doubt you’re going to see it that way.”
Harrison pulled another form from his desk, signed it, and handed it through the slot to Greenwich. “Fill it out, Officer. She’s got a seventy-two-hour EPO slapped on her.” He looked at Vail. “A cooling off period, to think about your actions. Guilty of the charges or not, you’re better off staying away from Deacon Tucker.”
Vail sighed through pursed lips and shook her head. Could this day get any worse?
“One other note, Agent. Consider it another favor. Get yourself the very best defense attorney you can afford. Misdemeanor Domestic Violence/Assault is not something to fool around with. You get convicted, it’s not just a measly misdemeanor. Under the new law, it’s taken very seriously. You’ll lose the ability to carry a weapon. That’s Federal law, not Virginia code. You’ll lose your job. Plain as that.”
Vail closed her eyes. Her day had, in fact, just gotten worse.
“As to the issue of bond,” Harrison said, “I already know your occupation, which gives me your income level, lack of prior criminal history, and your flight risk, which I deem to be minimal. Not if you have hopes of keeping your job.” He wrote something on a document, signed it, and lifted the glasses off his face. He closed the file. “Five hundred dollar secured bond is hereby granted. Thank you, Officer.”
Greenwich turned to Vail, who was still staring at the glass window in disbelief. “I left my purse in the car. I don’t have any money with me.”
“Then that phone call I promised you earlier will come in pretty handy.” He forced a smile, then led her out of the intake booth.
“The jail cell was six-by-eight, Robby. A cinderblock room with a tiny window.”
Robby took his eyes off the road to glance at Vail. “I know, I’ve seen them.”
It was a few minutes past two in the morning and they were on I-395, headed toward the task force op center to pick up her car—and her purse. The winding, tree-canopied road was nature at its best during the day, but eerie on a winter night, when the headlights caught the barren, low-lying branches as the car sped beneath them.
“If I didn’t have claustrophobia before, I probably have it now.” Vail shivered, then pulled her seat belt away from her chest, as if it had renewed the confining sensation of the jail cell. “What a horrible experience. It took them three hours to get a phone over to me.”
“Three hours?”
“There were a shitload of prisoners all waiting their turn on two phones. They cut me some slack here and there, gave me the red carpet treatment—if there is such a thing in the slammer—but even with that it took forever to get a line.”
“Sorry it took me so long to get here.”
She waved a tired hand. “Hey, I appreciate you laying out the cash.” She leaned back against the headrest. “Hopefully the trial will go my way and I’ll be able to put it all behind me.”
“It will, Karen, everything’ll turn out.”
“It better, or I’ll need to find a new line of work.” She shut her eyes, tried to force the thoughts of disaster from her mind. “Tomorrow I have to find a good lawyer. Magistrate said I should hire the best I can afford. I feel like vomiting over the thought of having to hire a defense attorney. They’re vermin.”
“Just keep things in perspective. Focus your energy. There are more important things to deal with right now.”
Robby was right, there were more important things. “I hope Jonathan’s okay,” she mumbled. “I never did get to his school.” She was about to reflect on the frailty of life when her BlackBerry went off, followed a second later by Robby’s cell phone. Vail looked down at the display, then at Robby, who was struggling to read his in the dark while keeping the car steady.
They glanced at each other, the dread of having to view another mutilated body written on Robby’s face. He tightened his grip on the wheel and shook his head. “Here we go again.”
“Two in the morning,” she said. “Doesn’t Dead Eyes know I just got out of the slammer?”
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, they were pulling up to the curb in front of a small, square brick house in Alexandria. Rattan furniture adorned its porch and an American flag hung from a column that supported the second-story overhang.
Bledsoe’s Crown Victoria was parked in front, behind Hancock’s Acura and Manette’s Volkswagen Jetta. Crime scene tape had already been strung across the trees at the sidewalk, extending all the way over to the neighbor’s side yard—a wide swath of land to protect the crime scene and guard against disturbance of potential ingress and egress footprints made by the Dead Eyes killer. Halogen lamps on tripods lit the front of the house as a criminalist scoured the exterior. To those who were awakened by the activity, it had the surreal circus atmosphere that accompanied a Hollywood movie production. But there were no cameras, no fake extras. This was, unfortunately, the real thing.
As they got out of Robby’s car, Sinclair pulled behind them in his 1969 Chevy pickup. They nodded at Sinclair and the three of them walked in together. By the time they hit the bedroom, there was no doubt this was one of their cases. Murals across the walls, message written above the bed.
“No defensive wounds,” Bledsoe said. “Same drill. Ate his usual meal at the scene. No dental impressions. Looking for saliva, but I doubt we’ll find any.” The woman had been treated to the same filet job, and the left hand had once again been amputated. “Vic is Denise Cranston. No business card, but we found a pay stub. Works for Lamplighter Design Gallery in Old Town. Sales manager.”
“What is she, vic six? Or five?” Sinclair asked. “I’ve lost count.”
