The 7th Victim

“What affair?”

“Don’t insult us any more than you already have. We have a very reliable source who’ll be more than willing to testify.”

Pushing Bledsoe’s large, unyielding frame out of his way, Hancock struggled to stand. “I don’t have to sit here and take this. If you had something, you’d have cuffed me by now.” He shook his head, his lips bent into a frown. Shaming them. “You people have a viable suspect—Karen Vail—but you’re not interested. You think you hold all the cards? Wait till I let the media know Lee Thurston’s finest is dodging the investigation, overlooking the one person who’s quite possibly the Dead Eyes killer, all because they’re protecting one of their own.”

“Gather your things and get the hell out of here,” Bledsoe said. “In case you’re wondering, you’re off the task force. There’s no senator to pull strings for you. And the police chief won’t touch you with a ten foot pole.”

Hancock snatched up his attache, threw assorted papers inside, and grabbed his coat.

Robby rose from his chair and rested his hands on his hips. “Talk to the media, and you’ll only bring more heat on yourself.”

Hancock stormed to the front door, stopped, and turned around. “You people are imbeciles.”

“At least we’ve got jobs,” Sinclair said. “You’re an unemployed imbecile.”

The door slammed and Hancock was gone.

forty-two

I usually take some cheese into my secret room for Charlie to munch on. He’s getting a little fat, probably because I feed him too much. But whenever I go there, it’s like I’ve come home and he comes over to say hi. He climbs into my lap and sniffs around. Probably looking for more food. Damn parasite, that’s all he is. Give me, give me, give me.

I’m not in the mood today. The prick’s latest whore saw me last night and made fun of me. I didn’t need that, I get enough of it from him. I’d like to make him feel the way he makes me feel for once.

Charlie climbs up on my chest and looks at me, his tiny nose wiggling and his whiskers shaking accusingly at me.

“What the hell is your problem?” I shout, then stop to think if anyone is home. I can’t let this little rodent ruin things. He looks at me with those eyes, evil eyes. “Don’t look at me that way! I hate you!”

I grab him by the neck and reach to my right, where there are some nails left over from the construction I’d done to expand the room. I pick one up and jam it right through his eye socket. He stiffens, then goes limp in my hand.

My heart is beating rapidly, and I feel high, like I’m floating. What a feeling! I’m wired, I can’t get a deep breath.

I throw Charlie’s body down on the shelf mounted on the wall and pull out my pocket knife. I wonder what he’d look like if I just make a slice right here. I pant like a dog, unable to control myself. A dog. Now that would be something. Do this to a dog—

He remembered that day quite well. Certain memories just stick in your mind like a piece of chewing gum on the bottom of a shoe. You pull and twist and stretch and the damn gum just won’t let go.

He shut down the laptop and put it aside. He had a little less than an hour before students started arriving for his advanced pottery class and he needed to decompress, turn his thoughts away from his childhood. He grabbed an unfinished sandwich from the small refrigerator and switched on the television. But of course he wouldn’t be able to escape it altogether. After all, he’d made the news. Literally made it. The Dead Eyes killer was a nightly story, if only as a feature piece on public safety. But he was always mentioned.

Yet somehow, the police had managed to keep a tight lid on the Linwood murder. Guess it would kind of freak people out if they heard that the Dead Eyes killer had gotten to a state senator. If he could get to a senator, no bitch-whore would be safe. “You hear that? None of you are safe!”

He finished the sandwich, then sat in front of the TV kneading a hunk of clay. Kneading clay relaxed him, kept his hands and arms strong.

The six o’clock news logo swirled onto the screen with a building crescendo of music and a photo array of its anchors. Such drama. Just report the goddamn news and cut the fat.

“Good evening,” the anchor said. Yes, it was indeed a good evening, thank you very much. He felt satisfied, the way you feel after eating a well-cooked meal.

“. . . the murder of Senator Eleanor Linwood has stunned members of the legislature and caused an outpouring of support across bipartisan lines. The senator’s husband, Richard Linwood, heir to the Linwood Shipping empire, was reportedly returning home from a business trip. Police are not releasing many details about the murder, except to say leads are being pursued. For more complete coverage on Senator Linwood’s long career, we go to Steve Schneiderman, standing by live. . . .”

He switched off the television, went to his freezer, and took out the container holding the beloved senator’s hand. He set the severed appendage on the table beside him and looked at it, observing it from multiple angles. “You were a very naughty bitch, Senator. Would anyone have voted for you if they knew the type of person you really were? Of course not. Of course not. Of course not.”

Well, he hoped she enjoyed their time together. He sure did. It was the most satisfying event of his life. He felt free again. Free . . . free to do whatever he wanted to, because she wasn’t there to stop him.

Almost free. Because there were a few loose ends that needed to be tied up. But there was time for that. If there was one thing he could be sure of, it was that time was on his side.

forty-three

Vail had spent the afternoon at the hospital, holding Jonathan’s hand, stroking his hair, talking to him. Just in case. She told him she loved him about a hundred times, or maybe it was more. It didn’t matter. He was still comatose, and although previously his eyes only opened and closed, they now moved side to side and tracked moving objects. As time passed, it was increasingly difficult for her to get excited over “incremental improvement.”

But the doctor continued to be encouraging: “He’s taking small steps. No matter how small, they are small steps. We have to remain hopeful.”

Vail shook her head. It sounded similar to what Gifford and Robby had said. Maybe she needed to start taking their words to heart.

After returning to her house, she grabbed the Dead Eyes file and spread the paperwork out on the floor in her study. The profile and supporting information went in one pile, the crime scene photos in another, VICAP reports on each victim grouped with victimology analyses. Interview notes with family members, employers, and acquaintances were placed in another spot. Medical examiner, forensic, and lab reports were separated out and laid across the floor.

Vail stood up and looked at it all, neatly organized. Like the offender.

She sat on the futon couch beside the long wall of the eight-by-ten room and let everything flow through her mind, not stopping to analyze any particular item. The blood murals, the messages left at each scene after the disputed third victim, the severed left hand, the knives through the eyes. Disemboweled vics, easily disabled. Substantial planning involved. Intelligent offender. Organized. Her thoughts had come full circle.

The doorbell rang. She pulled herself off the futon and meandered to the front door. Robby was standing there with a bouquet of flowers. “Good afternoon, Miss, care to make a contribution to the Police Officer’s Foundation?”

Vail pushed opened the screen door and said, “Sure, Officer. Here’s my donation.” She reached out, grabbed his lapel, and pulled him down to her height. Planted a hard kiss on his lips. She leaned back and studied his face.

“I’ll make sure you get a receipt. For tax purposes.”

He bent over and lifted her off her feet, carrying her in his arms into the family room, where they kissed