She stood there for a moment, pondering such a future. “I want my job back, Robby. At the Bureau. Staring at grisly photos and dealing with male chauvinists.”
Robby looked at her a long moment, then nodded. “Then that’s the goal.”
She nodded back.
“Let’s go eat,” he said as he took her hand. “Take it from me, Prego is best served hot.”
Vail and Robby parked in the Academy’s main lot and entered through Jefferson Hall. They signed in at the security station and navigated the maze of glass hallways, Vail playing tour guide and pointing out notable areas and rooms. They made their way through the armory and indoor shooting range, caught the elevator, and took it down into the Behavioral Science Unit’s basement offices.
BSU’s Investigative Support Unit gained attention because of a handful of agents whose profiling work in the seventies and eighties proved invaluable in cracking several high-profile serial offender cases. It was made famous by its appearance in the movie
When the BSU was divided (though not conquered), the Investigative Support Unit was renamed and carted down the road. The profilers gained windows and a more cheerful working environment. The BSU criminologists who remained in the subbasement gained ... more office space.
Vail led Robby through the cream-colored cinderblock corridor to Wayne Rudnick’s office, an eight-by-ten room lit with four incandescent fixtures standing on surfaces of varied heights. The attempt to brighten a dull, depressing environment had fallen somewhat short, Vail thought, but it was an improvement nonetheless.
“Kind of creepy down here,” Robby said.
“You get used to it. It’s a kick to visit, because of all the history and legends who’ve worked here.”
Rudnick, a sixteen-year veteran, had spent every moment of his tenure in the now-famous subbasement. On his door was a sign scrawled in black magic marker that read:
Vail knocked on Rudnick’s partially open door and waited but did not get a response. She gave it a slight nudge and it swung open with a squeal.
Rudnick was sitting behind his desk tossing a gel-filled stress-relief ball in the air. He had been doing it for years, claiming it helped him clear his mind. He had once organized a unit-wide challenge to see who could come closest to the ceiling without hitting it. Rudnick had won, but someone had monkeyed with his office chair, and much to the delight of everyone who was in on the prank, Rudnick complained the arc and force of his toss were impaired by the change in the “feel” of his chair. He remained pissed for days when he discovered the conspiracy had been organized by his special agent-in-charge.
“Well, if it’s not the Redhead Express.” Rudnick jumped out of his chair, arms up and extended for a hug.
She obliged him and then introduced Robby.
Rudnick brushed back his wild Albert Einstein hair, then shook Robby’s hand. “You’re here on a case, aren’t you?” He turned back to his desk, lifting various papers and files, as if looking for something.
“Dead Eyes,” Robby said. “Karen sent the case over to you for input.” He looked to Vail for confirmation. “How long ago was that?”
“Dead Eyes, Dead Eyes. That rings a bell.” Rudnick continued searching his desk, the movement of papers becoming a bit more frantic.
Vail crossed her arms over her chest and, with a slight smirk, shook her head.
“Is there a problem?” Robby asked.
“He’s pulling your leg,” Vail said. “He knows where the file is.”
Rudnick suddenly reached out and poked a folder from atop a pile. “Here it is.”
“See? He does this all the time. He thinks it’s funny.”
“I love playing with new agents’ heads.”
Robby took a step forward, his thick thighs stopped by the edge of the desk. He looked down at the diminutive Rudnick. “I’m not a new agent.”
Rudnick looked up at Robby, over the tops of his thick-rimmed eyeglasses. “But you’re someone of authority, I can see that.”
“Investigator with Vienna PD.”
“Vienna! The poke and plumb town over on the northwest side. Poke your head in and you’re plumb out of town.”
“We’re small, yes. Kind of like you.”
“Ooh. Okay. I think that’s enough horsing around. Time to get down to business.” Rudnick sat and opened the file folder.
“How’s your tooth?” Vail asked.
“Need a root canal. Tell ya, I think we should start including dentists routinely in our suspect pool. They’re sadists, every one of ’em, I swear.”
“Dead Eyes,” Robby reminded.
“Yes, okay. Okay. Dead Eyes . . . the serial offender who’s plugged into the information superhighway.”
“Information superhighway?” Vail asked. “Who uses that term anymore?”
Rudnick glanced at her over the tops of his glasses. “I do, apparently.” He opened the file and consulted a page on the left side of the flap. “So as I was saying, this guy is tech savvy, or at least knows how to access the information necessary in constructing the parameters by which he can make it appear that he’s tech savvy.” Rudnick looked from Vail to Robby and apparently sensed their impatience. “Let me explain. According to our cyber geeks, he—”
“You got something back from the lab?”
Rudnick’s eyebrows rose. “Didn’t you?”
Vail frowned. “Go on.”
“Yes, well, as I was saying, the geek cops said our offender used a technique that allows the email message to dissolve into its core constituents—ones and zeroes, the digital equivalent of blood and guts—to prevent us from tracking the email back to him. There’re a few things interesting about that. First, they said the info on how to do that’s available on the superhigh—excuse me, the Internet—so it’s not clear whether he possessed this knowledge or if he just followed the instructions online. But given what other information you’ve submitted, I’d have to say it’s the latter. Kind of like a fanatic who cooks up a bomb from a recipe posted on some militia webpage.”
“I agree,” Vail said. “Our offender’s no technogeek. But he’s bright and can certainly find out how to do it.”
“Second, and perhaps this goes to the point of it all, is that this vanishing act he’s playing with us means he only wants one way communication—a monologue, if you will. Either he’s not interested in what you have to say about it, or he’s more interested in what you’ll do about it.”
Vail nodded slowly, as if she were absorbing the meaning into her skin, filtering it as she mulled it through her mind.
“And the content?” Robby asked.
“Yes, yes, the content. Flesch-Kincaid Index scores it at a sixth grade level, though I’m not sure that’s worth much to us because he’s writing in a voice consistent with a child. More significantly, I’d say his writing appears to emanate from a different part of his brain than his ‘blood murals,’ which I’ll get to in a minute. Unlike the murals, which likely come from some subconscious expression of his feelings, these writings are very consciously constructed. He’s gone to considerable effort to send them to you in an untraceable form. He doesn’t want to get
