The 7th Victim

“I want some advice,” Vail said.

“Okay. I haven’t practiced psychiatry in a gazillion years, but—”

“I’m serious, Wayne.”

“Right. Serious. Okay, what do you need?”

Vail looked down, then up at the walls—everywhere but at Rudnick’s face.

Finally, he said, “You know, your body language suggests you’re uncomfortable with what you’re about to ask me.”

Vail nodded, then finally met his eyes. “I’m having dreams. Strange dreams.” She recapped the gist of the nightmares but saved the best for last. “So the killer’s straddling the woman’s body, he drives the knife into her eyes, then looks up into the mirror.”

Rudnick nodded thoughtfully, clearly engaged and sitting on every word. “And you saw yourself.”

Vail felt herself step backward. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Because, my dear, you stare at mutilated bodies day in and day out. You live and breathe serial murder. It has to affect you deeply, even when you turn your brain off and go to sleep.”

“But I’ve never had these kinds of dreams before.”

“Yeah, well, don’t bog me down with details.”

She sighed. “I thought you’d be able to help me.”

“Look, Karen, are you worried that you may be the killer?”

Vail forced a laugh. “Of course not.” She chuckled again. “Yes. I mean, I don’t know. I can’t be, right?”

“No, you can’t be. You spend all day around people who analyze behavior. Don’t you think one of them would be looking at you if it were even possible?”

“A former agent on the task force thinks I’m Dead Eyes.”

“Former agent, you say? Must be a reason why he’s a former agent, Karen. Point is, you’re entrenched in a very challenging case, probably the most challenging one you’ve ever had because you’re intimately involved in it. Most of the time, you don’t even get to visit fresh crime scenes, let alone investigate them personally. That guy in your unit—Mark Safarik—what’s that saying he had?”

“Mark called it being ‘Knee deep in the blood and guts.’”

“Yeah, that’s it. You’re in this one up to your hips. It’s on your mind and you can’t shut it down. You feel enormous pressure to solve it. And when you can’t, you’re taunting yourself in your dreams. ‘Can’t you see it? Study the art! Figure it out!’ You’re telling yourself to find the answers. Think about it a minute, objectively. I know that’s hard because you’re so close. But think about it.”

Vail stood there, her mind flooding with thoughts when suddenly one fought to the surface; it tumbled out of her mouth as if it were a pilot ejected from a cockpit. “I can’t see the killer because I’m blind, just like the victims.”

“There you go,” Rudnick said. “Very good.” He squinted and shook his head slowly, the picture of pity. “You’ve been taught to empathize with the victims and think like the killers, Karen. What an impossible thing to do! No wonder you’re conflicted. Your subconscious is on overload.”

Vail bit her lip.

Rudnick stepped around his desk and placed a hand on her shoulder. “This is all perfectly normal, Karen. I bet if you ask some of your colleagues in your unit, you’ll find that many of them have had similar dreams about this stuff.”

Vail looked up, feeling a bit brighter. “Thanks, Wayne. Makes sense.”

Rudnick smiled. “Of course.” He bent over and retrieved his ball. He sat down behind his desk, leaned back, and took aim at the ceiling. “Now beat it so I can get back to work.”

fifty-four

After joining Robby in the Academy parking lot, she drove him back to his car. She had planned to go to the hospital to visit Jonathan, then meet Robby for dinner. Despite what Jackson Parker had said about him being her only friend, she knew she had Robby. She felt that no matter how things turned out, he would be there for her. And her for him.

As Robby was getting into the car, his phone sounded—followed seconds later by a similar trill from Vail’s BlackBerry. “Get in,” he said. “I’ll drive.”

They arrived at the task force op center ten minutes later, ahead of Manette, Del Monaco, and Sinclair. Bledsoe was pacing, holding what appeared to be several eight-by-ten glossy photos in his hand. As soon as Bledsoe saw Vail come through the door, his face lit up.

“I feel like a kid who’s just found out a really cool secret, but he’s got no one to tell.”

“What’s the secret?” Robby asked.

“Look.” He shoved the photos in Robby’s face.

“Where’d you find this?”

“You’re gonna love this,” Bledsoe said, looking at Vail. “If we figure out what it means, it could break the case.”

“Where was it?”

“In Linwood, shoved up her rear.”

“In her rectum?” Robby asked.

“ME found it during the autopsy. Showed up on x-ray.”

Robby handed each of the photos to Vail as he went through the stack. “What does it mean?”

Vail did not answer. She was studying the close-up photos, which depicted a heart-shaped gold locket.

“Karen? What’s wrong?”

“Looks familiar. . . .” She finally looked up. “Can’t place it.” Where have I seen something like this before?

“But what does it mean?”

The front door flung open and in walked Manette, Del Monaco, and Sinclair.

“. . . and I’m telling you, Sears Tower has the most stories,” Sinclair said.

“But in terms of actual building height,” Del Monaco said, “that one in Taiwan is tallest.”

“Hey, look at this,” Bledsoe said.

Manette, Del Monaco, and Sinclair joined the huddle.

Vail handed them the stack of photos. “ME found this locket during Linwood’s autopsy.” She turned back to Bledsoe. “We already know Linwood meant something special to this guy. Somehow this is related. When an offender shoves an object up a victim’s rectum, it’s a very personal act. First thought is that there’s a sexual component. It’s symbolic. Meant to send a message.”

“Another message,” Sinclair groaned. “We haven’t figured out the first one yet.”

“I think I’m beginning to understand,” Manette said. “Our UNSUB designs puzzles for The New York Times. He wears red underwear and likes pistachio ice cream because the nuts symbolize his mental state. What do you think, Kari, honey, maybe? Possibly?”

Vail ignored her. “Even though it’s ritual behavior he hasn’t engaged in before, it doesn’t change my profile. But it does support everything we’ve assumed about him up to this point. If anything, it solidifies our belief that Linwood’s a key. Oh—and a couple other things. The experts at BSU said the email this guy sent is likely a personal account of his childhood.”

“Pretty fucked up childhood,” Manette said. “Then again, isn’t that the thing with these killers, Kari? They were abused by a parent, or they were pissed on by some bully, someone didn’t like the color of their hair—”

“BSU also felt,” Vail said, gaze firmly rooted to Manette’s mischievous eyes, “that the offender definitely has artistic talent and that he’s probably had some art training along the way. Could be significant. The murals show repetitive patterns, even though they’re all different from one another.”

“So how does all this help us?” Bledsoe asked.

“Well, for one, the more emails we get from him, the better understanding we’ll have of what’s making him kill. The more info we can gather on his thought process, the greater the chances we’ll have of anticipating his next move, or even possibly catching him.”

“Anything on the emails themselves? Are they traceable?”