He shrugged. “Had a nightmare after my first murder scene way back when. But nothing since then. My brain kind of acclimated to it. Go to work, deal with this shit, come home, leave it all at the office.”
She pulled her coat tight against a sudden gust of wind. “That’s good you can do that,” she said without further explanation.
“I’ve had some nightmares,” Bledsoe said. “Been awhile, but I remember the last one real well. I was in a shootout and my gun jammed. Radio didn’t work. And I couldn’t talk. It was like my throat closed up. Woke up drenched in sweat.” He shook his head. “Seemed so damn real. It’s been years but I remember it like yesterday.”
Vail wished she had never brought it up, because the next question was likely to be from Del Monaco, again asking if she’s had dreams regarding Dead Eyes.
But he surprised her when he elbowed her and said, “Let’s look at that letter again. If anyone’s qualified to analyze it, it’s us.”
Vail pulled it from her pocket and unfolded it. She read aloud. “I’ve done more than I ever thought I’d be able to do. But when you put your mind to something, you can do anything.” She looked at Del Monaco, who shrugged.
“Beats the shit out of me,” he said. “Nothing specific to that.”
Vail continued: “I find myself overwhelmed by the power of it all. Of being able to do anything I want to. No one to tell me I can’t.”
Del Monaco spread his hands in acknowledgment. “Signs of power. Of control. So far, there’s nothing to say it’s a hoax. But, there’re no details only the killer would know, either.”
“It does match up with the emails he sent,” Vail said. “The hunger-based need for power and control.”
“But it’s nonspecific,” Del Monaco said. “Those are common serial offender themes.”
Vail looked back at the paper: “I can’t stop myself. I’m sure you know the feeling, the urges, the need for more. They may think they can stop me, but they can’t. I know what they know. They’ll never find me.”
Vail exchanged a knowing glance with Bledsoe. All the proof she needed was right there—a reference to the stolen profile. It wasn’t hard evidence, but it was enough to convince her emotionally, if not legally or logically. She cleared her throat, then said, “Well, I think those last few sentences are the most significant, because it tells us a lot about him. It confirms a lot of our profile. And it tells us he’s gaining confidence, which is common with offenders as time passes. They begin to feel impervious to capture. They get sloppy and they begin to self-destruct internally. They may even get more violent.”
“I thought Linwood’s murder was more violent because of the personal connection,” Bledsoe said.
“It was.”
Del Monaco set down his cup and wiggled a bit on the bench seat. “An offender’s early murders typically demonstrate his need to engage in the thrill of the hunt. He lives for exerting control over his victim. But as he loses himself in his perception that he’s invincible, the emphasis of his attacks shifts to a kind of hunger, a simple need to kill.” He looked at the letter and shook his head. “There’s something that bothers me, though.” He picked up the paper and stared at it.
After waiting for Del Monaco to continue, Vail asked, “Frank?”
“‘I know what they know,’” he said. “What does he mean by that? Who is ‘they’?”
“He’s talking about us,” Bledsoe said.
Vail shut her eyes, bracing for the hammer to come down hard on her skull.
“He thinks he knows what we have on him,” Bledsoe continued.
She opened her eyes, realizing Bledsoe was not going to reveal their secret. They brought their beer to their lips and continued ruminating over the meaning of the letter. A few moments later, Bledsoe warded off a chill, then checked his watch. “We’ve gotta go. Underwood should be en route and it’ll take awhile to stow our handguns and get through security again.”
“Show time,” Vail said.
THOMAS UNDERWOOD was a fit fifty-nine years old, with a full head of ink-black hair and the boyish looks that had made him a knockout in his early Bureau days. He had the expert crime solver look Hollywood sought, and Vail was amazed he had never been offered his own television show. But his presence was electric, she had to admit, and she felt a few butterflies fluttering, though she couldn’t be sure it wasn’t just the cheap beer gurgling around her stomach.
Underwood smiled when he saw Del Monaco. “Frank, how you doing? Enjoying life, it looks like,” he said, patting Del Monaco’s round abdomen. Del Monaco huffed a false laugh.
Underwood made introductions to Bledsoe, then turned to face Vail. “Thomas Underwood,” he said, extending a hand and flashing a white smile.
“Karen Vail.”
Underwood’s grin widened. “Oh, you don’t need an introduction.”
Vail felt a flush settle across her face. She was impressed he knew who she was. Had he been following her career?
He must have read the increase in her body temperature, because he immediately clarified: “Your face was plastered across the front page of just about every major newspaper in the country.”
Vail turned away to hide her disappointment and faced the one-way mirror that overlooked their subject. “You don’t need an intro to Mr. Singletary either, I take it.”
“No, I know Ray quite well.” He clapped his hands together. “I’ve been thoroughly briefed on the ride over, so why don’t I just get started?” He looked to Bledsoe, who nodded. “Great. Why don’t you all wait here and I’ll go get us some answers.”
Thomas Underwood greeted Richard Ray Singletary with a firm handshake. It was awkward for both of them because of the shackles, but Underwood was clearly determined to initiate physical contact.
“Ray, how’ve you been?”
“As good as can be expected in a place like this, with the death penalty hanging over your head.”
Vail turned to Bledsoe, who, like Del Monaco, was standing behind the one-way mirror. The gain on the microphone inside the interview room was turned up loud and picked up every utterance, every scrape of chair leg or shoe against the cement floor. The voices sounded tinny, as if they’d been run through a coffee filter.
“They’re like best buddies,” Bledsoe said. “How can Underwood shake the guy’s hand and act like his friend?”
“Part of what made him so successful at interviewing these monsters,” Vail said. “He’s got the gift of gab, and he understands the criminal mind. We teach interview techniques in my unit, if you ever want me to talk to your squad.”
“Thanks.” Bledsoe’s bruised tone told her he wasn’t interested.
“You understand if I don’t have a lot of sympathy for your predicament, Ray,” Underwood said. “You know, it’s a bed you made for yourself.”
“Well, well, well. Has retirement made you a little cynical?”
“I’ve only retired from the Bureau, not from my life’s work.” Underwood flashed a smile. “So I’ve been told you have something to talk to me about.”
Singletary leaned across the table, his eyes darting back and forth, as if he had a reasonable expectation of privacy. He lowered his voice and said, “I know who wrote the letter. I know who the Dead Eyes killer is.” He raised his eyebrows and leaned back in his chair.
To Underwood’s credit, he knew how to play these guys. “So who is he?”
