was concerned, Patrick Farwell disappeared. After an extensive search, it was theorized he had left the state and gone underground. But the warden had another theory, and that was that Patrick Farwell had taken on an alias and was still living somewhere in the Commonwealth of Virginia. It was only a hunch, but the warden noted that his hunches, though based only on his limited knowledge of each particular inmate, were usually accurate.
“His pent-up anger boiled over when he got out,” Del Monaco said. “As soon as he disappeared, there were no controls on him anymore. No guards, no parole officers. The guy was unleashed, literally and figuratively.”
Robby nodded. “And his break with parole coincides with the first Dead Eyes murder. My vic, Marci Evers.”
“Any suggestion of computer skills?” Bledsoe asked.
Robby rubbed his eyes. “Like what? Classes, things like that?”
“Anything,” Bledsoe said.
“Nothing I see in the record,” Robby said. “But computer training is available lots of places, and most of it isn’t tracked or recorded anywhere.”
“And the kind of software used for the untraceable email is available online,” Vail said. “Based on what I was told, advanced training isn’t required.”
“Well,” Manette said, “I say we go for it. We’ve got the name, fingerprints, and background on this guy, and from what I’m hearing, he fits nicely. All we need is . . . him.”
Bledsoe clapped his hands together. “Then let’s get moving. Hernandez, talk with the postal inspector. Find out if there was ever a forwarding order submitted for Patrick Farwell. Sin, check with the IRS, see if any W-2’s have been filed. Then check the regional jails. Possible this guy got picked up on a traffic violation or a drunk-in- public. He could already be under lock and key.” Bledsoe looked at the fax. “And I’ll get this circulated. Have the lab send it to every PD and SO in the state.”
“Shouldn’t we go national?” Sinclair asked.
“Can’t hurt to get something out to NCIC,” Bledsoe said, referring to the National Crime Information Center.
Vail shook her head. “Farwell’s local. He’s bold, aggressive, and sure of himself. He thinks he can operate without consequence, and unfortunately we’ve only reinforced those feelings by being unable to generate any substantial leads.”
Robby held up an index finger. “Until now.”
“Until now. Point is, we’ve given him no reason to leave his comfort zone, which is outlined in the geoprofile. For now, I say we keep it statewide. And hope we get lucky.”
With the investigation now focused and well on its way toward bringing in its first suspect, Vail took a break to run over to the hospital to check in on Jonathan.
She informed the nurse she wanted to talk with the doctor, then sat and held Jonathan’s hand for nearly half an hour before Altman walked in. They exchanged brief pleasantries before he said, “You remember our discussions about the importance of small steps.”
“Have there been any since you last examined him?”
“Yes. Come closer.” He removed his penlight from his jacket pocket and leaned over Jonathan’s face. He turned on the light and brought it close to the youth’s eyes.
“He blinked,” Vail said. “He did that before.”
“That’s right. Now, watch this.” Altman stepped back and grabbed a wad of Jonathan’s forearm and squeezed. Jonathan moved the limb, pulling away from Altman’s grip. “Purposeful movement in response to pinching.”
Vail moved to Jonathan’s side and instinctively rubbed his forearm where Altman had made his mark. “And that means?”
“It’s a very, very strong sign that Jonathan is coming out of the comatose state.”
“How long?”
“Before he’s completely out of it?” Altman shrugged. “There’s no timetable. Could be tomorrow, could be weeks or months. It’s impossible to say.”
While the agony of uncertainty would continue, at least she had substantial reason for hope. The odds that Jonathan would come out of the coma had just increased. “Thank you, Doctor.”
“I noticed your limp has gotten worse. Mind if I take a look at it?”
Vail smiled. “I’d meant to ask you about it. I twisted the knee a couple weeks ago. Then I slipped on the ice, and it’s been killing me ever since.”
She sat down and watched as Altman moved her leg through a normal range of motion, then gently pushed and pulled in a variety of directions. Vail grabbed the arms of the chair and tried not to scream.
“Orthopedics isn’t my specialty, but it looks like you’ve torn some ligaments. You should have an MRI and a more comprehensive exam.” He pulled out a prescription pad and jotted down the names of two physicians. “Don’t put it off too long, it’s only going to get worse.”
She took the paper and thanked him. After Altman had left the room, Vail leaned close to her son and ran the back of her index finger across his face. His left eye twitched in response. “Jonathan, sweetie, can you hear me? It’s Mom. I wanted to tell you how proud I am of you. Keep fighting. You’re gonna beat this.”
She reached down and took his hand in hers. “I’m making progress, too, on my case. Tell you what. When you wake up, we’ll ditch this place and go out for milk shakes. Just the two of us, okay?”
She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, then kissed his forehead.
“I love you, champ.”
“We’ve got Farwell’s full file from Greensville,” Bledsoe said, tossing it on the table in front of him. Robby and Vail had arrived at Izzy’s Pizza Parlor at nearly the same time. Bledsoe had already ordered, and a large pizza pie gleaming with cheese and pepperoni sat in front of him. He moved over to allow Vail into the booth beside him. Robby’s size automatically bought him the entire opposite end of the table. “Farwell was in the general population. There was a note in the file that he was particularly close with one inmate.”
“Richard Ray Singletary,” Robby said.
“The one and only.”
Vail sighed. “Well, that makes me feel a little better. That we didn’t let Singletary take the secret to hell with him. At least we found the information before anyone else died.”
“What else is in the file?” Robby asked.
“According to prison records, home address is listed as a PO Box in Dale City. Manette’s on her way over there to see if it’s still active. If it is, she’ll sit on it, see if he shows. But we also got a fifteen-year-old employment address. Timberland Custom Cabinets in Richmond.”
“A carpenter,” Robby said, eyeing the pizza.
“Yes,” Bledsoe said, lifting a large slice from the aluminum platter.
Robby followed his lead and dug in. “I take it we’re on our way there after lunch.”
“Already spoke with the guy. He’s a real by-the-numbers prick. I put a call in to the DA to get a warrant. Should be ready by the time we’re done here. Hopefully they’ll have more than just a PO Box in their file.”
Robby sprinkled red pepper flakes on his pizza. “Even if he doesn’t, it feels a whole lot better having a scent to track. Sooner or later, we’ll find him.”
TIMBERLAND CUSTOM CABINETS was a sprawling industrial complex on a potholed asphalt road that dead- ended against the back lot of an adjacent lumberyard. The main structure was a tin-roofed brick building that probably had not looked a whole lot better when it was new.
Vail took one last pull on the straw of her Big Gulp of Coke—high octane to keep her mind working and her feet moving—and followed Robby and Bledsoe into the building. Bledsoe served the search warrant and asked for the personnel records pertaining to Patrick Farwell. Ten minutes later, a heavyset black woman emerged from another wing of the office with a dog-eared manila file folder in her hand. She handed it over without a word, then
