he never should’ve gotten.”
Vail harrumphed. That’s an understatement. “It could end up costing lives. So if you’ve got any idea who he might be speaking to-”
“If I had any idea who he’s talking to, believe me, Agent Vail, I’d be talking to them, too. But I’ve got no goddamn clue. I assumed it was you people.”
“Enough of this,” Dixon said. “We’ve got a victim in there waiting for us.”
“Hang out here,” Burden said to Allman, pointing at the spot as he backed away. “I’ll give you a buzz when you can come in.”
“I left you something at your office,” Allman said. “More articles and information about cases that I think could be related.”
“Thanks,” Burden said.
“Just remember,” Allman said, “I’ll be standing out here in the cold. Waiting.”
Vail glanced back at Allman. I’ll break out the freaking violins.
AFTER SLIPPING BOOTIES ONTO THEIR shoes, they ascended the steps to the second-floor bedroom. A sitting room at the top of the stairs contained a stout oak rolltop desk, bearing a PC and an oversize 25-inch LCD monitor that was asleep.
They walked into the bedroom and stood there, staring at the bed.
This is not good.
“What the hell is this,” Burden said.
Vail stepped closer to the body. It was an elderly woman, with scraggly steel-wool hair that was matted with blood. Her face had been beaten, almost crushed from the force of the blows. And the behaviors they had seen all too many times were present: The woman had been sodomized with an umbrella. And her blouse had been pulled up to the level of her chin.
“It looks like an angrier attack,” Dixon said. “Karen?”
“It does look that way. Some psychopaths enjoy imparting pain and damage to the victim. But he hadn’t previously beaten their faces like this. Not nearly this bad. At first blush, it seems like he’s pissed off.”
“Because of Scheer’s article?” Burden asked.
“That’s the million-dollar question,” Vail said. “And that’s why we need to control what we release to the media. When something like this happens, we have no idea what’s driving what. Is the offender steering the ship, or are we?” She tilted her head, sizing up the trauma, then said. “Yes, if I had to guess, and that’s what I have to do here, I’d say it’s because of the article. That was a pretty bad insult to his ego. And the timing is too coincidental. This looks like a fresh vic, and Scheer’s article came out hours ago. Yeah. Related.”
Burden pulled three surgical gloves from his pocket and handed two to Vail and Dixon.
“Where’s the key?” Dixon asked as she inserted her hand into the baby blue rubberized material.
They twisted and bent, peered and knelt, taking care not to disturb it before the criminalist had a chance to document the scene.
“Found it,” Burden said, pointing to a spot beneath the victim’s torso.
Dixon held her iPhone in front of it and snapped off a couple of photos from different angles.
Burden extracted the key and held it up. “Not the same.”
Vail tilted her head, appraising it. “Just a plain brass key. Kwikset. One in…what, millions? Not the specialized shape like the other ones.”
“So…what?” Burden asked. “He ran out of the other kind?”
Or it’s a different killer. The violence to the face. A different key. Is this a copycat who went by what’s in that Register article? Or is it the same asshole, just fucking with us, trying to make me do what I’m doing now. Running in circles and getting nowhere…
“Karen.” Dixon waved a hand in front of Vail’s face. “Hello, Dixon to Vail. Over.”
Vail refocused her eyes. “Sorry. Running it through my brain.”
“Care to share?” Burden asked. “Usually works better that way.”
“Telling people what pops into my head sometimes gets me into trouble.”
Dixon chuckled. “No argument there.”
Vail took the key in her gloved palm and looked at it. “It’s possible this is a copycat. I wanna go back through Scheer’s article and see exactly what details he disclosed. If this offender painted by numbers based on what Scheer described, the chances of this being a different scumbag go up. Could be he’s the same guy, trying to throw us off. Playing with us.”
Burden craned his neck and studied a letter laying on the dresser. “Just a guess, but I think our vic is Roberta Strayhan.”
“Hey, you guys up here?” A voice from the hallway.
“In the bedroom,” Burden said.
Rex Jackson walked in with his kit. He noticed the key in Vail’s hand. “Couldn’t you have waited? You’re making my job harder.”
Vail handed Jackson the evidence. “I’d apologize, but I don’t want to be disingenuous.”
Jackson chuckled a humorless laugh. “You’re a piece of work.”
“Hey,” Dixon said. “You’re getting a more civil, diplomatic Karen Vail. A few months ago, her response wouldn’t have been so nice.”
“Thanks,” Vail said. I think.
Jackson pulled his camera from its bag. “I guess I should feel fortunate. But I don’t.”
Burden took a long look around the room, and then said, “Clay Allman’s downstairs waiting to come up. How long?”
Jackson thumbed a dial on his Nikon. “Give me thirty. And make sure he’s escorted, I don’t wanna be responsible testifying about what he did or didn’t see.”
As Jackson began snapping photos, Burden, Dixon, and Vail left the room and let him work his magic. They exited the building and joined Clay Allman by the curb, right where they had left him, hands in his jeans pockets and flexing his legs in place. The temperature had dropped a few degrees and dusk had crept in.
“You didn’t have to stay in the exact spot,” Burden said. “I was only kidding.”
Allman spread his arms. “I aim to please.”
“My mother had a sign like that in the bathroom,” Vail said. “Over the
