Vail wearily sat down at the long table where their case files were arranged. She had spent the afternoon pouring through them, looking for commonalities, hoping she could find linkage in one or more of them. Although there were some promising possibilities, it wasn’t anything definitive.
Complicating the task was that she was not working with full homicide case files-it was a mishmash of a journalist’s musings, unofficial and substandard crime scene photos, and excerpts from interpretive writings. It was so far from the objective summaries, analyses, and formal reports she was accustomed to reviewing on cases that she concluded the exercise carried only limited validity.
An hour ago, one of the inspectors had come by to report that he had obtained and executed a search warrant for Stephen Scheer’s cell phone logs, and that the anonymous texts in question originated from two different throwaway phones.
At that point, Vail made a point of noting that she was tired-tired of getting nowhere in identifying the Bay Killer.
“Agent Vail.”
She looked up with bleary eyes. Clay Allman was standing there, hand in a pocket, leaning against the doorjamb.
“You look beat,” he said. “Wanna join me for some coffee downstairs in the cafe? A little caffeine could do your brain some good.”
Vail made no effort to stifle a wide yawn. “Yeah, fine.”
“Burden or Detective Dixon want to join us?”
Vail glanced back at the room. “They’re with the CSI. You just get me.”
They took the elevator down in silence, Vail too tired to object and too tired to climb the stairs. They grabbed two coffees-which Allman insisted on paying for-and started toward a table.
“Let’s walk. You okay with that? It’ll help get my blood moving.”
“So what’s it like?” Allman asked as they headed toward the stairwell. “Being a profiler.”
“Is this on the record?” Vail asked as she adjusted the corrugated jacket surrounding her hot cup.
“Nothing’s on the record here. In fact, there is no record. We’re just two people talking. Actually-to be honest, I came up because I wanted to apologize. I didn’t realize mentioning you in the article would upset you.”
“It’s not that it upset me,” Vail said as she pushed against the fire door. “There are certain ways you handle a serial offender. And certain ways you don’t, depending on the type of killer you’re dealing with. Mentioning my name and my position was not the best way to deal with this guy.”
Allman kept his gaze ahead as they climbed the steps. “And what is?”
Vail hesitated. Off the record or not, she did not feel that chatting idly with a reporter was good form. Despite Burden’s vouching for him, nothing good could come from it, and more likely than not, bad would result. “Clay, no offense, but I’m not accustomed to talking about active cases with anyone, friend of the department or not.”
Allman faced her with a wide grin. “Can’t blame a veteran reporter for trying. No worries. I get it. I’ve been around this block-around this building-a really long time. I didn’t expect a pro like you to actually give me an answer.” He grabbed the handrail as they turned to ascend the next flight of stairs. “Can you at least tell me what the killer missed-what mistake he made?”
“No. Did it make it into your article?”
“Story’s filed, already up on the website.” Keeping his eyes focused ahead, he said, “You know, I was serious. About the apology. Sorry if I put you in a tough spot.”
“Tell me about yourself.” Vail patted herself on the back. A classic- and effective-tactic for switching gears, even if he was keenly aware of what she was doing.
“Myself.” He chuckled. “I’m usually probing others for information. Very few people ask me questions about…me.”
“I’m not like most people.”
Allman hiked both brows. “Yeah, no shit.” They reached their floor and he pulled open the door. Vail stepped through and Allman followed.
After a long pause, she said, “Married?”
“Nope. Never. No kids.”
“Brothers? Sisters?”
“One of each. They’re back east. We Skype. My sister’s got a teenager. My nephew’s a pretty good writer, actually.” He chuckled. “He emails me stuff to edit at least once a week.”
“And you?”
“I think I’m a pretty good writer, too.”
Vail couldn’t help but smile. “I meant you, tell me about you.”
Allman was grinning, as well. “Well. I’ve always loved English. I went to a small college in Washington-the state, not the district-and was editor-in-chief of the school paper. Wish I could say it was a life-altering experience, but I just liked the idea of digging to find the story behind the story. I graduated, nothing special-no honors or anything like that-but I landed a job here, in the city. In the Chronicle’s mailroom.” He chuckled. “Four years of college so I could sort mail. At least I was sorting mail at the Chronicle. And I actually picked up a lot of stuff just by hanging out with the reporters. But six months later I hooked on with the Tribune.”
“And what was the Trib’s mailroom like?” Vail asked with a grin.
“I didn’t realize profilers had a sense of humor.” He took a drink. “I was writing articles. At first, it wasn’t anything earth-shattering, but I kept flooding the city editor with story ideas. I got shot down a lot-I was just a cub reporter, what the hell did I know-but he liked me, I guess, and he ended up teaching me how to pitch in the morning sessions. Pretty cool stuff.”
“When did you meet Scheer?”
Allman glanced sideways at her, then took a sip of his coffee. “How’d we get on this topic?”
“I asked.”
“Yeah, right.” He tipped the cup back again. “I had a knack for crime reporting, so my editor paired me up with Stephen. He’d been covering the crime beat for about three years, so the feeling was Stephen’d teach me the ropes.”
