The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [111]
Vail mulled this over, then realized those parameters would be too limiting. “What about other blood sources? He could’ve been in a hospital and gotten a bad pint. If that’s the case, and for some reason he thinks a woman was responsible, bingo—that’s all it would take to get him going.”
“Then we should also check out the labs. Hospital and private,” Robby said. “Employees, suppliers, subcontractors. Anyone with a record or history of mental illness.”
“Do we want to go regional?” Del Monaco asked. “Or even national?”
“First start locally,” Vail said. “If we look at all the possible labs in the country, we’ll be doing paperwork for the next year while our killer continues to do his thing. I say if the local angle comes up empty, then we expand to regional. Then national.”
Del Monaco’s right foot was dancing, tapping the floor with anger. “I disagree. Regional first. Split it up, we should get it done in a few days.”
“Serial killers start close to home because it’s familiar territory to them,” Vail said.
Del Monaco’s ample face shaded red. “I don’t need you to tell me that, Karen—”
“Start locally,” Bledsoe said firmly. “Focus our efforts within a fifty mile radius. We need to, we can always look further.”
“The geographic profile would help narrow it down,” Vail said. Let Bledsoe pressure Del Monaco.
Bledsoe cocked his head to one side, his eyes coming to rest on Del Monaco, who was pretending to read some papers. He must have felt Bledsoe’s glare, because he spoke without lifting his head. “Kim Rossmo’s associate was preparing it. I’ll look into it.”
“Good,” Bledsoe said. “Much better when we all cooperate with each other, isn’t it? We’re on the same side, working toward a common goal: to catch this fucker. Let’s not forget that.” He waited a beat, then told them to get started on their new assignments.
GIFFORD ARRIVED AT THE OP CENTER thirty-five minutes later, moments after everyone had left. Vail had just finished running another copy of the case file when the door swung open and Gifford walked in. His black raincoat was open, his hands shoved deep into the pockets. He had a direct line of sight of Vail, who stood with her hands on the lid of the copier. The case file was splayed open. She turned and headed toward him, hoping he would not see what she had been duplicating. It would require an explanation, and what she needed were answers, not more questions.
“Sir,” she said, meeting him ten feet from the copier. “Frank said you wanted to see me.”
“I texted you. Never got a response.”
She pulled the BlackBerry from her belt and inspected the display. “Never came through.”
He stood there, looking down at her. “Uh huh.” He turned and looked around the converted living room/dining room and nodded approvingly. “Nice setup.”
“Bledsoe’s a pro. He runs a tight ship.”
“Evidently not tight enough.” Boom. Direct hit.
Vail stood there awkwardly, wondering if she should sit or keep standing. She had never felt intimidated by Gifford before, but now was different. He came here to talk with her, the revelation about Linwood fresh in his mind. The Herald’s allegations, for which he had to answer, no doubt at the forefront of his thoughts. For the moment, she would let him call the shots.
He took a seat at the closest desk, which was Sinclair’s. He lifted the basketball, which stood on a small stand, and rolled it around with his fingertips. “Signed by Jordan?”
Vail nodded. “Bubba Sinclair’s. He keeps it here for good luck.”
“Hmph.”
Just that, an indirect swipe at the task force, as if to say “a lot of good it’s done you.” But he kept his comment to himself, which was fine with her. She didn’t need any overt sarcasm to piss her off. In her current state, she didn’t know how she would react, and the last thing she needed was to fly off the handle at her boss.
Still holding the ball, rolling it with his fingertips, his eyes watching it spin, he leaned back in the chair and said simply, “So, was it true, that Linwood was your mother?