The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [116]
The thought suddenly excited him. He opened the freezer door and pulled out his growing collection of hands. Each one a memory, each one special in its own right.
He set them out on the table, in a circle around some papers he’d recently obtained. Pretty funny reading through this stuff . . . a profile prepared by Supervisory Special Agent Karen Vail. Very impressive. They had a supervisory agent on his case, not just a special agent. They were all special, weren’t they? They seemed to think so.
Oh, here’s a good one: “‘He’s bright, above average intelligence. He may have a background in art, either in practice or in school. He might even be a frustrated artist. . . . ’” A frustrated artist? “Bitch! I’m not frustrated, I AM an artist! Come look at my studio, see my work. Talk to my students. How dare you doubt my talents!”
He found his spot in the document and continued reading. “‘He’s got some deep-seated issues . . . an abusive childhood’. . . Jesus, is it that obvious? Yes! An abusive childhood. Are you incredibly stupid, or just incredibly unenlightened? I told you that in my writings. I couldn’t have said it any plainer. Did it take an FBI profiler to figure that one out?”
He skipped to the next paragraph. “‘Fixation on eyes could be symbolic . . . perhaps the father put him down by telling him everyone sees him as a failure . . . ’” Now that’s perceptive. He hadn’t thought of it that way. Very interesting. And he had to admit, pretty damn accurate. She nailed that one. Gotta give credit where it’s due. He was fair in that respect.
She can’t explain the evisceration. Think anger, Supervisory Special Agent Vail. Think the utmost in humiliation, in power. Of what it represents.
He turned the page and read some more. Digesting all this would take a while. But judging by what little they had on him, he had the time.
fifty
Chase Hancock’s home was a well-groomed one-story, renovated in recent years with built-in teak furniture, flat-panel television with surround sound system and frilly window coverings that screamed women’s touch. But Hancock was not married and never had been. One might assume he had hired a decorator.
One might have also assumed he had done quite well for himself since leaving the FBI. “So why did he have such a hard time with Karen?” Robby asked.
“Male ego,” Bledsoe answered. “She got something he wanted. Those types of wounds take a long time to heal.”
Bledsoe stood in the living room and ran a hand along one of the leather sofas. “Pricey stuff. Feels like a lambskin coat my father wore.” He directed one of the forensic technicians into the house. “We’re looking for anything and everything pertaining to a murder. Hair and clothing fibers to match against what we’ve got on our vics. Blood. Blunt objects used as weapons. You know the drill.”
“We’re going to vacuum first,” the head tech said. “As we clear each room, you’ll be allowed in.”
Robby thanked the tech, then headed out of the house to wait. “He’s had time to clean up,” he said to Bledsoe. “You think we’ll find anything? Hancock knows the drill, he’s been on our end of things.”
Bledsoe shrugged. “I’ve never seen the perfect murder, Hernandez. Even if he’s Mr. Clean, there’s bound to be something he left behind.” They stepped outside into the blustery winter air, where Chase Hancock stood ten feet away, buttocks leaning against his Acura, arms folded against his chest.
Robby turned to Bledsoe. “Whatever that something is, I just hope we find it.”
fifty-one
Vail checked her voice mail from her cell phone on the way to visit Jonathan. Thirty messages were logged when her machine started refusing additional calls. As she started to go through them, she realized they were all requests from media outlets across the country, including a couple from overseas. She thought about deleting the messages, then realized she had better review them in case any were regarding Emma or Jonathan—or herself: OPR, Gifford, and Jackson Parker