The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [120]
She stood there for a moment, pondering such a future. “I want my job back, Robby. At the Bureau. Staring at grisly photos and dealing with male chauvinists.”
Robby looked at her a long moment, then nodded. “Then that’s the goal.”
She nodded back.
“Let’s go eat,” he said as he took her hand. “Take it from me, Prego is best served hot.”
fifty-three
Vail and Robby parked in the Academy’s main lot and entered through Jefferson Hall. They signed in at the security station and navigated the maze of glass hallways, Vail playing tour guide and pointing out notable areas and rooms. They made their way through the armory and indoor shooting range, caught the elevator, and took it down into the Behavioral Science Unit’s basement offices.
BSU’s Investigative Support Unit gained attention because of a handful of agents whose profiling work in the seventies and eighties proved invaluable in cracking several high-profile serial offender cases. It was made famous by its appearance in the movie The Silence of the Lambs, followed by mentions in numerous novels.
When the BSU was divided (though not conquered), the Investigative Support Unit was renamed and carted down the road. The profilers gained windows and a more cheerful working environment. The BSU criminologists who remained in the subbasement gained ... more office space.
Vail led Robby through the cream-colored cinderblock corridor to Wayne Rudnick’s office, an eight-by-ten room lit with four incandescent fixtures standing on surfaces of varied heights. The attempt to brighten a dull, depressing environment had fallen somewhat short, Vail thought, but it was an improvement nonetheless.
“Kind of creepy down here,” Robby said.
“You get used to it. It’s a kick to visit, because of all the history and legends who’ve worked here.”
Rudnick, a sixteen-year veteran, had spent every moment of his tenure in the now-famous subbasement. On his door was a sign scrawled in black magic marker that read:
Welcome to BSU—
sixty feet underground
ten times deeper than dead people
Vail knocked on Rudnick’s partially open door and waited but did not get a response. She gave it a slight nudge and it swung open with a squeal.
Rudnick was sitting behind his desk tossing a gel-filled stress-relief ball in the air. He had been doing it for years, claiming it helped him clear his mind. He had once organized a unit-wide challenge to see who could come closest to the ceiling without hitting it. Rudnick had won, but someone had monkeyed with his office chair, and much to the delight of everyone who was in on the prank, Rudnick complained the arc and force of his toss were impaired by the change in the “feel” of his chair. He remained pissed for days when he discovered the conspiracy had been organized by his special agent-in-charge.
“Well, if it’s not the Redhead Express.” Rudnick jumped out of his chair, arms up and extended for a hug.
She obliged him and then introduced Robby.
Rudnick brushed back his wild Albert Einstein hair, then shook Robby’s hand. “You’re here on a case, aren’t you?” He turned back to his desk, lifting various papers and files, as if looking for something.
“Dead Eyes,” Robby said. “Karen sent the case over to you for input.” He looked to Vail for confirmation. “How long ago was that?”
“Dead Eyes, Dead Eyes. That rings a bell.” Rudnick continued searching his desk, the movement of papers becoming a bit more frantic.
Vail crossed her arms over her chest and, with a slight smirk, shook her head.
“Is there a problem?” Robby asked.
“He’s pulling your leg,” Vail said. “He knows where the file is.”
Rudnick suddenly reached out and poked a folder from atop a pile. “Here it is.”
“See? He does this all the time. He thinks it’s funny.”
“I love playing with new agents’ heads.”
Robby took a step forward, his thick thighs stopped by the edge of the desk. He looked down at the diminutive Rudnick. “I’m not a new agent.”
Rudnick looked up at Robby, over the tops of his thick-rimmed eyeglasses. “But you’re someone of authority, I can see that.”
“Investigator