The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [131]
Vail walked back toward Del Monaco and Bledsoe and said, “Nothing yet.”
Del Monaco was folding his phone. “Underwood is on his way. He’ll be here inside of two hours. I say we get out of here, paint the town or something.”
“Our knight in shining armor is on the way to save the day,” Vail said with a hint of sarcasm. “Smacks of Hollywood. I can’t wait.”
THEY TOOK THEIR SEATS at a beat-up picnic table twenty yards from Bob’s Country Store, where they’d purchased hamburgers, chilidogs, and beer. The debate over drinking while on duty died with their appetite after finding that the only greasy spoon within fifteen minutes of the prison was, in fact, a very greasy spoon.
And, as they soon learned, being in the Bible Belt meant their alcohol had to be consumed off-premises, in the chill air.
“Well,” Bledsoe said, inspecting the flat head on his beer, “it seems that somewhere along the way, Underwood made an impression on Singletary.”
Del Monaco tipped his plastic cup toward the light and frowned at the color of his drink. “Singletary’s got a relationship with Underwood. He trusts him. Happened with John Wayne Gacy, and Dahmer, too.”
Bledsoe took a pull on the beer and made a face. “I hope Underwood works his magic. I get the feeling he’s more into writing books than writing profiles these days.”
“Bureau pension only goes so far,” Del Monaco said. “Nothing wrong with free enterprise.”
“Yeah, well, looks to me like he’s trying to ride the coattails of John Douglas’s success.”
Vail cleared her throat and leaned forward. “Frank,” she said tentatively, “you ever have nightmares? Of work?”
Del Monaco swallowed a mouthful of beer as he thought about the question. “You mean like working with you is a nightmare sometimes?”
“I’m serious.”
Del Monaco set down his cup and regarded his colleague. “You having Dead Eyes nightmares?”
Vail’s gaze found the million-year-old pocked-wood table. “You didn’t answer my question.”
He shrugged. “Had a nightmare after my first murder scene way back when. But nothing since then. My brain kind of acclimated to it. Go to work, deal with this shit, come home, leave it all at the office.”
She pulled her coat tight against a sudden gust of wind. “That’s good you can do that,” she said without further explanation.
“I’ve had some nightmares,” Bledsoe said. “Been awhile, but I remember the last one real well. I was in a shootout and my gun jammed. Radio didn’t work. And I couldn’t talk. It was like my throat closed up. Woke up drenched in sweat.” He shook his head. “Seemed so damn real. It’s been years but I remember it like yesterday.”
Vail wished she had never brought it up, because the next question was likely to be from Del Monaco, again asking if she’s had dreams regarding Dead Eyes.
But he surprised her when he elbowed her and said, “Let’s look at that letter again. If anyone’s qualified to analyze it, it’s us.”
Vail pulled it from her pocket and unfolded it. She read aloud. “I’ve done more than I ever thought I’d be able to do. But when you put your mind to something, you can do anything.” She looked at Del Monaco, who shrugged.
“Beats the shit out of me,” he said. “Nothing specific to that.”
Vail continued: “I find myself overwhelmed by the power of it all. Of being able to do anything I want to. No one to tell me I can’t.”
Del Monaco spread his hands in acknowledgment. “Signs of power. Of control. So far, there’s nothing to say it’s a hoax. But, there’re no details only the killer would know, either.”
“It does match up with the emails he sent,” Vail said. “The hunger-based need for power and control.”
“But it’s nonspecific,” Del Monaco said. “Those are common serial offender themes.”
Vail looked back at the paper: “I can’t stop myself. I’m sure you know the feeling, the urges, the need for more. They may think they can stop me, but they can’t. I know what they know. They’ll never find me.”
Vail exchanged a knowing glance with Bledsoe. All the proof she needed was right there—a reference to the stolen profile. It wasn’t hard evidence, but