The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [132]
“I thought Linwood’s murder was more violent because of the personal connection,” Bledsoe said.
“It was.” At least, I think it was. “But this is something else. Many, if not most, serial killers begin to get more aggressive, more violent as the victims mount. It’s almost too much, it becomes overwhelming to them. Even those who thrive on control begin to lose structure in their lives, even if they don’t realize it’s happening. When it gets out of hand, they surpass their ability to handle the overload. They make mistakes, lose their composure. That’ll work to our advantage. Only problem is, we don’t know if he’ll reach critical mass at victim eight or victim twenty-eight.”
Del Monaco set down his cup and wiggled a bit on the bench seat. “An offender’s early murders typically demonstrate his need to engage in the thrill of the hunt. He lives for exerting control over his victim. But as he loses himself in his perception that he’s invincible, the emphasis of his attacks shifts to a kind of hunger, a simple need to kill.” He looked at the letter and shook his head. “There’s something that bothers me, though.” He picked up the paper and stared at it.
After waiting for Del Monaco to continue, Vail asked, “Frank?”
“‘I know what they know,’” he said. “What does he mean by that? Who is ‘they’?”
“He’s talking about us,” Bledsoe said.
Vail shut her eyes, bracing for the hammer to come down hard on her skull.
“He thinks he knows what we have on him,” Bledsoe continued.
She opened her eyes, realizing Bledsoe was not going to reveal their secret. They brought their beer to their lips and continued ruminating over the meaning of the letter. A few moments later, Bledsoe warded off a chill, then checked his watch. “We’ve gotta go. Underwood should be en route and it’ll take awhile to stow our handguns and get through security again.”
“Show time,” Vail said.
THOMAS UNDERWOOD was a fit fifty-nine years old, with a full head of ink-black hair and the boyish looks that had made him a knockout in his early Bureau days. He had the expert crime solver look Hollywood sought, and Vail was amazed he had never been offered his own television show. But his presence was electric, she had to admit, and she felt a few butterflies fluttering, though she couldn’t be sure it wasn’t just the cheap beer gurgling around her stomach.
Underwood smiled when he saw Del Monaco. “Frank, how you doing? Enjoying life, it looks like,” he said, patting Del Monaco’s round abdomen. Del Monaco huffed a false laugh.
Underwood made introductions to Bledsoe, then turned to face Vail. “Thomas Underwood,” he said, extending a hand and flashing a white smile.
“Karen Vail.”
Underwood’s grin widened. “Oh, you don’t need an introduction.”
Vail felt a flush settle across her face. She was impressed he knew who she was. Had he been following her career?
He must have read the increase in her body temperature, because he immediately clarified: “Your face was plastered across the front page of just about every major newspaper in the country.”
Vail turned away to hide her disappointment and faced the one-way mirror that overlooked their subject. “You don’t need an intro to Mr. Singletary either, I take it.”
“No, I know Ray quite well.” He clapped his hands together. “I’ve been thoroughly briefed on the ride over, so why don’t I just get started?” He looked to Bledsoe, who nodded. “Great. Why don’t you all wait here and I’ll go get us some answers.”
fifty-eight
Thomas Underwood greeted Richard Ray Singletary with a firm handshake. It was awkward for both of them because of the shackles, but Underwood