The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [133]
“Ray, how’ve you been?”
“As good as can be expected in a place like this, with the death penalty hanging over your head.”
Vail turned to Bledsoe, who, like Del Monaco, was standing behind the one-way mirror. The gain on the microphone inside the interview room was turned up loud and picked up every utterance, every scrape of chair leg or shoe against the cement floor. The voices sounded tinny, as if they’d been run through a coffee filter.
“They’re like best buddies,” Bledsoe said. “How can Underwood shake the guy’s hand and act like his friend?”
“Part of what made him so successful at interviewing these monsters,” Vail said. “He’s got the gift of gab, and he understands the criminal mind. We teach interview techniques in my unit, if you ever want me to talk to your squad.”
“Thanks.” Bledsoe’s bruised tone told her he wasn’t interested.
“You understand if I don’t have a lot of sympathy for your predicament, Ray,” Underwood said. “You know, it’s a bed you made for yourself.”
“Well, well, well. Has retirement made you a little cynical?”
“I’ve only retired from the Bureau, not from my life’s work.” Underwood flashed a smile. “So I’ve been told you have something to talk to me about.”
Singletary leaned across the table, his eyes darting back and forth, as if he had a reasonable expectation of privacy. He lowered his voice and said, “I know who wrote the letter. I know who the Dead Eyes killer is.” He raised his eyebrows and leaned back in his chair.
To Underwood’s credit, he knew how to play these guys. “So who is he?”
“For a price.”
“Look, Ray. You demanded they fly me out here, and I dropped everything I was in the middle of and caught the next plane. I’m here. Let’s not play games.”
“This isn’t about games, Thomas. It’s about life. I don’t want to die. I’ve got less than five days before they kill me. That’s about a hundred and sixty hours before my life is over. They want to catch this guy, I wanna live. It’s all locked up in here,” he said, pointing to his head. “I give them a name, they give me my life back. That’s not too much to ask, Thomas. It’s really pretty simple.”
“It’s a lot more complicated and you know it, Ray. You’re a smart guy. There’s politics involved. They give in to you, it sets a bad precedent.”
“They let me die with the name buttoned up inside me, and setting a bad precedent will be the least of their problems. What politician wants the blood of more dead women on his hands?” He looked away, then back to Underwood. “Hell, once the legislature finds out I know who this guy is, they’re gonna want that name so the FBI can arrest him and publicly fry his ass. It’s important to show you can’t kill a state senator and get away with it, right? So don’t tell me about politics.”
Underwood leaned back in his chair. “Let’s say for a moment that they won’t deal. What else can I negotiate for you?”
“There’s nothing else to talk about. You want the killer’s identity, that’s what it’ll cost you.”
“The problem they have, Ray, is that there’s no way of verifying this letter is really from the Dead Eyes killer. You say it is, because you recognize a phrase he used. But it could just be chance. It’s not like he signed it and included a fingerprint and photo for your benefit.”
“I’ll give you the name and you go out and grab the guy up. Things check out, the deal goes through. It’s the wrong guy, I get the needle. You can’t lose.”
“He’s got it all figured out,” Bledsoe said in the adjacent room.
“He was an organized offender,” Vail explained. “High IQ. Preyed on college girls living off-campus. He followed them to a supermarket, then lured them away by wearing a fake cast, claiming he’d broken his arm. He told them he needed help loading groceries into his van. As soon as he got them out of sight, he cracked them over the head with the cast and threw them into the van.” Vail turned back to the mirror. “You bet he’s got this all figured out. Which is why I find it hard to trust him.”
“We’ll see what take Underwood has, maybe he’s got a feel for the