The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [142]
Had Vail been wearing spurs, and had she been able to kick herself, she would have done so. She had been virtually blind to something so obvious. That she hadn’t seen it ate at her and ran contrary to what she prided herself on: that she knew the human psyche, could read it and evaluate it and predict certain things about it. But in this case she had been no better than a blind person who couldn’t read Braille. Because like all cases, there was a key that unlocked the killer’s secrets. She’d held the key—the locket—but had not realized it.
Vail put the photo aside, then continued to thumb through the spilled contents of the metal box. Something grabbed her attention: an envelope containing a scrawled note to Emma from Nellie: “Here’s the photo Patrick took of us. See you soon. Love, Nell.” Vail felt excitement well up in her chest. Pay dirt! Maybe. She thought of all the potential forensics arrayed in front of her: a first name. Fingerprints, possibly saliva . . . and DNA.
She found a box of plastic bags in the kitchen and slipped the photo and envelope in their own Ziploc containers. She taped the metal box closed, then dialed Bledsoe and asked if he was seated.
“I’m in my car, I better be seated.”
“Then pull over.”
“Pull over? That good, huh?”
“How much do you want to break Dead Eyes?”
“More than any other case I’ve ever had. Why, you got something?”
“I got the killer, Bledsoe. At least, I got a first name and possibly a whole lot more.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Would I shit you on something like this?”
“Don’t hold out on me, Karen. Who is it?”
Vail closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and told him.
sixty-five
“No way,” Bledsoe said. “Are you sure?”
“Very sure. I connected the dots. And he fits my profile. It all makes sense, which it should, whenever you look at the suspect in retrospect, right?”
“Karen, I’m sorry.”
“I never met the man, Bledsoe. It is what it is. I have no feelings either way. Let’s just bag him before he kills again.”
“You said you had a name.”
“First name is Patrick. If he was the same age as Linwood at the time, my guess is he was born in the mid-nineteen-forties.”
“That’s a big assumption, but it’s a start. I’ll get everyone on it, see how many Patricks born in the mid-nineteen-forties show up on any of our lists. You said you’ve got other stuff, too?”
“I’ve got an envelope and a photo he may’ve handled. Might get some latents, possibly DNA.”
“Latents would be great. I’ve got a feeling this guy’s been in the system. If I’m right, the prints’ll get us his last name, then we’re off to the races. Where are you?”
“I’m at Robby’s. I’ve gotta go by the lab to drop off the evidence. I should be back here around eleven thirty.”
“Don’t go home. Meet us at the op center.”
“Oh, my other home.”
“And Karen . . . good work.”
VAIL ARRIVED AT THE OP CENTER at a quarter to twelve, having been awake for nearly eighteen hours. But she did not feel fatigued. She had been running scenarios and trying to match her profile to what she knew about her father—which was nothing. She had called Tim Meadows and told him she had crucial evidence in the Dead Eyes case that needed to be analyzed immediately.
“Judging by what you’re bringing me, we’ll need a latent person, an image enhancer, somebody in Questioned Documents . . . I’ll have to get three people on this if you want it done yesterday.”
“Tell them I said thanks.”
“Oh, that’ll go real far.”
“Then tell them the faster we get these results the faster we’ll have a suspect in custody.”
“They’ve heard it a million times, Karen. But I’ll take care of it. We’ll do the latents first, see if we get any immediate hits. We’ll take good care of you,” he told her. When she arrived at headquarters, one of the lab techs met her at the front entrance, took the materials, and did not say a word. He was clearly unhappy about having to work through the night.
But her reception at the op center was vastly different. When Vail walked in, she got high fives from everyone—including Del Monaco, who, because of the late hour, was uncharacteristically dressed