The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [144]
Manette waved a hand. “Mumbo jumbo hocus pocus crap. You got an excuse for everything, don’t you? Can’t you just admit you were wrong?”
“This isn’t solving anything,” Bledsoe said. “For the moment, I accept Karen’s explanation. Let’s move on.”
Sinclair’s head was resting on the Michael Jordan basketball, his eyelids at half-mast. “Did we put out an APB?”
“And a BOLO,” Del Monaco said, referring to the Bureau’s “Be On The Lookout” alert.
Sinclair pulled his head up, straightened his back, and tried to open his eyes. “Then we should be getting as much as we can on this guy, checking tax records, DMV files, utility companies—”
“Some of that’ll have to wait till morning, when we can access their databases,” Bledsoe said. “But I agree. Let’s get started now on what we can. Maybe we’ll have something by then. We’re going to need more than a locket, a profile, and some circumstantial connections to get a search warrant.”
THE SUN’S EARLY RAYS crept past the cloud cover and warmed the winter air a few degrees. Like the task force, the house’s heater had worked overtime into the cold evening, struggling to blow through clogged and aged ducts.
Using the Internet, FBI, police, and tax databases, Virginia prison records, and a few favors, they were able to sift through a fair amount of information. The one promising fact was that Patrick Farwell had a history consistent with those seen amongst serial offenders. The records they sifted painted a by-the-numbers black-and-white picture, but left a great many holes that needed plugging. In the wee hours of the morning, they began reading between the lines, substituting speculation and conjecture for facts. It was a less than accurate means of proceeding, but when they stepped back and examined it, the picture they were left with did seem to support their theory.
Vail had a problem with loading theory upon thin assumptions, but everyone was tired and strained.
“Damn,” Robby muttered. He was seated in front of the computer, logged onto a database that displayed Virginia real estate transactions over the past hundred years. Based on Vail’s analysis and Del Monaco’s theory, they had focused their attention on Virginia, hypothesizing that Dead Eyes had shown an inclination to remain within the state. They intended to look at everything but decided not to stray too far from the guidelines provided by the geoprofile as a means of narrowing their searches.
“What’s wrong?” Bledsoe asked, his eyes bloodshot and his sixth or seventh cup of coffee in hand.
“I did a search of tax records, figuring if he owned a house, or condo, or some land somewhere, I’d get a hit. Came up a big goose egg.”
The simultaneous rings of the telephone and fax machine shifted their attention. Being the closest to the kitchen, Vail grabbed the handset. She listened to the technician provide details on what they had found, then jotted down some notes. “And the other stuff?” She waited a beat, thanked the person, and hung up. She stepped back into the living room with a smile on her face. “That was the lab. They lifted several latents and ran them through AFIS. They got a hit.” She paused for emphasis, then said, “Patrick Farwell.”
“Bingo,” Bledsoe said.
Manette rocked forward in her chair, then lifted the page from the fax machine. “Patrick Farwell, that’s our dude.” She examined the mug shot the lab had faxed, then handed it to Vail. “And he looks a lot like you, Kari.”
Vail cocked her head, assessing the image, instantly noting—and regretting—the obvious likeness to herself. “Daddy,” she finally said, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
sixty-six
The task force snacked on bagels, muffins, and a tank of coffee Sinclair had retrieved from the local café a short time after 7 A.M. It was only fifteen degrees when he left, and when he returned he babbled on about how growing up in Oak Park, Illinois, should have prepared him for days like this. Everyone was too tired to object to