The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [154]
“Unit one in position and ready to move,” the anxious voice said over the headset.
“Unit two, three, and four ready.” Vail immediately recognized Kilgore’s voice.
Vail’s heart was slamming against her chest.
“Unit five, six, seven, and eight ready.”
“Hold all positions,” Kilgore whispered. He moved his fist in front of the door and banged it hard several times: the knock-and-notice. “Patrick Farwell, this is the sheriff,” he shouted. “We know you’re in there. We’ve got the place surrounded. Come out with your hands up.”
The house remained dark, the air still.
“Flash bang, sir?” asked one of the officers.
“No.” Kilgore’s voice was stern. “Stick to tactical.”
Another voice over the radio, probably from the back. “Unit eight reports no sign of movement.”
“Roger that,” Kilgore said. “On my mark.” After waiting a beat, he said, “Go!”
The first position moved aside and the second officer stepped up with a Stinger battering ram. “Second in position. On my mark. Go!” He swung back the thirty-five-pound steel cylinder, then arced it forward and breached the door, sending shards of splintered wood flying in all directions. The position three team member, Lon Kilgore, rushed the house.
Vail put her head down and concentrated on the voices coming through her headset:
“Entryway, clear.”
“Kitchen, clear.”
“Living room—hold it—body, I got a body. Male, looks to be in his late fifties maybe.” Pause. Then: “Dead. Rest of living room, clear.”
Vail turned to Bledsoe. “What the hell?” She bent the mike back in front of her mouth. “How long has he been dead? What’s the apparent COD?”
Kilgore’s voice crackled through her headset: “Get off the damn radio!”
“Shit,” she said, rising and moving out from behind the tree.
Bledsoe grabbed her left arm. “Wait here, Karen. Let them clear the house, then we can go in.”
She pulled herself free with a windmill of her shoulder. She yanked the Glock from her side holster and stepped toward the house. “I’m going in now.”
Robby, ten feet back behind another tree, emerged and followed her forward. “We’re coming in,” Vail announced.
“Upstairs bedroom, clear. Holy shit—”
Vail stopped, instinctively raised her weapon with both hands. “What?”
“This is one sick fuck,” the tactical officer said. “All sorts of shit hanging around up here. And I mean hanging. Five severed hands strung up from the ceiling. Holy, Jesus.”
Vail exchanged a knowing glance with Robby, then proceeded up the steps toward the fractured front door. She moved slowly into the living room, where she came upon the body.
“Upstairs bedroom two, clear,” another voice said somewhere in her ear. But she was not listening. She was staring at the face of Patrick Farwell.
Her father.
The Dead Eyes killer.
seventy-two
Frank Del Monaco knelt beside Vail and matched her gaze. “I don’t get it,” she finally said.
“He unraveled,” Del Monaco said. “Just like the others.”
“What others?” Robby asked. He was standing behind them, his hat and headset dangling from his left hand.
“All the serial killers. They reach a point where the killing gets to be too much even for them to handle. Even though they have no moral sense, deep down they know what they’re doing is wrong. It’s not enough to stop them, but the pressure builds to the point where they can’t deal with it. It’s an end game.”
“But suicide?” Robby asked.
“They get sloppy,” Vail said. “Their fantasies get more violent, their order disintegrates into disorder. Organization into disorganization. That’s how we caught Bundy. If we hadn’t caught him, he might’ve eventually done himself.”
“Linwood’s crime scene certainly was an indicator,” Del Monaco said, “though we didn’t see it that way. I think we still called it right. The personal connection, the overkill.”
“But the violence wasn’t just because of that,” Vail said. “He was coming undone at the same time.