The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [32]
After that last bolt of lightning had lit up the sky, he took off, scampering through several untended yards. He then sat in his car for a few minutes and panted hard to slow his breathing just in case the police were lurking down the street.
He started the engine and headed home, taking care to stick to the speed limit, signal properly, and make his full stops. He’d once read that a lot of criminals got caught by the police for stupid things, like having a burnt-out brake light. He couldn’t imagine that—going through all the hard work and planning, executing perfectly, and then getting pulled over for some inane traffic violation.
Thirty minutes later, he was back at his loft tuning in to the eleven o’clock news. Their lead story: the murder of another bitch ... but, of course, that’s not what the reporter called her. His words were something like, “A young woman, another apparent victim of the Dead Eyes killer.” Interesting name they gave him—but not far from the truth, actually.
He watched as a woman they identified as an FBI profiler ducked through the crowd of press corps. She dropped her head and threw up a hand, avoiding the camera as if it would give her skin cancer. He waited until the segment was over, then replayed the recording he’d made. He was looking for one thing in particular.
There! There it was . . . a single frame with a dark, blurry view of her beady little eyes. He hadn’t seen them when she was chasing him, hunting him down. But there was something about them. The paused picture was grainy and small, most of her face was blocked, and the image jumped a little as he stared at it. But there was something about the eyes. . . .
The TV picture suddenly snapped back to life and the recording began playing again. He let it run and again listened to the reporter drone on, making some comment about how important the case was because a profiler had been assigned. But it didn’t bother him. It really wasn’t that big a deal. Because he knew they could examine his artwork and look inside his head all they wanted. They would never find him.
thirteen
As soon as the press heard the calls from Fairfax County PD on their police scanners, TV news vans mobilized. They set up shop at Sandra Franks’s house and telescoped their microwave antennae into the sky, as if plugging into the clouds to eavesdrop on God.
But there was no God at this crime scene, or so it seemed to those with even a rudimentary understanding of religious belief. God would not have allowed Sandra Franks to be murdered. God would not have created monsters capable of committing such heinous acts.
“Damn reporters,” Vail said.
“Just doing their job,” Robby said. “Cut ’em some slack.”
“I don’t like them blocking my way and shoving mikes in my face. I’m here to do a job, too, and they’re in the way.”
They stood in the back of the room, staring at the walls, at more murals. Hancock had arrived and was waiting outside with Manette and Bledsoe until the forensic unit had finished documenting the scene. Since Vail and Robby had already been in the house, they figured it was best to stay put rather than tramp through the evidence again.
“So what do you think it all means?”
“This guy is very bold, Robby. A lot of serial killers prey on prostitutes.” She turned to him. “You know why?”
“Because they won’t be missed.”
“Exactly. No one would know they’re missing for days, weeks, sometimes months. By then, the trail is cold.” A technician’s camera flashed. “So the question is, why is this guy picking middle-class women? What is it about them that feeds his fantasy?”
“He knows one that he hates.”
“Or knew one. His fantasy goes back a long time, don’t forget.”
Hancock came up behind them and caught sight of the far wall, where the offender