The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [42]
Bubba Sinclair was next to arrive, half an hour later. He chatted with Bledsoe for a bit about the Chicago Bears—his hometown team—and then took a spot at the table near the dining room. He set out a couple of picture frames that were facing away from Vail, and an autographed basketball.
Sinclair looked up and said, “We lock this place at night, right?”
“Locked and alarmed,” Bledsoe said. “They installed the system after you left this morning.”
“What’s up with that ball?” Manette asked.
“I helped some on Michael Jordan’s dad’s murder case. Did some legwork for Carolina PD. MJ appreciated the work I done, gave me a signed ball.”
“What’s it for, good luck?”
“Why not? We could use some. If this helps. . . .”
“Hey, rabbit’s feet, lucky charms, no problem,” Manette said. “Just don’t be chanting any incantations, okay? That’s where I draw the line.”
“How about this?” Sinclair pulled a large necklace from beneath his shirt.
“Dare I ask what that is?”
“My lucky hunting necklace.” He fingered the various animal teeth of disparate sizes and shapes strung together on the leather lanyard. “Took out each one of these. Bear, deer, even an elk. That was a tough one.” He found the bear tooth and held it up. “I don’t want to tell you what we had to do to take this one down.”
“Put that thing away,” Manette said. “I like animals.”
“Hey, I like animals, too,” Sinclair said.
Vail sat back and ignored the banter; she was formulating an opinion and needed her concentration.
Within the hour, Robby and Chase Hancock had arrived. They each carved out their own work spaces, with Robby predictably choosing one beside Vail, and Hancock taking a spot in the other room, facing away from her.
“I’ve got something worth looking into,” Vail said once everyone had settled in. They each turned their bodies, or at least their attention, in her direction. “I’ve been trying to understand the significance of stabbing the eyes. It holds a lot of importance to the offender. It’s comforting to him, serves a deep-seated purpose. The fact that he does this as part of his ritual and not his MO tells me it could hold the key to understanding who this guy is.”
“Why’s that?” Bledsoe asked.
“Because he doesn’t have to do it to subdue his victim. She’s already dead,” Hancock said.
Bledsoe turned to Vail for confirmation. She reluctantly nodded.
“So why would this guy stab the eyes?”
“That’s the question. My unit floated some theories last year on vics one and two, but nothing anyone could agree on. But I’ve got this feeling—I mean, theory—that he does it because he has a physical deformity. Scarring on his face, an old wound, acne, harelip, I don’t know exactly, but it’s worth looking into.”
“I’ll do a search,” Sinclair said. “Ex-cons released in the past few years with a history of violent offenses who had a facial disfigurement. We can cross match it against anything we pick up on the blood angle.”
“It’s just a theory,” Vail cautioned.
Bledsoe frowned. “All we’ve got are theories right now.”
Vail dipped her chin in conciliatory agreement.
“While we’re on the topic of symbolism,” Bledsoe said, “what’s up with the hands, what’s that all about?”
“Symbolism ain’t gonna catch us a killer or find us a suspect.” Manette tilted her head toward Vail. “No offense, Kari, but why waste our time with this psycho stuff?”
“Behavioral analysis,” Robby corrected.
“Whatever you wanna call it, it’s like looking into a crystal ball. And we all know there aren’t no crystal balls.”
“The key is narrowing the suspect pool,” Robby said. “To give us a place to focus. With no eyewitnesses or smoking gun forensics, profiling can at least give us a direction. Tell us what kind of guy we’re looking for.”
Bledsoe leaned back in his chair