The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [53]
“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” He pressed the mute button and she had no choice but to listen to him. “Now, wouldn’t that be something . . . a remote control to make all the bitch-whores shut up on my command!”
Madman, she called me a madman. I’m not mad! I may be angry, but I’m not mad. Only a dog can be mad, not a person! Stupid bitch.
He hit the remote and her voice came alive again.
“The police and the FBI are poised to act on several leads. I expect we’ll see a major break in the case any time now.”
“Several leads . . . major break. . . .” Why can’t people tell the truth? They got jack. “Admit it! You don’t know who you’re dealing with! You’ll never find me!”
VAIL WALKED INTO the task force’s operations center and heard the measured drone of a television emanating from the kitchen. She was jumpy yet exhausted, remnants of her latest run-in with Deacon. She had dropped off the book at Jonathan’s school and gone home to straighten herself up before heading to the op center.
She laid her purse atop her makeshift desk and picked up a note clipped to a folder. As she started to read it, someone tapped her shoulder. She turned, saw Bledsoe, and winced as pain cut through her left leg. When Deacon had grabbed her ankles, he’d twisted the knee she had injured in Sandra Franks’s yard. It had been killing her since leaving Deacon’s a couple of hours ago.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine. Knee’s a little sore. What’s up?”
“Linwood’s on TV. Dead Eyes press conference.”
“What press conference?”
“You already know as much as I do. Far as I know, she’s doing this on her own.”
Bledsoe followed Vail into the kitchen. Manette and Robby were huddled around a scarred, faux wood-encased Sony television with fuzzy reception.
Vail moved in beside them to get a clear view of the screen, which showed Linwood standing behind a podium.
“. . . and to the Dead Eyes killer, I say your days are numbered. We’re on your trail, and we will persevere until we find you. You will rot in hell, your soul hung out to dry in front of everyone, for society to see who and what you are—”
“Oh, that’s just great,” Vail said, grabbing the back of her neck. “Incite him.” She turned to Bledsoe. “How can she do this—shouldn’t she need clearance from us to go on TV?”
“Politics,” Robby said. “That’s what this is about.”
Vail looked around the room and noticed someone was missing. “Where’s Hancock?”
“I texted him,” Bledsoe said. “Haven’t heard back.”
“I bet he’s behind this,” Vail said. “Doesn’t she realize what’ll happen if the offender sees this?” Vail asked. “We can’t have loose cannons—”
“She challenged him,” Manette said. “Right on network TV. It’ll be shown in sound bites on every major channel for the next several days.”
“Not to be cynical, but I bet that’s exactly what she’s counting on,” Robby said. “Prime-time exposure, for free. Leading up to an election, getting in the offender’s face, and showing him who’s boss is a powerful political statement. Brilliant strategy, really.”
“She won’t look so smart when he uses it as an excuse to kill again,” Bledsoe said.
Manette rose slowly from her chair. “As if he needed an excuse.”
“Whether he did or not,” Vail said, “she’s just given him one.”
I KNOW THOSE EYES. He paused the recording and stared at Linwood’s face. Oh, yes . . . evil, evil eyes. His gaze remained fixed on the image until it suddenly sputtered back to life.
“You will rot in hell, your soul hung out to dry in front of everyone, for society to see who and what you are: a monster. A wart, a sin on the face of God.”
He grabbed a gob of clay and hurled it at the TV. It stuck to the screen as if clinging for its life. “I’ll rot in hell, huh?” He threw his tools off the table. Pulled at his collar. Hard to breathe. Fucking bitch. “Whore!”
The clay suddenly lost its grip and fell with a light thud to the floor.
“Rot in hell? I’ll