The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [6]
“Whoever did this is one sick fuck.” Vail said it under her breath, but Fairfax County homicide detective Paul Bledsoe, who had suddenly materialized at her side, grunted. The baritone of his voice nearly startled her. Nearly startled her, because there weren’t many things that did surprise her these days.
“Aren’t they all,” Bledsoe said. He was a stocky man, only about five-eight, but plenty wide in the shoulders to make anyone think twice about screwing with him. Deep-set dark eyes and short, side-parted black hair over an olive complexion gave him the look of Italian stock. But he was a mutt, some Greek and some Spanish, a distant Irish relative thrown in for good luck.
His trained eyes took in the large amount of blood that had been sprayed and smeared, just about painted all over the walls of Melanie Hoffman’s bedroom. Melanie Hoffman, former newcomer, now dearly departed, recently of the firm McGinty & Pollock.
All Vail could do was nod. Then, as she crouched down to get a different perspective on the scene, she realized that Bledsoe was only partially correct. “Some are more fucked up than others,” she said. “It’s just a matter of degree.”
The photographer’s flash flickered off the mirrors in the adjacent bathroom and drew Vail’s attention. Without walking through the crime scene, she glanced up and saw that blood had also been smeared on the bathroom walls, at least the parts of them she could see.
Profilers didn’t usually get to visit fresh crime scenes. They did most of their work secluded in a small office, poring over police reports, photos, written or transcribed suspect interviews, victim histories culled from relatives, friends, acquaintances. VICAP forms—short for Violent Criminal Apprehension Program—that were completed by the investigating homicide detectives provided background and perspective. Having as much information as possible was crucial before beginning their work . . . before beginning their journey into the depths of a sick mind.
“So you got my text.” Bledsoe was looking at her, expecting a response.
“When I saw the code for Dead Eyes, my heart just about stopped.”
Another flash from the camera grabbed Vail’s attention. They had both been standing near the doorway, seemingly in no hurry to step into the chamber of death.
“Well, shall we?” she asked. He didn’t reply, and she figured he was mesmerized, if not overwhelmed, by the brutality that lay before them. She sometimes had a hard time reading Bledsoe and, over the years, had concluded that he preferred it that way . . . erecting a wall between his inner thoughts and someone who made her living analyzing human behavior.
As Vail tiptoed around eviscerated body parts strewn across the floor, the criminalist poked his head out of the shower. “There’s more in here, Detective,” he said to Bledsoe, who had moved beside Vail.
“Peachy,” Vail said. As Bledsoe headed into Melanie Hoffman’s bathroom, she took a deep breath and cleared her mind, descending into the funk she needed to get into to begin her analysis.
Profilers didn’t try to identify who committed the murder, as the police did; they tried to ascertain the type of person most likely to have perpetrated the act. What their motivations were; why now, why here, why this victim. Each one a crucial question, an important piece to the puzzle.
There were cops who thought profiling was bullshit, psychobabble crap that wasn’t worth the paper their reports were written on, and certainly not worth the salary the Bureau paid, plus benees, car, and clothing allowance. That talk never bothered Vail, because she knew they were wrong. She knew that, for some cops, it was a simple inferiority complex, while for others it was merely ignorance about what profilers did.
Vail continued to study Melanie Hoffman’s bedroom. Several things bothered her about this murder. She turned to Bledsoe, who was busy puking into a barf bag he carried in his pocket. She’d seen him do this before, the last time at a particularly bloody crime scene. It was a strange thing to happen to a homicide detective,