The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [61]
They glanced at each other, the dread of having to view another mutilated body written on Robby’s face. He tightened his grip on the wheel and shook his head. “Here we go again.”
“Two in the morning,” she said. “Doesn’t Dead Eyes know I just got out of the slammer?”
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, they were pulling up to the curb in front of a small, square brick house in Alexandria. Rattan furniture adorned its porch and an American flag hung from a column that supported the second-story overhang.
Bledsoe’s Crown Victoria was parked in front, behind Hancock’s Acura and Manette’s Volkswagen Jetta. Crime scene tape had already been strung across the trees at the sidewalk, extending all the way over to the neighbor’s side yard—a wide swath of land to protect the crime scene and guard against disturbance of potential ingress and egress footprints made by the Dead Eyes killer. Halogen lamps on tripods lit the front of the house as a criminalist scoured the exterior. To those who were awakened by the activity, it had the surreal circus atmosphere that accompanied a Hollywood movie production. But there were no cameras, no fake extras. This was, unfortunately, the real thing.
As they got out of Robby’s car, Sinclair pulled behind them in his 1969 Chevy pickup. They nodded at Sinclair and the three of them walked in together. By the time they hit the bedroom, there was no doubt this was one of their cases. Murals across the walls, message written above the bed.
“No defensive wounds,” Bledsoe said. “Same drill. Ate his usual meal at the scene. No dental impressions. Looking for saliva, but I doubt we’ll find any.” The woman had been treated to the same filet job, and the left hand had once again been amputated. “Vic is Denise Cranston. No business card, but we found a pay stub. Works for Lamplighter Design Gallery in Old Town. Sales manager.”
“What is she, vic six? Or five?” Sinclair asked. “I’ve lost count.”
Vail couldn’t help but stare at the eviscerated body. “Unofficially, she’s number six.”
“Whatever number we give her, it’s too many, far as I’m concerned,” Bledsoe said.
Manette craned her neck as she took in the room’s interior. “Did you say she worked at a design gallery?”
“High-end furniture,” Bledsoe said.
“Judging by her digs,” Manette quipped, “she shoulda brought some of that stuff home with her.”
Robby sighed deeply. “She doesn’t seem to fit the pattern, career wise. Sales manager, accountant, dental hygienist—”
“Unless there is no pattern and it was all our imagination,” Bledsoe said.
Hancock was studying the walls. “There’s something to these paintings, I’m sure of it,” he said.
Vail yawned. “Keep looking, maybe you’ll find it. Like the hand.”
Hancock shot her a look. “I’m still working on that.”
Sinclair slipped on a pair of latex gloves. The others followed suit. “Guess we just dig in.”
Vail walked over to Robby and told him she was going outside to check her messages, in case Jonathan had called her.
She stood out front, beyond the crime scene tape, as the phone connected. Her answering machine started, and she entered her security code. Her lone message began playing: it was left earlier in the evening by a nurse at Fairfax Hospital, informing her that Jonathan had had an accident. Her heart fell a few feet into her stomach as she fumbled with the keypad to dial the number left by the nurse. It was the main line, and after searching the registry, the operator put her on hold.
Vail walked inside the house, pulled Robby aside, and got his car keys. After waiting on hold far too long while trying to negotiate the dark streets with a nervous hand, on unfamiliar streets in the middle of the night, the call was dropped. “Damnit!” she yelled, then