The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [94]
And in the back of her mind, the nightmares. Seeing the killer’s face—her face—in the mirror. . . . No. They’re just dreams.
Everything was so confusing. She never felt so uncertain of things on the job. Her personal life was another story . . . a book full of uncertainty, each chapter building toward a divorce, climaxing with her son lying in ICU and herself sitting in a jail cell, arrested on an assault charge. No, not confusing. Fucked up.
But until Dead Eyes came along, she always could grab the gun by the handle and drill the target. No uncertainty, no second thoughts. When had her life taken a left turn?
She stepped around Del Monaco and Sinclair and grabbed Bledsoe’s arm. She pulled him aside, into the living room. “There’s something you should know.” She then proceeded to outline the details of her discovery of her relationship to Linwood, including the conversation she’d had with her earlier in the evening.
Bledsoe brought both hands to his face and rubbed, as if he could scrub away the fatigue—and his mounting problems. He sat down heavily on the couch. “You realize this makes you a suspect.”
“That’s why I didn’t say anything to Gifford and Thurston. For sure they would’ve sent me home.”
He looked up at her with bloodshot eyes. “Where were you tonight after leaving here?”
“I went for a drive, by myself. I ended up at home around nine thirty. I was about to take a bath when you texted me.”
Bledsoe nodded, looked away, his eyes roaming the tall drapes and window. Finally, his eyes came to rest on Vail’s. “Did you kill Eleanor Linwood?”
Vail held his gaze. “No, Bledsoe, I didn’t.”
He didn’t look away, at least not for a long moment. Then, he rose from the couch. “Okay. Let’s go join the others.”
She was surprised he took her word at face value . . . or, perhaps he had enough confidence in his abilities that he could tell when someone was lying to him. Whatever the reason, she was relieved he had let the issue drop so easily.
They walked toward the senator’s bedroom. “There’s blood spatter in the foyer, near the garage,” Robby said as he joined them. “Looks like he bludgeoned her with a blunt object, maybe to the point of death, then dragged her into the bedroom.”
“That doesn’t fit,” Vail said.
Del Monaco was kneeling in the wide hall, examining the trail of blood they had all been careful to avoid. “No, it doesn’t.”
They walked into the cavernous master bedroom and immediately saw the studied gazes of Manette and Sinclair. The scene laid out before them was more horrific than they had previously seen. Eleanor Linwood’s body was mutilated in the same grotesque manner as Dead Eyes’s other victims—with two notable exceptions: both her breasts had been severed, and her face was disfigured. More than just disfigured, it had been burned or peeled away, the remaining flesh and blood vessels and nerves exposed in a mess resembling raw meat.
Bledsoe quickly turned, clutching a vomit bag to his mouth, and barfed. Whether it was the smell, or Vail’s relationship to this victim, or simply the fact that it had finally gotten to her as well, she had to cup her mouth and use her tongue to close down her throat and force down the bile that had risen.
“Oh, man,” Robby said, looking away. “That’s bad. That’s bad. Worse than the others. Shit.” He walked out of the room.
“This guy was pissed off, big time,” Del Monaco managed. “Very personal attack.”
Manette shook her head. “Yeah, that press conference was a real good idea. I want to meet the guy who signed off on that one.”
“She wanted to do it and Gifford didn’t see any harm at the time,” Del Monaco said. “I mean, he knew there was a risk it’d incite him, but he thought it could also scare him enough to slow him down, buy us some time.” He rubbed at his neck. “He never thought he’d come after her. She doesn’t fit the victimology at all.”
Bledsoe wiped his mouth and turned his body strategically to avoid