The Darkness of Evil (Karen Vail #7)(100)
“Should we look over Underwood’s books,” Hurdle said, “to see if there are other things the killer—or he himself—is mimicking?”
Vail chuckled. “I think he’s written seven. It’s gonna take a while. I only read his third one, Profilers Unmasked, which focused on the history of the BSU and its split into the research unit and what became the BAU. He gave some great insight into the thinking of the early profilers. But Douglas has written a few books, too, and so have Ressler, Hazelwood, and Safarik. We’ve got no reason to think Marcks was limiting his reading to Thomas Underwood.”
Rooney shook his head dubiously. “Might not be a good use of our time.”
“We can expand the task force as needed,” Hurdle said. “We’ve got assets at our disposal. Vail, I want you to track down Underwood. Leaving voice mails is not enough. I want him in a room.”
Vail shifted her weight, uncomfortable with that prospect.
“If you can’t do that, let me know and I’ll have someone else handle it.”
“We’ve got these books at the Academy library,” Rooney said as he pulled out his Samsung. “I’ll arrange to have them brought to your command center.”
“And I’ll arrange to have several agents put on reading duty,” Hurdle said.
“The one with the ether,” Vail said. “Killer Instincts. I want to read that one myself. Art, can you have the library hold that one for me?”
Rooney shrugged. “Of course.”
“I’m heading there right now.”
52
Vail walked into the Academy library, a bright, modest-size square room with adjoining reading areas and a two-story atrium that gave it an airy grandeur.
Vail identified herself to the assistant behind the administration counter, and the woman handed over the near-pristine hardcover of Underwood’s first book. Either this is a new copy or it’s not seen much activity among agents.
She could not pass judgment, given that she had not read it herself. Then again, with the Bureau’s intense pivot toward counterterrorism, and now cybercrime, agents’—and new agent trainees’—time was better spent on reading law enforcement periodicals and books covering those topics.
Vail glanced at the jacket and saw Underwood’s bio on the rear flap. The snapshot was not the usual, posed FBI picture, taken in a suit against the backdrop of the American flag. This was designed to project the individual’s humanity—a man with his dog; in this case a golden retriever.
As she looked at his photo, she recalled her one and only meeting with him, a few years ago. Is that the face of a killer?
She skimmed his professional accomplishments and had to resist comparing her own career to Underwood’s. Pulling her eyes away from the cover, she opened the book and perused the table of contents.
A moment later, Vail found the case Rooney had mentioned: Michael Neal Coleman, an UNSUB dubbed The Planner, was an engineer who began by killing colleagues he worked with at a nonprofit agency. He was methodical and calculating and plotted his kills with the precision of an NFL coach’s game plan. Contingencies were mapped out. He studied his potential targets for weeks, watching for patterns, determining weaknesses, and then striking with alarming efficiency.
To hear Coleman describe it later during interviews with Underwood in 1979, killing became boring because he was so good at it—too good. It lost its appeal and no longer presented a challenge. That’s when he began starting fires. It was something new to master, and in the process he discovered the tremendously destructive power of a well-constructed blaze. It triggered a long-buried fascination with fire that he had passed over in favor of killing. It was only then that he realized he could do both.
It was like learning a new skill and then perfecting it. For most people, the hobbies they took up included woodworking. Photography. Baseball. And then there were the deviants, who enjoyed discovering new and interesting ways of dominating other human beings, ending their lives and defiling their bodies.
The use of ether as a means of securing his victims and as an accelerant for setting the fires received only cursory mention by Underwood—more as an example of the UNSUB’s cunning than as an exceptionally different MO not previously encountered.
Well, regardless of how little significance Underwood gave it in his book, it made an impact on our offender.
But something was not quite right. That note left in Aida’s mouth was a departure in ritual. Why? A threat? Or was it a clue, since I took over Underwood’s cases, and I was “next in line” at the unit?
Vail told herself not to overthink it. She pulled out her phone and texted Hurdle.
anything on the surveillance cameras outside my house
His response came almost immediately:
youll be second to know
Vail tried Underwood again and left another voice mail. “Got a question on one of your old cases. I know you’re swamped, but it’s time sensitive. Can you give me a call as soon as you get this?”
She opened the browser on her phone and looked up Underwood’s television show, to see if there was information on where they might be filming. If Underwood was not answering his phone, she needed to track down someone who worked on the production, who would.
Ten minutes later, Vail came up empty—so she decided to call the network. After being transferred multiple times, she scored the producer’s mobile number. Figuring she would get a better response if she used the library’s landline—which displayed “FBI Academy” as its caller ID—the man answered on the second ring.