The Darkness of Evil (Karen Vail #7)(47)
“I thought this guy was smart,” Morrison said.
“He is. But even smart criminals make mistakes. Just like smart cops make mistakes. And he’s been on the run in the dead of winter—in a snowstorm. He’s tired and hungry and he might not be thinking clearly. So he saw the tools and went to town on the body.”
“He does have a history of cutting,” Curtis said. “He just took it further this time.”
“Okay,” Hurdle said. “So we know Marcks was here last night and this morning. Anyone else have new information?”
“We do,” Curtis said. “Karen and I tracked down one of his buddies, Vincent Stuckey. He’s been in contact with Marcks but nothing that’s gonna help us. Stuckey’s a little slow, so we don’t have a problem with the veracity of the information he gave us.”
“Slow,” Morrison said. “As in …”
“As in his bulb ain’t too bright.”
“He suffered a GSW to the head when he was a teenager,” Vail said. “And that brings us to an incident with Marcks back when they were fourteen. Turns out Marcks’s first murder was potentially involuntary manslaughter if you believe the lone witness—which was his friend, another guy we’ve gotta look into. Lance Kubiak.”
“Kubiak,” Ramos said. “You sure of that?”
Vail glanced at Curtis, who nodded. “Yeah. Lance Kubiak. He was a childhood friend of Marcks. Kubiak, Marcks, and Stuckey were supposedly hanging out, getting high, when this loner comes up to them, a kid they knew. Name was Eddie. He brought a gun to the gathering and Marcks and Eddie got into it, the gun went off, killed Eddie and wounded Stuckey. No charges were brought.”
Ramos had his pocket spiral notebook out and was flipping the pages. “Kubiak. Lance Kubiak.”
“Like I said. Yeah. Why?”
“Because Lance Kubiak also happens to be the name of a correctional officer at Potter.”
23
Marcks stood in the backyard, which was well shielded from surrounding homes by dense trees and hedges. Even in winter, they provided more than adequate concealment.
He inched over to the back door and looked through the large picture window: leather sofas, stone flooring of some kind, indirect lighting that shone up toward the ceiling rather than down toward the floor.
A redhead, thirties, attractive, with a substantial diamond ring and matching tennis bracelet, flitted by. She was rushing about the kitchen putting together a snack of some sort as the child, maybe four or five, sat in front of a flat-panel television that filled the wall opposite the couch.
They had plasma TVs before he went away to prison, but nothing this big, this bright. He would not mind spending a few nights in this place. He would have to see how things transpired in the next hour or so to determine if that was feasible.
Marcks tried the doorknob, to no avail. He had learned a long time ago to always check because you never knew; people were funny that way, thinking that for some reason it was safe to leave their houses unlocked—while others just could not be bothered or did not give it a second thought.
No matter; it just made the intrusion a little bit tougher. One of his former cellmates, Orlando, schooled him in the best way to approach such a situation. He could have pulled it off without Orlando’s tips, but why not learn from someone who had experience? Of course he asked Orlando, not so tactfully, if the reason for his ending up in the slammer was from a failed home invasion. It was not, so he felt confident that the counsel Orlando was meting out was solid.
Marcks checked the door one last time, evaluating it like his former roommate had described. Then he kicked it in, using just the right amount of pressure to pop the lock. Do it wrong and you could injure your knee and ankle, and he wanted no part of that.
The noise from the TV partially masked the bang. He was careful not to let the door swing open so hard that it struck something on the rebound and shattered the glass. That was sure to attract attention.
The woman turned, locked eyes with Marcks—and froze. Her body recoiled in fear, shoulders drawing forward, hands coming out in front of her—as if that would stop him.
She opened her mouth to scream, but Marcks was prepared. And faster. He leaped forward and clamped his large hand down on her fine-boned face.
“No need to make noise,” he said calmly into her ear. “I’m not going to hurt you or your daughter. If you cooperate and do what I tell you to do. The opposite’s true, too. Do anything that puts me in a bad way and I’ll kill you both and worry about the consequences later. It’s survival instinct, understand?” He leaned back, appraised her face. She was terrified, eyes glazed and straining left, trying to see her little girl. “Nod if you understand everything I just told you. No noise, no problems for me, you and your daughter live. Got it?”
She nodded vigorously, indicating that she had a grasp of the situation.
“I’m going to let go of your mouth. Tell me your name. Calmly. And quietly.” He glanced over at the girl; she was still engrossed in her cartoon. It was an animated show featuring animals. Now there’s a unique concept. “Here we go,” he said as he released the pressure on her face.
“Victoria,” she whispered.
“Good, Victoria.” Orlando had told him to use their names as much as possible. “And your girl’s?”