The Darkness of Evil (Karen Vail #7)(75)

Robby groaned as he pulled the covers back over his body, shivering from the now-cold sheets against his now-cold body. “You’ll catch him soon.”

Vail sat up in bed, her mind a tangle of competing thoughts on the case. “Yeah,” she said absentmindedly. But it didn’t matter because Robby was already asleep.





37


Vail spent the morning at the BAU planning the interview that she had requested with the owners of the Lake Ridge home and setting up a secure Skype connection with the Cleveland field office agents.

“Knock, knock.”

She looked up from her desk and found Art Rooney standing there.

“Got a minute?”

“I’ve got five.”

Rooney grinned. “Good. I only need two. Want to know what I just found out?”

Vail lifted her brow. “Let me guess. Forensics on that new arson scene.”

“The accelerant.”

She leaned back in her desk chair. “What was it?”

“Kind of interesting. So you know the common ones: petrol, kerosene, mineral turpentine, diesel. Complex mixtures of hydrocarbon molecules.”

“Yeah, that much I remember.”

“Well, my guy didn’t use any of these—which are all pretty much readily available. For some reason, he used a non-halogenated ether.”

“Ether.” Vail drew her chin back.

“I know, not something you’re familiar with.”

“No, that’s not it. I came across it. Recently, too.”

“Well, it’s not rare or anything like that. It’s a chemical used in all sorts of things. When I was a kid they sprayed a variant of it, ethyl chloride, on baseball players who got hit with a pitch to freeze the area and reduce the swelling.”

“No, I mean I saw it in a case of mine.” She snapped her fingers. “That’s what Marcks used to subdue his victims. He soaked a cloth with ether and then held it over their mouths and noses.” Vail thought a second, then said, “Wait, you said your arsonist used it as an accelerant?”

“The kind he used is very volatile. Extremely flammable. Gives off irritating or toxic fumes—or gases—in a fire when exposed to open flames, sparks, that sort of thing. Gas/air mixtures are explosive. So when combined with what we found there—a Sterno flame—it’d work pretty damn well. Unconventional, but effective.” Rooney handed her a folder. “Copy of the forensics reports for you to read while you’re eating breakfast.”

“Can’t wait.”

“Unfortunately, we’ve got laboratory proof of how well that chemical works as an accelerant. It’s the same non-halogenated ether used in this UNSUB’s other arsons.”

“That’s weird, though, don’t you think?”

“That he used an unusual accelerant? It’s not unheard of.”

“No. I mean, on a basic level, he had reasonable access to common accelerants, but he used an uncommon one. Why would be a key question. But I was referring to the fact that the accelerant used in your arson cases is the anesthetic used in my serial killer cases. Bizarre, don’t you think?”

“Not necessarily. Coincidence, if that. Now if you traced the chemical to a specific manufacturer and batch number in your case that matched the manufacturer and batch number used in my case, yeah, then I’d say it’s obviously related. But that’s not what we’ve got here.”

Vail shrugged. “If you say so.”

“Don’t take my word for it. Tell me what relevance you think it’s got—to either of our cases.”

“I’ll have to think on it. At first glance, nothing. The arsons started after Marcks was behind bars, right? So we know he didn’t do those. Just the last two fires are suspect, I guess, because Marcks was in the wild. If Marcks is responsible. And if the other fires are truly related to your more recent ones.” She thought a moment. “Unless Marcks knows the arsonist.”

“All the arsons are related,” Rooney said. “Same UNSUB for all of them. I’d stake my reputation on it. Which means none of them are Marcks’s handiwork.”

“I’ll buy that.” Vail shoved her hands into her pockets. “Hey, we all need to be humbled once in a while, right?”

“You admit that?”

“Of course not.” She gathered up her purse and the copy of Rooney’s case folder. “But it sounded good, didn’t it?”

VAIL SETTLED HERSELF into the ergonomic conference room chair in front of a secure laptop, the Skype interface opened. Curtis entered and sat down, a visitor badge clipped to his shirt pocket.

“You ready?”

Curtis took a seat. “So we’ve got the homeowner. Stuart Sheridan.”

“Right. His wife’s Nancy, the one with cancer. So we should go easy on him.”

“Unless Stu’s a child pornographer.”

“Then we go for the jugular.” Vail clicked “video call” and the familiar Skype ring filled the external speakers.

A suited agent answered the call. “Agent Vail, I’ve got Stuart Sheridan here with us, as requested.” He pivoted the laptop and revealed a man in his forties, graying at the temples.

“Good morning, Mr. Sheridan.”