“I haven’t totally lost it. But I’ve come close.”
Rooney nodded slowly. “If it was me, Karen, until I saw a dead body, I’d treat it as if he’s alive; I’d need that in order to function.”
“I now know what a victim goes through when her child is taken, presumed dead . . . but the body isn’t found.”
“Contrary to media myths, finding a body doesn’t bring closure. It helps a little, I guess, but the pain never goes away.” He waved at the air, as if dispersing smoke. “That’s not what we’re dealing with here. We’ll find answers—and we’ll find Detective Hernandez.”
“Thanks, Art.”
“I’ve got this thing the president needs me to deal with. Looks like I’m shipping off to Iraq in the morning, but I’ll be in touch. You need something, call. If I go, I’ll have a phone of some sort. Gifford will have the number.”
“What number will I have?”
Gifford was standing in the doorway, a stealth entrance—as was his style.
“My winning lottery ticket,” Vail said.
Gifford stared at her. “It’s so nice having you back, Karen. I missed the sarcasm and dry humor. Then again, I’ve missed my hemorrhoids, too, so that puts you in the same class. Now—we had a 9:00 AM appointment, did we not?”
Rooney rose from his chair. “César Guevara. He could be the key. I’ll give Austin Mann a call, touch base.” He gave Vail a wink, then walked out. “You hang in there, you hear?”
“Loud and clear,” Vail said. But that’s one of those things easier said than done.
38
Thomas Gifford led the way to his office. Lenka, seated behind her desk, nodded to Vail as she passed.
Gifford sunk into his black leather chair, which sat in front of a large picture window on the building’s second floor. He rolled the seat to the edge of his desk, grabbed a pair of metal-framed reading glasses, and stuck them on his nose. “This is your new case.” He reached for a file folder, then flipped it open. “Vic is a twenty-eight-year-old player for the PFL, the Pro Football League. It’s a start-up positioned to compete with the NFL. Vic’s name was Rayshawn Shines. Played for the Redskins for five years before being cut and hooking up with the PFL.” He stopped and removed his glasses. “Karen, you listening to me?”
Vail had to shake her head to dislodge the fugue into which she’d descended once Gifford began talking. “Yeah, of course. No. I’m—my mind’s on Robby.”
“Karen, I’m now talking to you as ASAC of the behavioral analysis units—”
“Since we don’t socialize, sir, have you ever spoken to me as anyone else?”
Gifford ignored her jab. “Get your shit together. You have a new case here. I need you to focus. I need a productive profiler, not dead weight.”
Dead weight? That hurts. “You have a way with words, sir.” She may’ve understood, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. She rose from her chair. “Who’s the dick on the case?”
“He said he was going to touch base with you about it. Paul Bledsoe.”
“Bledsoe? He didn’t say anything—” But she immediately realized her mind hadn’t been tuned to matters other than Robby’s case. “I’ll get with him right now.” She turned and headed for the door.
“One other thing.”
Vail stopped and turned.
“Your appointment with Dr. Rudnick. I expect you to keep it.”
Vail twisted her mouth. “As if I don’t have more important things to deal—”
“Look,” he said, rising from his chair. “Your mental health is the responsibility of your unit chief and he and I have been concerned about all you’ve been through the past couple months. Dead Eyes, then the shooting at the White House, all that shit that happened to you in Napa—”
“No need for the recap. I know what my life’s been like. I’ve lived it.”
“Fine. Then look at this objectively. You may not be able to admit it to my face, but you know I’m right. Keep that appointment. That’s an order.”
“Yes sir,” Vail said with a mock salute. She pulled open the door and left.
39
Vail called Bledsoe on the way back to her office and arranged to meet at the crime scene, John F. Kennedy Stadium, in thirty minutes.
Vail parked in the player’s lot and badged the security guard, who told her he was expecting her. She was to meet Detective Bledsoe in the fitness facility, adjacent to the clubhouse.
The hallways were freshly painted and new industrial carpet had been laid recently, judging by the chemical smells that teased her nose. Vail pulled open the heavy metal door and stepped inside. An array of physical fitness equipment stared back at her, rivaling only the volume and selection of that found at Seattle’s University of Washington facility, which she had visited once on a case. The FBI Academy’s conditioning machines were impressive, but this was like an ocean compared to a lake.
“Karen. Over here.” Bledsoe’s deep voice from somewhere off in the distance was swallowed by the large room. The rows of equipment, combined with the floor-to-ceiling mirrors and awkward acoustics, made locating him a challenge.
“You didn’t tell me we had a case together,” she said.
“I started to last night, in the car. You weren’t in the mood, so I left it alone.”
“I’m still not in the mood. And I don’t have a lot of time.” She nodded at the bloodstained carpet, where white tape delineated the position and location of the corpse. “What’s the deal here?”
“Rayshawn Shines, offensive lineman for the D.C. Generals of the Pro Football League. One of their stars. Found right there, garroted. Stabbed multiple times postmortem. No defensive wounds.”
Vail stood over the bloody stain, as if looking at it would help her visualize the body as it lay the moment it had been found. It didn’t.
“So why am I here? It’s a homicide.”
“His penis and balls were cut off.”
Okay, that changes things. “So we’ve got a sexual homicide of a large male. How large?”
“Six-five, three hundred. They don’t screen for drugs in this new league like they do in the NFL. Steroid and PED use is rampant. League’s built on the concept of a narrower field, stronger armed quarterbacks, faster wide receivers. No huddles and more touchdowns.”
“That glazed look in my eyes is boredom. But don’t take it personally.”
Ignoring Vail’s remark, Bledsoe handed her a manila envelope. “Crime scene photos. Look ’em over in your spare time.”
“What spare time?”
“Hear me out. The PFL had to give fans something more exciting, right? To compete. The average NFL game runs from ten to thirteen minutes of actual playing time. The other three hours is the clock running during huddles, commercials, replays, and time-outs. The PFL got it right—fewer time-outs. Twenty-nine to thirty-three minutes of action. Their games are very exciting, like a constant rush. But when you’re up against a powerhouse like the NFL, you need a bigger gimmick. If a league wanted to grab attention, get a ratings bump, this might be a way to do it. Star player gets offed, that’s big news.”
Vail contorted her face. “Kind of a negative way to do it, don’t you think? Bad publicity.”
“I thought there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”
Vail considered the severed gonads and what bloggers would say if that fact were made public. “Your buff star player getting emasculated is good publicity?”
Bledsoe snorted. “Good point.” Bledsoe picked at a spot on his forehead. “So what do you make of that sexual component?”
“That sexual component, yes.” Vail sat down on a padded weight bench and thought for a moment. “First impression is that when we see male-on-male sexual homicide, we’re looking at a homosexual offender. Or, it could be someone who’s confused about his sexual identity, or someone who was sexually abused or exploited by a male figure as a child.”