“Matt,” Dixon said. “Please. Just do it.” She tapped Vail on the shoulder and extended a hand. Vail grabbed it and Dixon pulled her up.
Vail sighed deeply, then looked around the room. She had only stayed there a couple of nights, but they held intense memories of Robby. Her eyes lingered on the bed, where they had spent their last hours together.
No. Not our last. Please, not our last.
7
As Dixon drove back to the Sheriff’s Department, Vail left a voice mail for her son Jonathan to call her when he took his lunch break, or between classes if he had enough time.
They used their electronic proximity cards to enter the secured section of the building and headed to the task force conference room, where Brix was seated beside Merilynn Lugo. The woman’s face was streaked and flushed.
Vail sat beside her. “I’m glad you came. We sure could use your help.”
Brix shook his head. “She’s here because she wants our help.”
“Of course,” Dixon said. She remained standing, across the conference table from Merilynn and Vail. “Anything.”
Brix cleared his throat and curled his face into a squint.
Reading Brix’s expression, Vail guessed they were thinking the same thing: blindly offering “anything” was dangerous.
“She wants witness protection,” Brix said. “Federal witness protection.”
There was a long silence as Vail and Dixon processed her request. Merilynn kept her gaze on the table, apparently content to let Brix do the talking for the moment.
“To get that,” Vail finally said, “to even get consideration, you’d have to level with us. Tell us everything you know.”
“I can’t live like this anymore,” Merilynn said. “I need protection.”
“Protection from what?” Dixon said.
“WITSEC, the witness security program, isn’t something that’s given out lightly,” Vail said. “There are procedures and requirements. It has to be approved.”
“You’re the FBI, you can make it happen.”
Vail shook her head. “It’s not like that, Mrs. Lugo. The FBI doesn’t administer WITSEC. The Department of Justice does. Application has to be made to the Office of Enforcement Operations, and it has to be approved by DOJ headquarters. Then you’re interviewed by the U.S. Marshals Service, which oversees the program, to determine if you’re a good fit.”
“You have to understand the reason why WITSEC exists,” Dixon said. “Witnesses are given protection because of testimony they agree to provide against another criminal the government’s trying to build a case against. In exchange for that testimony, the government relocates you, gives you a new identity and financial backing to make it work.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Brix said, “but you don’t have any testimony we need. John Mayfield, assuming he survives, is never going to see the light of day, and will very likely get the death penalty.”
“Trust me,” Merilynn said. “I’ve got information you need. “But if I give it to you, I want something in return. The safety of me and my son. That’s the price.”
Vail and Dixon shared a look.
Dixon said, “If we’re going to submit a request for WITSEC, we really need to know what you’ve got. And we need to know what Ray was involved with, what was going on between him and Mayfield.”
“While you’re at it,” Vail said, “you might also want to tell us why you think you need protection.” She didn’t mean for it to come off as sarcastic—but given all she’d been through recently, her tone wasn’t a top priority. She knew that wasn’t a healthy approach, but she was too tired and emotionally drained to care.
Merilynn set her jaw. She either did not appreciate the weight of her request, or she didn’t believe that getting into the WITSEC program involved anything more than stating that you needed it.
With the silence growing, Vail knew she had to do something to get Merilynn talking. She had to treat the woman as if she was a suspect being interviewed. If she could establish a rapport and break down the barrier, the information they needed might come tumbling out.
“I was kidnapped once,” Vail said. “I was drugged. When I woke up, I was in handcuffs in a small, dark place. Is that what happened to you? Did Mayfield drug you?”
Merilynn tilted her head and studied Vail’s face.
Is she trying to determine if I’m lying to her?
“It was a couple months ago,” Vail said. “I’ve had some . . . issues trying to get past it.”
“He didn’t drug us,” Merilynn said. “He came up behind my son, grabbed him, and held a knife to his neck. Ray said it was all about control.” She swiped at a tear. “With that knife at Mario’s neck, what was I gonna do?” Her face spread into a wan smile. “Anything he wanted, that’s what.”
“I can’t even imagine what that’s like,” Dixon said.
Vail shivered imperceptibly. I can. I know what it’s like to have your son used as a pawn against you, powerless to help him.
“It was paralyzing,” Merilynn said. “The guy, he was big and mean and serious. He just had this look about him. He said to keep my mouth shut. I kept it shut, didn’t even breathe.” She sat there a moment, staring at the table. “Everything was like a tunnel. All I could see was my son with the knife at his neck. All I could hear was that man’s voice.”
“The man was John Mayfield?” Vail asked.
Merilynn bent forward and pressed on both temples with her fingers. “I didn’t know who he was back then. Ray kept asking me what he looked like, but I couldn’t remember. I was so freaked out, I never looked at his face.”
“What happened next?” Brix asked. “After Mayfield kidnapped you, did he take you somewhere?”
“He had a van. He put us inside and made us wear blindfolds. We drove for what seemed like an hour. He made so many turns I had no idea where we were.”
Even though John Mayfield was in custody, knowing the location of his lair was important. Serial killers often did not keep their trophies, or keepsakes from their victims, at their homes, but at some other location that either had meaning or geographic and logistic convenience for them. With unanswered questions lingering, his base of operations might yield additional information to the unnamed victims Mayfield had listed and included in his communication with the police. And possibly even forensic clues relevant to Robby.
“Did you smell anything?” Dixon asked, clearly on the same wavelength. “Hear anything?”
“The train, I heard the train whistle. It was off in the distance, but I heard it.” She closed her eyes. “And I smelled must.”
Vail cocked her head. “Wait—what did you say? Must?”
“A by-product of the early stages of making wine,” Brix said. “The unfermented juice of grapes from crushing or pressing them, before it’s converted into wine. If she smelled must, she had to be near a winery, or at least a facility that processes grapes.”
“How do you know what must smells like?” Vail asked.
Merilynn scrunched her face, as if she resented the question. “I spent eleven years working at San Miguel vineyards. I worked the fields, I worked with the grapes. I know the smells of a winery.”
Vail turned to Dixon. “Does this smell help narrow it down?”
Dixon chuckled. “Not really. The Napa Valley Wine Train covers almost twenty miles before turning around. She heard the train, which means, what? How far can you hear a train whistle? Another two or three miles in either direction? That’s a huge area. And this is the Napa Valley. You know how many wineries or grape processing facilities there are in this region?”