Red Death Read online

  “You will share your thoughts when you reach a conclusion, right?”

  “Of course. There’s no fun in keeping it to myself. Misery loves company.”

  9

  Vail walked outside and realized it had been almost thirty years since she visited Oahu. Some new office buildings had been built in the intervening decades, but there were still a lot of older structures. She was just a kid back then, so even if she passed a few longstanding landmarks, she would probably not remember them.

  Vail pulled out her phone and called her sometime partner and all-the-time pain in the ass, Frank Del Monaco.

  “Stacey said you were stopping off in Hawaii?”

  I hate when he calls the unit chief by her first name. Best buddies.

  “Landed this morning.”

  “Lucky you. Beaches and warm weather.”

  “I’m working, Frank.”

  “Of course you are.”

  Vail rolled her eyes. She was not going to let Del Monaco bait her. “I need you to have an analyst run a search on ViCAP. Can you do that for me?”

  “I can. But as my mom used to say, ‘You really meant to ask if I will do that for you.’”

  Vail forced a smile. Del Monaco could not see it, but it allowed her to shed her anger. Well, that’s the theory. “Your mother was a wise woman, Frank.” Can’t say the same for her son. “Will you have an analyst run the search for me?”

  There was a long hesitation, followed by an exaggerated sigh. “Yes.”

  Vail gave him the parameters, then asked him to expedite it.

  Del Monaco snorted. “And what if I’m in the middle of a case, too?”

  “Look at it this way, Frank. The longer it takes me to make headway with this, the more time I get to spend lying on the beaches in paradise.”

  He groaned—just loud enough for her to hear.

  That made her smile again, only this time it was real.

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  As Vail hung up, the young detective cleared his throat. “What kind of search is he doing?”

  Vail spun around. “Sneaking up on me?”

  “If I was, I wouldn’t have cleared my throat.”

  “True that.” She held up her phone. “I asked my colleague to search ViCAP.”

  ViCAP, or the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, was a nationwide database of serial violent and sexual crime cases that enabled law enforcement agencies to link victims in different jurisdictions. The program was voluntary, but if a detective took the time to complete the forms, a cop in one state could search for distinguishing factors about a victim or offender and find crimes in other states committed by the same individual.

  “Problem is,” Vail said, “if the medical examiners classify the deaths as natural heart attacks, there won’t be any ‘cases’ to find. They have to search MSRs,” she said, referring to miscellaneous service reports.

  “Talk about a needle in a haystack.”

  “And how many haystacks have you searched?”

  “As a detective? Too many. And I’m just getting started.”

  Vail realized she was perspiring and tugged on her blouse to get some air movement. “What is it, eighty degrees?”

  “Eighty-three. Good thing you came from Vegas or you’d have to buy a new wardrobe.”

  Thirty minutes later, her Samsung rang and she dug it out of her pocket. “Frank. Anything?”

  “You can thank me later. Got hits in Chicago, Los Angeles, Dallas, and Atlanta. Linkage isn’t ironclad because you didn’t give me a whole lot to go on, and the ViCAP database had nothing because if they were classified as natural deaths, there aren’t actually any homicide cases—”

  “Yeah, I just realized that.”

  “Fortunately, Jeri McMaster, that ViCAP analyst? She always goes the extra mile. She reached out to her contacts at a few major cities. They plugged it into their systems, did some manual searches, checked with the MEs, looked for matches regarding the asphyxiation signature of the killer, victim age range, hair color—and got some.”

  “And there could be more that went unreported as homicide,” Vail said, “because it can look like a simple heart attack. This obviously wasn’t an exhaustive or definitive search.”

  “My thinking, too.”

  That’s scary.

  “Oops,” she said, cupping her mouth. “Did I say that out loud?”

  “Say what?”

  Vail shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “Another sarcastic remark, I’m sure.”

  “You’re right, Frank. I apologize.”

  “You apologize?”

  “Doesn’t happen often, so enjoy the moment.”

  “This is how you thank me?”

  “No. Absolutely not. Who said anything about thanking you for doing your job? Please thank Jeri for her terrific work. And email me those MSRs.” Before Del Monaco could get the last word, she hung up.

  “You two don’t play well together,” Russell said.

  “How could you tell?”

  Russell chuckled. “It’d be a trip to work with you every day.”

  “I’m not always this pleasant. I can be a real pain in the ass.”

  Russell pouted his lips as if he were considering her comment. “Never would’ve guessed.”

  Vail stuck out her tongue in mock insult, then gave him a friendly wink.

  “While we’re waiting for those files, you wanna go take a look at the two crime scenes?”

  “Matter of fact, I do.”

  10

  Astoria, Queens

  December 2, 1983

  “Only the Lonely” by The Motels was playing on the radio. Scott ran into the living room, his arms spread out at his sides and making a vroom! noise as he swooped high and low over the couches.

  “What are you?” Phillip asked.

  “A fighter jet!”

  “Oh yeah? How do you know about fighter jets?”

  “Dad was telling me about ’em. He said they’re super-fast and can drop bombs and stuff. We got the best in the world.”

  “F-16s are cool. Wanna see a picture?”

  “Yeah!”

  Phillip disappeared for a moment as Scott resumed dashing about the periphery of the small room. A moment later, Phillip walked back in with a forest green and cream-colored World Book “update” volume. He splayed the pages open and dropped the encyclopedia on the sofa. “See?”

  “That’s bad!” Scott revved up like a car engine and sped away, zooming left and right.

  “What the hell’s all this noise?”

  Phillip hid the World Book from his mother’s sight. “Scott’s playing air force. He’s an F-16 fighter jet.”

  Mary rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath. “Scott, why can’t you be more like your brother?” She glanced over. “Scott Meece, are you listening to me?”

  Scott swooped to a landing on the couch, sound effects and all: a momentous crash, complete with explosions.

  Mary stepped over and smacked Scott on the back of the head. He stopped and looked up at her, in his own world, unclear as to why she had struck him.

  “You hear me?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “I said be more like your brother. Stop doing stupid stuff and—be smarter.”

  Scott stood up, unsure how to do that. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Go get your backpack. Time for school.”

  “But—but I didn’t eat yet.”

  “Tough shit. Next time don’t be in dream land. You get up in the morning, you brush your teeth and eat breakfast. No fuckin’ around.”

  Scott pouted his lips. “I’m hungry.”

  “You’ll get lunch at school.”

  “But I’m hungry now.”

  She drew back he
r right hand, threatening a smack across the face.

  Scott winced, waiting for the blow.

  “Get your backpack. Now. Don’t make me tell you a third time.”

  He ran out and into his room, walking by the mirror on his wall. He stood on his toes to take a look at his face. Tears had pooled in the bottoms of his lids. Drawing a sleeve across his eyes, he mopped up the moisture, then grabbed his book bag and headed out. Phillip was waiting by the door. He pulled it open and they walked into the corridor.

  “Here,” Phillip said, removing something from his pocket. “Piece of toast. All I could get without her seeing.”

  Scott’s face brightened as his lips spread. “Thanks.”

  “Couldn’t let you go hungry.”

  They walked to the front of the apartment. As they stood in the brisk morning air, Scott turned to Phillip. “Why does Mom hate me?”

  Phillip put his left arm around his brother’s shoulders.

  Scott realized that Phillip had not answered him, but he felt comforted and strangely satisfied.

  11

  February 22, 1984

  Waverly sat down in the kitchen and rubbed his eyes.

  “Elbows off the table,” Mary said as she watered the plant by the window.

  Waverly dropped his arms to his sides and looked at her with a bloodshot weary expression. “Sorry. I’m beat.”

  “Don’t gimme that. You just woke up.”

  “Didn’t sleep well.”

  “You were tossing and turning all night.”

  He took a deep breath and sat back as Mary placed a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon with a side of home fries in front of him. “Wow. You made breakfast. What is this, a special occasion?”

  “Can’t I make a nice breakfast for my husband?”

  “Hell yeah,” Waverly said, grabbing his fork and digging in. “What’s this?” he asked as he chewed.

  “A flower.”

  “For what?”

  “Decoration. I think it’s called a garnish. Saw it in a magazine. I also ground up a little bit of it and put it in the eggs. For extra flavoring.”

  “No shit?”

  “Whaddya think?”

  Waverly cleared his throat. Again. Turned his neck to the side and coughed. Grabbed his water glass and tried to gulp it—but ended up spilling it on the table. He jumped up from his chair and looked at Mary, clasped his throat with his right hand, his eyes wide and his face shading red.

  “You okay?” She advanced on the table, leaning in closer to get a look at his face. “Waverly.”

  He shook his head vigorously from side to side. He could not get air into his lungs. Choking—felt like he had something jammed down his throat.

  Waverly dropped to his knees and began crawling toward the door but only got about ten feet.

  He felt a sharp pain in his chest, sending lightning bolts into his left shoulder and arm.

  Pressure.

  Squeezing.

  Hard to breathe.

  He fell to his stomach, then his face hit the hard floor. Blood seeped across his tongue, a piece of tooth wedged in his throat …

  And then nothing.

  Phillip and Scott were waiting by the front entrance to PS 122. The school, also named for Mamie Fay—the first female principal in Queens and the administrator who guided the institution starting in 1925—was a large rectangular red-brick building bounded by black wrought iron fencing.

  But its most distinctive feature was its four two-story-plus marble columns flanking the front entrance, with a grand light fixture suspended from the center of its atrium, similar in design to that of the White House, of all places.

  Mary was late and the boys were standing at the rightmost light post, by the tall gates. Now in junior high, Phillip walked over every day to wait with Scott so that their mother would not have to make two stops—which she said was “a waste of my time.”

  She pulled up to the curb at a spot a few car lengths away. She slammed her door and trudged toward them, pulling her winter coat around her torso.

  “Sorry I’m late, boys. Your father kicked the bucket.”

  “What bucket?” Scott asked.

  “Died, you dimwit. Your father dropped dead.”

  Scott’s backpack hit the cement.

  Phillip’s face blanched. A weak, “What?” managed to scrape from his throat.

  “Called the ambulance but they couldn’t do nothin’ for him. Had to wait at home until they loaded him up. That’s why I was late. So blame him, not me.”

  Scott’s knees buckled and he fell to the pavement.

  “How?” Phillip asked. “Why?”

  “They sayin’ heart attack, but don’t know for sure. I came home this afternoon and found him there. Paramedics said he’d been dead a while, maybe three or four hours. Body was cold. Peed himself, pants were wet. Broke a tooth when he hit the floor.”

  Phillip swallowed deeply. “I—but how?”

  “I’m not a doctor, Phillip. All I know, heart stops beatin’. Mighta just been his time to go. He stood to lose some weight.”

  Phillip knelt down and huddled with Scott, who was mute, staring straight ahead at the street.

  “Everything okay here?” a woman asked as she passed by with her dog in tow.

  “We’re fine,” Mary said. “Thanks.”

  “We need to get up.” Scott felt a tug at his arm. “Scotty. C’mon, we gotta get up. People are staring at us.”

  Scott licked his lips and turned to face Phillip. “Daddy’s dead?”

  Phillip nodded silently.

  “I’m scared.”

  “Nothin’ to be scared of,” Mary barked. “Now get your ass up and get in the goddam car.”

  Phillip bit his lip and nodded, telling Scott it would be okay.

  But Scott knew it would not be okay. How could it be?

  12

  Vail and Russell were pulling into the Iolani Palace parking lot when she felt a rumble in her pocket. It was an encrypted PDF with the files Del Monaco sent. She opened the document and gave a cursory look while Russell parked.

  “Hmm. All the vics’ names were Mary.”

  Russell swung his gaze over to Vail. “That’s bizarre.”

  “Not really. The UNSUB apparently chooses his victims based on their first names.”

  “And that’s not bizarre?”

  “These types of killers have certain psychological characteristics—characteristics that govern their behavior.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that the things they do, there’s a reason behind them. They’re not random. He’s not killing women in their sixties named Mary by accident. He’s chosen them for a specific reason. And if I can make an educated guess here, an older woman wronged him at some point, likely when he was young. An older woman in her early sixties, named Mary.”

  “Mother?”

  “Probably. Or a mother figure. Teacher. A woman in a position of authority. Some kind of abuse.”

  “Sexual?”

  “Can’t really say because we don’t have enough info yet, but I doubt it. If he was sexually abused we’d see signs of sexual assault on his vics. He’d have sodomized them. Or done something with the genitalia. Sliced a breast, cut it off.”

  Russell cringed. “I get it.”

  “Point is, there’s lots of things he could’ve done. He did none of ’em.”

  “So you really can say.”

  “Huh?”

  “You said you can’t really say. But then you said.”

  “What’s your first name again?”

  “Adam.”

  Vail nodded. “Shut up. Adam.”

  He fought back a smile. “Yes ma’am.”

  “And don’t ‘ma’am’ me. I’m not that much older than you.”


  “Right.”

  “There’s something else that bothers me.”

  Russell lifted his right arm and sniffed. “Do I have body odor?”

  “What?” Vail squinted confusion. “No. I mean about the case.”

  “Wait. You just referred to the killer as a male. Did you decide on his gender and forget to tell me? What happened to ‘misery loves company’?”

  Vail pursed her lips. “Consider yourself miserable.”

  “Partnering with you—that’s miserable.”

  “Now I’m impressed,” Vail said with a nod. “You can take it and dish it out. But to answer your question, males are generally less, rather than more, likely to be poisoners—but when they do poison it’s in a medical setting. That said, the dynamic of victimology and the fact the killer is not witnessing the deaths makes me think this is more likely a male.”

  “And beyond the gender of the killer, does that help us in any other way?”

  “Not sure yet. Based on my experience—and what we’re seeing in terms of victimology—my sense is that he’s killing his mother.”

  “Then how do you explain the poisoning MO?”

  “Could just be a means to an end—doing it this way allows him to be somewhere else when the vic dies. Increases his chances of success—much harder to catch a killer who’s nowhere nearby when the cops show up.” Vail unbuckled her belt. “But—keep in mind that at this point we don’t know what’s ritual and what’s MO. I’m making educated guesses. I’ll refine them as we get more information.”

  Russell pushed open his door and got out, led the way down a path. “Not to burst your profiling bubble, Karen, but your theory doesn’t work here.”

  “Did I give you permission to call me Karen?”

  “No, I, uh—you didn’t want me to call you ma’am, and you called me Adam, so I—”

  “Agent Vail works for me. Respect your elders.”

  “I see,” Russell said. “So this is one of those times where you can be a bit of an asshole.”

  “Excuse me?” Vail stopped walking and looked at him. “I said I can be a pain in the ass, not an asshole. There’s a difference.”