“There is more. That same offender was later found to have started plying his trade as … anyone?”
Vail halfheartedly raised a hand. “An arsonist.”
“An arsonist.”
“And did he use ether as an accelerant?” Vail asked.
Rooney pointed at her. “Indeed he did.”
And now I can’t get in touch with Underwood. He said he was in Hawaii. But was he really? What are you thinking, Karen? Don’t be ridiculous.
“So where does this leave us?” Hurdle asked. “Sounds like you think Underwood might be involved in this in some way.”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Rooney said. “But I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that I didn’t start thinking what you’re all thinking right now. For a fleeting moment. Because there’s no way that Thomas Underwood is a killer. Serial, arson, or any other kind you can imagine.”
“You sure about that?” Hurdle asked, fixing his gaze on Rooney. “I think we need to ask him about it. Don’t you?”
Vail looked from Hurdle to Rooney, whose face remained impassive.
Hurdle spread his arms apart. “Let me put it another way. Can you guarantee me that Underwood is not part of this?”
Rooney snorted—but did not answer.
“Art?” Vail said.
Rooney looked away. “No. I can’t. No one can guarantee something like that. But—”
“Plain and simple,” Hurdle said. “Better not to assume. One of us needs to sit him down. Curtis, you worked with him.”
Curtis drew his chin back. “Well, yeah, but it’s not like I know the guy. We worked the case, what, ten years ago? We exchanged some ideas. I didn’t exactly hang out with him.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Vail said. “I left him a message earlier today but he’s out of town and hasn’t returned my call yet.”
“There are other explanations,” Rooney said. “That case with the ether is in one of Tom’s books. His first, Killer Instincts. Never read it, but when I googled the offender and victim, Tom’s name came up in a Miami Herald article. A quote from the detective who handled the case. He made a point of saying something like, ‘Agent Underwood’s thoughtful analysis of the arsonist’s motives put him on the right path.’”
“Why was the FBI involved?” Curtis said. “You said this was before the BSU started consulting on serial cases.”
“After quickly incapacitating the vics with the ether, the offender threw them in his car, injected them with a drug, and drove them from Florida—where he got his victims—into South Carolina, where he killed them. Crossing state lines.”
“And why is this relevant?” Hurdle asked.
Rooney spread his hands. “At the very least, if we look at the most logical or most likely scenario, it tells us that Roscoe Lee Marcks and/or his partner, assuming he has one, read Killer Instincts and took the idea for himself.”
“It also may explain why Marcks is wise to what we do and how we do it. Maybe he did read these types of books. True crime, case studies, that kind of thing, to learn how, and why, we do what we do.”
“Should we look over Underwood’s books,” Hurdle said, “to see if there are other things the killer—or he himself—is mimicking?”
Vail chuckled. “I think he’s written seven. It’s gonna take a while. I only read his third one, Profilers Unmasked, which focused on the history of the BSU and its split into the research unit and what became the BAU. He gave some great insight into the thinking of the early profilers. But Douglas has written a few books, too, and so have Ressler, Hazelwood, and Safarik. We’ve got no reason to think Marcks was limiting his reading to Thomas Underwood.”
Rooney shook his head dubiously. “Might not be a good use of our time.”
“We can expand the task force as needed,” Hurdle said. “We’ve got assets at our disposal. Vail, I want you to track down Underwood. Leaving voice mails is not enough. I want him in a room.”
Vail shifted her weight, uncomfortable with that prospect.
“If you can’t do that, let me know and I’ll have someone else handle it.”
“We’ve got these books at the Academy library,” Rooney said as he pulled out his Samsung. “I’ll arrange to have them brought to your command center.”
“And I’ll arrange to have several agents put on reading duty,” Hurdle said.
“The one with the ether,” Vail said. “Killer Instincts. I want to read that one myself. Art, can you have the library hold that one for me?”
Rooney shrugged. “Of course.”
“I’m heading there right now.”
52
Vail walked into the Academy library, a bright, modest-size square room with adjoining reading areas and a two-story atrium that gave it an airy grandeur.