“Right. Jasmine said he agreed to take the fall for the murders because he had no choice. But to have it rubbed in his face, to see her get all the glory of the abused and suffering little girl, was too much for him. That’s according to her—and there’s likely some truth to that.
“My take is that he probably treated her well growing up. We know that some violent male offenders have good relationships with their children, especially their daughters, who have no idea what their father does. They don’t see that side of him. The fathers work hard to keep it concealed, for obvious reasons. This is just conjecture, of course. We’ll probably never really know.”
“And in Jasmine’s case, she did know who and what her father was. But obviously it didn’t matter because of what she is.”
“Yes,” Underwood said. “And if I’m right, and Marcks is capable of feeling a certain range of emotions, he probably felt used, betrayed. He held his tongue because he had no choice. And to some extent it was to his advantage. But to have it rubbed in his face, to have his reputation smeared, nationally smeared on talk shows, on a personal level, with lies about how horribly he treated his little girl, it just cements him in the public consciousness as a bigger monster than they already thought he was. The difference is the other stuff didn’t matter to Marcks—fine, call him a serial killer. Whatever. It brought him notoriety, which fed his narcissism. Fact was, he had killed multiple people.
“But how he treated his daughter, that did matter to him. He probably couldn’t take it anymore.”
Vail thought about that. “At some point, before Jasmine’s mother was killed, I have to think she realized her daughter was different, that she didn’t form bonds, that she had little to no emotion—certainly no feelings for her, no more attachment to her than to a piece of candy.”
“You’re right. Rhonda knew something was wrong.”
“How do you know? Jasmine said that?”
“Rhonda said it. There’s a diary.” Underwood stood up, steadied himself for a second, then took a couple of steps across the room and pulled a small bound notebook from the shelf. “I found it one day after Jasmine left. I don’t think she realized I read it. But I doubt she’d care.” He opened it, and as he thumbed to the right page, said, “Jasmine had turned twelve and Rhonda—her own mother—wrote something that, in retrospect, is chilling.”
He handed Vail the five by seven inch notebook.
“She wrote about some behaviors she found ‘disturbing,’ and ‘strange for a young girl.’”
Vail read the neat handwriting:
I came home this afternoon to find that Jas had gotten out of school early. When I walked in I saw her in the backyard. She didn’t realize I was there. I watched her pulling Tabby’s ears until the poor kitty shrieked. I stood there in shock. She then picked up a stick and chased it around the yard, trying to hit it. I ran outside and screamed at Jasmine to stop. I asked her what she was doing and she looked at me with this, I don’t know. I can’t describe it. This … these eyes … it was a cold stare. She just looked at me and didn’t answer. I punished her, told her to go to her room and if I ever saw her do anything to hurt an animal again she’d be grounded for a month. The next day I walked into my bedroom and found Sparky, her favorite stuffed animal, the one she slept with every night, cut into pieces. His arms and legs stacked in a pile on top of his body, which had a deep slit across his stomach. I know it was just a toy but I felt like throwing up. What if it represented something else? Me?
Vail looked up and met Underwood’s gaze. Nothing more needed to be said. If there was any doubt as to who and what Jasmine Marcks was—and there wasn’t at this point—this passage sealed the deal. Classic psychopathy.
“Read this one,” Underwood said, turning the page and tapping it with his right index finger.
Today I went into the yard to take the garbage out and found a hamster dead, tossed on top of a dead raccoon. The coon’s stomach had been cut open. I asked Jasmine what she knew about it but she refused to make eye contact. She claimed she didn’t know anything about it. I talked with Roscoe when he got home. I told him I thought Jas was responsible, a tough thing for a mother to admit. He said it’s just a phase she’s going through, to just leave her alone and she’ll grow out of it. Truth is, I’m sick to my stomach. I don’t know what to do.