“And the police,” Prati said, “if not the ATF. But they’re figuring that whatever evidence they’ve left behind linking them to the crime will be destroyed.”
“And if they’ve killed someone,” Vail said, “they’re hoping they’ve completely removed the ability for investigators to determine that it’s even a homicide. No body, you can’t even be sure the person in question was home at the time.”
Prati finished chewing and pointed his fork at Vail. “Yeah, but arson investigators are really sharp. They find all kinds of stuff the offender has no idea these guys can find. They can usually tell it’s an arson.”
“Art had a case where the body was pretty well gone but not completely consumed. They were able to tell that the cause of death wasn’t the fire but some other kind of traumatic injury.” She turned to Ryan. “Unless the offender’s an insider, they don’t know all the things we can do. Like the guy who kidnapped and killed that family in DC. While waiting for the ransom payment, he ordered pizza. We got DNA off the crust in the garbage, ID’d him, and nabbed his ass.” Vail stuck her fork into another chunk of chicken. “Everything’s really good, honey. Thanks again for taking care of dinner.”
“Yes,” Prati said, “everything’s perfect. I appreciate you asking us over.”
“I’m glad we got to meet Ryan,” Robby said.
“How’s GW?” Prati asked.
Jonathan wiped his mouth with the napkin. “I’m really enj—”
Vail’s phone vibrated noticeably, crawling along the table. Her eyes drifted over to Robby’s. He shook his head subtly, telling her not to look. But she had to. She was now working a case that was time sensitive. She had been warned about not missing a text.
Except that it wasn’t a text. It was a phone call.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I’ve gotta take this.”
“No worries.” Prati laughed. “Just goes to what we were saying before. And hey—any questions about fire, I’m happy to help.”
She thanked him, apologizing again as she gathered up the Samsung and walked into the family room. It was Hurdle.
“I thought you said to be back at ten.”
“Something’s come up.”
“Wasn’t the protocol a group text message?”
“This is only for you and Curtis. Don’t bother going back to the command post. You were right. There’s a new vic. Tarkoff’s texting you the address.”
In times like these, I hate it when I’m right.
16
It was a county road a few miles off George Washington Memorial Parkway, pitch-black in all directions except for the rhythmic pulse of the law enforcement vehicles’ candy-colored lights and their focused high beams, which bored directly ahead into the stand of pines.
Vail pulled behind the line of cars as snow flurries began to fall, twinkling in her headlights like wayward lightning bugs zipping this way and that. She got out and blinked away the snowflakes that stuck to her eyelids, then came up alongside Hurdle, who was standing at the perimeter puffing on a cigarette.
“Curtis’ll be here any minute,” he said, not bothering to turn to look at her. He blew smoke out the side of his mouth, away from Vail. “How’d you know he was gonna kill again so fast?”
“He’d been in the slammer for seven years. Most incarcerated offenders are able to turn off the instinct, the hunger. They don’t have any choice, really. Marcks appeared to be one of them—but as soon as he was free, he was like a kid in a toy store. So many potential victims, all he had to do was choose one he wanted. And strike. This had been building inside for years.”
“Like pulling a cork out of a champagne bottle.”
“What was wrong with my kid in a toy store simile?”
“Like mine better.”
Two headlights threw their shadows against the black tree trunks of the tall pines. Vail turned and saw Curtis get out of his car.
“Haven’t even had time to digest my dinner,” Curtis said as he made his way toward them.
Victim could’ve probably said the same thing.
“Let’s go do this.” Hurdle dropped the butt to the ground and squished it with his shoe into the wet asphalt.
They slipped booties on and ducked beneath the crime scene tape, where a patrol officer with a flashlight directed them to another cop, who was standing below ground level, in a slight clearing next to a body.
Lindy Dyson was there, her kit splayed open and a few portable lights standing on tripods surrounding the corpse.
“Do we know who she is?”
Without a word, Dyson handed back a Virginia driver’s license.
Vail took it and used her phone light to read it. “Tammy Hartwell. Thirty-four. Corrective lenses.” Vail looked up and scanned the body. “She’s not wearing any glasses.”
“Contacts?” Curtis said. “Or maybe she wasn’t driving when the perp came upon her.”