Roscoe Lee Marcks was the last case that profiling legend Thomas Underwood handled before he retired from the Bureau, just prior to Vail joining the unit. Gifford gave her the file to help get her feet wet, to ease her into the flow of things—and, Vail was sure, to see if she had the stomach to handle the brutality the agents in the BAU lived and breathed regularly.
Since the profile had already been finalized and reviewed with the Fairfax County Police Department, Vail was able to study, and learn from, Underwood’s notes, analyses, and case management.
When Marcks was arrested, Vail began developing a rapport with Jasmine. After he was convicted, she and Jasmine stayed in touch periodically, mostly through email. But their contact grew less frequent.
“Coffee?” Jasmine asked as they sat down in the kitchen.
“I’d love some.”
“How’s Jonathan? How old is he now?”
“Almost nineteen. He’s a freshman at George Washington University.”
“No way. How did that happen? College? And a hell of a good one, at that. Smart boy. Like his mom.”
“I’d say he certainly didn’t get his smarts from his dad, but that’d be disingenuous. Deacon was many things, but before he started having problems, he was a bright man.” Not that it got him anywhere.
“What’s he studying?”
“Criminal justice.” Vail chuckled. “Go figure.”
“Uh-oh. Another cop in the family?”
Vail laughed again—but she clearly did not find it humorous. “Not if I can help it. Too dangerous.”
Jasmine opened the cabinet and removed a filter, then placed it in the basket of the coffee maker.
“He’s looking at law. Which would suit me just fine. A whole lot safer. And generally speaking, a whole lot more lucrative.”
“Well, you know how that goes, right? You can try to influence your kids but in the end they do what they want. And let’s not forget that whatever they choose to do in their careers, they’ve gotta be happy.”
“Can’t argue with that.” But I still don’t want him carrying a badge and gun. She glanced around. “So where’s that letter?”
“Go on, take a look. That’s it right there on the table.”
Vail picked it up. It wasn’t evidence—there was no crime—but she almost felt like she should be wearing gloves while handling it. She pulled out the paper and unfolded it. What the hell did I expect? She said it was blank. But that did not fit a man like Roscoe Lee Marcks. There was also a photo of a stuffed animal—torn from a magazine of some kind. “What’s this?”
“What’s what?” Jasmine stepped closer and brought a hand to her mouth.
“It was still inside the envelope. You didn’t see it?”
She shook her head, still staring at the image.
“Why would he send you a picture of a stuffed animal?”
Jasmine turned away and went back to the coffee. “I had one just like that growing up. I used to go to bed with it every night.”
“And your father sent this to you. With no note.”
Jasmine set a mug of steaming java in front of Vail, purposely averting her eyes from the clipping.
“Did this stuffed animal have any special meaning?”
Jasmine stopped what she was doing and stood there. “Yes.” She hesitated, then said, “I found it cut to pieces one day, in my bed.”
“You’re joking. You never told me about this.”
Jasmine pulled a bowl of sugar from the cupboard. “It upset me. A lot. I remember crying, not understanding who would do it. Or why.”
“Did you ever find out?”
“Never. My mom wasn’t very nice about it. She said she’d buy me a new one, which she did. And she thought that made it all better. I loved Sparky. The new one wasn’t Sparky. I had nightmares about seeing him all cut up for weeks. That’s why I could never have a dog. Or a cat, or an animal of any kind. I just can’t—” She shivered. “It’d just make me think of Sparky.”
“You think your dad did it?”
Jasmine snorted. “What do you think?”
“Who else knew about what happened to Sparky?”
“I didn’t tell anyone. It really freaked me out. I was afraid to talk about it. Besides, my dad told me to keep it to myself.” She chuckled. “He said people may think I’m weird. They wouldn’t understand. Hell, I didn’t understand.”
Vail set the magazine clipping aside and examined the blank piece of paper again. “You got a pencil?”
Jasmine drew her chin back. “Maybe. I mean, if you’re not a draftsman or a sketch artist, who still uses pencils?” She rummaged through her drawer and handed Vail an old, yellow, chewed-up Eberhard Faber number two.
While Jasmine busied herself with pouring the coffee, Vail held the writing utensil at an angle, covering the white paper with soft, parallel strokes until she had shaded a good percentage of the surface a charcoal gray. “It’s not exactly blank.”
“What do you mean?” Jasmine came over and sat down next to Vail.
Oh shit. Shouldn’t have said anything. “Mind if I take this with me?” Vail said as she folded it and placed it back into the envelope.
“What’d you find? What does it say?”
“Not sure. I think there are impressions. Like when you write, it leaves latent or visible marks on the pages below it. It’s called indented writing. I’m going to take it over to the lab, have our techs take a look. Okay?”