“The assistant warden thinks I have a nice ass.”
“I agree.” Marcks laughed heartily—exactly the reaction she was hoping for. Break down the barriers that—had she sat down in a room with only a phone connecting them—would have prevented her from getting anything useful.
As he shifted his hands on the table, Vail noticed a three-letter scar on the inside of his left forearm spelling out “D.I.E.” It reminded her of a similar mark she had seen years ago when a woman had used an eraser to obliterate her skin, the resulting wound healing with a thick keloid, as Marcks’s had. More significantly, self-mutilation was one sign of childhood sexual abuse.
“And that may be the only time I’ll ever agree with anything the assistant warden says, darlin’. Mind if I call you darlin’?”
Vail grinned. “What do you think?”
He pursed his lips and pretended to study her, then said, “Nah. I think you want to be respected.”
She nodded slowly. “You’re right, Roscoe. Would you mind if I call you Roscoe?”
“It’s my name.”
“I would appreciate the same respect I’m giving you. Is that a deal?”
“I can live with that.”
“Do you know why I’m here?”
Marcks shrugged his large shoulders. “The Behavioral Analysis Unit’s ongoing research project to study and assess serial offenders, continuing the work of Ressler, Hazelwood, Douglas, and Underwood.”
Vail hiked her brow. “I’m impressed. Word for word from my letter.”
“Letters,” Marcks said. “I think we’re up to six now, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You’re not.”
“You’ve been very persistent, Agent Vail.”
“It’s my job. I think you could help us.”
Marcks leaned back in his chair. “Now why would I want to do that? I mean, respect for you aside.”
Vail tilted her head left, letting her red hair fall partially across her eye. She brushed it aside gently, an alluring enough move to be seductive yet ambiguously innocuous. She was sure it got his attention. “I was hoping that respect for me would be enough.”
Vail knew he had not been in a room alone with a woman in about seven years. She had put on Robby’s favorite perfume and was wearing a form-fitting blouse and well-cut pants. She wanted him distracted. And she wanted him to enjoy talking with her—because she needed this to become a regular occurrence while she built a relationship. Of course, that was her objective before Jasmine received the letter.
While that did change things, it did not alter her approach appreciably—because threats from inside a max-security prison like Potter generally did not present a clear and present danger. Generally. But there were exceptions. Still, Roscoe Lee Marcks was locked away for life without chance for parole. Unless he had someone on the outside to carry out a threatening act against Jasmine, she was safe.
If not unnerved. Or at least she would be when Vail shared with her the contents of the “blank” letter.
Marcks shrugged his shoulders again. “So what do you want to know?”
Wow. Can it be this easy?
“I’ve got a lot of questions.”
“I’ll give you three. How ’bout that? We’ll start with those and go from there.”
All about control. He’ll dole out the answers, leave me asking permission for more.
“Fine,” Vail said. “We’ll start with three. You slice thin lines on the abdomens of your victims using an odd-shaped knife. A karambit. Why do you do that? What does it mean to you?”
“I count two questions there, Agent Vail. You sure you want to burn two at once, so quickly? And can I call you Karen?”
“Karen’s fine. And the two questions are basically the same thing, just worded differently. So how about, “What’s the meaning behind the thin lines you carve in your victims’ abdomens?”
Marcks sucked his top teeth a moment, rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “I don’t like that question. Ask another. Not about the lines. And not about the murders.”
Guess that’s my answer. Not gonna be so easy.
“How about we talk about your daughter. Jasmine.”
Marcks frowned. “Was there a question there?”
“You two had a unique relationship and I’d like to explore—”
“She had a normal childhood. She was loved. End of story.”
“Except that she grew up—in her formative teen years—without a mother. It happens, but it’s not entirely normal.”
“I did the best I could. She had no female influence, you know? That was hard.”
“You developed a strong bond with her.”
He hesitated. “Yes.”
“Why did you have to think about that?”
“We had a special relationship. A unique relationship.”
“How so?”