Vail 02 - Crush (54 page)

“What I’ve done is take advantage of an opportunity. And I’m just getting even for what was done to me, sweetie. I’m balancing the scales of justice, is all.”

“Is that right? So in killing these people, you’ve done a good thing.”

Mayfield shifted in his seat, threw out his chest. “Damn straight.”

“How did killing make you feel?” Vail didn’t really need an admission—the charges against him, assault of a federal agent, attempted murder, let alone the murder of a law enforcement officer—Eddie Agbayani—would put Mayfield away for a long, long time. But any opportunity to get inside the mind of a killer was too important to ignore.

“How’d it make me feel?” Mayfield glanced around the walls, then shrugged. “Depends on who it was.”

“Victoria Cameron.”

Mayfield pursed his lips, thinking. “I didn’t feel a whole lot with that one.”

That one.
The objectification, the treating of people as objects, was classic among narcissists. It wasn’t much different from the attitude of powerful leaders—political, corporate, military, it didn’t matter—though most of them weren’t killers.

“What about Ursula Robbins, Isaac Jenkins, Mary—”

“Special cases. And special cases deserve special attention because of who they are. Or were.”

“I’m not following you.”

Mayfield’s mouth rose into a grin. “Of course you aren’t.”

“Was Scott Fuller a ‘special case,’ too?”

“You know, you people should be thanking me. I
helped
these people.” He tugged on his chain. “And this is the thanks I get?”

Vail knew that narcissists felt they helped their victims by improving them, removing imperfections, and cleansing them of the evil they committed during their lives. Truth was, they were really cleansing their own souls.

“You’ll forgive me if we’re not more demonstrative in our gratitude.” Before Mayfield could respond, Vail forged ahead. “I don’t think you killed to help them, John. I think you killed for a different reason. I think you have some issues with women in your life. You’re angry at them. More than anger. Rage. And killing them allows you to exert control over something in your life you didn’t have control over. You gain control by dominating them, then degrading them by cutting off their breasts.”

Mayfield smiled and looked at her a long minute before answering. “You think you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you, Special Agent Vail? Well, I checked you out, too. And I know all about your son, whose name is very similar to mine. Isn’t that something? Maybe your son and me, we’re more alike than you know. We both had mothers who weren’t around. Because I’m sure you’re busy with your career, and looky here. You’re on the other side of the fucking country, trying to catch people like me when you should be at home taking care of your boy.”

Vail clenched her jaw. She couldn’t let Mayfield see what she was feeling. Truth was, she wanted to jump out of her chair and put her hands around
his
neck. She forced a smile instead.

“I had you there for a while, Vail, I know I did. You thought I was in Virginia, at Jonathan’s middle school. Bet you called your buddies, had them go apeshit protecting your precious little son. Looking for a phantom killer who wasn’t even there.”

Vail nodded. “That’s right, that’s exactly what I did. Because I’m not like
your
mother, John.” She noted his facial twitch. She leaned back and opened the file. “So you’re a mosquito abatement technician for the county of Napa. Pretty clever. You had access to all sorts of places without suspicion.”

He placed his left arm on the table. Vail watched but fought the urge to flinch. He smiled back at her. “I’ve been killing more than just mosquitoes.”

Vail nodded thoughtfully. “Indeed, you have. How many people have you killed?”

“Look it up. I sent you that list.”

“Yes, you did. Thanks for that. It was more important than you’ll ever know. But I know there are other names that aren’t on the list. Because narcissists like yourself lie. They lie all the time.”

“Oh, poor Agent Vail,” Mayfield sang. The smile evaporated from his face. He leaned forward, a sneer crumpling his mouth. “You think you got it all figured out. Well, fuck you. You ain’t got shit. There’s more to this than you know.”

Vail was usually able to let the slime of a serial killer slide off her as if she were made of Teflon. But John Wayne Mayfield, or George Panda, or whatever he wanted to be called, sent the creeps crawling up her spine. She couldn’t let him know, or even sense it.

She countered her repulsion by leaning forward, closer to him than was advisable. He could easily head butt her into oblivion. And given her fatigue, she wouldn’t be able to react fast enough to lessen its impact. A guy like Mayfield had nothing to lose. Doing more damage, adding another count of assault on a federal officer, was meaningless.

Mayfield shook his head, a
tsk-tsk-tsk,
shame-on-you movement. “You’ve missed the point,
Karen
. But you’ll probably get it eventually. And when you do, I think it’s probably safe to say this will have been unlike anything you or your profiler friends have ever seen before.”

Vail checked that off to a narcissist’s need to show he was better than everyone else. Superior. Special.
Fine, I’ll give that to you if it makes you answer me.
“Obviously,” Vail said, “you’re a superior killer to any we’ve dealt with in the past. So why don’t you tell me what I’m missing?” She shrugged. “I’m just a fuckup. Humor me. What don’t I know?”

Mayfield leaned back—the restraints offered no resistance. “Ask nicely. I want to hear you beg.”

“I’m sure you do.” She looked at him, trying to read his expression.

But the image of his large face, leaning into hers in the cave as he attempted to squeeze the life from her, kept invading her thoughts. She was speaking before she knew what she was saying. “But that just ain’t gonna happen. I’m not going to beg. Because I think you’re bullshitting me.”

Mayfield shrugged. “Maybe I am. And maybe I’m not.” He leaned forward again. “But aren’t you curious? It’s going to eat away at you, every night when you get into bed and turn off the lights. You’ll think of me, of this conversation. You’ll think about the lost opportunity to get to the bottom of this. And it’ll eat you up inside.”

Vail couldn’t argue with that.
That’s exactly what’s going to happen. Goddamn it. This scumbag seems to have some kind of periscope into my thoughts.

Vail had to change the rules. She realized now she had approached this interview incorrectly. She was too close, had too much invested—
the fucker tried to kill me
—to be objective. She should have tried to strike a chord within him, talk to him and touch him like he’d never been touched before.
I need to get him to connect to me in a way John Mayfield has never connected with anyone before. Is that possible, given our history?

She closed the file folder and pushed it aside, but kept her left hand on the table. “You know what? I want to back up for a minute. I’ve been rude to you, and that was wrong.” She placed her hand on the exposed, noncasted area of Mayfield’s, careful to avoid quick or awkward movements. She was trying to establish a connection with him and didn’t want anything disrupting it. “Can we start over?”

Mayfield looked down at their hands. He looked up at her, a distant look in his eyes. Confusion.

Vail pressed on. “Tell me something.” Her voice was soft, non-threatening. “Tell me about your mother, John.” His eyes narrowed. He was listening. Like taming a lion, his tremendous power was suddenly neutralized. “Your mother is sitting right there,” Vail said, nodding toward a seat to her right, in the corner of the room. “It’s empty, but she’s sitting there. Say something to her.”

Mayfield turned his head slowly, his eyes remaining on Vail. For the first time, he looked unsure of himself.

“Go on, look at her. I’m not going to judge or hurt you. No one else is here. Just you, me, and your mother.”

Mayfield’s eyes remained on Vail a long moment, then they swung to his left, toward the empty chair. He quickly looked away, then back at Vail. “I can’t.”

“You can,” she said soothingly. “Tell her what you feel, what’s on your mind. Tell her what you’ve always wanted to tell her.”

Mayfield turned his entire head this time. Facing the empty chair, staring at it, his eyes moistened. A minute passed. Then two. Finally, he said, in a low voice, “You let it happen. Why did you let him do that to me, Ma? Why?”

Vail leaned in, ever so slightly. “John, what was it that she let happen to you?”

“My father. It was my father.” He licked his lips. Hesitated, sat there quietly another moment before continuing. “I was thirteen. He wasn’t happy with me. I was a scrawny kid, unsure of myself. I walked slumped over. I disappointed him. He wanted me to play varsity football but I was too small. Guys in the neighborhood would spit on me, they beat me up, stole things from me. Made fun of me.” He stopped. The tears flowed down his cheek. “He called me a little runt.”

“It’s okay,” Vail said, barely above a whisper.

Mayfield sniffled. Still looking at the empty seat. “My father wanted to make me a man. So he hired a hooker, a whore. I ran out, but he caught me in the kitchen and dragged me back into the bedroom. Tied me down.”

Vail knew where this was going before Mayfield said it. “She raped you?”

“He said I needed to be a man. He stood outside the door and listened. I saw his feet underneath the door. Standing there.” He dragged his nose across his shoulder. Face down now, he talked to his lap. “But I was a man now. I’d had sex with a woman, with a
whore
. And my mother let it happen.”

“Was she there, too?” Vail asked softly.

“There?” Mayfield shook his head. “She was always working. She
was never there. My father couldn’t keep a job, so he was always at home, getting drunk and smoking pot and playing cards. My mother was never around. But she knew what was happening, and she did nothing.” He lifted his head and turned to the empty chair. Took a deep, uneven breath, slumped forward and put his right elbow on the table.

“I don’t think your mother knew. I don’t think she’d let that happen to you, John. Did you ever . . . tell her?”

Mayfield swung his face toward Vail’s. “I couldn’t.”

Vail nodded slowly. “I understand.” And, honestly, she did understand. What thirteen-year-old could face his mother and tell her he’d been raped by a prostitute? The details of how it happened were unimportant. It was too embarrassing for most thirteen-year-olds to admit. Telling your mother something that personal, face-to-face, was out of the question. The evolution of John Mayfield into serial killer was now clear. She lowered her eyes, saddened by the series of events that led to this man in front of her having taken the lives of so many innocent people. People who had nothing to do with John Mayfield’s failed upbringing.

Piercing the quiet, the moment, was the grumbling vibration of Vail’s BlackBerry. Both she and Mayfield reflexively jumped as she lifted her hand off his and fumbled to answer it. She cursed herself for forgetting to silence it.

The display said it was Bledsoe.
Goddamn it.
Take it or not? What if he had critical information on Robby? Mayfield had revealed to her some of the most crucial details: why he killed. But she hadn’t yet gotten into the equally important questions of how and why he chose these particular victims.

And the document he’d sent that listed victims they didn’t know about—who were they?

Then there were those affiliated with the AVA board—the
special cases.
What the hell did that mean?

Phone vibrating.
Answer Bledsoe’s call or not?

She may never have a chance to reestablish the connection she’d developed with Mayfield. But the decision was made for her. Mayfield yanked back, pulling his arm off the table.

His reaction took Vail by surprise. In that instant, she thought he was going to hit her, and she recoiled, nearly fell backwards in her chair. The phone stopped ringing.
Fuck. Lost the connection—to Mayfield and to Bledsoe.

“I’m done talking,” Mayfield said. “You’re a whore just like my mother. Pretending to care, to be there for me. I should’ve killed you when I had the chance. Just like I killed the others. Guess I’m a fucking man now, huh!”

Vail shoved the BlackBerry into its holster and rose from her chair.

Mayfield tried to stand. But his leg cast—and the restraint cuffed to the armrest—forced him to fall back into his seat. “Remember, Vail. There’s more to this than you know. And I’m beginning to doubt you’re smart enough to ever figure it out.”

The door to her right swung open and in stepped Ray Lugo. He lifted his right hand, revealing a black SIG-Sauer pistol.

And it was pointed at Mayfield.

“Ray!” Vail lunged for the gun—but Lugo fired. The blast in the small room was deafening.

Vail grabbed Lugo’s pistol and wrapped her hands around it, trying to force it toward the ceiling. But Lugo was intent on keeping the SIG on target.

“Drop it. Ray. Drop. The. Fucking. Gun!”

Lugo twisted back, but Vail held on, ducking to keep her face from the barrel of the pistol. “Leave me the hell alone—” he yelled, then yanked down hard and drove his left shoulder into her chest.

Vail bounced into the wall fell to the side

Mayfield—blood—yelling—
and

Lugo fired again.

As Vail got to her feet, Lugo crumpled and fell backwards into the wall. He grabbed for his neck. Blood was spurting, soaking the carpet and Vail—Vail pulled off her blouse and pressed it against Lugo’s neck.

Banging on the door. “Karen!”

Brix
.

He was trying to get into the room, but Lugo’s body was blocking the doorway.

“Ray’s been shot,” Vail yelled. “He’s been shot!”