Vail 01 - The 7th Victim (52 page)

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Authors: Alan Jacobson

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BOOK: Vail 01 - The 7th Victim
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“Is he telling the truth?” Vail asked.
 
Underwood sighed, leaned both palms against the surface of the mirror, and bowed his head. “I think so. I think he really believes he knows who wrote that letter. And if Dead Eyes wrote that letter, and if his beliefs are on the money, you’d have made a big step toward solving this case.”
 
“Too many damn ‘ifs,’” Bledsoe said.
 
Underwood pushed away from the mirror. “That’s the nature of our business, Detective. Educated guesses about what these people are thinking, about who and what they are, based on what we’ve seen before. There may be a lot of ifs, but a lot of the ifs have been proven right over the years. Sometimes it’s all we’ve had to go on.” Underwood grabbed the doorknob. “Agent Vail,” he said without facing her. “Just wanted you to know that’s a damn good profile you drew up. And I like your work on finding signature within MO. It’s got a lot of promise.” He turned his head and winked at her. “Keep up the good work.”
 
With that, he pulled the door open, then walked out of the room.
 
fifty-nine
 
T
he intervening five days passed with a flurry of strategy sessions that included Bledsoe, Del Monaco, the district attorney, Thomas Gifford, the governors of the states of Virginia and New York, Lee Thurston, and the speaker of the Virginia state legislature. The posturing was intense, the political threats at times implied, at other times plainly stated.
 
The issues were debated, but in the end, the district attorney felt that setting aside a jury’s decision to invoke the death penalty under any circumstances devalued the very heart of the American judicial system. When the governor commuted a sentence, it was within his power to do so according to the Constitution. Though an uncommon occurrence, it was almost always a defensible decision. Making deals with killers due to die could be defended as well—if nothing else, to potentially prevent other women from being killed—but it was no guarantee they would find the offender even if they were given his identity. And if the whole exercise turned out to be a wild goose chase, both the district attorney and the governor would come out damaged, perhaps permanently, and lose reelection. No one would want to vote for law enforcement leaders who had been bilked by a convicted killer.
 
And so the argument went.
 
The search for an inmate who had served with Singletary was a more daunting task than they had anticipated. He had not only been a resident of North Carolina’s Rockridge institution, but he also spent time at Virginia’s Greensville Correctional Facility. With the number of potential suspects with a violent background numbering in the thousands, Robby and Sinclair headed a subgroup of law enforcement staff whose sole task was to pare the list to a reasonable number of men who could be questioned individually. But progress was akin to watching honey dissolve in iced tea. Erroneously eliminate one inmate on the list and the entire process would be for nothing. So they had to be methodical and cross-check one another’s work.
 
With the hours dwindling, and with the Singletary decision having been made, Vail, Bledsoe, Del Monaco, the district attorney, and Thomas Underwood were invited to witness the execution. They were flown by private charter and then ushered by limousine to the prison. They were quiet, having little to say to each other. It had all been said during their earlier deliberations.
 
Vail had tossed and turned the past four nights, getting little sleep—and what rest she did get occurred in disturbed, nightmare-filled fits. She spent time with Jonathan each day, but there was little news to report.
 
It was agreed that prior to Singletary’s death walk, Underwood and Vail would make one last attempt to obtain the name locked away in his brain. Upon arrival, they were led to the prison’s death-watch area, where they found Richard Ray Singletary in a cell, sitting on the edge of a cot. He was dressed in a thin, short-sleeved blue cotton shirt and a fresh pair of pants, his head bowed and forearms resting on his thighs. The warden was standing outside, his face tight and drawn. There was no chaplain present.
 
The door to Singletary’s cell was open, and three large guards stood with their hands on their belts. They were there to prevent him from harming himself, and to ensure he did not explode in one last rampage of death before he left this world.
 
Singletary’s ankles and wrists were shackled in preparation for transport to the lethal injection chamber. Though he had been given steak dinners each night as compensation for having turned over the alleged Dead Eyes letter, his face was drawn and he looked as if he had dropped several pounds since their last visit. His head lifted upon their arrival, hope spilling from his eyes. He undoubtedly thought they might have brought news the governor had spared him.
 
“Thomas.”
 
“Ray.”
 
The two men stared at each other for a long moment, then Singletary looked away, apparently realizing they were there not to deliver good news, but to try one last time to wrest information from him.
 
“We need the name, Ray. I know you’re disappointed we weren’t able to make the deal. No, check that. Disappointed is a bullshit word. Devastated. But I tried, you know I tried.”
 
Vail stood to Underwood’s left, arms folded, trying to will the prisoner to give up the name.
 
Singletary nodded.
 
“I’m sorry I failed.” He stepped inside the open door and knelt in front of Singletary, within reach of the man’s legs.
 
One of the guards stepped forward. “Sir, I would be more comfortable—”
 
Underwood held up a hand. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Ray won’t hurt me.” He looked up at Singletary and met his eyes. “Ray, I’m going to make you one last offer. I have the power to let the world know that your last act on this Earth was one of mercy. You once told me you felt sorry for the victims’ families. You have a chance to make a difference, to give them a little bit of something to make them feel good. To alleviate their hate.”
 
“Their hate is misdirected. Tell them to hate my father, who beat me every day, tell them to hate the two women who raped me when I was thirteen.” A tear streamed down his cheek. “Tell them to hate the people who made me who I am.”
 
Underwood’s lips twisted into a frown. “Ray, don’t do this. Don’t make excuses. You are who you are, you did what you did. You’re going to face your maker very soon. Wouldn’t you rather face him knowing you did at least one good deed in your lifetime? Show him you made an attempt to atone for the pain you’ve caused.”
 
Vail did not fault Underwood for his efforts but was sickened by the fact they had been reduced to begging for the information. Singletary deserved to rot in hell; he deserved to be tortured the way he had tortured his victims. The way he had brought them to the brink of death, only to revive them over and over so he could torture them some more.
 
“This man deserves to die,” Vail said matter-of-factly. “He’s not going to give us the name, Agent Underwood.” She was turning the screw, driving it in, bringing Singletary to the point of no return. “We’ve offered him what we could. The man has no desire to save himself.”
 
Underwood sighed, then rose to his feet. “Richard Ray, you disappoint me. There’s nothing to be gained by protecting this man, by taking his name to your grave.” He waited a moment, and for a brief second it appeared as if Singletary’s mouth wavered. “We’re going to be in the chamber, in the viewing area. If you change your mind, Ray, just say the name. Before you lose consciousness, say the name. Save your soul.”
 
Underwood turned and left, Vail on his heels. They did not look back.
 
sixty
 
T
he execution chamber was a clean, well-lighted circular area surrounded by a glass viewing enclosure and a witness room sporting sixteen blue plastic institutional-style chairs. Already seated were relatives of both the victims and prisoner, state-selected witnesses, and media representatives. Vail and Underwood took their places beside Bledsoe and Del Monaco, who were sitting behind the government officials also in attendance.
 
Vail shook her head at Bledsoe, but he already knew by their demeanor that Singletary had not cooperated. Bledsoe, desperate to clear the Dead Eyes case, had quietly lobbied the governor and district attorney one last time upon arrival at the correctional facility. But they would have nothing of it.
 
The families of the seven women Richard Ray Singletary had killed sat rigidly in their seats. Their faces were, for the most part, stiff and angry, an occasional tissue being dabbed at the face. No doubt reliving excruciating memories a parent should never experience. Their daughters brutally murdered, the case file reports clearly outlining the torturous last hours of their children’s lives.
 
The door to the execution chamber swung open and Richard Ray Singletary was rolled into the room strapped to a gurney. ECG cardiac monitor leads and a stethoscope were affixed to his chest, and two IV lines, one in each arm, had been inserted in the adjacent preparation room. The black-and-white clock mounted above the doorway to the chamber read 11:49.
 
Vail uncrossed her legs and leaned forward on her thighs, hands covering her mouth, hoping for one last utterance from the monster who lay strapped before them.
 
The IV lines were connected to the wall, where they threaded through an opening into a puke-green anteroom, where the hooded execution team stood amongst their drugs, a clock, and a bank of telephones—should the governor call with a last-minute stay. In this case, the governor was in attendance. Vail glanced over at the man. Judging by his rigid posture and stern face, this was not going to be Richard Ray Singletary’s lucky day.
 
Vail knew multiple executioners were set to inject drugs into the IV tubes, but only one of them would actually supply the lethal dose. No one would know—not even the executioners—who delivered the toxic cocktail into the inmate’s bloodstream and who had injected their drugs into a secondary reservoir.
 
At eleven fifty-five, the executioners shoved their syringes into the IV ampules, then awaited word to proceed.
 
The warden leaned close to the prisoner. “Richard Ray Singletary, do you have any last remarks?”
 
Vail closed her eyes, her heart pounding so hard she felt the pressure beating against her ear drums.
 
“Rot in hell, all of you,” Singletary yelled.
 
“Thank you, sir,” the warden said. “And may the same fate befall you, as I’m sure it will.” He turned to the executioners and said, “Proceed.”
 
Vail pictured them depressing their plungers, injecting a massive dose of the barbiturate sodium pentothal, the first step in Richard Ray Singletary’s death. In a matter of seconds, he would be unconscious.
 
After flushing the line with saline, a paralyzing agent, pancuronium bromide, was then injected to deaden nerve signals to the cardiac muscle and disable the diaphragm and lungs.

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