by Mike Omer
Zoe hit play on the screen. The voice of the dispatcher emanated from the phone’s speaker. “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
And then another voice—gritty, low, and chillingly familiar—said, “I want to report a suspicious activity at Kickapoo Woods. I just saw two guys going in there, carrying something heavy. I think they had guns. They looked like terrorists.”
The dispatcher asked for an exact location, and the caller began to explain it in specific detail, but Zoe couldn’t focus on the words anymore. Just the voice and the nausea that spread through her stomach as she listened to it.
She gaped at Tatum. “That’s Rod Glover.”
CHAPTER 28
Bill sat in front of his computer, staring blankly at the screen. He’d meant to prepare a flyer that he’d print and tape around the neighborhood. But he needed to select a photo first. And scrolling down the photos, he found the one he’d taken that perfect afternoon at the beach. Henrietta and Chelsey hugging, their cheeks flattened against each other, grains of sand scattered on their faces and hair. Both grinning at him, that same impish glee reflected in their identical eyes.
It was the wrong photo for the flyer, but he couldn’t pull his eyes away from it.
Chelsey had been difficult that morning. He found it harder and harder to explain where Mom was, and when he’d claimed she was at work, she’d demanded they call her. He’d had to go shut himself in the bathroom before he either lost his temper or started sobbing uncontrollably.
The loud knock startled him. He got up and trudged heavily to the door, opening it without checking who it was.
Officer Ellis stood at the door, and behind him was an unfamiliar blonde woman in a gray suit. Their expressions were somber, the faces of bad news.
“Mr. Fishburne, this is Detective O’Donnell,” Ellis said. “Can we come in?”
“Sure,” Bill croaked, moving aside. Perhaps he should have asked if there was any news. But as long as he didn’t ask, he could stretch the moment, live in the realm of possibilities.
They came inside, and O’Donnell shut the door behind her.
“Mr. Fishburne,” she said. “Your wife is dead. Her body was found this morning. I’m sorry for your loss.”
He walked over to the living room and sat down on the couch. “What happened?” he whispered.
“She was killed on Monday night, in the train station’s parking lot,” O’Donnell said.
“Murdered?”
“Yes.”
“Do . . . do you know who . . .” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Not yet. But I assure you we’re doing everything we can to find the person who did this.”
“How did she . . .” He was about to ask the question but realized he didn’t want to know. Not yet. “Did she suffer?”
“We believe her death was very fast.”
Had there been a slight pause there? He didn’t dwell on it. He glanced at the clock. Chelsey would be home in less than four hours. He would have to tell her. He had no idea how. Mommy is gone? Mommy is in heaven? They weren’t religious, had never discussed heaven at length, but now he wished they had. It would have been so much easier to tell Chelsey that her mother was somewhere lovely, watching them from above.
And then, randomly, he recalled that Hen was supposed to organize Chelsey’s birthday in two months. He’d have to do it now.
He’d have to learn to braid her hair.
What did that say about him? That his first thoughts after learning his wife was dead were centered on things he needed to do? Instead of thinking of their shared memories and moments?
“Should I . . . do you need me to identify her body?”
“No,” O’Donnell said softly. “We don’t do that anymore. Your wife had to provide her fingerprints when she started working in her last job. We identified her using those fingerprints.”
“Oh.” He didn’t know what else to say.
O’Donnell talked a bit about the autopsy, explaining the schedule, the process. He took it all in. He would need to get his wife’s remains. She wanted to be cremated; he knew that much. He had to take care of the funeral.
He had to tell Chelsey, somehow. It seemed like an impossible task.
“Mr. Fishburne, do you mind if I ask you some questions?”
“No, go ahead.”
Did his wife have any enemies. Did she act strangely lately. How did she sound on the phone when she talked to him. He answered her hollowly, numbly. Reducing Hen’s existence to a series of dry facts. He wanted to tell O’Donnell what a wonderful mother Hen was. And what a wonderful friend she was. How it felt to be hugged by her. Of the conversations they had. About the miscarriage before Chelsey was born and how Hen couldn’t stop crying for days after. How happy she was when Chelsey was born. How she liked cherries. That she was infuriated by the smell of sweaty socks.
But all that didn’t interest O’Donnell. It wouldn’t help her do her job and find Hen’s killer. The person who’d taken Hen from him and his daughter, turning them from a family of three to a broken two.
CHAPTER 29
Zoe stepped into the precinct conference room, a large Starbucks cup of hot chocolate in her hand. She wasn’t sure how long this meeting would be, but she had a hunch it might take hours. Most of the participants were already seated. There was an empty spot between Tatum and a police captain.
She sat down and took a sip from her hot chocolate, letting its sugary goodness linger on her tongue. She thought about Glover’s phone call. At first, she’d received a jolt of trepidation and excitement each time she’d listened to the audio of Glover’s voice reporting the suspicious activity. Only after listening to it dozens of times could she analyze it objectively, already knowing the words and the inflections by heart. He’d sounded tense in the recording, and she didn’t think it was an act. Glover was unsettled. And underneath the tension she could hear an undercurrent that she knew well. Rage.
“Everyone here?” the police captain by her side asked. “Let’s start. A quick introduction—I’m Captain Royce Bright from Area Central Violent Crimes.”
He then introduced the rest of the participants. Officer Ellis sat next to O’Donnell. Agent Valentine represented the FBI’s Chicago field office, and Zoe recognized him as one of the agents who’d befriended Tatum. Detectives Koch and Sykes from Chicago South . . . Zoe almost didn’t catch the last name because a strange smell was distracting her. For a moment it almost reminded her of livestock, but an industrial undertone accompanied the scent, like burnt plastic. It took her a few seconds to realize the odor came from Captain Royce Bright, who sat next to her. Now she realized why the chair on his other side was empty as well.
Zoe put her cup next to her nose, sniffing the hot chocolate. It did a reasonable job of masking Bright’s odor.
“Most of you know Dr. Terrel, the medical examiner,” Bright said. “And finally, Agent Tatum Gray and Dr. Zoe Bentley from the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico.”
He let the introductions sink in and then asked O’Donnell to summarize the initial investigation of Henrietta Fishburne’s murder.
O’Donnell cleared her throat. “Yesterday at four thirty-two a.m., Bill Fishburne called the Chicago PD to report that his wife, Henrietta Fishburne, hadn’t returned home from work. Officers Ellis and Woodrow showed up to take his statement. They forwarded all the pertinent information to Missing Persons and resumed their shift. When it was over, Officer Ellis decided to check if Henrietta Fishburne’s car was in the train station. He found it on the far side of the parking lot and spotted several bloodstains on the pavement nearby. He called it in, and Koch and Sykes were assigned to the case. The crime scene technicians found additional bloodstains leading away from the car toward the trees in the northern part of the parking lot. There were some signs of a possible struggle, but they found nothing else.”
She kept talking as she hooked up her laptop to the room’s projector. “This morning at six and three minu
tes, dispatch got an anonymous phone call informing them about a suspicious activity in the Kickapoo Woods forest preserve. Patrol investigated and found the dead body of a woman in her late twenties.” She paused for a moment as an image materialized on the large screen, and everyone turned their heads to look at the victim lying in the center of the white pentagram.
“There were no possessions by the body, so there was no quick way to identify her. However, dispatch correctly assumed it was Henrietta Fishburne. Officers Ellis and Woodrow were on shift and were sent to the location. Ellis made the informal identification with the assistance of Dr. Terrel, and we later verified it with fingerprints.”
O’Donnell then flipped through several shots of the train station’s parking lot, of Fishburne’s car, and of the trail of blood leading toward the trees. Zoe felt momentarily dizzy, images flickering in her mind. A glimpse of darkness. Henrietta running away from her attacker, stumbling on the uneven pavement, her neck pulsing with pain—Zoe forced the thoughts down. Later.
“Livor mortis indicates the body was moved about two hours after death,” O’Donnell said. “We found thirteen different bloodstains in the train station’s parking lot and no bloodstains in the forest preserve where the body was found. Traces of color were found on the body’s back and limbs, indicating the paint was still wet when the body was dragged over it. This leads to the assumption that she was killed in the northern part of the train station’s parking lot, then taken in a vehicle to the forest preserve. The perpetrators parked their cars, located a good spot, and drew the pentagram on the ground. Then they carried the body to the location, posed it, and left.”
As she spoke, the photos on the screen kept changing, giving them close-ups of the details she talked about, as well as multiple shots of footprints in the muddy ground of the forest.
“We think the victim’s possessions were thrown into the river. A team of divers is searching the area. We checked the security camera footage and have a total of four cars leaving the train station’s parking lot at the estimated time of death, and one of them is a van. We are trying to trace those vehicles, and particularly the van, but unfortunately, the camera’s resolution isn’t good enough to give us a license plate, and the drivers and passengers aren’t visible in the darkness. There is no security camera footage of the northern part of the parking lot, in which the victim was attacked, but we have footage of her leaving the one-thirty train.” A blurry photo appeared on-screen of a single woman walking through an empty train station. Henrietta’s last moments alive.
“The lab took samples of the paint used to draw the pentagram,” O’Donnell continued. “It’s water-based, run-of-the-mill stuff. They’re trying to figure out the brand. The knife is a simple chef’s knife, usually used to cut meat. No fingerprints on the handle, and it hasn’t seen much use. There are remnants of a sticky substance on the handle that might be the glue of a price tag. They’re looking into that as well.”
She clicked her mouse, and the image on the screen changed again to something that looked like a Coke can. “This was found ten yards from the scene of the crime. It’s a makeshift crack pipe. The technician who found it thinks it was left there recently. If it was, we might have a witness.”
Bright perked up. “Any prints?”
“Smeared, but they’ll see what they can do,” O’Donnell said.
Ellis cleared his throat. “We might be able to trace the person who left it there. There’s a crack addict who often sleeps under the bridge on South Halsted Street, very close to that location.”
O’Donnell nodded at him and moved on. “The anonymous phone call that alerted security was made by a mobile number that is now offline. We’re in the process of pulling records for the number.”
It was almost certainly a burner phone, but even then, they’d be able to know where he’d called from.
“The voice was identified by Dr. Zoe Bentley as probably belonging to Rod Glover, a man on the FBI’s Most Wanted list for the rape and murder of five women. We have solid reasons to assume Rod Glover was involved in the murder of both Henrietta Fishburne and Catherine Lamb.”
“Before we continue, I would like a quick summary of who this Rod Glover is,” Bright said.
Zoe cleared her throat when, to her surprise, Agent Valentine said, “I believe I can do that.”
“I am in a better position to summarize Glover’s background,” Zoe said dryly.
Agent Valentine smiled at her. “Well, I reviewed the file thoroughly. But thanks.”
She knew the tone all too well; she’d been hearing it nonstop for the past five years. The reasons for the condescension varied—maybe Valentine had issues with the BAU sticking their nose where they didn’t belong. Or maybe it was because she was a civilian, not a bona fide agent. Or because she was a woman. Probably a little of each. She was already on edge by the darkness churning in her mind, and the smell of Captain Bright didn’t improve things. Blood rushed to her face.
A brief touch on her palm. Tatum. He lifted a single eyebrow at her, eyes widening slightly. She’d been about to lash out, probably getting them both kicked off the case.
Instead, she took a slow sip from her hot chocolate and smiled at Valentine, baring her teeth. “Absolutely, go right ahead.”
Valentine nodded and glanced at the file in front of him. “In 1997, three women were raped and murdered in Maynard, Massachusetts. No one was charged with the murders—”
“Actually, someone was charged,” Zoe said. “A teenager named Manny Anderson. He committed suicide in prison and was never tried.”
“Uh . . . right,” Agent Valentine said, glancing at his papers. “Anyway, it is now believed that the actual murderer of the three women was Rod Glover, who had lived there at that time and left town immediately after the third murder—”
“It wasn’t immediate,” Zoe said sweetly. “It happened four days later.”
Valentine blinked. Across the table, O’Donnell grinned at Zoe, seemingly enjoying the spectacle.
“All three women were in their early twenties—”
“Only Beth Hartley was in her early twenties. Twenty-one, to be exact. Jackie Teller and Clara Smith were both eighteen.”
“Dr. Bentley, perhaps it would be best if we let Agent Valentine summarize,” Captain Bright said. “If you have anything you want to add, you can say it once he’s done.”
Zoe seethed. Agent Valentine let his lip curl and continued. “All three women were found near sources of water. They’d been raped and strangled to death.”
“What were they strangled with?” O’Donnell asked.
“Um . . .” The agent scanned his papers. “Some sort of cloth noose.”
“They were strangled with gray ties,” Zoe said.
“Thank you, Dr. Bentley,” O’Donnell told her.
“Right,” Valentine said. “Anyway, after leaving Maynard, Glover’s whereabouts were unknown, until—”
“Why did he leave Maynard?” O’Donnell asked, blinking innocently. “Didn’t the police have another suspect in custody?”
“He was probably concerned he was under suspicion.”
“He actually wasn’t,” Zoe said. “But the police were tipped off that he was seen lingering at one of the crime scenes and that he had a boxful of trophies from the murders under his bed. He ran before they could arrest him for questioning.”
“Thank you, Dr. Bentley.”
“You’re welcome, Detective O’Donnell.”
“Detective.” Bright’s voice was tight. “Please let Agent Valentine finish his summary. Any question you may have can wait until he’s done.”
Valentine’s face was flushed. “Glover’s whereabouts after that are unknown until he showed up in Chicago in 2008, killing two women—”
“I’m sorry,” Zoe said apologetically. “I really have to interrupt. We have solid evidence that he was in Chicago ever since 2006.”
Agent Valentine laid the papers on the desk. “Dr. Bentley. Would you
like to take over this summary?”
“Thank you, that would be great,” Zoe said brightly. She quickly outlined their investigation into Glover’s past, his last workplace and apartment. She detailed the two murders they suspected he’d committed in Chicago. Then she summarized his attack on Andrea the month before.
“During the time Glover spent in Dale City, he went to see a doctor because of frequent headaches and repeated vomiting,” she said. “He was diagnosed with anaplastic astrocytoma. That’s a grade-three glioma brain tumor. We’ve interviewed the doctor and consulted a specialist. Their opinion was that Glover had no more than a year to live, and in six months he would probably need constant medical supervision and nursing.”
Captain Bright leaned forward. “Did this guy Glover ever leave pentagrams in the crime scene? Or do anything else with satanic ramifications?”
“No,” Zoe answered promptly. “We haven’t seen anything like this in his previous murders.”
“So we’re assuming the pentagram and the knife are his accomplice’s idea?”
Zoe hesitated. “It’s possible. We don’t know enough about the psyche of the unsub to be sure.”
“What do we have linking the two crimes other than the phone call?” Bright asked.
“Footprints match for one of the murderers,” O’Donnell said. “The techs said there’s no doubt about it. We didn’t have a good enough footprint of the second man in the Lamb crime scene to get a definite match, but the shoe size fits. In both cases, the murderers wore gloves, so we have no fingerprints. I think we have DNA . . . Dr. Terrel?”
“I took DNA samples from the bite on the woman’s neck,” Dr. Terrel said. “In addition, there’s dry blood under her fingernails, which might belong to one of her attackers. Both samples are being compared to the saliva sample from the Lamb murder. Since the FBI had agreed to make this case a priority in their lab, we’ll have a result within a day.”
O’Donnell nodded. “In addition, both women were strangled to death, and both had syringe marks on their arms. We believe the syringe in Catherine Lamb’s murder was used to extract blood from the victim.”
