Thicker than Blood (Zoe Bentley Mystery)

by Mike Omer

  She took off her shoes and socks and slipped under the bedcover, letting its weight settle over her, a secure cocoon. She forced her body to relax. The day had taken a toll, especially after the little sleep of the past week, and lying down was a relief.

  Shutting her eyes, she thought of the parking lot. Henrietta’s car was gone when they got there, but it was easy to imagine it, surrounded by empty parking spaces in the dark. Henrietta’s heart must have pounded in her ears, even before anything happened. Just crossing that parking lot in the dark, alone.

  High heels tapping on the pavement, a brisk pace. It was cold. Zoe’s own breathing quickened, and despite the blanket on top of her, she shivered.

  She reached the car, was already about to unlock it. A sudden movement in the shadows. A hand grabbing her, pulling her. A blazing pain in her neck. A struggle.

  Zoe’s fingers tightened, grasping the bedsheet. She thought of the bloodstains on the pavement and envisioned what they meant: Henrietta, consumed by terror, fleeing from her attacker, not even realizing that she was getting farther from safety. Trees looming ahead, the darkness consuming her surroundings as she left the parking lot’s spotlights behind her. Someone grabbing her, hissing threats. The fabric tightening around her throat. Zoe still remembered how that felt, would never forget: Glover behind her, his grunts as he tightened the noose, a desperate need to breathe, clawing at her own neck. His rough fingers touching her skin, prodding, scraping.

  She trembled, her memories merging with what Henrietta must have gone through. She’d waded into a stream, only to have her feet plunge deep, tumbling, realizing it wasn’t a stream at all. It was a turbulent river, the current pulling her down.

  She gasped, fought her way out of her waking nightmare, pulling herself back with the sensation of the fabric between her fingers. She was in the motel’s bed, gasping for breath. It wasn’t the first time she’d imagined a victim’s last moments. But knowing Glover had been there, the memory of her own encounter with him still vivid, had turned this into something much worse.

  She threw the blanket off her. Her body was clammy with sweat, and she still felt the phantom touch of his hands on her skin. She took off her clothes and hurried to the shower, turning the water boiling hot. The water felt sublime, and the tension that gripped her body slowly diminished. Her mind wandered.

  Running in the dark, stumbling, someone gripping her, turning her around, Glover’s leering face close to hers.

  Zoe stifled a scream, shutting off the water. Her mind drew her back.

  She knew from experience that not letting the imaginary sequence run its course would only result in horrific nightmares. She toweled herself, then returned to bed.

  Despite the fact that Zoe had been dogging Glover’s murders for twenty years, Henrietta Fishburne’s body was the first victim she’d actually seen lying at the scene of the crime. Seeing that body must have jarred her mind, awakening all the memories and traumas connected to him. His attack on Andrea. The murders of Beth, Jackie, and Clara. Her own encounter with him, just months before. Barricading herself and Andrea in the room as he pounded on the door.

  She could rationalize what she was going through, but it did little to help the trembling that took over her body again.

  And it couldn’t stop the images of Henrietta, running in the dark, Glover close on her heels.

  CHAPTER 33

  The door to the situation room opened abruptly. Tatum raised his gaze from his laptop, meeting O’Donnell’s tired eyes as she stepped into the room.

  She looked around, taking in the empty seats and discarded coffee cups. “Where is everyone?”

  “Koch and his partner are interviewing Henrietta Fishburne’s parents and close friends,” Tatum said. “I dropped Zoe back at the motel after we went to take a look at the parking lot. Agent Valentine is at the forensic lab. Ellis was with you. Some uniformed cops are still doing door to door in the vicinity of the train station.”

  She shut her eyes and massaged the bridge of her nose tiredly.

  “Any luck finding the mysterious witness?” Tatum asked.

  “No luck so far. Ellis thinks it’s a guy named Good Boy Tony, but he wasn’t in his usual haunts. We’ll try again tomorrow. Any news here?”

  Tatum got up from his chair and walked over to the Fishburne murder board. “Diver team found some of the victim’s clothing and purse.” He pointed at the picture of the muddy items in clear evidence bags. “We have a shirt and a single shoe. The purse had her car keys and phone. The car keys match her silver FIAT, in case we had any doubt. The phone was sent to the lab.”

  “They made sure we’d find the body but threw her stuff into the river,” O’Donnell said thoughtfully. “Maybe there’s something incriminating in her phone?”

  “It’s possible, but I doubt it. She was a random victim. I think they just did their best to cover their tracks. Waste our time.” Tatum frowned, a glimmer of an idea in his mind. “They’re buying time. Maybe because Glover just knows he’ll die soon? But it seems almost as if it’s more than that. They’re working fast . . .” It was frustrating, feeling that idea flutter just out of sight.

  “Any luck with the van?” O’Donnell asked, pointing at two grainy pictures of a banged-up Chevrolet van.

  “Managed to get a better shot of the license plate,” Tatum said. “But it’s splashed with mud to a point where it’s almost certainly deliberate. However, Koch managed to find the moment they entered the parking lot. The van showed up at seventeen minutes past nine p.m. Parked somewhere in the western part of the parking lot, far from prying eyes, close to the train tracks. Left at two thirty-seven a.m.”

  “They’d been waiting for a while,” O’Donnell said.

  “Just over four hours.” Tatum nodded. “Glover is patient. Koch sent police patrols looking for that van in the area of McKinley Park and in the vicinity of Kickapoo Woods; maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “Yeah.” O’Donnell’s eyes were glazed over. He doubted she’d heard anything he’d just said.

  “Anything wrong?”

  “It’s a decent picture of her.” O’Donnell pointed at Fishburne’s picture on the murder board. “But when I went to notify the husband today, there was an image on the computer, of Henrietta, with her daughter, on the beach. And she almost looked like a different person. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

  “No.”

  “My daughter is about the same age.”

  “As Fishburne’s daughter?”

  “Yeah.” She sighed. “He asked me if Henrietta . . . if his wife suffered when she died.”

  “They always ask that.”

  “I told him she didn’t.”

  “Good.”

  “Her death was horrifying, Tatum. She was terrified and hurt. She couldn’t breathe—”

  “But you don’t tell that to the family.”

  “No,” she whispered. “You don’t tell that to the family. Never tell that to the family.”

  “Are you okay?”

  She blinked. “I need to call my daughter, say good night.” She took out her phone and glanced at it. “Shit! It’s ten forty. She’s asleep by now.”

  “You’ll see her in the morning.”

  “Right,” she said, slipping the phone in her pocket.

  He eyed her, concerned. “Listen—”

  “Any news about the phone used to report the murder?” Her voice was blank, the fragility he’d spotted before gone.

  “Uh . . . yeah. The phone is a burner and was never used before that call. It was turned off after use. The call came from an area in the Loop.”

  “That’s where Henrietta used to work.”

  “You think it was somehow intentional?” Tatum asked.

  “Could be . . . but it’s an area that’s easily accessible by the ‘L,’” O’Donnell said. “Glover might have gotten on a train, rode a few stations, got off, made the phone call, probably trashed the phone somewhere nearby, and hopped on a train back h
ome.”

  “Sounds plausible.”

  “If that’s true, we can pull security footage from likely stations and see where he got off,” O’Donnell said. “Though it’ll be a nightmare to look through.”

  “You can talk to Valentine; he might be able to help there,” Tatum suggested. The FBI had image-recognition software and enough CPU to go through all the footage, searching for Glover.

  “That’s a good idea,” O’Donnell said. “I’ll suggest that to Bright tomorrow.”

  A bitter tone accompanied her last sentence. He sympathized. When it was just the Catherine Lamb case, she’d been in charge. Now the whole investigation was managed by Bright, despite her catching the first murder. Even though he wasn’t an expert in police politics, it sounded like she was being pushed aside. He knew what that felt like.

  “Any progress with the congregation members?” He changed the subject.

  “I got an email with a list of names from Patrick Carpenter,” O’Donnell said. “Three hundred and twelve names, out of which one hundred and seventy-one are male. There’s no mention of age, so I’m not sure which are relevant. It’s far from a complete list; those are just the people he remembers. He doesn’t have phone numbers or addresses for most of them. I’m trying to get a similar list from Albert Lamb, but it sounds like he can barely get out of bed. It’s like pulling teeth. And with Valentine telling Bright that it’s a waste of time, it’s hell to actually get the damn thing—”

  “Okay.” Tatum raised his hands as her tone rose. “I get it. It sucks being you.”

  That gave her pause. “That’s a succinct way of putting it,” she finally said. “Though not very useful.”

  “Look,” he said. “It’s late. You’ve been awake since six in the morning—”

  “Five. I woke up early and couldn’t go back to sleep.”

  “And when did you last eat?”

  “I . . . it’s been a while.”

  “There’s leftover pizza,” Tatum said, gesturing at the box on the table.

  She lunged at it like a puma catching a stray deer. She flipped the lid, and her predator’s eyes stared at the metaphorical deer with disappointment. “There’s pineapple on the pizza.”

  This puma was quite picky. “So?”

  “Who orders pineapple on their pizza?”

  “I do,” Tatum said defensively.

  “And here I was starting to like you.” She picked up a slice and bit it, chewing morosely. “And it’s cold. Ice-cold pizza with pineapple. This is what my life has become.”

  “I like that whole self-pity thing you’ve got going there.” Tatum grinned at her. “Want to go grab something else?”

  She shrugged. “I guess both my daughter and my husband are asleep by now, so I might as well go eat with you.”

  “Thank you for making me feel so special.”

  His phone rang. It was Zoe. He motioned O’Donnell to wait for a second and answered the call.

  “Tatum?” Zoe’s voice sounded strange, fragmented.

  “What’s up?”

  “I’m in the motel room . . . ?” The sentence stretched, almost as if she wasn’t sure she really was in the room.

  “I’m here with O’Donnell. Is it important?”

  “Oh.” A long pause. “No, it isn’t important. It can wait. It’s nothing, really.”

  “Zoe, is something wrong?”

  No answer. Just breathing.

  “Zoe?”

  “What?” She sounded startled. Then, a second later she said, “No. Nothing’s wrong. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She hung up.

  Tatum frowned at the phone.

  “So,” O’Donnell said. “Are we going to grab that bite?”

  CHAPTER 34

  The man in control spent the entire day away from home, feeling like a bad theater actor acting out a script of his own life. It was as if he kept forgetting his next line or what his mood was supposed to be. All of his movements felt mechanical and exaggerated. His entire body was a cumbersome suit that he was desperate to remove. He wanted to give it all up and storm off the stage. But there was no stage and no script. And he knew Daniel would be aghast if he did anything to draw more attention to himself. So he held it together.

  But by the time he got home, his jaw was clenched so tightly that his head began to pound. And when he closed the door behind him, he could already sense that Daniel was having a bad day. When you lived with a sick person, you developed a sensitivity to his pain. Maybe it was something in the odors produced by his breath and his sweat. Or maybe he heard Daniel groan faintly through the guest room’s closed door. It didn’t matter. Sickness lingered in the house.

  He stumbled to the fridge and yanked the door open. He still had five vials remaining. Perhaps the blood was somehow diluted. He needed to consume more. Grabbing three vials, he went over to the cupboard and removed a large coffee mug. He emptied all the vials one by one into the mug, filling it almost to the top. A bubble materialized on the thick crimson surface and then popped.

  He put the mug to his lips and drank greedily, feeling the viscous liquid sliding down his throat, coating his tongue, and gums, and teeth, salty and metallic.

  It worked. Sudden tranquility flooded his body. This was what he’d needed all along. How could he forget—

  A sudden lurch in his gut, and he scrambled to the bathroom, bile rising at the back of his throat. He made it just in time, grasping the toilet with both hands as he heaved and vomited. He coughed and gagged, his eyes tearing up. Wiping his face, he watched the toilet, the water bubbling with red vomit, the previously white porcelain spattered with pink and brown stains.

  The blood of that woman was tainted. That was why it hardly helped, and that was why he couldn’t stomach it.

  He moved to the sink and turned on the water, splashing it on his face. He gargled some of it and spat reddish leftovers in the sink, watched them circling and disappearing into the drain.

  Putting his coat back on, he stepped outside, still coughing and spitting, trying to get rid of the taste and smell of his own vomit. The street tilted, or maybe he did, as he lurched, one step at a time, following the noise of traffic.

  He wasn’t sure what he was looking for; he just wanted to get away. But after walking for a while, hugging himself, trembling, he saw her.

  The woman with the baby. It was the same one he’d seen a few days before.

  This time, he wouldn’t lose his nerve. He needed something pure.

  Everyone kept giving Joanne advice about raising her son. She’d expected it from her mother, who assumed she always knew better, and from her sister-in-law, who had three kids and appointed herself the guru of child raising. But it turned out her neighbors had opinions, and the clerk at the supermarket, and her husband’s bachelor friends. It seemed everyone knew how to raise babies better than Joanne and felt the need to share. Their favorite tips concerned sleep. Specifically, how the baby should be put to sleep, what should be done when he woke up, and the numerous ways Joanne was doing it wrong.

  At first she’d resisted. She’d tried to explain that not all babies were the same. Some of them didn’t sleep as well. Some had teething problems, and the pain woke them up. And no, just leaving her son to cry in his crib for hours wasn’t something she was willing to do. But after endless eye rolls and sighs and condescending do-what-you-feel-is-right comments, she now just nodded. That seemed to make everyone happy. They gave advice; she nodded and kept doing what she knew was right.

  Her son fell asleep easily when she took him for a walk. And it really wasn’t such a big deal to go for a walk once after lunch and once in the evening.

  He slept right now, and she smiled at his angelic face. As she raised her eyes, her step faltered.

  A man walked toward her, a strange grimace on his face. He was disheveled, and his movements were strange, jerky. And what made her breath hitch were his eyes, which were wide and fervent, and staring directly at her son’s stroller.

  Inst
inctively, she swerved the stroller, quickly checking the road for oncoming traffic. There was none, and she crossed, walking faster. She wanted to call her husband, but he was, as usual, working late. And he never answered her calls at work.

  Anyway, what would she say? I saw a weird guy on the street? He’d laugh his ass off. And she wasn’t about to—

  The man followed her. She saw him crossing the street from the corner of her eye, and now he was walking after her. He’d turned around just to follow her.

  She hastened her pace, her home just a few yards away now. Crossing the street again, she heard him closing in. She pushed the stroller with one hand now, the other trembling hand in her coat pocket, fishing for her house keys. He was close. Too close. She would never unlock the door and get inside in time.

  She whirled around and said, “If you come any closer, I’ll scream.” Her voice trembled, but she spoke loudly, fiercely.

  He slowed down and said something, but he wasn’t really talking to her. He muttered to himself, his mumbling incoherent. His chin had a strange gleaming sheen, and she realized with disgust and horror that it was coated with drool.

  She turned around and sprinted to her home, the jostling waking up her son, who began to scream. She thrust the keys into the lock, turned them, opened the door, and they were inside, door slamming behind her. She jammed the dead bolt shut and took a deep gasping breath.

  The baby cried.

  “Shhhhh,” she said, tears in her throat. “Shhhhhh.” She searched in the stroller bag for her phone. Usually she loved the bag, which seemed to be able to contain everything she needed—bottle, pacifier, diapers, baby wipes—but now she hated the messy thing, with its clutter. Where was her damn phone?

  There! She quickly dialed her husband. She waited for eight rings before hanging up, frustrated. She glanced out the window.

  The man was there, walking back and forth on her doorstep, still talking to himself. His voice was louder now, and she caught a few words. Control . . . baby . . . door . . .

  She dialed 911.

  “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

  “There’s a man outside my house,” she whispered. Her son screamed in the background, and she wanted to pick him up. But her palms were so clammy and slippery; she would drop the phone if she did that. “He chased me to the door.”