Thicker than Blood (Zoe Bentley Mystery)

by Mike Omer

  “Not really. Like I said, we weren’t close.”

  Time to tighten the screws. “How did you get that scratch?”

  He touched his cheek. “I cut myself shaving.”

  She thought of the specks of blood found on the keys. “That’s careless of you. You said that you talked to Catherine just a few times. But in her phone records, we have you calling her ten or twenty times.”

  He tensed. “Like I said, we ran a charity together. We had to plan it out.”

  “Was that charity five months ago?”

  “Uh . . . yeah, I guess so.”

  “We saw photographs from that event. Did you know you weren’t in any of the photos we initially got?”

  “I was busy doing some administration. I guess I didn’t have time for a photo op. But I took some with my phone if you want proof—”

  “Mr. Swenson, you misunderstood,” O’Donnell interrupted. “We initially didn’t get the photos. But when we asked the photographer, he told us you instructed him to delete all of the photos of you from the past two years. Luckily for us, he didn’t delete them. So we got to see all of them after all.”

  She’d expected the widening in his eyes as he understood the implication. His gaze seemed to skitter around the room, as if searching for a way out. For a few seconds his body was frozen, tense.

  And then a change came over him. His expression became blank, his posture lax. He leaned back and smiled, his teeth clenched tightly. “I think I’ll wait for my lawyer now.”

  CHAPTER 61

  One of O’Donnell’s earliest memories was watching the movie The NeverEnding Story. Her dad had brought the video home one day, telling her that it was a great movie, full of adventure. “You’ll love it,” he’d said, and she actually remembered the exact words and his smile, because it had turned out to be the first time she’d felt betrayed by her father.

  It had started really well, with the strange creatures and the ominous dark Nothing. And her dad promised her that later there would be a beautiful furry dragon. She was excited to see the dragon and to find out more about the Nothing. But first Atreyu, and his white horse Artax, had to drudge through the Swamps of Sadness. The swamps inflicted deep sorrow on anyone who entered them. And halfway through, Atreyu’s horse suddenly stopped and let himself be swallowed by the swamp.

  At first O’Donnell was tense, waiting to see how the horse would suddenly emerge, encouraged by his friend. But no. He was gone. She actually asked her father, disbelieving, “Is he dead?”

  “Yes, but watch—the dragon is about to show up.”

  She never actually saw the dragon. She burst into hysterical tears, occasionally screaming at her dad that he lied to her, until her mother walked in and stopped the video. O’Donnell cried for hours that weekend, and days later she would start sobbing again for no apparent reason.

  She’d bought the video as a teenager, planning to watch that scene again and laugh at her own childish naive tantrum, only to find herself blubbering as Atreyu screamed for Artax to move. She’d ejected the video and smashed it.

  Now, as an adult, she would occasionally feel as if she herself was trying to make her way through the Swamps of Sadness. Each step more difficult than the last until just stopping and letting the swamp swallow her sounded almost peaceful.

  That was her state of mind right now.

  Koch had managed to procure the search warrant and had called from Swenson’s house twenty minutes before. They’d entered the premises, and the house had been empty. There was no one else there. He said he’d call if they found something they could use.

  Swenson’s lawyer had shown up, and they were talking in the interrogation room. It was a safe bet that they wouldn’t get another useful word from Swenson, and his lawyer would insist that they let his client go. He wasn’t under arrest, not yet. They had nothing tangible on him.

  She took out her phone, intent on calling Koch, but her finger wavered. She dialed her husband instead.

  “Hey.” A tinge of chilliness in his voice. No one else would have spotted it, but she could almost feel the phone’s temperature dropping. They were supposed to go to the zoo that morning. Instead, she was here.

  “Hi, hon. Sorry, I think it’s going to be a long day again. Something happened . . .” She wanted to tell him about Rhea Deleon. A woman walking in her neighborhood, taken by killers who raped their victims after drinking their blood. But she didn’t. She’d found out long ago that talking about work at home was a bad idea. “Anyway, I’ll probably miss bedtime again.”

  “Okay.”

  “Can you put Nellie on the phone?”

  A moment of silence, and then, “Mommy?”

  “Hey, baby.”

  “Guess what I have in my hand.”

  “Daddy’s phone.”

  “No, in my other hand.”

  “I don’t know. What?”

  “You have to guess.”

  “Is it one of your dolls?”

  “No.”

  “Uh . . . a ball?”

  “No.” Nellie giggled.

  O’Donnell smiled. “What, then?”

  “I won’t tell you,” Nellie said teasingly.

  Apparently, O’Donnell was a worse detective than she’d thought. Not only could she not get Swenson to talk; she couldn’t even convince her five-year-old. “I bet it’s dog poo.”

  “Ew! No it isn’t.”

  “It’s smelly dog poo.”

  “Ew, Mom!”

  “I’ll tell my cop friends that Nellie is holding dog poo.”

  “It’s not poo—it’s a lollipop.”

  “Ah! That was my next guess.” She grinned idiotically. “Baby, I might not make it until bedtime. But I’ll call to say good night.”

  “Promise you’ll call?” There was a clear tone of accusation in her question.

  “Yeah, cross my heart.”

  “Okay, Mommy.”

  “Bye, baby.”

  “Bye.”

  She stared at her phone after hanging up. After a few seconds it lit up and rang. It was Koch.

  “Hey,” she said. “I was just about to call you.”

  “I’ve got something,” Koch said. “Swenson’s computer is locked, and we were told not to mess with it until our techs get their hands on it. But we found a bunch of DVDs here, and I checked a few with my laptop. It’s homemade porn. Swenson appears to be the main star.”

  He was dying to tell her something. “And?”

  “Several of the videos are of him and Catherine Lamb.”

  Got you. “Do you think she was aware that he was filming?”

  “We already found the camera. It was well hidden. And she showed no indication in the video that she was aware of its existence.”

  “Bastard.”

  “Also, I don’t know if you can use it, but he’s been keeping a lot of cash hidden under his mattress. There’s over five thousand dollars here. My first thought was drugs, right? But I couldn’t find any here. I spoke to the guys from K-9; they’re sending a dog here just in case.”

  “That’s a good idea.” She doubted he’d find any. The money wasn’t related to drugs.

  “That’s it so far. We’ll keep looking.”

  “Send me some photos of the cash. And call me the moment you find anything else. Great job.” She hung up. She wasn’t stuck anymore. She knew how to get Swenson to talk.

  Nellie wasn’t holding dog poo, but Swenson sure was.

  CHAPTER 62

  She entered the bare, brightly lit interrogation room, Tatum a step behind her. Swenson tried to seem as if he was comfortable, but O’Donnell had watched him pace the room earlier. He was on edge.

  They sat down, and O’Donnell said aloud, “Detective Holly O’Donnell and Special Agent Tatum Gray, initiating the interview of Allen Swenson.”

  “Is my client under arrest?” the lawyer, Garry Nelson, asked.

  He was bald and had a large mole on his chin. His lower lip was much thicker than the top
one, giving him a toad-like demeanor. His voice, which had a croaky undertone to it, made it worse.

  “No, he’s not,” O’Donnell said. “He’s just here for questioning.”

  “Then I would like—”

  “But we found some things when we searched his house.”

  “You searched my house?” Swenson yelled, the calm facade evaporating.

  She slapped the copy of the search warrant on the desk. “You going into the movie business, Swenson? Found some interesting footage on your DVDs.”

  Nelson snatched the warrant from the desk and skimmed it. “I can have this thrown out. You got my client here on false pretenses—”

  “Go ahead and try,” O’Donnell said dryly. “Everything we did is perfectly within the law.”

  Nelson ignored her, his eyes fixed on the warrant. “I would like to confer with my client.”

  O’Donnell sighed. “Again?”

  She and Tatum stepped outside.

  “You know what this guy reminds me of?” Tatum asked.

  “A toad?”

  “You too? I keep expecting him to catch flies with his tongue.”

  “It’s really distracting,” O’Donnell agreed. “Maybe that’s his strategy. He gets us confused and then hops off with his client in tow.”

  They both smiled. It was a tense smile, fragile. O’Donnell’s nerves were frayed, and she had a feeling Tatum wasn’t much better, despite his cool facade.

  “It’s weird that lawyers always confer,” O’Donnell said. “Why not just say talk, like a normal person? Does anyone other than lawyers confer?”

  “No. And I don’t think anyone objects, either. Regular people just say, ‘You’re wrong.’”

  “I sometimes say ‘I object.’”

  “No you don’t.”

  “No,” O’Donnell admitted. “I don’t. But my mom used to say she objects to my tone.”

  “That’s different. Moms can say whatever they want.”

  Ten minutes later, the door opened, and Nelson said they were done “conferring.”

  “The DVDs in my client’s possession are inadmissible,” Nelson announced as soon as they sat down. “You won’t be able to use them in court, and any line of questioning that stems from whatever you saw on those DVDs is inadmissible as well.”

  O’Donnell folded her arms, annoyed. “We’ve been through this. The warrant permits us to search the property for—”

  “For any concealed person or weapons, or any writings or records identifying the locations of those people, specifically Rhea Deleon and Rod Glover, a.k.a. Daniel Moore,” Nelson said, reading from the page.

  “That’s right.”

  “And those DVDs?”

  “We found them while looking for those writings and records.”

  “I have no issue with that. But I fail to see why you viewed their content.”

  “They could have something to do with the locations of Rod Glover and Rhea Deleon.”

  “How exactly?”

  “Well, they could hold files pertaining to that,” O’Donnell said. “Or security footage from wherever Rhea Deleon is being held.”

  “You’re reaching, Detective. If you wanted to look through my client’s electronic media and computer files, the search warrant should have stated it.”

  It should have; he was right. O’Donnell wanted to step outside and repeatedly kick Koch. He should have made sure the warrant contained that. But then, every second they delayed could be the last second of Rhea Deleon’s life. Could she fault Koch for rushing it?

  Sure she could. Damn it.

  “Well, I guess the judge would have to decide if the evidence is admissible or not,” she said sharply. It could go either way in court.

  “If you’re building your case around it—”

  “Let’s discuss something else. Mr. Swenson, I have your phone records here. It seems three months ago, you and Catherine Lamb called each other almost every day.” She took out the phone records and showed them to him. “That’s two months after the charity you two organized.”

  “She was my religious counselor,” Swenson said. “She talked to a lot of people on a daily basis.”

  “That’s true . . . but your conversations were quite short. None of them more than five minutes.”

  “My crisis of faith resolved fast.”

  “Your conversations occurred at the same period of time in which Terrence Finch photographed your relationship with Ms. Lamb. Since we already know you had a sexual relationship with her, and you now know I’ve already seen the photos, let’s cut to the chase. You were calling her to meet up.”

  “Detective,” Nelson said. “My client won’t—”

  “Yeah, okay, so what?” Swenson asked, raising his voice. “Is it illegal to fuck a pastor’s daughter?”

  “No, it’s illegal to blackmail her,” Tatum said. He folded his arms, his face imposing. Doing his job. Looking scary.

  Swenson shook his head. “Are you out of your mind? I didn’t blackmail her.”

  O’Donnell took out six photos from the case and laid them one next to the other. Swenson and Catherine standing close together. Swenson and Catherine kissing. Swenson holding Catherine as she tried to pull away. Swenson and Catherine—her crying, him almost smiling. Then, a photo of the cash found in Swenson’s house. And finally, Catherine’s body lying naked in a pool of blood.

  “It tells an interesting story, doesn’t it?” O’Donnell asked. “Let’s summarize, and you can imagine how it’ll sound in court, with the jury listening. Three months ago you began to have sex with Catherine Lamb. I doubt it was ever a real relationship. Maybe she enjoyed the rush or the forbidden fruit; I don’t know. But after a few weeks, she decided to terminate your meetings. And then you told her that you were filming her the entire time. You had videos of your sexual encounters. You started blackmailing her. We saw steady withdrawals from Catherine’s bank account. We can match the serial numbers to the cash we found under your mattress—”

  “They can’t do that, even if the numbers did match,” Nelson said.

  “The police maybe can’t, but the FBI can,” Tatum said. “We’re willing to allocate a lot of resources to this case.”

  Tatum had actually told O’Donnell he doubted they’d be able to do it, but he bluffed well. O’Donnell continued. “Maybe you even insisted she keep having sex with you. I wonder what a jury would think about that.”

  Nelson bristled. “Detective—”

  “But recently something happened. You bled Catherine dry. Her account is almost empty. She told you she couldn’t pay anymore and that she was about to tell her father. And you knew he would go to the police. Fortunately, you had an ace up your sleeve. Your good pal Rod Glover. As you know, we have Patrick Carpenter’s testimony verifying that you two were good friends. Glover told you it was okay. He was experienced in that sort of thing. You went to Catherine’s home and killed her together. You also raped her, for old times’ sake.”

  Swenson shook his head. “That never—”

  “Then you went and told Terrence Finch to delete any photos of you and Catherine. He can testify to it. What do you think, Swenson? If you were a juror, what would you rule? Guilty or innocent?”

  Nelson turned to his client. “Don’t tell them anything. We’ll discuss everything later in private. They don’t have anything solid, and they’re trying to bully you.”

  “Rhea Deleon is what we really care about,” Tatum said. “As far as we know, she’s still alive. But every second wasted she might die. If you come clean now, give us everything you have, help us find Glover and Rhea, you might not spend the rest of your life behind bars.”

  “Their case hinges on inadmissible evidence,” Nelson said, ignoring them.

  “Really, Mr. Nelson?” O’Donnell asked. “Would you bet your client’s life on it? Because it really depends on the judge. Besides, even without the DVDs, we have a pretty compelling case.”

  “Not to mention we still have the comp
uter,” Tatum said. “What will we find in there once we crack your password? And I promise you the bureau can crack your dumb password.”

  They wanted to confer again. O’Donnell stepped outside, Tatum following her.

  Zoe was waiting for them out the door. “Nice work.”

  “What do you think?” O’Donnell asked.

  “Your explanation is full of holes, of course,” Zoe said. “It doesn’t fit the pattern or the evidence, not to mention the profile. It doesn’t explain Rhea Deleon or Henrietta Fishburne.”

  “Yeah.” O’Donnell couldn’t argue.

  “But it did the job—he’s scared.” Zoe pointed at the monitor, where Swenson was whispering fervently with his lawyer. “Swenson doesn’t have a criminal record, and it’s probably his first time in a police station. He’s freaked out, and his lawyer won’t be able to calm him down. He’ll give us something.”

  O’Donnell nodded. “Let’s just hope that it leads us to Rhea.”

  “Or to Glover,” Zoe said darkly.

  The door opened again, Nelson standing in the doorway. His client wanted to make a deal.

  CHAPTER 63

  It took some convincing, but the state’s attorney eventually agreed. The deal stipulated that Allen Swenson would give them everything he had on Catherine Lamb and Rod Glover. In return, they would not press charges unless he had participated in the homicide. Nelson and the state’s attorney’s office negotiated the various clauses for several hours. It did not matter that Rhea might be dying or that Glover was getting away, possibly planning yet another murder. The law had its own pace.

  By the time they sat back down to talk to Swenson, it was dark outside. They’d raided the snack machine and O’Donnell’s cache of nuts. O’Donnell was jittery with sugar and coffee, while a dull headache and nausea indicated her body wasn’t happy with the abuse.

  This time, she had an earphone so that Zoe could provide her own input from the other room.

  “When did you first meet Rod Glover?” O’Donnell asked.

  “I knew him as Daniel Moore,” Swenson said. “He joined our community almost ten years ago. I don’t know the exact date. But one afternoon we started talking about baseball. Daniel surprised me because he was a fan of the White Sox, like me. Most of the guys in the church were Cubs fans.”