by Mike Omer
“Does he fit the profile?” O’Donnell asked.
“His age and physical appearance fit,” Zoe said. “He might be obsessive. He would definitely have regrets after killing Catherine and would feel the urge to cover her body.”
“Didn’t his wife tell us something about being pure?” O’Donnell asked. “Just like that weird phrase of pure blood Dracula2 used. Maybe she got the idea from her husband.”
“But is he someone who could be manipulated? A follower?” Tatum asked skeptically. “He seemed quite controlling himself. He has a lot of presence in the congregation. Would he be the kind of partner Glover would want? I don’t think he’d follow instructions that easily.”
Zoe nodded. That was a good point, except . . . “He didn’t actually have a lot of presence in the photos,” she said. “He appeared a few times, but it was Catherine who was the dominant one in all those pictures. Catherine and Glover. Maybe Patrick wasn’t as important in the community as we thought. In fact, it could result in aggression toward Catherine, who was. He could view her as someone who was stealing his place.”
Tatum seemed skeptical. “That doesn’t mean anything. Didn’t you say that Albert didn’t appear a lot in the photographs either? Some people don’t like their pictures taken. And maybe the photographer didn’t like him. Or maybe he spent a lot of time in the church’s back room or something. Those photos don’t actually represent the whole truth.”
That was true, and Zoe had a hard time imagining Glover approaching a religious counselor, trying to manipulate him into killing someone. Glover would want an accomplice who didn’t draw attention.
Something Tatum had said niggled at her. She didn’t like the idea of the unsub being Patrick. She wanted to move on. But there was one thing that rang true. That they’d overlooked. Maybe something Patrick had done? Maybe he’d covered for the unsub? Or . . .
She suddenly felt dizzy.
Those photos don’t actually represent the whole truth.
She’d treated the photos as a straightforward representation of what went on in the church life, but that wasn’t actually true, was it? Sure, Catherine Lamb and Rod Glover were clearly more dominant in the pictures than any other person, but that didn’t necessarily mean they were dominant in the church’s community.
What it could mean was that they were dominant in the photographer’s perception.
In her years of working with murder files, Zoe had begun treating photographs as if they represented the entire case. Police photographers were professionals who didn’t make actual choices. They documented everything. But this photographer wasn’t a police photographer at all.
And there was something else.
“The photographer wasn’t on my list either,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “He was in every single shot, but he was the one taking them. Albert and I never even discussed him.”
“Does he fit?” O’Donnell asked.
Did he?
Like a glove.
“He’s Caucasian, of average height. The photos he took demonstrate his interest both in Catherine and in Glover. He’s definitely a follower. Tatum and I saw him following a client’s instructions to the letter. And he gave us the pictures without a lot of argument. But he also folded when Swenson demanded that he delete his pictures. He does what everyone tells him. Glover would have easily noticed that. He’s been in the church for years. Judging by the photos, he was close to Catherine. He’s . . .” She was about to say he might be obsessive, but then she realized it didn’t matter. She’d been reading the evidence wrong.
“Oh god,” she groaned. “The pacing in circles. It’s not an obsessive ritual. He took pictures!”
Those footprints. Three steps, turning to face the victim. Then again and again. She thought of Terrence Finch in his studio, circling the toddler he was photographing, taking pictures from all angles.
“And that was what the necklace was about, and the pentagram, and the knife. It was a setting. They were props for his pictures.”
“She’s too dark,” O’Donnell said. “Remember? The drug addict, Tony, told us one of the killers had said, ‘She’s too dark.’ We thought it was a racial preference, but maybe he was talking about how she appeared in the photo. He was looking through the photos and saw that they weren’t good enough.”
“That guy Tony also mentioned flashes of lights, right?” Tatum said. “We thought it was an effect of the crack, but maybe those were actual flashes, from a camera.”
“Why would he take staged pictures of the murders?” O’Donnell asked.
“I don’t know yet,” Zoe said. “Killers sometimes took pictures of their crimes for later sexual relief. But this murderer didn’t kill for sexual pleasure. And besides, if that was the case, he wouldn’t use props.”
“Hang on,” O’Donnell said. “Didn’t you talk to Finch yesterday?”
She had. And he’d kept the phone conversation short, agreeing almost too quickly to give her the missing pictures. Because, as she’d said just a few minutes before, he was spinning out of control and couldn’t withstand a prolonged conversation. And maybe because she’d threatened him with a search warrant, and he knew they’d find a lot more if they actually came looking.
“I missed it,” she muttered. “It was him, and I missed it. We need to get there.”
“Hang on—we have nothing solid,” O’Donnell pointed out. “Give me a few moments. I’m making a phone call.” She stepped out.
Zoe shut her eyes. “I’ve talked to him. I could have seen it, but I was too distracted. What if Rhea—”
“We don’t know anything for certain yet,” Tatum said. “It’s just conjecture.”
Zoe didn’t bother arguing. It was far more than conjecture. It fit. Like nothing else so far. She could imagine Glover spotting Terrence as he took photos. Maybe he could see a darkness there already, the way Terrence sometimes took photos when people didn’t notice. Trying to catch them off guard, whipping out the camera. Glover would approach him, say he liked photography too. Befriend him. Find out the man’s weaknesses.
Or maybe Terrence had gone to him, when Albert Lamb had told them anyone who was struggling with darkness could approach Glover. Maybe Terrence had needed to get something off his chest.
O’Donnell returned to the room, her expression grim and alert. “I just talked to Swenson. He never threatened to sue Finch. He threatened to expose Finch’s secret. Something he’d heard from Glover on one of their guy-to-guy talks.”
Zoe’s gut sank. There it was.
“Apparently, Finch was obsessed with the notion of drinking human blood.”
CHAPTER 69
He dropped the bag with the Chicago Daily Gazette copies on the floor, letting them spill out, Catherine’s all-knowing eyes staring at him from multiple angles. She knew; she would tell. He had to fix it.
No. He had to focus. First he had to take care of the woman.
He went to the bathroom, crouched by her side. He gently removed the gag.
“Can you get me some water?” she whispered, voice cracking.
He nodded, went to the kitchen, and filled a glass of water. He put it to her lips and tipped it, and she drank. Some of it spilled, dribbling down her chin. He felt her forehead, relieved to see it was no longer burning. She was getting better.
Was she doing well enough? Could he drink from her?
He almost went to get a scalpel, but if he accidentally killed her, he would never taste her again. Now that he knew what actual pure blood tasted like, he couldn’t afford to take any risks.
“I have to take care of something now,” he told her. “But as soon as I’m done, I’ll get you some food, okay?”
“Okay.”
He left the bathroom and went to get the newspapers. He took a quick glance at the topmost paper, meeting Catherine’s stare. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I have to do it; I’m so sorry.”
“You’re only doing what you have to,” Daniel told him, sitting on t
he couch. “Don’t apologize. It’s this country and the insurance companies. They forced our hand. They were the ones who did it, not us.”
He placed the pile of newspapers on the table and picked up the top one. “I remember taking that picture,” he said sadly.
“It was when we painted that shelter,” Daniel said. “It was a nice day.”
“The sunlight caught her face just right. It was supposed to be a profile picture, but she noticed me taking the photo, and she turned. And smiled that smile of hers.”
“It’s a great picture,” Daniel agreed. “But you have to take care of it.”
“I have to take care of it.”
He tore the page and crumpled it, dropping it on the floor. Then he took the next newspaper, tore it as well. The sound of the ripping newspaper made him shiver. Almost as if it were Catherine’s screams. As if by tearing her picture, he caused her pain.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m sorry.” He tore another paper and crumpled it. The papers piled on the floor around his feet.
“You should get the matches,” Daniel said.
“How much longer?” Tatum asked, teeth gritting.
O’Donnell looked out her window at the lone house. “Twenty minutes. That’s what they said.”
He knew that. He was being the obnoxious kid, asking his parents repeatedly if they were there yet. But damn it, the house was right there. And they could see movement through the closed shutters. Terrence Finch was home.
But he was dangerous, even more so if Glover was there as well. And if they were holding Rhea Deleon in that house, it could devolve into a hostage situation fast. Waiting for SWAT was definitely the right thing to do.
Still, it was hard to fight the urge that kept prodding him to move, move, move. The house was right there.
“What if they’re killing Rhea Deleon right now?” he asked. “We need to move.”
“That’s highly unlikely,” Zoe said from the back seat. “Why would they kill her at this very minute?”
Tatum glanced at the other car, in which Koch and Sykes waited. Unmarked cars, and they were keeping their distance. But still, what if Glover glanced out the window? Or Finch? After all, Finch was probably highly paranoid. If he just saw an unfamiliar car outside his home . . .
He checked the time. Eighteen minutes.
The crumpled newspapers covered the entire floor. He lit a match and held it by one of the papers. It caught quickly, and he watched, fascinated, as the flame danced, the paper’s color morphing from white to brown and finally black, the fire flickering.
And then it died, a wisp of smoke curling upward.
He tried again, lighting a second match. This time, the flame hardly seemed to take before it died.
“I think the paper may be too damp,” he said.
Daniel didn’t answer. He looked through the shutters, frowning.
“I’ll get the cooking oil,” he muttered. He went to the kitchen, got the bottle of cooking oil, and returned to the living room. He squirted the oil on the papers, emptying half the bottle.
Then he lit a third match.
It caught fast this time.
“Is that smoke?” Tatum asked, squinting.
“Damn it, you’re right—it’s smoke!” O’Donnell flung her door open. “Let’s go, let’s go!”
Tatum’s body shot from his seat like a tightly coiled spring. He was out of the car and running, pulling his gun from its holster. Koch and Sykes were running as well, shouting.
They’d parked far from the house. Too far, it seemed now. Much too far.
Tatum sprinted for the house, the wind shrieking in his ears, praying they would get there in time. He glimpsed something bright and orange through a crack in the shutters. Flames.
“The back!” he shouted at Koch. “Cover the back of the house!”
Koch changed his direction, running toward the back of the house. Sykes slowed down and suddenly turned back. Tatum had no idea what the man was doing. He pointed his gun at the window, the muzzle wavering as he ran. He hoped Zoe had stayed in the car. This could turn into a firefight. Reflexes kicked in, his mind processing the scene, his own backup, the possible dangers, eyes intent on the windows, searching for movement.
One of the shutters shifted slightly, a figure beyond it.
Tatum changed his direction, staying away from the window, sprinting for the front door.
Smoke curled through several windows now. Flames flickered behind the shutters.
The smoke was thick in the living room, and he was coughing hard. He went over to the bathroom and closed the door, not wanting the woman to suffocate. He should open a window, let the smoke out. But Daniel had told him to keep the shutters closed ever since they’d taken the woman.
“Daniel, I’m opening a window!” he cried, though his voice cracked as he doubled over, coughing helplessly. The living room table had caught fire and was now blazing. It was hot and almost impossible to breathe. His eyes teared up from the smoke, and the world became a hazy blur.
But knowing the fire had finally silenced Catherine felt good.
He went to the window and opened it, letting the smoke out. He blinked, watching the street outside through his teary eyes. Someone ran toward the house. As his sight focused, he saw the gun in the man’s hands.
“Daniel, cops!” he shouted.
“I can see them,” Daniel said, standing by his side. “Listen, I have to run. If they catch me here, it’ll be over. You know that, right?”
Of course he knew that. Daniel was a wanted man. “Go! I’ll stall them.” He slammed the window shut.
Daniel dashed to the guest room. Good, he could leave through the window. Get as far away as possible. But he needed time.
Was the door locked? He stepped toward it and stumbled, tipping the bottle of cooking oil as he tried to gain his balance. The oil spilled on his pants.
And the flames rose.
Tatum reached the door a second before O’Donnell, and gave it a solid kick. He heard the wood crack, and the door swung open, filling the air with smoke. The fire roared, feeding on the oxygen from the doorway, the heat driving Tatum to stumble backward, hand protecting his face. His eyes teared up from the billowing clouds of soot and ash, glimpsing vague shapes of furniture—an upturned chair, a couch, a coffee table.
Deeper inside, a voice screamed in pain. Finch.
“Run!” Finch shouted. “Daniel, they’re here! Get out!”
Tatum stumbled into the room, coughing. Through billowing columns of smoke and hazy hot air, he saw Finch flailing, his clothes on fire.
“Run!” Finch screamed again.
Tatum lunged at Finch, felt the shock as he collided into the man, knocking him to the floor. Finch twisted and rolled, screeching in pain, the flames that had caught his clothes flickering. Tatum swatted at the flames on the man’s pants, putting them out, vaguely feeling the scorching heat on his own skin.
“Tatum!” O’Donnell coughed behind him.
“The windows!” Tatum roared at her. “Cover the windows. Glover is making a break for it!”
She ran back outside. Tatum peered through the hazy air. Was Rhea Deleon here?
Sykes ran into the house, holding a red fire extinguisher. The air filled with particles of white foam as he sprayed. The flames died around them, the air becoming almost impossible to see through.
“Watch your back,” Tatum said, coughing, peering through the haze.
“Is Glover here?” Zoe shouted behind him.
“I don’t know,” Tatum croaked. “Get out of here! Check outside.” He got up, pulling Finch with him, forcing the man to his feet. He shouted at Sykes, “Cuff him! I’ll check the rest of the house.”
Heart pounding, he went through the first door, gun muzzle sweeping the room, his eye catching quick details beyond the clouds of smoke. Broken furniture. Bloodstains on the floor and the walls. One window, latched from inside. Glover hadn’t gotten out through there. “Clear!”
<
br /> Sharp burning pain on his palms and arms crept through his adrenaline-addled brain, and he forced himself to ignore it. He kicked through the next door, swiveling as he thought he heard something. It was another bedroom, with a single bed and a small nightstand. A large window, also shut and latched from inside. “Clear!”
Third door. Kicked it open, forced himself to sweep the bathroom, even as he saw the woman slumped in the bathtub. There was no one else there. He coughed again, this time not because of the smoke but because of the stench. The room buzzed with insects. He crouched by the tub, felt the woman’s neck for a pulse. She was stiff and cold, her skin pale and sickly, flies crawling all over her.
“Is it Rhea?” Zoe asked behind him, her voice hoarse.
“Yes,” he said. “She’s long dead.”
His entire body burned with agony. The fire had burned his legs, his arms. He kept coughing, his lungs full of smoke. He retched and doubled up, vomiting.
But Daniel had gotten away. He’d given him enough time; he was sure of it.
A man made him stand up, walk over to an ambulance. People were walking into his house, talking about backup, and techs, and dispatch. Police talk.
For some reason, no one was helping the woman out. He glanced back, thought he could still see her beyond the smoke. She nodded at him, almost a friendly nod.
“You should get her help,” he croaked.
“What are you talking about, freak?” the man barked at him.
“The woman. I think she needs medical help.”
The man looked at him, incredulous. “She’s dead, you maniac. You killed her.”
“No.” He tried to explain. “She’s alive—look!”
A woman stepped out of the house and approached them, looking at him quizzically with intense green eyes. “Terrence. You remember me?”
He did. It was her. “Of course. You’re the profiler, Zoe Bentley. We met. And Daniel told me about you.”
“Where is Daniel?”
He laughed and pointed at the guest room window. “He got away. Fled through the window.”
