Thicker than Blood (Zoe Bentley Mystery)

by Mike Omer

  “That window is latched from inside,” Zoe said. “And we had a cop covering the windows. No one got out.”

  He frowned. A movement in the corner of his eye drew his attention.

  It was Daniel leaning against the house, grinning. Terrence tried to catch Daniel’s gaze. Tried to signal that he should get away before the cops noticed him.

  “Who are you looking at, Terrence?”

  He ignored her. “Run,” he told Daniel. “Run.”

  “There’s no one there,” Zoe said. “And Rhea Deleon has been dead for more than a day.”

  There was no point in talking to her, or to any of them. Only Daniel really listened to him. Only Daniel understood him.

  “You have to run,” he told Daniel over and over.

  But his friend just smiled.

  CHAPTER 70

  Zoe’s throat still felt scorched, and when she took a deep breath, she began coughing. The paramedics who’d arrived at the scene had given her oxygen for the smoke inhalation. She’d stubbornly refused to go to the hospital for tests, saying she was fine. Tatum, whose arms were burnt, had been evacuated.

  Now she stepped back into Terrence Finch’s house, moving aside to let two men with a stretcher through. The air inside smelled of smoke and rot, and Zoe’s breathing became even shallower.

  O’Donnell stood in the living room, watching grimly as the men moved the body onto the stretcher. Zoe approached her.

  “She was crawling with flies,” O’Donnell said. “And the smell . . . and Finch seemed certain she was still alive.”

  “He was delusional,” Zoe pointed out. “And was probably hallucinating as well.”

  “You must see this kind of thing every day.”

  “No. A psychotic serial killer is actually a rare occurrence. And most are caught very fast. The only reason we didn’t catch Terrence Finch sooner was because he was constantly coached by Rod Glover.”

  “Dr. Terrel will do the complete autopsy tomorrow morning, but the victim’s face was covered with smudged food, and there was some of it in her mouth. It looks like he tried feeding her after she died.”

  “When can we question him?”

  “He was severely burnt and inhaled a lot of smoke. I doubt he’ll be able to talk to us before evening.”

  The familiar impatience rose in Zoe. She wanted to talk to him now. She needed to hear why they’d photographed those murders. And where Rod Glover had gone.

  “What was he burning?” she asked, looking at the charred scraps of black paper that were scattered everywhere.

  “Newspaper. We found a pile of Chicago Daily Gazette copies. He ripped the first page of each one. It had a picture of Catherine Lamb. We found a few unburnt crumpled pages under the couch.”

  The Chicago Daily Gazette. This fire could be a direct result of her own work with Harry Barry. “All the same page?”

  “Yup.”

  Zoe watched the photographer take shots of a few brown stains on the floor.

  “It’s blood,” O’Donnell said. “There’s blood almost everywhere. The bathroom, Terrence’s bedroom, the living room. Oh, and over here.” She walked over to the fridge and opened it. In the fridge door were a few vials full of thick crimson liquid.

  She turned to the photographer. “Did you photograph the fridge interior yet?”

  The photographer glanced at her. “Not yet.”

  “Do it now.” O’Donnell held the door open, moving aside.

  The photographer took a picture, moved sideways, took another picture. Then shuffled aside again for a third one. Zoe thought of the sideways footprints she’d seen in the crime scene photos and of her original interpretation—that it was the result of some sort of obsessive behavior. If she hadn’t made that mistake, would Rhea Deleon have still been—

  She forced the thought away. Plenty of time for self-flagellation later.

  “In Terrence’s bedroom we found something that looked like a sort of rodent’s limb. Probably belongs to one of the hamsters taken from the pet shop.” O’Donnell sounded satisfied. Another puzzle piece confirmed. “We found some fragments of plastic and a key from a keyboard. Probably belonged to a laptop. We didn’t find the rest of the laptop yet; maybe he dumped it. We also found two jars full of urine.”

  “Urine? Not blood?”

  “That’s right. Maybe he started drinking urine as well.”

  “Maybe,” Zoe said after giving it a moment’s thought. “It’s also possible he peed in jars because Rhea was in the bathroom.”

  “Could be,” O’Donnell said. “Also, someone slept in the guest room for a while. I told them to leave it for last because I figured you’d want to have a look.”

  Zoe blinked in surprise. “Thank you.”

  “Just put on gloves and shoe booties before you step inside.”

  Zoe did as she was told and stepped into the other bedroom, the nylon on her shoes crinkling with her footsteps.

  Like the rest of the house, it smelled bad. But underneath the smell of death and fire, she sensed another stench, somehow even worse. Sweat and sickness. The room was dirty, the bedsheets stained and rumpled, scattered around the room.

  “No blood in this room, not as far as we could tell,” O’Donnell said behind her. “And not a lot of possessions, mostly clothes. But we found a box in the bottom of the closet.”

  Zoe opened the small closet. There were underwear, shirts, and pants tossed on the shelves. A tangle of gray ties lay on one of the shelves, like coiled snakes. A rectangular box sat on the bottom shelf. Zoe crouched and pulled it out, her heart beating. She already knew what she’d find inside. For a moment, she was fourteen again, looking under Glover’s bed. Her hands trembled as she lifted the lid.

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

  “His trophies,” Zoe said. She hoped O’Donnell thought it was the smoke inhalation that made her voice hoarse. “I’ve seen some of them before.”

  Several pairs of torn underwear. A bracelet. A thin golden necklace. She lifted one of the underwear pairs. It had several holes in it, as if it had been eaten by moths. It was old. When she’d glimpsed it last time, all those years ago, it had been relatively new.

  Underneath the trophies, she found newspaper clippings. The article about the arrest of Jovan Stokes, with a picture of the task force that had caught him, with her at the corner. Then a picture of her and Tatum at a crime scene. Another article, written by Harry Barry, covering the arrest of the Strangling Undertaker. And a few articles, again by Harry, covering the murders of Clyde Prescott in San Angelo. Unlike many serial killers, Glover didn’t collect news articles related to his own crimes. He was interested in her.

  CHAPTER 71

  The hospital room had two beds, but only one was taken. Terrence Finch lay in it, his hands cuffed to the bed, dressed in a turquoise hospital gown. His arms and legs were bandaged, and he was hooked to an IV. The doctor had told them Terrence was getting some pain relievers, as well as antipsychotics. He was gazing at the wall in front of him and didn’t turn his head as they walked inside. Zoe sat down on a chair by the bed, and O’Donnell sat next to her. Tatum remained standing behind them.

  “Mr. Finch, I’m Detective O’Donnell, and this is Dr. Bentley and Agent Gray,” O’Donnell said. “We need to ask you a few questions.”

  He blinked and woozily turned his gaze to them. “Dr. Bentley,” he mumbled. “We’ve met.”

  “Hello, Terrence,” Zoe said steadily.

  “I understand you’ve been read your rights,” O’Donnell said. “But I would like to do it again before we talk.”

  As she read Terrence his Miranda rights, Zoe scrutinized his face. He didn’t seem to listen, and his eyes flickered at one point to look behind them. Zoe took a quick glance to see what he was looking at, but there was nothing there. Despite his medication, she suspected he still hallucinated. It was doubtful that anything said here could be used in court. But Zoe didn’t care about that. Terrence Finch wasn’t going anywh
ere, and only he could give them Glover.

  O’Donnell nodded at her. Zoe leaned forward.

  “Terrence,” she said. “Tell us about Rod Glover.”

  He tensed, glancing behind her again. “Who?”

  “You first met him as Daniel Moore. But you must know by now that he was really named Rod Glover.”

  “No,” Terrence said. “He was Daniel. Rod is the tumor. He’s trying to take over Daniel, to kill him. But Daniel is still in there. He’s in there.”

  “Okay.” Zoe decided to skirt the subject for now. “Tell us how you first met Daniel.”

  “I had thoughts,” Terrence said. “I needed someone to talk to. Someone who understood. I tried to talk to Catherine, but she just said I should go to a doctor and pray. Praying didn’t help, and the doctor made me take more pills. I hate taking pills.”

  “So you talked to Daniel?”

  “Our pastor said Daniel could help. So I talked to him. And he understood me. He knew exactly what I was going through. He helped me.”

  “How did he help you?”

  Shrug. Another glance over her shoulder. “He helped me. We talked. He showed me how to meet other people like me online.”

  “Okay. When did he move in with you?”

  “When he came back.”

  “Came back from where?”

  A shrewd expression flickered across Terrence’s face. “He came back from a trip.”

  How much had Glover told this man? “Okay. So Daniel came back, and he moved in with you?”

  “Yes. He was sick. He couldn’t drive. He needed my help. And I was glad to help him—we were friends.”

  “And he wanted to help you in return, right?”

  Terrence hesitated. “We were friends. Of course he did. But he was sick, so I was the one who took care of him. He had difficulties sleeping, and he couldn’t drive. I wanted to help him get better.”

  “Do you know what he had?”

  “A brain tumor.”

  Zoe nodded. “So you wanted him to see a doctor?”

  Terrence shook his head, then winced, the movement causing him pain. “Doctors never tell you the truth. There’s a cure. They don’t want you to know.”

  “And what’s that cure?”

  Terrence thought about it for a long while. “You’re a doctor, right?”

  “I’m a doctor of forensic psychology.”

  “Daniel said you were clever. You know the cure already, don’t you? Are you trying to trick me? Trying to make me say it? Like Catherine? I won’t say it—I won’t!” His eyes widened, the handcuffs clanking as he pulled against the restraints.

  “Okay,” Zoe said hurriedly. “You don’t need to say it.”

  He relaxed.

  “Can I say it?” Zoe asked.

  “Doctors never admit it,” he said derisively. “They don’t want people to know. There’d be chaos if people knew.”

  “The cure is blood, right?” Zoe said. “Human blood.”

  He blinked in surprise. “Yeah.”

  Zoe smiled at him slightly, as if they were sharing a secret. “It’ll remain in this room. Detective O’Donnell and Agent Gray won’t tell anyone. Right?”

  “We won’t,” Tatum said woodenly.

  “So you wanted Daniel to drink human blood? So he could get better?”

  “Yes. But he said it wouldn’t help him. He had a different idea.”

  “What was his idea?”

  Terrence’s eyes shifted. “Nothing. He said he had no health insurance, so the doctors won’t take care of him. Just like my health insurance didn’t fix me. It’s the insurance companies. It’s their fault.”

  “Did Daniel want to hurt women? Was that his idea?”

  “Daniel never wanted to hurt anyone.” The tone was sharper.

  “Okay, but he wanted to do something, right? To get better.”

  “No! It was all my idea. All of it.”

  “Okay, what was your idea?”

  “I wanted to get some human blood, and Daniel told me not to.” He met her eyes victoriously, as if he’d proved his point. “He didn’t want any of this. He said it wouldn’t work anyway, not if the blood wasn’t pure enough.”

  Zoe paused, looking sideways, as if considering this. “So this wasn’t Daniel’s idea at all. He tried to stop you.” Acting the caring friend, no doubt, while simultaneously planting the idea that they should start with Catherine. Catherine, who knew about Terrence’s obsession with blood. Who could point the police in the right direction.

  “He was right,” Terrence said. “We needed pure blood. So I suggested we go after the only pure person we knew.”

  “Who was that?”

  Terrence’s eyes widened, and he seemed to be looking behind her shoulder again. His lips moved without uttering a sound, as if spelling out something for an invisible accomplice. Zoe repressed the urge to glance backward. “Terrence, who was the person you suggested?”

  “Catherine Lamb,” he finally answered.

  Zoe nodded. “And Daniel agreed?”

  Another furtive glance. “He . . . he didn’t like it. But he agreed she’d be the only one pure enough. I wouldn’t have done it for myself. But Daniel needed the blood.”

  “Was that his plan as well? To extract the blood so he could drink it?”

  Terrence hesitated. “Yeah.”

  “So you went over to Catherine Lamb’s house to extract the blood. And then what happened?”

  “She died.”

  “Because you extracted too much blood?”

  “Yeah, there was a lot of blood.”

  “But Terrence.” Zoe feigned confusion. “Catherine Lamb was strangled to death. And she was raped.”

  “No, you’re wrong. It was only the blood.” He raised his voice. “Only the blood! That’s why it happened. I took too much blood.” He yanked his hands, the handcuffs rattling on the cot’s metal bars.

  “Okay . . . ,” Zoe said gently, nodding. “And then you took photos of her, right? Why did you do that?”

  “I’m a photographer.” He looked defiantly at her. “I take pictures of unusual situations.”

  The photographs weren’t Terrence’s idea. They were Glover’s. Why? Was it just for the sexual pleasure? But Glover didn’t keep any photos in his trophy box. “Did Daniel tell you to take those photos?”

  “No.”

  “You put a necklace on her throat, right? The necklace with the cross. Why?”

  “She always wore it. It made the picture seem better.”

  “And did Daniel drink the blood?”

  “No . . . he didn’t want to. But I slipped some into his coffee. And into his food.” Terrence seemed pleased with himself. “It made him better. It helped.”

  Did Glover know this was going on? Did he let Terrence put some blood in his food just to make him feel like he was the one calling the shots? She doubted it. More likely, the brain cancer played havoc with Glover’s taste buds, and he hadn’t noticed the taste.

  “Then why did Daniel go along with it?” she asked. “If you went to provide him with pure blood, but he wouldn’t drink the blood later, why did he go at all?”

  “I . . . I’m confused. It’s all those drugs they give me here. He did drink it; that’s why we did it. It was my idea. But he drank the blood.” He shook his head violently. “He wanted to get well. That’s why we did it. For the blood.”

  “And three days later, you went and grabbed another woman, near the train station. You did that for the blood too?”

  “Yes. I wanted . . . we were running out of blood. So we went there and waited for the woman. And we took her blood.”

  “But you also killed her.”

  “It was an accident.”

  “Why did you draw the pentagram? Drive the knife into her stomach?”

  A note of hesitation. “Just props. For the photographs.”

  “Whose idea was that?”

  He mouthed unheard words again, turning away from her, looking at somethin
g unseen. She tried to read his lips but couldn’t make anything out.

  “Terrence, whose idea was it?”

  “It was mine.”

  “And Daniel went along with it? Spent an entire hour with a dead woman, preparing the set, taking the photos?”

  “He’s a good friend.”

  “And then you took Rhea Deleon.”

  His head wavered from side to side. “Who?”

  “The woman we found in your house.”

  “Oh, right. Her. Yes. Daniel didn’t want to take her. He was against it from the start.” His eyelids flickered. “It was all my idea.”

  In this case, she believed him. “So he killed her.”

  “No. It wasn’t him. It was the tumor. It was Rod.”

  She eyed him sharply. “The tumor killed her? What do you mean?”

  “It tried to. She’s still alive. But it tried to kill her. It drank her blood, and it strangled her and tried to kill her.” His eyes focused momentarily, and rage flickered in them. “It did it.”

  Terrence was willing to take the blame for Daniel’s deeds, but not, apparently, for the tumor’s part in this. “What happened then?”

  “I kicked him out. I thought Daniel was gone. That the tumor consumed him. So I threatened him with a knife, and he ran.”

  “Do you know where he ran?”

  “No, but it doesn’t . . .” He yanked his hand again, the handcuff clanging. “It doesn’t matter. He came back. And he was Daniel again. He helped me. He helped me silence Catherine again. We didn’t want her to tell about the blood.”

  “Is that why you burned the newspapers?”

  “Of course. But it was my idea. Not Daniel’s. He helped me. He’s a good friend. I won’t tell them. I won’t tell them.” His eyes flickered again, and he cocked his head, as if listening to something else.

  “Terrence, can you tell us when Daniel first contacted you?”

  “No. I won’t answer anything more. I won’t. I won’t.” Spittle shot from his mouth. “I told you everything. Leave me alone.”

  “Just a few more questions, and then we’ll let you rest. When did Daniel first contact you?”

  He whispered something, his lips moving emphatically. She leaned closer to hear what he was saying.