by Mike Omer
Leonor didn’t budge until she heard the feds’ car drive away. She’d heard of the phrase frozen in fear, but up until that moment, she’d thought it was just a way to explain that someone was very scared. Now she realized it was possible to be so frightened that the body didn’t respond.
She tried to convince herself it had just been her imagination. She’d hardly gotten a glimpse of that photo. Those scratches she’d noticed on the arm in the photo could be just a trick of the light. And even if they weren’t, it meant nothing, right? Scratches on the arm were hardly a rare thing. She’d managed to scrape her arms dozens of times just by working in the garden.
Still, there were three long scratches. Just like on Daniel’s arm.
She’d asked him about them, and he’d explained in embarrassment that the cancer medication made his skin dry and that he itched all night and sometimes scratched himself until it bled.
Such a specific explanation. And he’d said it instantly, without hesitation. Surely if it was a lie, he would have taken a moment to come up with something. She’d even given him some of her moisturizing cream, and he’d later told her it was helping already.
She thought back to his earnest face when he talked. Scratching as he explained it and then laughing as he realized what he was doing.
No one lied so well. It was impossible.
He’d never tried to hide that he’d been living with Terrence Finch. It was the first thing he’d told Patrick when he’d called. He had been staying there and had recently found out that Terrence might be involved in something illegal. He also said that Terrence’s behavior was getting more and more erratic. He said he just needed a place to stay a few nights, until the next treatment. And then, later, when they’d found out that Terrence had been arrested on suspicion of killing Catherine, Daniel had blamed himself. Saying he should have seen the signs. Pain and shame had shimmered in his eyes.
But now she wondered. Was it really possible for Terrence to kill those women while Daniel lived in his home without Daniel noticing it?
And whoever had taken that picture of the strangled girl wasn’t the attacker. The angle was wrong. So if Finch had taken the picture . . .
Those three scratches.
She regretted not saying something when the agents were there. She didn’t have to tell them Daniel was in the back room. She could have just suggested that she come with them to make a statement at the station. Or tell them to wait until Patrick came back.
Because she was now alone in her home with Daniel. And she knew him—he was a good-hearted man, but . . .
It was impossible to get those scratches out of her mind.
She was just overreacting. She saw a violent picture, and it affected her badly. But she needed help.
She picked up the phone and dialed Patrick.
“Hey,” he said, picking up almost instantly.
“Patrick,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Can you come home?”
“Why, what’s wrong?” He sounded alarmed. “Is it the baby?”
“No . . . I just really need you here.”
“Sure, I’m already on my way. Hang tight.” He hung up.
She exhaled. Even the short conversation with Patrick already made her feel better. And a bit silly. It was just a dumb overreaction.
The sudden feeling of a cloth noose tightening around her throat took her entirely by surprise.
CHAPTER 78
Tatum switched off the engine, already opening the car door. Zoe followed closely behind as he half ran to the door. He seemed about to knock when they heard a crash from inside the house.
Tatum pulled his gun and opened the door. “Wait here.”
She ignored his instruction, stepping inside behind him. Tatum advanced silently, his movements fluid, his gun aimed forward, gripped in both hands. He stepped into the kitchen doorway and shouted, “Stop! Let her go, and put your hands up!”
Zoe looked over Tatum’s shoulder, heart in her throat.
Glover was standing by the counter at the far end of the room, a sharp knife held to Leonor’s throat. Leonor’s face was red, and she was wheezing, eyes panicky and wide. A pair of stockings was wound around her neck, though the noose seemed to dangle loosely. Glover had probably let go of it when he’d heard their car parking by the house and had grabbed for the knife.
“I’ll kill her!” Glover shouted. “Put down the gun, or I cut her throat.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Tatum said. “Put down the knife, and no one gets hurt.”
Glover barked a laugh. “I think we’re beyond that point. Zoe, step inside the room—I want to see your hands.” He moved his head slowly from left to right, like a snake.
Zoe slowly crept around Tatum, her palms held up. “I’m unarmed.”
“Please,” Leonor wheezed. “I need—”
“Shut up,” Glover snapped. “Or I swear I’ll drive this knife into your belly.”
Zoe’s heart hammered, her eyes locked on Glover’s. She saw the darkness there, the emptiness. That same look he’d had all those years ago when he’d figured out she’d broken into his house. The same look he’d had when he’d attacked her months ago. A look that meant death. A face of pure evil. Death hovered behind him, waiting to strike. She had trouble breathing, mirroring the wheezing in Leonor’s gasps. For a second, she knew they were all in Glover’s control. Only he could decide how this was going to end.
No.
This was a child’s thinking. The fear of the unknown. The terror of knowing the bogeyman was coming to get you. But Glover wasn’t that. He wasn’t a creature that crawled out of the swamp or hid under the bed. He wasn’t a monster. He was a man. She forced herself to see him for what he truly was.
He was sick. If death hovered above him, it was because he was dying. His skin was drawn, eyes sunken. There was a bald patch on his head where someone had shaved his hair off, probably to perform a medical procedure. He was thin, almost skeletal.
This man was broken. It didn’t make him less dangerous. He had nothing left to lose.
“Glover,” she said, her voice soft and low. “If you hurt her, Agent Gray will shoot you.”
“Maybe,” he said, grinning insanely. “But I’ll get to see the look on your eyes as you see this woman die. It’ll be worth it.”
He wasn’t really afraid of Tatum’s gun. Like many psychopaths, Glover’s risk assessment was skewed. He was aware of the gun’s existence, but the threat was abstract, distant. For Glover, real fear came with pain. She recalled his attack on her and the dismay in his eyes when she’d managed to stab him. And it had happened again, when Marvin had shot him. When Glover felt actual pain, the threat became real.
And now he was in pain all the time. That was what he was really afraid of. The cancer. He had time to process the pain and forge acute terror from it. The gun, in comparison, meant almost nothing. In fact, by this point he might welcome being shot, just to escape death by cancer.
“If you put down the knife,” Zoe said, “we will make sure you get the cancer treatment you deserve.” She stressed the word deserve. In Glover’s world, he was entitled to everything he took.
“That’s a cute story you’re trying to sell me,” Glover snarled. “I’ve researched prison hospitals. I’ve seen the treatment I’d get there. I’m afraid I’ll have to pass on that generous offer.”
Of course. He’d already contemplated the possibility. Checked it. She recalled what Leonor had told her earlier. I doubt he’d get the treatment he needs in prison. She’d repeated things Glover had told her. For him, being arrested was tantamount to a death sentence. Slow and painful.
No. He wanted something else here. To either escape or die. Perhaps all he was doing right now was building enough courage to force Tatum to shoot him, suicide by federal agent. And once he was ready for it, Leonor would die.
“What if we let you leave?” Zoe asked.
“Leave? When we finally get the reunion we wanted?” Glover shifted h
is head again. “After all those years we have an opportunity to talk, and you want me to leave?”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“A little gratitude would be nice.”
Zoe blinked. “Gratitude?”
“I made you, Zoe. You owe everything to me. I am the reason for your stellar career. Jovan Stokes, Jeffrey Alston, Clyde Prescott. I’ve been following the stories. And meanwhile I need to hide in a shitty two-bedroom apartment, constantly making sure the cops don’t look at me funny. Had to pay thousands of dollars to get a solid fake identity, just because a snotty kid once decided her nice neighbor was a killer.”
“You were a killer.”
“No! It was that kid from the school. The police said so. In fact, I helped them in their investigation.”
She stared at him in amazement. It occurred to her that he’d said that so many times he might have started to believe it. Or maybe, in some insane corner of his mind, he thought he could still get out of this. Could somehow prove he was entirely innocent. Maybe he lied because currently he saw no better course of action.
“Say thanks,” he snapped.
“What?”
“Thank me for your career, or I slit this woman’s throat right now.”
He kept shifting his head. Why was he doing that?
He had no peripheral vision. That was why he couldn’t drive. He looked at her and Tatum as if through a tunnel. That was why he kept moving his head. He wanted to see them both.
She decided to test her theory. “Here’s my offer. The agent and I move from the doorway. You can walk through it and get out of here, leaving Leonor with us. I’m getting the car keys from my bag now.”
“Don’t.” His eyes widened, the knife-wielding hand tensing.
“It’s just car keys,” she said, very slowly taking her key chain out of her bag. They weren’t even the keys to the car—Tatum had those—but it didn’t really matter. “Here.”
She tossed them, intentionally throwing them just a bit to the side. Glover moved his entire head to watch as the keys arced in the air, then clattered on the floor. He then whipped his head to look at Tatum and the gun, taking a step back.
“Don’t move,” he barked.
He hadn’t been able to watch Tatum when he’d followed the keys.
“You can take them,” Zoe said. “Drive away. Just leave Leonor behind.” Had Tatum seen the way Glover’s head moved? Did he understand what she was doing?
He did. She could almost feel it. Their minds thinking along the same lines, processing the moment together.
“I want you to thank me first,” Glover said slyly. He was buying time. Maybe thinking of her offer. Maybe making plans of his own.
And maybe he really wanted her to thank him. It was possible he was intent on getting that from her before he died. He’d always been obsessed with her. And Glover’s fantasies were what always propelled him. Perhaps this was one of them.
“Thank you,” she said. “You’re right. I owe everything I have to you. Now look: I’m moving aside.” She took a step to the right.
He moved threateningly. “Don’t—”
“What happened to you wasn’t fair,” she said. “You were a good neighbor. You were my friend. I was ungrateful.”
“A bitch,” he spat.
“I shouldn’t have blamed you. The police already had a suspect, right? And because of me, you had to leave your home behind.” Another step. And another. Glover’s head moved, following her.
“If I hadn’t done that, a lot of people wouldn’t have gotten hurt, right?” Another step. Slow. Soft. Eyes constantly on him. “You didn’t want to hurt Catherine. You had to.”
“It was Finch! It was all Finch’s idea.”
“Right!” She talked faster, higher. Tried to sound panicky. A woman trying to accommodate him. “And I’m sure you tried to talk him out of it. But what choice did you have? Because of me, you didn’t have health insurance. And those pictures could get you the medical treatment you deserved, right?”
Tatum shifted, moving slowly toward the wall. Glover didn’t notice. In fact, she was almost sure he couldn’t notice. Tatum was out of Glover’s line of sight.
“You can still make this work,” Zoe said. She didn’t try to sound convincing. Glover wasn’t interested in being convinced. He wanted to see her afraid. This was about him winning. “The car keys are right there on the floor. I won’t stop you. I just don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
Tatum crept along the wall, making sure not to make a sound.
“Do you think I’m stupid enough to think you’ll just let me walk out?” Glover asked.
“I don’t care if you run!” she said, her voice cracking. “I’ll fix this. Just don’t hurt her! Tell me how to fix this!”
He smiled then. A victorious smile. “Sorry, Zoe. You can’t fix this.”
His hand tightened around the knife handle, about to slit Leonor’s throat. Tatum lunged, crossing the space between them in two fast steps, and grabbed Glover’s wrist. Glover’s head whipped in surprise, and he let out a scream as Tatum twisted his arm, forcing him to drop the knife.
It all happened in a flash. Glover’s movements were sluggish, confused. Zoe dashed forward and grabbed Leonor, who stumbled away, almost falling.
“You’re okay, you’re okay,” Zoe told her repeatedly as the woman whimpered. She helped her sit down and turned to watch as Tatum cuffed Glover’s hands behind his body.
Glover was crying.
It was strange to watch. This man who had frightened her so much, who had hounded her for years, beaten so easily. Tatum wasn’t even sweating. The entire thing had taken three seconds, maybe four. And Glover’s face seemed so pathetic.
Maybe this was the moment to say something victorious of her own. “I hope the cancer kills you slowly,” or “You shouldn’t have killed those girls.”
Instead she said, “I’ll call O’Donnell. It’s over.”
CHAPTER 79
Tuesday, November 1, 2016
Zoe’s phone rang while she jogged down Birchdale Avenue. It was her first jog since she’d returned to Dale City, and she had to admit to herself that she missed Lakefront Trail back in Chicago. There were some nice forest tracks in Dale City but none as expansive and beautiful as the shores of Lake Michigan.
She glanced at the phone screen, the caller’s name jumping up and down with her footsteps. O’Donnell.
“Hello?” she answered, breathing hard.
“Zoe? Is this a good time?” O’Donnell’s voice came through Zoe’s Bluetooth earphones.
“Yeah.”
“What’s that noise? It sounds like wind.”
“I’m running.”
“I can call later.”
“It’s okay—what is it?”
“I wanted to tell you that Terrence Finch tried to kill himself. He managed to palm and hide some of his pills and took them all at once. He’s now on suicide watch.”
Zoe slowed down, gasping for breath. “Did he say why? Or leave a note?”
“He had nothing to write with, and he didn’t bother saying why. But the guards and the nurses that have been taking care of him said that for the last few days he kept begging them for blood. Specifically, he wanted Rhea Deleon’s blood.”
“Maybe he finally realized she was dead,” Zoe said. “And with her, his hopes of ever getting another sip of her blood.”
“Could be. His lawyer says they’re pleading not guilty due to insanity.”
“It probably won’t work,” Zoe said. “And I’ll tell you why.”
“Because the rules of legal insanity don’t apply to him?” O’Donnell suggested.
“Because the rules of legal insanity . . . yeah, exactly. He knew his actions were harmful. There was premeditation and planning.”
“Yeah, the state attorney already told me. He said they’ll try to claim that the M’Naghten rule applies, but it won’t fly.”
“Right.” Zoe wiped the sweat off
her forehead. “He is insane, O’Donnell. He’s suffering from delusions and hallucinations. He’s medicated for schizophrenia. He should be in a hospital. But he’ll go to prison.”
“Well, it’s up to the court to decide. The state attorney is after blood.” There was a pause. “No pun intended.”
Zoe exhaled, staring at the sunlight filtering through the tree branches. It was late afternoon; the sun was setting. She needed to go back home. “What about Glover?”
“The doctor estimates that he has maybe four months. There’s a chance he’ll die before his trial ends.”
Just like he’d predicted. Did he blame her for his so-called death sentence? Probably. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.
“A couple of BAU agents showed up here yesterday,” O’Donnell said. “They want to interview Glover. Weren’t you supposed to do that?”
“I decided not to,” Zoe said. She began walking back.
“Why not?”
“I doubt I could be objective.”
“Still, it could give you closure.”
“I don’t need closure,” Zoe said, annoyed. “And this interview should be done professionally. We need to know how, exactly how, Glover overcame his urges in the long stretches of times between murders. And it’s important we understand the details about his childhood; it’s still unclear if he was abused by his parents. The letters he sent me, were they part of his sexual fantasy, or did they fulfill a different need? And I want to know more about the function of the—”
“Okay, okay. I’m just saying if you talk to him, you could do a much better job. Those BAU agents look like a couple of dumb nitwits.”
“They are not dumb nitwits. They’re very capable.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, one is pretty capable; the other is, perhaps, a nitwit,” Zoe conceded. “Still, I briefed them, and as long as they stick to my briefing, they’ll do a good job. I . . . I can’t do it.”
“Because he hurt your sister?”
“That too.” She was about to end there, but the truth spilled out. “And when I look at him, I’m just a little kid again.”
“I guess that makes sense,” O’Donnell said after a moment.
