by Mike Omer
“I’m sorry,” Tatum said, apologizing yet again. “I’ve had a long night. I’ve hardly slept. You’re right, of course; I was out of line. I assure you the FBI wants these coordinated efforts to work well.”
“Maybe they shouldn’t have sent you then,” Martinez said.
Tatum wholeheartedly agreed.
Tatum leaned back in his chair and sighed. He felt cramped and slightly claustrophobic. The special task force headed by Lieutenant Martinez had been created specifically for the current serial killings, and the team was cobbled together from detectives from various units in the Chicago PD Bureau of Detectives. The room they’d been assigned felt as if it had been similarly cobbled. It was a decent size for a living room but quite small when it came to housing six detectives and a desk for Dr. Bernstein. Now they had to create extra space for Tatum as well, and they managed it, but not in a way that was particularly welcoming. His desk was positioned in the room’s corner, a file cabinet behind him and the room’s watercooler just to his right. When he moved the chair slightly backward, he inevitably collided with the cabinet, emitting a loud clang.
As the day went by, the detectives around him talked and joked with each other, went to lunch together, and pointedly ignored him.
He suddenly yearned to be one of them. How had he gotten here? A job in an agency that didn’t appreciate him, in a department he didn’t want to be a part of, with no friends and a superior who distrusted him.
And a bunch of self-pity to boot. Disgusting. People would give their left kidney to be an FBI agent and their right one to be in the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Except that would be counterproductive. Having at least one functioning kidney was a requirement for all FBI agents, he was pretty sure of it.
He saved the report he was working on. He had spent the entire day going over the autopsies of the two victims, talking to the medical examiner, and discussing the case with the detectives assigned to it. The task force was actually on the right track—or had been, up until three days ago. The first thing he had to do was to help them get back on course. He had a vague idea how to do it. He took out his phone, about to call the chief, when he saw the notification of four unread messages. He opened them—all four were from Marvin.
Where is the cat food?
Never mind found it.
That wasn’t the cat food but he likes it.
I think the cat is ill, he vomited in the living room. The fish is fine.
Tatum groaned and wrote back that the cat food was in the leftmost cupboard in the kitchen. He wondered what Marvin had been feeding Freckle and decided that any answer to that would only make him feel worse. Scrolling down his contacts, he located the contact Christine Mancuso and pressed the call button.
She answered after a few seconds. “Hello?”
“It’s Tatum.” He looked around him. The room was currently empty; all the detectives were either somewhere else or had gone home.
“I know.”
“Right. Okay, listen. The guys here are fine. The lieutenant in charge is pretty sharp, they have a decent task force working on those murders, and they were doing well until recently.”
“And then what happened?”
“They hired a profiler.”
“Ah.”
“This guy is spouting serial killer clichés at an alarming rate. He seems to be the media expert on serial killers in Chicago, and his face is familiar enough that the detectives are happy to follow his lead. He’s wasting the time and resources of the investigation, and they’re paying him to do so.”
“Did you tell them that?” Mancuso asked.
“Yes,” Tatum said, doodling with a pen on the paper pad in front of him. “I told the lieutenant, and I got the cold shoulder. They’re very sensitive about the bureau meddling in their business.”
There was a moment of silence. “How do you want to proceed?”
Tatum drew a sad face, then tapped the pen, peppering the paper with random spots. “You know that civilian you brought in? She has an impressive record, right?”
“Zoe Bentley? She worked on the Jovan Stokes case,” Mancuso said. “So that earned her some recent media fame. She also has a PhD in clinical psychology and a JD from Harvard.”
He lowered his voice, even though he was the only one in the room. “I think she should fly here, dazzle the detectives with her credentials, and convince them to kick this quack out. Then she can help me nudge this investigation back on the right course.”
“How would she help?” Mancuso sounded mildly amused.
“Use her profiler buzzwords and charm. I have some really good ideas on how this investigation should progress.”
“So you want her to come over and back you up.”
“They won’t really listen to anything I have to say, because I’m just a fed. But she’s a civilian profiler, so her words might carry more weight.”
“Okay,” Mancuso said. “I’ll send her over.”
“Awesome.”
“Good night, Agent Gray.” She hung up.
Surprised by the abrupt end to their conversation, Tatum put the phone back in his pocket. Then he looked at the sad face he had drawn and, after a moment of thought, added a pair of glasses and three hairs.
CHAPTER 6
Chicago, Illinois, Sunday, July 17, 2016
It wasn’t working out. He’d hoped she would be the one, but he could already feel the magic fading, the boredom taking hold. When he woke up next to her, he no longer felt the thrill of lust and excitement. All he could feel was disappointment.
Part of it, he knew, was the embalming fluid.
He hadn’t gotten it right. Her body was too rigid, the color of her skin imperfect. He should, perhaps, have added more dye to compensate for the saline solution. But he didn’t know how much, and the online material he’d found about it was hazy in the details.
Two nights ago, frustrated, he’d slapped her, and she had fallen off the chair, slumping to the floor, her body still bent in a sitting position. Furious, he’d left the house, slamming the door behind him, driving around the city, knowing that if an opportunity were to present itself, he would kill. But all the women he’d seen were in pairs or groups, and when he had approached a whore on the street, she’d said she was done for the day, her eyes betraying fear. What had she seen in his face that made her so scared? Horrified, he had hurried back to his car and examined his face in the mirror, but it looked the same as always. He had driven home and relieved himself in the bathroom.
The next one would be better. He would figure out a way to make her more lifelike. Perhaps glass eyes would help. He should look into that.
But first he had to break up with this one.
He lifted her from the floor, placing her back in the chair. She stared at the table, no doubt feeling the tension in their relationship.
He put his hand on her arm, caressing it gently.
“We’ve had some good times, haven’t we?” He smiled at her.
He let the silence between them linger. How should she react? He tried to think of all he knew, the movies he had seen, the books he had read.
She would cry.
He took her left arm and bent it at the elbow. He wanted to get it just right, and it was tricky, but finally he managed to place her palm on her face. Taking her right arm, he did the same so that it looked as if she had buried her face in her hands while sobbing.
She was beautiful. He almost changed his mind then and there, almost told her that maybe they should give it another chance, but he knew it would only hurt them both, eventually. It was best to remain silent.
He poured them both a glass of wine, for old times’ sake. She didn’t touch hers, so he drank that as well. Then he helped her stand up and dragged her to the car. He placed her in the passenger’s seat, her face still in her hands, still crying.
It was difficult for them both.
He sat by her side for a moment, trying to think where she would go to mourn their relationship.
He had the perfect place.
CHAPTER 7
Maynard, Massachusetts, Saturday, September 27, 1997
Zoe’s parents were talking with each other, their voices low, almost inaudible. Her mother’s voice could usually be heard for miles, so it was easy to notice when she spoke in a hushed tone. As soon as Zoe realized this wasn’t a conversation she was supposed to hear, she froze, intent on catching every syllable. She stood in the hallway, out of sight. The light from the kitchen spilled onto the hallway floor. A shadow moved across it—her father, perhaps, always pacing when he was agitated.
“Do they have any suspects?” her mother asked.
“Arl told me that the police chief said they did,” her father answered. He was also speaking quietly, but Zoe’s father always had a soft tone, so he didn’t have to try very hard. “But he wouldn’t say who, of course.”
“Her poor mother,” Zoe’s mom said, her voice breaking. “Can you imagine? Hearing that . . .”
“I try not to.”
“Was she . . . I mean, did he . . . rape her?”
Zoe had never heard her mother utter that word, and the sound of it, from her mother’s lips, chilled her. Her father didn’t answer. Was he just thinking? Was he nodding? Shaking his head? She had to know. She crept toward the doorway, catching a glimpse of her parents’ faces. They were both standing close to each other, her mother leaning on the counter. She could only see her mother’s profile but nevertheless could see that she was distraught, her mouth curved in a way that hinted at a hidden sob.
“We’ll need to talk to Zoe,” her father said. “She should know—”
“Absolutely not,” her mother hissed. “She’s only fourteen.”
“She’ll find out, and it’s better if she learns about it from us.”
Her mother was about to answer when Zoe’s sister zinged past her into the kitchen, a blur of flailing limbs, a mass of hair and noise.
“Are we making pancakes?” she shouted. Even at the age of five, Andrea took after their mother, having only two volume settings: shouting and asleep.
Her mother cleared her throat. “Is your sister awake?”
Zoe tensed.
“Yeah, she’s standing in the—”
“Good morning,” Zoe said, quickly walking into the kitchen herself. The kitchen’s tiled floor was cold, and her bare feet nearly froze. Her mother leaned on the counter, and her father stood in the middle of the room beside the table. There was a disconcerting lack of breakfast on it. Zoe’s mother always had breakfast ready when they woke up on weekends, but apparently this wasn’t any regular weekend. Zoe stretched and gave a wide, completely fake yawn. “Want me to help with breakfast?”
“I want you to get dressed,” her mother said, looking at her over her crooked nose. Zoe had her mother’s nose, or as she called it in her darker moments, the beak. At least she had her father’s eyes. Her mother sniffed and added, “You’ll freeze to death.”
Zoe was still wearing the loose T-shirt and thin pants she had worn to bed. “Okay,” she said. She had been on her way to the bathroom when she’d heard her parents talking. Her bladder was a second away from bursting, and the cold floor wasn’t helping. She fidgeted uncomfortably. “Anything going on?”
“No,” her mother said, perhaps a bit too quickly. “Just getting the Saturday breakfast going. Your sister wants pancakes. Do you want some as well?”
“Sure,” Zoe said. “I’m going over to Heather’s later, and—”
“You’re staying home,” her mother interrupted her.
Zoe frowned. “But we need to work on our chemistry assignment. It’s due on Monday.”
“I’ll drive you,” her father said.
“I prefer taking my bike. It’s a nice day, and—”
“I’ll drive you.” His eyes focused on her intently, and there was no arguing with his tone. “And I want you to call when you need to come home. I’ll pick you up.”
“Mommy, I want pancakes,” Andrea whined.
“What’s going on?” Zoe asked.
Her parents were both silent.
Her father finally said, “There was—”
“Nothing is going on,” her mother interrupted him, looking down at Andrea, who still whined for pancakes. “We just don’t want you to walk around by yourself.”
“They found a dead body,” Heather told her once they were in the privacy of her bedroom. “By the White Pond Road Bridge.”
“How do you know that?” Zoe asked.
“I heard my dad and the neighbor talking about it this morning. The neighbor said it was a girl and that she was naked.”
A shiver ran up Zoe’s neck. They were both lying on Heather’s bed, the sheets scrunched around them, Heather’s clothes scattered everywhere. Her room always looked as if a tornado had hit her closet. Heather nibbled on a sliced apple her mother had cut for them. Their chemistry project lay untouched on the desk, as it would probably stay for the rest of the day.
“Did he say who she was? Is she from Maynard?” Zoe asked.
“No,” Heather whispered. She scooted closer to Zoe, her arm touching Zoe’s shoulder. Heather smelled faintly of shampoo and soap, and Zoe regretted not taking a shower herself that morning. She felt uncomfortable lying on the clean sheets, the soles of her feet probably dirty from walking barefoot at home. Heather never seemed to mind, though. They always ate on her bed, and she’d often dump her laundry basket there, fishing for some article of clothing. Well, if Zoe’s mother changed Zoe’s bedsheets every three days, like Heather’s mom did for her, perhaps she wouldn’t mind it when they got dirty either.
Heather tensed slightly. “Oh my God, Zoe, what if it’s someone we know?”
An image instantly popped into Zoe’s mind. The dead, naked body of Carrie from school, lying at the side of the bridge, water lapping at her feet. The picture was so vivid in her mind she nearly burst into tears. Why had she thought of Carrie? Why would she even imagine such a thing? What was wrong with her? She shut her eyes, trying to banish the image from her mind.
“I think everyone is freaking out,” Heather said. “The neighbor told my dad he won’t let his kids out of the house. I bet my mom is going to do the same. She’ll keep me inside all the time. Mom can be so hysterical sometimes.”
“My parents wouldn’t let me come over by myself,” Zoe said. “They drove me over.” She gazed outside through Heather’s window. From her position on the bed, she could only see the blue sky and the foliage of a nearby tree. It seemed so peaceful.
Heather shook her head. “I hope this blows over fast,” she said. “I don’t want my parents looking over my shoulder at everything I’m doing.”
Zoe nodded distractedly, but she had a feeling it wouldn’t blow over anytime soon.
Her bicycle wheel whined in complaint as she pressed the handbrake. She stopped on the side of White Pond Road Bridge, lungs burning from exertion. The only reason her mother had let her ride her bike to school that morning was because she had been late for work, and Zoe had promised she would ride with Heather and then straight back home after school. And she had meant to do just that.
But she hadn’t.
Every time she’d seen Carrie in the hallway at school, there was a lump in her throat, guilt and shame flooding her. She felt as if Carrie could tell Zoe had pictured her naked and dead by the water. When Carrie had smiled at her during gym class, Zoe’s face had flushed, and she’d quickly looked away, trembling. The image had lingered at the back of her mind, threatening to return at any given moment. Finally, Zoe had decided that if she went to the bridge to look at the place, she could clear the horrid picture from her thoughts.
She got off the bike and paced down the grassy edge of the Assabet River, just up to the calm water. Green algae floated on the river surface, rising and falling on small, almost imperceptible waves. Was this where they had found the body?
She knew the body had been slightly submerged in the water—or at least tha
t was what everyone at school said. Other rumors were whispered endlessly. Someone told Zoe that the girl had been raped before she died. Someone else said she had been tortured, that her face was bruised and swollen. Her hands were bound behind her back. She had been sliced with a knife. Each rumor made Zoe feel weak, scared, helpless.
She knew who the victim was now. Her name was Beth Hartley. She had been a secretary for a local accountant, twenty-one years old. Zoe had seen a photo of her in the newspaper that morning. The face seemed familiar. Had Zoe ever seen her walking down the street? Having her hair cut? Grabbing a pizza? She probably had. Maynard was a small town. The paper didn’t give any other details but mentioned that an investigation was underway.
Now that she was here, the sun reflecting on the water, fragments of light making the surface shine, it seemed almost impossible. Zoe couldn’t imagine the body in the water anymore, not even when she tried. It was so bizarre, so alien.
Still, the fear wouldn’t let go . . . and amid the fear, something else. Agitation. Thrill.
Something rustled in the leaves behind her, and she whirled around, her pulse racing. There was nothing there. A bird, perhaps? She shivered, even though it was a relatively warm day.
Trying to break the spell, she picked up a rock from the ground and hurled it into the water. It hit the surface, creating circular eddies that widened and faded, the green algae moving away from the spot the rock had hit. She got back on her bicycle and rode home.
Rod Glover, their neighbor, was in his front yard, tending the garden, his white shirt soaked in sweat. As she got off the bicycle, he stood up and waved at her, shears in hand. They were her mother’s shears, which Rod always borrowed.
“Hey, Zoe.” He smiled and wiped his forehead. His brownish-red skater haircut was a bit messy, but his bright, cheerful smile and happy eyes made up for it. Although he was about ten years older than her, he was easygoing and fun to talk to. He had a goofy sense of humor and a knack for imitating celebrities and people around town.
