A Killer's Mind (Zoe Bentley Mystery Book 1)

by Mike Omer

  “Hey.” She smiled back. “How are you?”

  “Can’t complain. Coming home from school?”

  “Yeah . . .” She hesitated, feeling the need to talk to someone. “I went by White Pond Road Bridge.”

  “Not exactly on the way, is it?” he said, leaning against the fence.

  “I just wanted . . . that’s where they found the girl, you know?”

  He nodded. “Yup, I heard.”

  “It’s terrible, what happened to her,” Zoe said.

  Rod nodded. “It is,” he said. “So . . . looking forward to tonight?”

  She looked at him, perplexed. “What’s tonight?”

  “Uh . . . hello? It’s Buffy night, remember?”

  Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Rod and Zoe both loved the show; they’d talk about it after every new episode ran. But the shift in discussion was jarring, and Zoe remained silent.

  He changed his posture to mimic Giles, one of the series characters. His words developed Giles’s English accent. “Really, Zoe, it’s the second season; you can’t afford to be distracted. This episode is of the utmost importance.”

  “I have to go,” Zoe said apologetically. She was uncomfortable with his attempt to make her laugh, considering the circumstances. No one joked these days. “See you later.”

  “See ya,” Rod said.

  She turned toward the door. Just before she walked inside, she glanced back. Rod grinned at her and then acted as if he were removing his imaginary glasses and cleaning them, another Giles-like move.

  CHAPTER 8

  Monday, July 18, 2016

  The airplane’s steady hum vibrated in Zoe’s ear as she flipped through the thin folder in her hand. She wasn’t able to ignore the constant noise, and it made her feel irritable. She suspected that the problem wasn’t really with the engine. She hated to be yanked from what she was doing. There was a certain joy in starting a project and seeing it to completion. She was fascinated with the highway serial killer case. It kept jumping into her thoughts even at home, and she searched for patterns within the crimes, trying to find not one but two profiles for the murderers.

  And then Mancuso had called on Saturday night to tell her she had been reassigned. There was a serial killer in Chicago, and the agent in the field wanted her help. While the details they had about the case were intriguing, Zoe had pointed out that the murder rate and the victim count of the highway killings were much higher. Mancuso had agreed with her and then said again that Zoe was going to Chicago.

  Mancuso had sent the case file over, and Zoe had left it untouched on her nightstand, intent on getting a bit of rest before her flight. But a nightmare had woken her up after only three hours, and she hadn’t managed to fall back to sleep.

  She read the autopsy report of the first victim, Susan Warner. The thing that kept drawing her attention was the decomposing left foot. She had already made some definite assumptions based on that fact. And there was the interesting detail about the mouth . . .

  “Working on the plane, huh?” a friendly voice asked.

  Zoe shut the folder and looked at her neighbor. He was a middle-aged man with thinning blond hair, a tan that seemed fake, and a you-gotta-love-me smile. He held a small glass of whiskey in his hand, swirling it to melt the one cube of ice. Zoe sighed inwardly, preparing for the arduous task of the small-talk ceremony.

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s a good way to save time.”

  “I’m Earl Havisham.”

  “Zoe.”

  “I try not to work while traveling,” he said. “It’s a good time to focus on myself, you know?”

  Zoe nodded, somehow managing not to comment that he wasn’t focusing on himself right now. “Well, I like to work while traveling,” she said and opened her folder, hoping they were done.

  The time of death had been several days before the body was found, but the location it was found in was a public place. What had the killer done with the body during that time span? There was the torn dress that—

  “I have a slight fear of flying,” Earl said.

  He glanced at her folder’s contents, the top page clearly marked “Autopsy Report.” Annoyed, she shut the folder again.

  “That’s why I drink,” Earl continued.

  “Okay,” Zoe said. She was done being polite.

  “I’m a technical writer for a start-up company in Silicon Valley.”

  “Sounds exciting.”

  “Well . . . not as much as you’d think.”

  He sounded completely serious. Was it a subtle display of sarcasm? Didn’t feel like it.

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m a forensic psychologist.”

  “Oh, wow.” His eyes shifted just a bit, his body tensing.

  It was a typical reaction to her profession. Some people were cautious with psychologists, feeling they might be analyzed at any moment. And almost everyone was weirded out by the word forensic because it made them think of dead bodies. The combination of the two brought many conversations to a screeching halt—which would be great in this instance.

  When people did ask her what that meant, she’d explain that what she mostly did was analyze crimes to try to come up with a profile of the criminal. This helped the investigators narrow their suspect pool from “all the people in the world” down to a tight, manageable group. It was a very careful explanation that avoided the terms serial killers, sex crimes, victim profiles, crime scenes, and other phrases that tended to make people shift uncomfortably in their seats.

  “Do you like it?” he finally asked.

  “It has its moments.” Her tone was curt and unpleasant, and she gave him a narrow-eyed stare. She had been told several times she had intense eyes. She hoped they would shut him up.

  She opened her folder for the third time and thumbed to the second victim. The victim’s mouth had been sewn shut with a black thread. Did that have any significance? Perhaps he’d killed them to—

  “So where are you headed once we land?” He leaned toward her, his voice lower.

  Zoe shut her folder, her jaw clenched tight.

  He kept leaning closer. “I need to go to my company’s branch at the Gogo Building. But I’m not expected there until ten, so—”

  “Then maybe you should use that time to find a woman who is interested in hearing about all the times your mother was disappointed in you,” Zoe said. “If you get lucky, she might not notice that wedding ring outline in your pocket . . . nice tan on your finger, by the way. It’s a good thing you remembered to take the ring off before they sprayed you. And then maybe you’ll have sex, and your self-confidence will be bolstered enough for that business meeting you’re clearly so worried about.”

  Some of it was just guesswork. Everyone’s mother was disappointed in them at one point or another. It was nothing more than a psychological parlor trick. But from the outrage in his eyes, it seemed she was right on every mark—even his business meeting. She was beginning to enjoy their conversation.

  “Bitch,” he muttered, turning away.

  “Oh, Earl.” She smiled at him. “That’s really no way to talk to someone who works for the FBI.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Chicago, Illinois, Monday, July 18, 2016

  Tatum had almost decided to let Zoe get to the police headquarters on her own, but he decided at the last moment to pick her up, talk to her a bit before she met Lieutenant Martinez and his fake profiler. It was best to make sure they were on the same page. While he waited for her, he called Marvin to make sure the old man was fine.

  “Of course I’m not fine, Tatum. You left me to take care of your beastly creature. It already scratched me twice.”

  “I meant how are you aside from Freckle. Are you feeling well? Did you remember to take your pills?”

  “I’ve been taking those pills for nine years, Tatum. You think just because you went to Chicago, I’ll suddenly decide to stop? Of course I remember the pills.”

  “Good. And what about—”

&nb
sp; “I stopped taking the blue one; I told you that. It made my throat itch.”

  “What? When?”

  “Last week. I told you that, Tatum. Don’t you remember?”

  “You didn’t tell me anything about that.” Tatum felt his gut sinking. “Did you ask Dr. Nassar about it?”

  “No, there’s no need. I talked to Jenna about it.”

  It took Tatum a moment to place the name Jenna as his grandfather’s girlfriend with the cocaine habit. “Is she a doctor?”

  “No, but she had the same problem a year ago. Her doctor prescribed her something else. She had some extra, so I’m taking those instead.”

  “Marvin, you can’t do that. Talk to Dr. Nassar—”

  “Nassar is a busy man, Tatum. And these green ones are great, no side effects—”

  “What green ones?”

  “The ones Jenna gave me.”

  “Do any of these pills have a name? What are you taking?”

  “I don’t remember, Tatum, but it’s fine. Jenna told me. She had exactly the same side effects and—”

  Tatum noticed Zoe amid the hundreds of people heading out of the terminal. She was striding quickly toward the exit, her gray suitcase dragging behind her.

  “Listen, I have to go. Take your damn pills, even the blue one with the itchy throat. And don’t take the ones from Jenna. And call Dr. Nassar. He will give you what you need.”

  “I have what I need.”

  “If you don’t call Dr. Nassar, I will.”

  “You’re a pain in the ass, Tatum.”

  “Take your pills. And remember to feed the fish. Bye.” He hung up and hurried after Zoe. He caught up with her and tapped her shoulder.

  “Dr. Bentley.” He smiled, trying to temporarily set aside Marvin and the green pills.

  “Agent Gray. I thought we’d meet at the police station.”

  “Yeah, but I figured I could pick you up. I rented a car yesterday, so no need to take a cab.”

  “Thank you. That’s very thoughtful.”

  She seemed to be in a cheerful mood. Perhaps she was glad to get out of the office for a bit. It made Tatum feel better about asking for her.

  “Want to grab some breakfast first?” he asked. “There’s a place called Hillary’s Pancake House not far from here, and it has some nice reviews on Yelp.”

  “Sure,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “I’d kill for some coffee.”

  “Let’s go, then,” he said. “Want me to get your suitcase?”

  “I’m fine.”

  The drive to Hillary’s Pancake House was quick. It was still just a bit before rush hour, and Chicago was still waking up. The pancake house itself seemed a bit of a letdown, a dirty-looking structure with dark windows and a sign with the place’s name alongside the image of a woman holding a shining plate of pancakes, a murderous grin on her face. Once inside, though, it looked distinctly better. The interior was mostly wooden, radiating a homely atmosphere. The smell of sizzling oil and coffee intermingled in Tatum’s nose, cuing his stomach to rumble hungrily. The place was half-full, mostly with men and women dressed for their nine-to-five office work and a couple of sleepy-looking cops who were probably at the end of their midnight shift.

  “Good morning,” their waitress chirped as soon as they sat, dropping menus in front of them. She was young and blonde, her hair in a ponytail, and Tatum did his best to focus on her eyes and to avoid glancing at her chest in her tight uniform. His eyes kept gliding downward anyway, so he ended up looking at her nose most of the time.

  “Would you like me to give you a few moments to—”

  “Coffee, please,” Tatum said, before their waitress could make her escape. “And the . . .” He glanced at the menu, choosing the first option that sounded good. “Apple and spice pancakes.”

  “That dish has nuts; is that okay?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Bacon and eggs for me, please,” Zoe said. “The eggs sunny-side up and the bacon extra crispy.”

  “Okay. And coffee for you as well?”

  “Yes. Very strong. And seriously, you can’t make that bacon too crispy as far as I’m concerned.”

  The waitress gave them a final toothy smile and then turned away.

  “Did you have a nice flight?” he asked Zoe.

  “The guy who sat next to me tried to hit on me and got quite unpleasant when I turned him down,” Zoe said. “But other than that it was fine.”

  “I’m sorry to drag you to Chicago like this, but I could really use your help.”

  “No problem. The case sounds fascinating.”

  “Well,” Tatum said, feeling uncomfortable with her choice of words, “it’s definitely unusual.”

  “I mean, what I find so interesting is the reasoning. This guy obviously has necrophiliac tendencies, and the embalming must make the sexual act much more complicated because—”

  “Perhaps we should talk about this later, in a more private place,” Tatum said hurriedly, noticing that Zoe’s voice became louder when she was animated. The woman sitting at the table next to them put her fork down noisily and gave them a disgusted look.

  “Okay.” Zoe nodded, then became silent. She was less talkative when serial killers weren’t the topic of conversation.

  “I found a nice clean motel not far from the police station,” Tatum said. “I took the liberty of booking you a room there for tonight. Is that okay, or do you want to look for a different motel, or—”

  “That’s great, thanks,” Zoe said.

  He nodded, and she nodded back. He added a strained smile, which she returned. They were the essence of awkward silence.

  “So I understand you’re also new to the BAU,” Tatum said. “I heard you were in Boston until recently?”

  Zoe nodded. “I worked there as a consultant for the FBI for several years. But Mancuso was determined to get me into the BAU, and quite frankly, it’s every forensic psychologist’s dream, so I couldn’t really refuse.”

  “I totally get that,” Tatum said. “Do you have family in Boston?”

  “My sister used to live there,” Zoe said. “But she moved to Dale City with me.”

  “Really?” Tatum raised an eyebrow. “You two close?”

  “Yeah,” Zoe said. “And she said she needed a change. She hated Boston. She left a bad relationship back there.”

  She looked uncomfortable discussing it, and Tatum nodded noncommittally, deciding not to push the subject.

  She cleared her throat. “What about you? How did you get from the field office in LA to the BAU?”

  “Oh . . .” Tatum mumbled. “I don’t really know. It was a promotion of sorts, I guess.”

  The waitress returned, putting their plates and coffee mugs in front of them. Tatum was glad to stuff some pancake into his mouth and have a reason to stop talking about his “promotion.” While chewing, he looked at Zoe handling her meal. She picked up a piece of toast, carefully broke off a piece of bacon, and speared them both with her fork. Then she dipped the happy couple into her egg carefully and lifted the fork, inspecting it as if it were a rare specimen. Finally, she put it in her mouth, chewed a bit, and shut her eyes, inhaling deeply through her nose.

  “So . . . it’s good?” he said.

  Zoe kept chewing and finally swallowed. “It’s good,” she said. “I like my bacon a bit crunchier.”

  She sliced a piece of the egg white, placed another bacon chip on it, and carefully lifted it to her mouth. Zoe was not a fast eater. They would be here for a while. Tatum tried to slow down. He’d already eaten a third of his plate, while she’d taken just two bites.

  “So about the case,” he said, deciding to broach the safer topic, their job. “The guys investigating it have hired a local profiler. A Dr. Bernstein?”

  Zoe twisted her nose in disgust, as if he’d just mentioned a malignant skin disease. “Oh,” she said.

  “You know him?”

  “I’ve seen him on TV a few times.”

  “I don
’t think he’s very good,” Tatum said. “I have some ideas about the case, and the investigators aren’t very receptive because of this guy.”

  “Okay.”

  “I figure you go in there and wow them with your credentials. I think they’ll be a bit nicer, since you’re a civilian. And then back me up a bit, so we can get some headway with the investigation.”

  “Oh,” Zoe said. “You really planned this carefully. So you have an idea.”

  “Several,” Tatum said.

  “And you asked for me to help you get rid of the competition.”

  “Well . . .” Tatum hesitated. “And hear your opinion, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Somewhere, he had taken a misstep. He tried to correct the situation. “I hear you did a really good job on the Stokes case,” he said.

  “Really?” Zoe said disinterestedly, creating another bacon, egg, and toast sculpture. “I’m glad. Who knows? I might even be as good as a real FBI agent one day.”

  Tatum sighed. He just couldn’t catch a break with people lately.

  CHAPTER 10

  Dan Finley was not enjoying his time on the beach as much as he wanted to. For one, a snotty-nosed toddler next to him was excavating a large hole, throwing scoops of sand over his shoulder in complete disregard for the people around him. Two scoops had already landed on Dan’s beach towel. He would have said something, but he didn’t think it was his job to discipline other people’s kids or to teach parents how to be parents. These days, people gave birth to kids without taking responsibility for them. Instead, they lobbed their children onto society and then complained when crime rose or unemployment got worse.

  He shook his head sadly and turned over onto his stomach, letting the sun tan his back. If he wasn’t going to enjoy this trip to the beach, the very least he could ask for was a nice uniform tan. He only hoped his sunscreen was good enough to filter out the cancer-y bits from the sun, leaving only the wholesome tan-y bits. These days, sunscreen companies cut costs without even thinking about the consequences. It was probably cheaper to get good lawyers and evade medical lawsuits than to make high-quality sunscreen.