by Mike Omer
The thought of cancer made him nervous. When he had woken up that morning, the sun had seemed inviting, alluring. Now it felt a bit more like a scorching ball of doom, peppering his skin with tumors. Feeling anxious, he sat up and put his shirt on. Was it worth it? Dying of cancer before the age of forty just to have nice tan skin?
It was not. These days, people focused on the now, ignoring the future. His health was the most important thing he had.
The woman to his left still sat there, sobbing. She had been there for the past hour, and he had done his best to give her the privacy she deserved. He had noticed she was crying only after he had sat down, or he would have chosen a different spot on the beach. Sitting next to a crying person was an absolute downer. Of course he wasn’t enjoying himself, with this chick crying her eyes out ten feet from him.
Perhaps she wasn’t crying at all. She was sitting on the sand, her face buried in her hands. It totally looked as if she were crying. But maybe she had just fallen asleep. Come to think of it, she hadn’t moved much since he’d sat down.
Maybe it was just a cry for help. Was she sobbing on the beach, hoping someone would ask her what was wrong? Of course, no one would. These days you could climb a building and threaten to jump, and all the passersby would just film you for their YouTube channels. No empathy. He was outraged.
Slowly, he got up and walked over to the woman. She seemed sickly somehow, her skin pale, almost gray. Maybe she had a skin condition. She shouldn’t be in the sun like that. Had she put sunscreen on? She had no bag with her, not even a towel. She just sat on the beach, dressed in a long-sleeved yellow shirt and a skirt.
“Excuse me, uh . . . miss? Are you okay?” he asked.
She didn’t move. Didn’t answer. He almost turned away. She didn’t want to be bothered. But something seemed . . . off with her. She needed help; he was sure of it.
“Miss? Are you okay? Do you want a drink?” He crouched next to her. “Miss?”
He put a hand on her shoulder.
Her shoulder was rock hard, rigid, and cold. He suddenly realized her neck had a very clear, dark bruise around it, that her skin was gray, that she wasn’t moving at all. Not even breathing.
“Shit!” he screamed, falling back.
This girl was dead.
CHAPTER 11
Tatum tried to rectify his mistake—Zoe had to give him that—but she was furious and far from a conciliatory mood. She had been doing something important at Quantico, and he had yanked her away from it to essentially be his wingman. She was icy for the remainder of their meal and their drive to the police headquarters, where Tatum quickly led her to the special task office and introduced her to Lieutenant Martinez.
“Nice to meet you,” the lieutenant said, shaking her hand. “I didn’t know the FBI would send any more agents. We really don’t have anywhere you can sit. This wasn’t my intention when I asked for the bureau’s assistance—”
“I’m not a federal agent,” she said quickly, sliding into her intended role. “I’m a forensic psychologist. And I’m here just for a short visit; I don’t need anywhere to sit down. I’m just interested in what Dr. Bernstein has to say about this case. I find this murderer intriguing.”
“Do you?” Martinez said, his eyes looking from her to Tatum in suspicion. “Are you familiar with Dr. Bernstein?”
“Most people in my profession are.” She smiled sweetly at Martinez. “He’s very well known. And I’m sure he’s probably heard of me, so it would be an interesting discussion. We might have some new conclusions when we’re done.”
“I’ll ask him,” Martinez said.
Zoe waited as the man made a phone call. He clearly suspected Tatum had brought her to shoot down their profiler. It was a cheap trick, incredibly transparent. But she might as well do her job if she was there.
“Okay, great. See you there,” the lieutenant said and put down his phone. He turned to Zoe and smiled at her. “You’re right. Dr. Bernstein has heard of you and was excited at the prospect of discussing this with you. He just walked in the building. Let’s meet him in the meeting room. I’ll call the other detectives—”
“No need to waste their time yet,” Zoe hurriedly said. “I think just the four of us should do, at least to kick things off. Maybe later we can have a larger, formal meeting.”
“Well, they might be out in the field later.” Martinez frowned. “Okay, let’s head to the meeting room and see what the doctor thinks.”
She followed the two men as they led her to a room down the hall. Dr. Bernstein already sat inside at a long table, reviewing his notes. Zoe was familiar with the man, had seen him several times on TV. He seemed to pop up whenever a serial killer was in the media’s focus. He wasn’t the only one. There was a group of so-called experts who were always overjoyed to be interviewed and to show off their extensive knowledge of the subject. These people weren’t harmless. They spread misconceptions and hysteria in the general population and often changed the course of investigations, just like this case.
“Dr. Bernstein.” Zoe smiled, her eyes widening in fake admiration. “It’s an honor to finally meet you.”
“Thank you,” the man said, standing up to shake her hand. His handshake was limp, passive.
Zoe kept her smile, sitting down. “So I’m interested in what you have to say about this . . . Strangling Undertaker.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer we start discussing it from scratch?” The doctor sat down as well. “It might prevent your own opinions from being influenced by mine.”
Zoe was amused by the idea of Bernstein affecting her opinions. She glanced at Tatum and Martinez, who sat down at the table. “I don’t want to waste time. You’ve clearly put a lot of effort into it, so let’s start with what we already have.”
“Very well.” Dr. Bernstein stood up again. “Well, the subject is male, probably white, in his late twenties or thirties—”
“I definitely agree,” Zoe said, nodding.
Bernstein smiled modestly and sent a victorious glance over to Tatum, whose face was blank, his jaw clenched.
“In fact,” Zoe continued, “I’d say there’s a sixty-three percent chance he’s white and only a twelve percent chance he’s black and a sixteen percent chance he’s Hispanic or Latino.”
The doctor blinked in confusion.
“That sounds very specific,” Lieutenant Martinez said. “How can you tell—”
“That’s the division of the population in the United States,” Zoe explained. “So if you choose any man at random, it would match these probabilities. I assume that’s what the doctor meant, since there’s no other way to know he’s white. Serial killers are spread pretty evenly through all races.”
“That’s not entirely what I meant,” the doctor said, pursing his lips. “As I’ve said in two of my books—”
“I’m sorry,” Zoe said, her tone apologetic. “I haven’t read any of your books.”
There was a moment of silence.
The doctor finally cleared his throat, turning away from her, speaking to Martinez. “Well, if Dr. Bentley here had my experience, she’d agree he targets white victims, and that indicates—”
“We have two victims,” Zoe said. “We don’t know what he targets yet. And there have been white killers who killed black women and vice versa.” She felt impatient. His jab about her experience rubbed at her.
“It’s very easy to speak of those things as an academic,” Bernstein said. “After all, you’ve only recently graduated. How long have you been practicing forensic psychology as an agent . . . I’m sorry, I meant as a consultant?”
She flushed and smiled, baring her teeth. “A few years. How many cases did you help profile? Aside from your media interviews, I mean.”
“Do you agree with the doctor’s assessment of his age?” Martinez asked, raising his voice slightly.
“It’s probably a good estimate.” Zoe shrugged. “But I wouldn’t treat it as fact. Monte Rissel began to rape women when he was fourteen. He moved on
to killing them soon after. By the way, he’s a good example of a serial killer who murdered both white and black women. Right, Doctor?”
“Well, yes . . . uh . . .” He seemed at a momentary loss.
“I really think we’re making progress,” Zoe said. “Please go on.”
“Well . . . he leaves the bodies in public spots, demonstrating his superiority over the law enforcement agencies and enjoying his fame. He—”
“Has he written any letters to the newspapers or the police?” Zoe asked.
“No,” Martinez said.
“Then how do you know he isn’t just doing it as part of his fantasy, getting off on danger? Or maybe those locations hold some significance for him. I see no demonstration in these murders of any search for fame or a game of cat and mouse. The spots he chose are public, that’s true, but they’re also guaranteed to be quite empty at night and have no security cameras in them. And posing the body seems to have a meaning for him. The chosen spot could have something to do with this meaning.”
“That’s your interpretation,” the doctor said. “But—”
“Well, if we have two contradictory interpretations, we can’t really assume one of them is probable until we’ve agreed that the other is not likely,” Zoe said firmly.
“Okay,” Martinez said, raising his hands as if trying to control the heated discussion. “Perhaps we should start with the points we’ve definitely agreed upon. Dr. Bernstein said that since the man is acquainted with embalming practices, he’s likely worked in a funeral home before. I definitely agree, and—”
“Why?” Zoe asked.
“Why?” Martinez looked at her, annoyed. “What do you mean?”
“Why do you agree? Did you look for suspects in funeral homes before Dr. Bernstein did his profile?”
“Well, no, but it sounds quite logical that—”
“It does,” Zoe said, deciding she’d had enough. “Everything sounds logical when spoken by a man with the cultivated appearance of knowledge. Definitely when he is elderly and has white hair and tends to appear on TV with the tagline serial killer expert. But if our killer is so experienced in embalming, why was the foot of the first victim decomposing when she was found? Let me tell you why. It was decomposing because he hadn’t embalmed many times before, and he was still learning the process. The second victim was completely embalmed. Our killer is learning. Also, Agent Gray told me the second victim was embalmed with a different mixture of embalming fluid. He’s experimenting because he’s new at this. I’d say that if you want to exclude a portion of the population, I’d exclude all people who have worked more than a few weeks in a funeral home. They already know their job.”
The room was silent, and Zoe realized she was practically yelling. Andrea often complained that she raised her voice when she was excited or agitated. She took a deep breath, then turned toward Martinez.
“There is a well-known phenomenon that always follows serial killers. I’m talking about pseudoexperts who talk on TV about serial killers. They mislead the public, contribute to mass hysteria, and taint jury pools. They cause immeasurable damage. They have a name. In my profession, we call them talking heads.”
She looked at the doctor, who was crimson by that point. Was he about to have a heart attack? She rehearsed her first aid training in her mind as she said, “Dr. Bernstein is a talking head. You can keep listening to his so-called profiling opinions, but you won’t find your killer that way.”
The doctor blinked and his jaw clenched, and then he stood up and grabbed his briefcase. For a moment he seemed about to say something; then he simply turned and left, slamming the door behind him. There was a moment of silence. Tatum looked at her, his eyes wide. Zoe met his stare calmly. He’d brought her to deal with the profiler, hadn’t he? Had he expected it to go nicely?
“That was unnecessary,” Martinez said curtly.
“I have to disagree,” Zoe said. “I’m sorry things got a bit heated, but this man has given you some bad advice, and it could potentially lead to a waste of valuable time.”
“Now what?” Martinez asked. “You tell me your friend was right? That we should stake out the current crime scenes in case the killer returns?”
Zoe and Tatum’s eyes met. “Not this killer,” Zoe said.
“I’m sorry?” Tatum said, his voice tense.
“It’s true. Serial killers often return to the scene of the crime, mostly to recall the act and masturbate. But these crimes were not committed where you found the bodies. The first victim was killed in her own apartment, and I doubt he’ll go back there. The second victim disappeared from the street, and there’s an indication she’d been tied up. This leads me to assume she was taken somewhere and killed there—otherwise why tie her? The locations where you found the bodies won’t fulfill the killer’s fantasies; he’d be drawn to the actual places where he killed the women. There’s no point in staking them out. It would be a waste of manpower.”
Another tense silence settled upon the room as Zoe sent a challenging glance toward Tatum. His face darkened, but he said nothing.
Martinez cleared his throat. “So what do you think—”
The door opened, and a man stood in the entrance, his eyes wide. “Lieutenant,” he said. “We have another one.”
CHAPTER 12
There was a crowd of spectators alongside the lake beach on Ohio Street, standing as close as they could to the yellow crime scene tape. Some of them, inevitably, were taking pictures with their phones. Tatum could spot two news crews, the reporters talking animatedly to the cameras. He followed Lieutenant Martinez to one of the cops on the scene, who was trying to get the spectators to stand back. He was holding a small notebook.
“Lieutenant Martinez.” The lieutenant flipped his badge. “These two are with me.”
They identified themselves to the cop, who dutifully scribbled their names in the crime scene log, the wind flipping the pages as he did so. One of the media crews ran in their direction, spouting questions. Tatum turned his back to the camera and marched onto the beach, Zoe by his side. He did his best to ignore her. He was furious at her for undermining his influence with the lieutenant and was already thinking of ways to tell Mancuso she had to call the woman back to Quantico.
His black shoes sank into the sand, leaving deep footprints behind him. He knew he would have a mound of sand in each shoe when he left, as well as in his socks. He was definitely not dressed for the beach.
They walked toward a group of people who shuffled around a woman sitting on the sand. If Tatum hadn’t known the woman was dead beforehand, he would have assumed she was just enjoying the sunny day. When he got closer, he saw that the body was posed as if she had buried her face in her hands.
Zoe paused five yards from the body.
“Are you okay?” Tatum asked, despite himself. “You don’t have to be here.”
“I’m fine,” Zoe said shortly.
“It’s one thing to see pictures of dead bodies, Bentley. It’s another thing to actually be in—”
“I’ve been at dozens of crime scenes and have seen plenty of dead bodies,” Zoe said, not looking at him. “I’m just trying to get the big picture, and frankly, Agent Gray, you’re disturbing my concentration.”
The profiler was insufferable. Tatum gritted his teeth and kept walking. As he got closer, he scanned the people around the body. One man, clearly in shock—probably the one who had discovered the body—was talking to a Chicago PD uniformed cop. Another man circled the body, taking pictures. To the body’s left, a woman, her black hair swept back into a ponytail, carefully picked something up from the sand and placed it in a paper bag. Those two were probably from the Forensic Services Division called for the scene. Another man, who Tatum guessed was the medical examiner, was inspecting one of the body’s feet.
Tatum crouched next to the woman with the ponytail. There was a box of latex gloves at her feet.
“Hi,” he said. “Agent Gray, FBI. Mind if I borrow a pair of glo
ves?”
She turned to face him, her dark-brown eyes looking at him closely. For a moment he almost blurted, “Tina?” Her face was nearly identical to his high school sweetheart’s. But she wasn’t Tina, and his lips moved weirdly as he tried to get them under control.
“Audrey Jones,” she said, raising an eyebrow as he gaped like a fish. “Sure, take a pair. Make sure to give your associates some as well.”
He nodded and put on the gloves. They were small, perfect for Audrey’s delicate hands, but his clumsy paws felt as if the latex were slowly squeezing the blood out of them. He told himself not to clench his fists, an action that would surely tear the gloves in half.
“When did you get here?” he asked.
“About half an hour ago,” she said. “The body was discovered at half past nine.”
Tatum looked around him. “Was the beach empty? Why did it take so long to discover the body?”
“I gather people just didn’t notice her,” Audrey said, slowly folding the paper bag she held. She took a pen from her pocket and scribbled something on it. “They thought she was sleeping or something.”
Tatum shook his head in disbelief. A woman dead in the middle of a public beach on a sunny day, and it took people two, maybe three hours to notice her. “Find anything?”
“There were some footprints,” Audrey said. “But this entire scene was trampled, so I doubt any of them are relevant. We took some photos anyway. I found a couple of cigarette butts and a used condom almost completely buried in the sand.”
Tatum suspected that if Audrey were to search any other part of the beach, she’d find a similar collection of items.
“Thanks, Audrey,” he said, standing up.
“No problem,” she said, smiling and glancing at him, her head quirked sideways. Even her body language was like Tina’s. He wondered if Audrey was bioengineered to mess with his head.
Zoe approached them, and Tatum wordlessly handed her a pair of gloves. She slipped them on and looked at the body, her eyes intent. Tatum followed suit, trying to see what she was looking at.
