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

by Mike Omer

  They had all relocated to a small, dirty alley down the street, quickly dubbed “Lung Cancer Alley.” Ironically, ever since their exile, Harry’s tobacco consumption had nearly doubled, following the reasoning of, “Well, if I’ve already walked all this way . . .” The Chicago Clean Indoor Air Act was destroying Harry’s lungs.

  He dropped the stub, stepping on it, and put a fresh cigarette in his mouth. He lit it, brooding about the article he’d read that morning in his paper about the Strangling Undertaker.

  Harry was a capable reporter even though his name was a constant obstacle. He made sure to sign his articles as H. Barry. It gave him an air of a respectable American citizen, as opposed to a man whose name was a Seussian rhyme. Despite his struggles, he didn’t change either of his names, because he liked being a Harry, and he liked belonging to the Barry family. As he often said to his friends, if life gave you lemons, you made lemonade. You didn’t go trading the lemons for papayas.

  He thought the article was shit. He had sent an email to his editor, the subject of which was “This Is Shit,” and the content of the email was the link to the article. It was not, perhaps, the most political thing to do, but he was in a rotten mood, and besides, if people didn’t want to hear about shit, perhaps they shouldn’t publish it.

  Someone walked into Lung Cancer Alley. It was his editor, Daniel McGrath. Harry quickly deduced that Daniel, not being one of the smokers, was there looking for him.

  “You got a problem?” Daniel asked. No pleasantries.

  Harry sucked on his cigarette, thinking the question over. “You let an amateur write the article about the hottest crime this city has seen since the killer clown.”

  “What’s it to you? I thought the article was good. It had some sordid details. It had several quotes from the police. It had an expert. It had—”

  “Our readers don’t care what the experts have to say. He sounds as dry as pencil shavings. Our readers don’t want to hear what our so-called police source had to say either. Especially when all the police say is ‘We’re looking into it.’”

  “Really? And whose opinion would our readers like to hear?”

  “Oprah.”

  Daniel blinked. “Oprah Winfrey?”

  “It’s her city. What does she think about a creepy man sculpting women into statues?”

  “That’s not what he does . . . and Oprah lives in California. And she isn’t exactly an expert in crime. Or serial killings.”

  Harry dropped the half-smoked cigarette on the ground and stomped it angrily. “No one wants her to be an expert; she’s Oprah. And she owns an apartment in Chicago, which makes her one of us. Hell, we could do a whole article about the Chicago celebrities and what they think of the monster roaming their beloved city. Kanye West, Tina Fey, Harrison Ford—”

  “None of them live here.”

  Harry brushed it away. “They used to. This is their city, and this deranged undertaker is threatening the safety of their people.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Fine. Not Oprah, then. You know who you should ask what they think? People on the beach.”

  “The beach?”

  “Yeah. Women, mostly. One hot guy. Preferably put their pictures in the article, in their swimsuits. Ask them how they would react if they came across one of the Strangling Undertaker’s works of art.”

  “He’s an artist now?”

  “Sure. Why not? It’s a good angle. Our readers would love that. My point is this is sexy.”

  Daniel gave him a supposedly piercing stare, but Harry prided himself on being immune to those.

  “Harry, you’re good at writing human interest stories. You’re the master of sex scandals.”

  Harry nodded in appreciation of his dubious title.

  “But this is a story about a monster. And what our readers want is the story about the hunt. The attempts of the police to grab the elusive killer as he kills yet another innocent woman. They want to read about the violence, the fear, and the death. This is what excites people about serial killers.”

  “It’s the wrong way to go about it, Daniel. That’s what everyone is doing.”

  “That’s precisely why we should do the same.”

  They both stood facing each other and for a second let the sounds of Chicago’s traffic fill the air.

  “Let me do it,” Harry finally said. “I can nail this thing.”

  “I don’t want an article about what Oprah thinks about this killer,” his editor said, his tone sharp and final. “This isn’t your story. You can’t write about crime. Go do your job.”

  “Why don’t you do your job for once?” Harry asked.

  The change in Daniel’s face made Harry think that perhaps this hadn’t been the most prudent thing to say.

  “You know.” Daniel folded his arms. “I have a really important article I need you to write.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Daniella Ortiz lived in a tiny two-bedroom apartment in Pilsen, a neighborhood on the west side of Chicago. It was a neighborhood well known for its thriving art, and art students in Chicago, like Daniella and the late Susan Warner, tended to flock there.

  The small living room was not much different than Zoe’s own living room back in Dale City. But while Zoe kept her walls bare except for two tiny paintings Andrea had bought for her, Daniella’s walls were covered with framed photographs. The cluttered decoration made the room seem much smaller, almost claustrophobic.

  “Please come in,” Daniella said. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

  Her fashion sense matched her interior design tastes. It looked like she was striving to wear all the colors at once. She had a red bandanna, a yellow blouse over a green shirt, blue jeans, and orange-and-pink sneakers. She had several beaded bracelets on her right wrist, their dominant colors purple, brown, and black. She should be accompanied by a warning for people with epilepsy. Zoe was pleased with her own wit. She would have to remember to tell Andrea about it later.

  “Nothing, thanks,” Zoe said, just as Tatum asked if there was any coffee.

  “Sure,” Daniella said and smiled at Zoe. “Are you sure you don’t want any?”

  “Uh . . . yeah. If Agent Gray is drinking a cup, I’d love some as well, thanks.”

  Daniella went to the kitchen, and Zoe approached the wall, looking at the pictures. They seemed to be a collection of enlarged close-ups. A large photograph of a dewdrop on a leaf. A series of icicles on a branch. A winged insect, photographed from above, its wings translucent and intricate. Some pictures on the far wall were urban pictures of streets that felt European. All the pictures were beautiful, but as a whole they bombarded the room with colors and shapes. It made Zoe uncomfortable.

  Daniella came back, holding two cups of coffee. “You like them?”

  “Uh . . . yeah, they’re very beautiful.”

  “The close-ups are mine. My boyfriend did the streets of Venice. He was an exchange student there a year ago.”

  “You’re both art students?”

  “Well . . . I still am. Ryan’s working at an auto repair shop now. But we met in college when he was a student as well.”

  “That’s nice,” Zoe said. She had only met two guys at college, and both had turned out to be crappy boyfriends.

  “Have a seat, please,” Daniella said, nodding at the one couch in the room. Zoe and Tatum sat, and she set their cups of coffee on a low round table that stood next to the couch. For a moment, Zoe thought Daniella would sit on the couch between them, an awkward arrangement for questioning, even more so since the couch was a two-seater. But to her relief, Daniella walked back into the kitchen and returned with a small chair on which she sat, facing them both.

  “I saw in the news that they found another victim,” she said. “That’s so scary. I don’t dare leave home after dark now, and I check that the door is locked at least four times a day. Are you any closer to catching this guy?”

  “We’re making progress,” Tatum said. “Can we ask a few
questions about Susan?”

  “Sure. Whatever I can do to help. Hang on; maybe my boyfriend can answer some questions too. He met Susan a couple of times.”

  “Sure,” Tatum said.

  “Ryan!” Daniella shouted, and Zoe’s teeth gritted at the piercing sound. “Can you come here a sec?”

  A tall, wide-shouldered man with rich black hair came from the bedroom. “Yeah? Oh, hello,” he said, noticing Zoe and Tatum. “Sorry, I was wearing my headphones. Didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Ryan, these are Special Agents Gray and Bentley. They’re here to ask some questions about Susan. Want to join us?”

  “Sure,” Ryan said. “Anything to help.” He looked around, searching for a place to sit down. Eventually he grabbed another chair from the kitchen and sat down with them.

  Zoe sipped from her coffee cup, the taste jolting her. Seemed like Daniella loved everything strong and intense. She watched Tatum as he began questioning Susan’s friend.

  “How long did you know Susan?”

  “I met her about a year before she was killed. Maybe a bit more,” Daniella said. “But Ryan only met her after we started dating. So he only knew her for a couple of months.”

  “Right,” Ryan said. “She was nice.”

  “Were you two good friends?”

  “Yes,” Daniella said, her voice softening. “She was my best friend. And I think I was hers too. She didn’t have many friends.”

  “Why not?”

  “Oh, she was a quiet type, you know? Always preferred to stay home and study or paint. She didn’t go out much.”

  “So she didn’t ordinarily invite many people to her place.”

  “No, not at all. And her apartment was even smaller than mine. She couldn’t really have large gatherings there, you know?”

  “Did she date?”

  “A bit. She went through a big breakup two years before she . . . died. Never got over him, really.”

  “Did she date anyone just before she died?”

  “No. I don’t think she had any dates in the six months before she died. At least, nothing she talked about.”

  “Did she seem worried about anything or anyone? Can you think of any man who knew her and might have . . . bothered her?”

  “No. I don’t think she even had any male friends.”

  “Any male relatives? A cousin? A brother?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Didn’t she have an uncle living nearby?” Ryan said. “I’m pretty sure she mentioned him once or twice.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Zoe nodded. Susan did have an uncle in Chicago. He was seventy and in a wheelchair. But he was on the list, and someone was bound to talk to him soon.

  “Did she mention any of her neighbors?” Tatum continued.

  “No.”

  A plethora of negatives. Zoe sighed and intervened. “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Uh, a week before . . . before she disappeared. I went over to visit her.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Just the usual. Studies. Art. Guys. She said she wanted to move out.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “Oh, yeah. Tons of reasons. The apartment was crap. The insulation was terrible; the place was freezing cold in the winter. I remember she mentioned that. What else?”

  “There was a real problem with moisture and mold on the walls,” Ryan said. “It was really serious.”

  Daniella nodded. “Right. It even ruined some of her paintings once. Oh, and the sewage kept backing up. One time it actually flooded the apartment. We had to go there with Ryan’s van and get her furniture to a storage facility until the place dried up.”

  “Yeah. We just threw away the carpet,” Ryan added. “Also, the landlord was an asshole—”

  “An asshole how?” Tatum asked.

  “He kept dodging her when she needed stuff,” Daniella said. “She had to pay for the sewage thing herself once. And a real bastard when he needed the rent. Kept threatening to raise it too.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “No.”

  Zoe and Tatum exchanged looks. It was likely that the detectives had already checked the landlord, but Zoe made a mental note to make sure.

  “Anything else you can think of?” Tatum asked.

  Daniella shook her head. “I wish I could help more,” she said. A tear materialized in her eye. “I really miss her.”

  CHAPTER 29

  By the time Zoe and Tatum returned to the police station, a steady rain was pattering on the car. Zoe stared at a drop trickling down the windowpane as it merged with another drop, accelerating. Her eyes followed the trickle until it reached the bottom of the glass. She thought of Daniella’s description of Susan, trying to create a profile for the victim. A young art student, living alone, spending most of her time by herself in her apartment.

  The perfect victim. The killer had chosen well. He had been careful.

  But now his caution was slowly slipping. He preyed on random prostitutes. Though he probably had certain criteria, he no longer targeted lone women. Krista had lived with a friend and had been described as someone who got along with everyone. She had had a pimp.

  Was the killer getting cocky, or was the urge to kill increasing, making him careless? Either way, he was moving faster. He would make more mistakes, which meant they had a better chance of catching him . . . but the price would be high.

  She was frustrated by her inability to give Martinez a stronger profile. Specifically, it irked her that the killer was careful enough to strike all over the city, obviously driving for hours just to get far enough from his home. Geographic profiling was a great way of narrowing the group of suspects, and her inability to use it was crippling.

  Tatum killed the engine, and Zoe was startled out of her thoughts. They were back at the station.

  Neither of them had an umbrella, and Zoe ran half-crouched to the entrance of the department. Once under the cover of the lobby’s ceiling, she turned around, her hand brushing her hair, and watched Tatum as he walked casually in the rain as if it didn’t bother him. His mouth was quirked in a slight smile as if her hunchbacked trot had amused him. She was satisfied to see that by the time he got to her, his hair was dripping wet, and his shirt was visibly soggy. Who was laughing now?

  Zoe, that’s who.

  They went up to the task force room, which was mostly empty. Martinez sat hunched above some papers on his desk, his hand on his forehead. He looked exhausted. Across from him, Mel was talking on her phone, cradling it between her cheek and her shoulder as she typed on her keyboard.

  Martinez glanced at them. “Anything interesting from the art student?”

  Zoe shrugged. “A general description of the victim’s habits. Nothing more.”

  “Okay. Which of you types up the report?”

  “What report?” Tatum asked weakly.

  “You talked to a witness, right? Here in the police we have something we call a ‘case file.’ Witness accounts go inside it. In a report.”

  “Right.” Tatum cleared his throat. “I think that Zoe—”

  “It was your idea to help out,” Zoe said sweetly. “Don’t you want to help out anymore?”

  “I’ll send you the template for the report,” Martinez grunted, turning to his computer.

  Mel slammed her phone in its cradle and cursed loudly. She then clearly realized that the agents and the lieutenant were staring at her.

  “Sorry,” she muttered. “It’s been a long day, and this list is endless.”

  “List?” Zoe asked.

  “I sat down with the lieutenant from vice today,” Mel said. “We called all the districts and composed a list of all the reports of missing women from the last seventy-two hours. I’m now trying to follow up on them. But it’s taking ages.”

  Zoe walked over and asked to see the list. She leafed through the stapled pages. There were four pages, each containing a short list. Altogether there were
twenty-nine names. Each name came with a list of phone numbers and addresses, both of the missing woman and her acquaintances. There was also a description of the missing woman and a short line detailing the circumstances of the disappearance. Seven of the names were crossed out, and one was circled.

  “What’s the one you circled?” Zoe asked.

  “It was the only one I followed up on who’s still missing. The ones I crossed out have been located. Well, actually, five of them just returned home.”

  Zoe flipped through the pages again and frowned. “Did you order those according to the date?”

  “Yeah. I thought I’d start with the ones that have been missing the longest, since they are most likely to have returned. And if they didn’t, it’s more—”

  “That’s a bad way to prioritize.”

  Mel stared at Zoe, gritting her teeth.

  “You should focus on the past thirty-six hours, at least a day after we found the body of Krista Barker. Call the women aged nineteen to twenty-five first. There are five names here that mention recent bruising on the face or arms. You can leave them for last. Bruises don’t heal after death, and our killer likes his corpses in good condition—”

  “These women are adept at hiding their bruises with makeup,” Mel said.

  “He would be very alert to that. This man is careful. My guess is that he avoids prostitutes with heavy makeup precisely because of that reason. Probably tattoos and piercing as well. We’ll push down any of the women that have a visible tattoo or piercing. Also, we should start with women gone missing in the evening and night.” Zoe grabbed a pen from Mel’s desk and began marking names. “This one. And this. And this one here.”

  She marked four more. Then, scanning the names she marked, she numbered them, one to seven. “Start with those, in this order. And meanwhile, I’ll prioritize the rest.”

  Mel stared at her for a long moment and then grabbed the phone and began punching the numbers in fast, furious movements.