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

by Mike Omer

  “That’s right.”

  Tatum stared at the mug in his hand. “I might have to go away for a day or two,” he said. “This time, don’t trash the house, please.”

  CHAPTER 60

  Maynard, Massachusetts, Wednesday, July 27, 2016

  Nathan Price, the Maynard chief of police, was a gray-haired man with a weathered, ruddy face. He was wide shouldered and lean, an outline of muscles visible underneath the uniform. He inspected Tatum with an alertness and suspicion that could only come from dozens of years of political struggles. Tatum leaned comfortably in a chair designed to be anything but hospitable and smiled disarmingly. He was tired. The night flight from Washington to Boston had hardly left him any sleep time, but that was the earliest flight he’d been able to get. Mancuso wanted him back next week, and he had little time to waste.

  “How can I help you, Agent Gray?” Chief Price asked.

  “I’m interested in a few murders that took place in Maynard some time ago,” Tatum said.

  Chief Price nodded. “I assume you’re talking about Beth Hartley, Jackie Teller, and Clara Smith.”

  Tatum raised an eyebrow. “How did you know?”

  “This is a peaceful town, Agent Gray. We don’t have that many murders, and I doubt you came to talk to me about the Mill Pond murder back in 1953.”

  Tatum nodded. “You’re right, of course. I wanted to ask you a few questions about the so-called Maynard serial killer. I understand you were the officer in charge of the case back then?”

  “That’s right,” Chief Price said. “But we were all deeply involved. As you can imagine, we left no stone unturned when trying to find the killer.”

  Until you had a suspect. Tatum nodded cordially. “Of course. The murderer was never brought to trial—is that correct?”

  “That’s correct. Our primary suspect had been arrested a few days after killing Clara Smith and committed suicide while incarcerated.”

  “And the killings stopped,” Tatum said, noticing how easily the chief had said the suspect had killed Clara Smith.

  “Well, naturally.”

  “Can I ask you a few questions about specific details of the case?” Tatum asked, retrieving the three case files he had in his briefcase.

  The chief’s eyes widened in surprise as he saw Tatum opening the top case file. The picture of Clara Smith’s body was on top.

  “I . . . of course. I’m not sure if I’ll remember. It’s been almost twenty years—”

  “Well, it was the only murder case you ever investigated,” Tatum said. “Surely you remember most of it.”

  “Probably, yes.”

  “Okay. So during your main suspect’s interrogation, it turned out he was in the library the day Clara Smith was killed.”

  “Yes,” Chief Price said. “I remember.”

  “Now the estimated time of death as determined by the medical examiner was . . . between six and seven p.m. Manny Anderson was in the library until four.”

  Chief Price held his hand out, and Tatum gave him the file. The chief scanned it and said, “Yes, that’s right.”

  “But Clara Smith had been missing since two, when she didn’t come home from school.”

  “We don’t know she was missing,” Chief Price said. “She just didn’t return home. She could have gone to a friend’s house.”

  “Her mother called all her friends, and no one knew where she was, right? That’s why you organized a search party.”

  The chief’s eyes narrowed. “You talked to a few people about this case,” he said.

  “I have,” Tatum said. “On the phone. But I wanted to see you in person.”

  “What we think happened,” the chief said testily, “is that Clara had a boyfriend her mother didn’t know about. She went to see him after school. On her way back home, she was grabbed by force or coerced by Manny Anderson. He took her into a secluded spot where he raped and finally strangled her to death.”

  “But you never found this supposed boyfriend,” Tatum said.

  “No.”

  “So you can’t be sure what Clara was doing between the time she left school and the estimated time of death.”

  “We can’t,” the chief said. He had shifted to single syllables, a sure sign Tatum was getting on his nerves.

  “Okay,” Tatum said. “Just one more question and then I’ll let you go back to your work. I noticed the medical examiner’s report, with the time of death, was dated two days after the murder took place.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But in the Beth Hartley and Jackie Teller murders, it was dated merely hours after the murder. Is there a reason for the delay?”

  “I can’t really say,” the chief said. “Maybe she was just busy—”

  “At a time like this? When all of you ‘left no stone unturned’?”

  “What does it matter what time she did the paperwork?”

  “I agree.” Tatum nodded, grinning. “It’s just paperwork, right?”

  “Right. We had a murder investigation on our hands. Everyone was stressed—”

  “Desperate to find a suspect,” Tatum said.

  The chief twisted his mouth in clear distaste. “Desperate to find a killer, Agent Gray.”

  “That too,” Tatum said, standing up. “Thank you for your time, Chief Price.”

  The chief glowered and stayed silent as Tatum nodded at him and left the office.

  CHAPTER 61

  Zoe had to admit that her home office had begun to look like the rooms of some of her subjects. Every image from the four crime scenes in Chicago was hanging on the wall, as well as images from the 2008 killings. She had a map of Maynard and a map of Chicago, both marked with the locations of the murders. Various articles from her Maynard serial killer scrapbook spotted the wall as well. She had purchased two whiteboards and filled them with all of the victims, both from Maynard and from Chicago, listing their names, ages, professions, and times and locations of disappearance. She stopped herself before she began tying bits of strings between things that seemed connected.

  It was, perhaps, a good time to find a real hobby.

  The room had a single bed, for when Andrea decided she wanted to crash at her apartment. Zoe had nodded off on it the night before. She had woken up in the morning surrounded by crime scene photos and case files. After orienting herself, she returned to work, trying to connect the dots, fill in the missing time between 1997 and 2016.

  At times she could feel her resolve weakening. She considered grabbing a book or watching something dumb on TV. But then she’d recall Tatum’s face when he said he thought she was wrong. It intermingled with memories of her parents telling her she should leave Rod Glover alone and of the cop telling her to leave the detective work to the grown-ups. If any of them had listened to her, Glover would have been incarcerated a long time ago. Lives would have been spared. Tatum should have known better. But all he saw when he looked at her was a civilian taking the place of a real agent.

  Knowing she was locking herself into one train of thought, she’d occasionally try to stop thinking of the Chicago serial killer as Rod Glover. She’d try and call him the killer in her mind. When the killer grabbed Krista or the killer needed a steady supply of embalming fluid. But pretty quickly she’d find her thoughts dragged back to Glover grabbed Krista and Glover needed a supply of embalming fluid.

  Her stomach and left thigh chafed. She’d scrubbed them raw in the shower, and they were now inflamed and tender to the touch. But at least she didn’t feel as if Glover’s fingers were on her anymore. His face still hounded her, the predatory look in his eyes as he approached her by the lake. The voice in her ear as he held the knife to her throat. On your knees. These would suddenly flicker into her mind, and she’d lose her train of thought, stand staring at the plethora of evidence, chills running down her spine. And then she’d start over.

  She had to do this right.

  CHAPTER 62

  He could see them through the window, bathed in the soft
yellow glow of their kitchen’s light. The two children were young; he could just see the tops of their heads through the glass pane, their bodies hidden by the house’s wall. One of them, the little girl, bounced excitedly as she talked to her mother.

  The mother was a lovely thing to look at, her beauty barely marred after two childbirths. He could already imagine her after his treatment, eternally adoring, with everlasting motherly affection. She was a good mother even now, as her children were scurrying around. Making them dinner as she listened to her daughter’s tales of her day.

  No father.

  He didn’t know the whole story, but he knew enough. There was only the mother. He’d been watching them from his car two nights in a row, and he hadn’t seen the face of a new boyfriend in sight. The woman was still alone, just like she had been a month before. He could do the treatment in their own house.

  He could hardly wait. He considered entering at that very moment but realized he was in the wrong car. All his gear was in the van. He was alternating between his two vehicles in case someone noticed the strange car parked in the street every night. Neighbors could have prying eyes.

  No, not tonight. But soon, very soon.

  He envisioned their lovely future. Christmas evenings together. For the first time ever, he would have a reason to buy a tree, decorate it, buy the children gifts. When he’d wake up in the morning, they would sit with him around the table as he ate. He could put them to sleep, read them a bedtime story. He would never be like his parents. He would be a good father.

  And he wouldn’t have to suffer through the pain of watching his kids grow up, become strangers, leave his home to raise families of their own. No, these kids would stay with him and love him forever. Alongside their mother.

  One woman, a boy, and a girl. A family, ready to be his.

  Forever.

  CHAPTER 63

  Maynard’s Summer Street was quite charming, countless trees casting their shade on the narrow road. Large yards dotted the street, most of them trimmed with care. Tatum got out of his rental and stood in the sun for several moments, enjoying the tranquility that the place offered. Finally, feeling he had dawdled enough, he went up the driveway of the house he had parked near. It was a white house with an orange tiled roof, two windows, and a door in the middle. It was the kind of house Tatum used to draw as a child. It was easy, really. A blue pencil to color the top of the page—that was the sky—then a green pencil to color in grass at the bottom of the page. A square in the middle of the grass and a triangle on top. Two squares for windows and a rectangular door. Add flowers according to your mood and the colors at your disposal. Oh, and a yellow quarter of a circle on the top left part of the page. That was the sun. This house was almost as symmetrical as Tatum’s drawings, though a bit larger, and some small trees decorated the grass.

  He knocked on the door. A few minutes later, an old, gray-haired woman with pearl earrings and a kind smile opened the door.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “Dr. Foster?” Tatum asked.

  “That’s right.”

  He flipped his badge. “I’m Agent Gray from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

  “Oh.” Her eyes widened. This woman, he decided, had never seen an FBI agent outside her television set before. “What about? Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, just a follow-up on an old case.”

  “Okay. Do you want lemonade? I just made some.”

  Drinking lemonade was something that would definitely diminish his intimidation factor. But he didn’t feel like intimidating this nice lady, anyway. And lemonade sounded wonderful.

  “I’d love some,” he said, smiling.

  She led him to a back porch, where two plastic chairs stood by a small table. He sat down in one of the chairs while she went inside. He glanced at the time. He had a few hours before his return flight. He was cutting things close. Living on the edge.

  Dr. Foster came out a moment later with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses.

  “Cookies?” she asked as she set the jar on the plastic table.

  The line had to be drawn somewhere. “No, thank you.”

  She sat down and poured the lemonade. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m following up on the murder of Clara Smith,” he said.

  “Oh,” she said. “That was a long time ago. She was killed by a very disturbed teenager.”

  “Really?” Tatum sipped from his glass. “I thought no one was ever convicted.”

  “Only because he killed himself,” Foster said. “It’s a well-known fact that it was him.”

  Tatum nearly winced at the word fact. If all the people around you said the same thing over and over, it could easily turn from suspicion to fact.

  “I wanted to ask you about your time-of-death estimation,” he said, pulling out the case file and verifying it was the right one.

  “I hope I’ll be able to answer. It’s been quite a long time.”

  “Of course. You estimated that Clara Smith died between . . . six and seven p.m.”

  “If you say so.”

  “But Chief Price told me that your initial estimation had pegged it as a bit earlier,” Tatum said, the lie slipping easily. He smiled and took another sip of the cool lemonade.

  “Well, yes. I remember that. I initially thought it had been earlier, but I became convinced I was wrong. It was tricky to estimate. The body had been left in the water on a snowy day. It cooled very quickly.”

  “Completely understandable.” Tatum nodded, his suspicion verified. “So do you remember what your initial assessment was?”

  She frowned. “I don’t know. Somewhere around noon, I think. Maybe around two p.m.”

  “But that couldn’t be right,” Tatum said. “Because Manny Anderson was in the library between one and four p.m. He couldn’t have killed her then.”

  “Well, as I said, I quickly saw I was wrong.”

  “Not so quickly, Dr. Foster,” Tatum said. “It took you two days.” He showed her the report.

  There was a flicker of something in her eyes. Suspicion, shrewdness. The transformation was uncanny and disappeared as fast as it had appeared.

  “I . . . can’t really remember. It was a long time ago.”

  Tatum emptied his glass. “This is really good lemonade,” he said. “I have an interesting fact for you. During your estimated time of death, a search party was looking for Clara. People were worried after she disappeared, and it was organized quickly. And Clara’s real killer was in that search party. But because of your estimation, he had an ironclad alibi.”

  The color drained from Dr. Foster’s face.

  “Manny Anderson never killed anyone,” Tatum said. “But he was under heavy suspicion. When people are scared, they just want someone to blame. Chief Price—he wasn’t chief then, of course—told you that you were wrong, that the time of death couldn’t possibly be right. Maybe it took him two days to convince you. Maybe it just took him two days to verify that Manny had no alibi for that evening. Either way, you changed your estimation so Manny could be prosecuted.”

  “It . . . it was hard to be sure. It was so cold outside . . .”

  “Of course,” Tatum said.

  “And the killings stopped. It had to be the Anderson kid.”

  Tatum sighed. He almost told her about the killings in Chicago in 2008. The grief Manny Anderson’s parents had gone through, losing their only son and then trying for years to prove he was innocent. But he remained silent. His job was to catch killers. Not to upset seventy-year-old women who made good lemonade. She’d made a mistake, but she had been scared and desperate, just like the rest of the town.

  “Did you change your time-of-death estimate from two to sometime between six and seven?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said weakly.

  “And did you know about Manny’s alibi at the time?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Thank you, Dr. Foster.�
��

  CHAPTER 64

  Zoe was startled by a firm knock on the door. Andrea coming to check up on her, probably. Her sister didn’t hide her concern over Zoe’s frame of mind. The only thing that reassured Andrea was that Zoe’s sick leave was almost up. Once she was back in the office, Zoe had told Andrea, she would probably stop obsessing about this case she was no longer assigned to. She was far from sure this would actually turn out to be true. She muted the radio and went to the front door. Looking through the peephole, she sighed, then opened the door.

  Tatum stood in the doorway. He held a bag in his hand. Zoe felt as if they’d been there before.

  “Hi,” she said. She didn’t intend for her voice to convey any sort of warmness, but to her surprise, it came out as an actual happy-to-see-you voice. Perhaps it was because of the time she spent cooped up alone with her research. It was nice to see another human being who wasn’t her worried sister.

  “I brought some food,” he said. “Not from the 7-Eleven this time.”

  “Okay,” Zoe said. “What is it?”

  “Hummus.” Tatum grinned.

  “What?”

  “They opened this Middle Eastern place in Woodbridge. And they make deliveries to Dale City. And they include two pitas with each meal.”

  “You didn’t strike me as the Middle Eastern food type of guy,” Zoe said, moving aside to let him enter.

  “There was a great Middle Eastern place near where I lived in LA,” Tatum said, walking inside. He glanced at the coffee table in the living room, and Zoe spotted a flicker of relief on his face. The coffee table was empty, no research files scattered about. What would he say if he walked into her home office right now?

  “Come on,” she said, leading him to the kitchen. His timing was perfect; she had been about to make something for herself. He put the bag on the table, taking out several small boxes and a plastic container with the pasty beige hummus. Zoe grabbed a bottle of Coke from the fridge and poured two glasses. Then she set the table. The pitas’ aroma made her stomach rumble in anticipation, and she flinched, praying Tatum didn’t hear it. If he did, his face didn’t betray anything.