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

by Mike Omer

  “It’s still a large number,” Zoe said, but Tatum could hear she was excited by the idea. “But if you’re right, he’d probably pick somewhere close to where he killed her.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I assume that’s where he embalms his victims. He’d be tense and would prefer a place he knew well. Somewhere he had visited several times before. Somewhere he’d feel he has more control.”

  “You think he always went to the same mall?”

  “I think it’s probable, yeah.”

  “All right.” Tatum grinned. “Then let’s make a list.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then we fly back to Chicago and check out security cam feeds in those malls for the evening Lily was taken. Maybe we can spot her and the Corny Serial Killer.”

  “What? You can’t be serious.”

  Tatum shrugged, already writing down addresses. “You’re still on sick leave. I’m on vacation until next week. Do you have anywhere better to be?”

  CHAPTER 66

  Chicago, Illinois, Friday, July 29, 2016

  Zoe was never much for shopping, and it occurred to her that perhaps Andrea would have been a better fit for this investigation. Andrea could walk in and out of clothing shops all day for fun. This was their fifth clothing shop, and Zoe felt like she was in the tenth circle of clothing hell.

  It didn’t help that their investigation was incredibly threadbare and groundless. In one of the stores they had visited, the security footage had already been destroyed, and in another, the manager refused to hand it over, demanding a search warrant. Even if the Corny Serial Killer, as Tatum began calling him, had gone to one of the stores on their list, they might miss him.

  Tatum was arguing with another store manager, who was also refusing to show them the security footage, while Zoe walked around the store, feeling despondent. This store was one of the larger ones, catering to men, women, and children. It was lit by dozens of spotlights, illuminating rows upon rows of skirts, pants, shirts, dresses . . . Zoe tried to picture the Corny Serial Killer entering this shop and choosing something. It was an impossible sequence of events. He probably let the prostitute choose, while he waited alongside the other impatient husbands and boyfriends. Then again, it wasn’t likely he’d give the prostitute such a large measure of control. Maybe she had gotten it all wrong. Maybe he hadn’t gone shopping with—

  Her eye caught one of the mannequins. It was wearing the shirt Lily had been wearing when they’d found her.

  She walked slowly toward the mannequin, almost as if she was afraid to spook the thing away. It was a realistic-looking mannequin, one of the most lifelike mannequins Zoe had ever seen, sculpted and painted to look like a stunningly proportioned woman, frozen in time, a vacant plastic stare looking directly at Zoe. The plastic face gave Zoe an eerie feeling. She knew there was a term to describe this phenomenon—the uncanny valley. The more closely something artificial resembled a human, the more alien it seemed.

  It also seemed like the artificial twin of the embalmed dead bodies of Krista Barker and Monique Silva, the killer’s own mannequins.

  Suddenly she could picture a much more likely sequence for the killer’s clothing shopping. He’d approach the mannequin, which already resembled his dream woman—a woman who would never argue, never leave, who could be posed. And he’d tell the nearest clerk that he wanted what the mannequin was wearing, in a size that fit the prostitute with him.

  Most of the shops had simple, nondescript dolls, hardly looking like a human figure. But the mannequins in this shop had hair; they were colored right; they had beautiful large eyes. Perfect for their killer.

  They’d easily fuel his fantasies. Did he have a mannequin like that at home? One he used for practice? Zoe was convinced he did, or used to.

  “Zoe.” Tatum touched her arm. “Come on. Maybe we’ll get lucky in the next—”

  “Hang on,” Zoe said. She approached the manager, a severe-looking woman who eyed them both with annoyance.

  “Excuse me,” Zoe said. “We’re looking for a—”

  “Your partner told me. The Strangling Undertaker, right? Look, I don’t remember any weirdos walking around here, and if you want the security footage—”

  “Okay,” Zoe said. “I get it. But I have a different question. The man we’re looking for is probably in his early thirties—”

  “We have lots of those.”

  “And he’d probably be obsessed with your mannequins. He’d always buy what the mannequins were wearing and—”

  “Oh, that guy.”

  Zoe blinked at the woman. She could feel Tatum tense by her side.

  “Sure, he comes by every once in a while. He freaks the girls out. He stands by the mannequins for ten, sometimes twenty minutes, just looking at them. He touched them a few times but stopped once I threatened to call security.”

  “Does he come here with women?” Zoe asked.

  “I think so. He came in with a girl not long ago. Bought her some clothes.”

  “Just what the mannequins were wearing, right?”

  The manager shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “When was the last time he came by?” Tatum asked.

  “Just yesterday.”

  “Did he have a woman with him?” Zoe asked urgently.

  “No. He came alone. He was here around three in the afternoon, I think. Just staring at the mannequins, like always.”

  “But he didn’t buy anything?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Ma’am, we have to see the security footage,” Tatum said.

  “I already told you—”

  “That man is the serial killer,” Zoe said. “And he comes here a lot, you said. He might decide to pick up one of your girls next time.”

  The manager’s eyes flickered in fear. Yeah, Zoe knew the feeling.

  “Once he picks a girl, he won’t let go,” Zoe said, her voice lowering. “He’ll stalk her, get her when she’s alone. He strangles his victims to death using a noose. He violates their bodies once they’re dead. He keeps them as—”

  “Okay,” the manager said, her voice croaking. There were tears in her eyes. She was shaking. “Will this help you catch him?”

  “It would be invaluable,” Tatum said.

  “And you’ll let us know? Once you get him?”

  Fear had taken root, Zoe knew. This woman wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight. She wouldn’t leave the store alone in the evening. She might quit this job altogether, look for a different one. Zoe searched her conscience and decided there was no reason to feel guilty. The woman had forced her hand.

  “We’ll let you know,” she said.

  “And . . . what if he comes to the store?”

  “Call the police, and try to keep him from leaving,” Zoe said. “You tell the dispatcher to call Lieutenant Samuel Martinez and tell him the Strangling Undertaker is in your shop.”

  “O-okay.”

  “The security footage?” Tatum asked. His voice was soft.

  “Right. Please follow me.”

  CHAPTER 67

  Tatum sat in front of the console. The clothing store’s security guard had stepped aside, letting him sit in his chair. It was a comfortable chair, and on any other day, Tatum would have felt an urge to swivel in it and see how many full spins he could do with one push. But now his heart beat fast, the thrill of the chase taking over his thoughts.

  There were several screens in the console. Five showed the shop’s interior, and one was positioned outside, streaming the people who went in and out of the store. The guard showed him how to display recorded footages and how to switch between the various cameras. It was needlessly complicated, but Tatum slowly got the hang of it.

  The store manager stood by him, breathing heavily. Zoe had spooked the woman out of her wits. It had definitely worked, but he was certain they could have managed to persuade her without it. This woman would be looking over her shoulder for months now. Tatum promised him
self he’d let her know as soon as they had the Corny Serial Killer behind bars.

  He fast-forwarded the video. The time read 7/28, 14:47:32. He fast-forwarded a whole hour, occasionally glancing at the manager.

  “See him?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Try this camera.” She pointed at one of the live monitors. “It’s closer to one of the mannequins he likes.”

  He switched to the correct feed, inserted the time 7/28, 14:30:00, and began to fast-forward again.

  When the time stamp read 15:07:06, the manager said sharply, “There.”

  He paused the video. She pointed at a person standing at the corner of the frame. His face could barely be seen.

  “Are you sure that’s him?”

  “Yes. See how he stands in front of the mannequin? Fast-forward—you’ll see that he doesn’t move.”

  Tatum fast-forwarded and saw that the manager was right. The man didn’t shift at all for more than six minutes. Then he stepped away, disappearing from the frame.

  “Did you see that?” Tatum told Zoe.

  “Yes,” she said in a hushed tone and put a hand on his shoulder. They shared a thrilling moment. They had just seen the invisible killer they had been chasing for two weeks.

  “Can we see where he walked to?” Tatum asked the security guy.

  “It looks like he just went toward the entrance,” he answered. “There are no cameras beyond that point up to the entrance.”

  “He came from the same direction,” Tatum said, rewinding and watching the man appearing and stopping in front of the mannequin.

  Zoe cleared her throat. “He walked into the shop, went straight to the mannequin, looked at her for several minutes, then went outside.”

  “Okay,” Tatum said. “Let’s check out the footage of the entrance.”

  The man had appeared in the footage at the time stamp of 15:06:42. Tatum switched to the entrance and set the time to 15:04:00. He let it play in normal speed.

  “There he is,” Zoe said as the man appeared. He was looking at the ground, and they couldn’t see his face clearly. Tatum rewound the footage a bit.

  “Look,” he said, breathing hard. “We can see the car.”

  The footage showed about a dozen cars from the parking lot. The man shut the door of one and stepped outside. Tatum rewound a bit more, and the monitor displayed the car parking before the man came out.

  “It’s hard to read the license plate,” Zoe said.

  “I know someone who can get the plate from this footage easily,” Tatum said, grinning. “We got the bastard.”

  He fast-forwarded. The man disappeared into the store. Seven minutes later he went out, but instead of going to his car, he turned right and disappeared from view.

  “Maybe he needed to buy some milk,” Tatum muttered as he fast-forwarded the video. At 15:32:11, the car drove away. He paused and rewound a bit. They could now see the man returning, and he had a bag in his hand.

  “Yeah, he went grocery shopping,” Tatum said. “I guess he ran out of food.”

  “That’s not a bag from the supermarket,” the manager said. “It’s from the toy store next door.”

  “Toy store?” Tatum frowned. “So . . . what, this guy has a child?”

  “I hope so,” Zoe said in a tense voice.

  “Hope so? Why?”

  “Because if not, he might have decided he needs more than a woman in his life. He might have decided he needs kids.”

  CHAPTER 68

  He rang the doorbell. After a minute, the door opened a crack two inches wide, exposing the living room beyond. Toys were scattered on the floor. He pursed his lips. Kids required discipline. When he became their father, there wouldn’t be any toys on the floor; that much was certain.

  “Yes?” A woman peered at him from beyond the crack. “Oh, hello.”

  “Hi, miss.” He smiled at her. “I heard you need assistance again.”

  “Really? I didn’t call. Everything is fine.”

  “That’s strange.” He frowned, glancing at the clipboard in his hand. “It has your name and address here.”

  “It must be a mis—”

  “Mommy,” a high-pitched voice called from behind her.

  “Just a minute, sweetie,” she said, glancing backward, and then smiled at him. “I’m sure it’s a mistake.”

  “Oh, okay. Uh . . . would you mind just writing on the form here that you didn’t call and signing it? My boss can be a real hard-ass.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Hang on.”

  She closed the door, and he could hear her removing the chain bolt. Then the door opened wide.

  And he lunged inside.

  CHAPTER 69

  Zoe shut the passenger door, trying to focus. The video footage from the store kept running through her mind. Something in the man’s stance or the small glimpse she’d had of part of his face seemed familiar, though it had been really hard to get a good look. The video quality was low, the man’s face almost constantly hidden. Still, something nagged at her, as if he were a word at the tip of her tongue.

  She shook her head and looked at the small ramshackle house. It was a tiny structure, the walls all white clapboard, the color peeling to reveal the gray material underneath. Both front windows were murky with dust. The grass in front of the house was speckled with brown dirt and covered with dry leaves. It bordered the street, but there was no fence to distinguish where the street ended and the front yard, if there was one, began. The houses around it weren’t much better.

  Tatum’s friend, someone from the field office in LA, had managed to extract the license plate number from the footage they had sent him. The car, according to the DMV, was registered to Bertha Alston, and this was her home. There was a small garage behind the house, its size almost the same. Its door was closed, and it was impossible to see if a car was inside.

  “Wait here,” Tatum said.

  “Uh . . . no.”

  “It could be dangerous.”

  “That’s why I’m hanging around with an FBI agent. So I’ll be safe.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You’re a very annoying woman.” He began to move forward.

  Zoe followed two steps behind. He signaled her to stand against the wall, and she obediently did, feeling her heart pound. Tatum leaned against the wall on the other side of the door and then knocked.

  They waited. After a few seconds, he knocked again. There was no sound from within.

  “FBI. Open up,” Tatum called.

  The sound of a faraway airplane and the buzzing of the traffic were the only things Zoe could hear over her pounding heart.

  She carefully glanced at the window. The drape was down, blocking the view into the house entirely. She wasn’t sure she could have seen beyond the dust in any case.

  Tatum thumped the door again, this time with his fist.

  “She’s not there!” a withered, croaky voice shouted at them from the house next door. Zoe glanced over to the speaker. A wizened walnut wearing humongous spectacles stared at them with interest. She raised one shriveled hand, thin as a broomstick, and straightened her binocular-sized glasses.

  “Who’s not here?” Tatum asked.

  “Well . . . who are you looking for?”

  “We’re looking for Bertha.”

  “Bertha’s dead. Died a few months ago.”

  “Then we’re looking for whoever lives in this house,” Zoe said. “Is it her son?”

  “Well, no one lives there anymore. I think her sons are trying to sell the place.”

  “Do you know where they are, ma’am?”

  “Well, that depends. Who are you?”

  Tatum flipped his badge. “FBI, ma’am.”

  She seemed far from impressed. “Well, what do you want with Bertha’s sons?”

  “We just want to talk to them, ma’am.”

  She nodded thoughtfully but said nothing.

  “Can you tell us where we can reach them?”

  “Well, I don’t really
know.”

  Tatum sighed.

  “Are they in trouble?” the crone asked, straightening her glasses again.

  “We just want to talk to them,” Tatum said again.

  “Well, I always knew they’d get in trouble. You don’t get to grow up like Bertha’s kids did and turn out fine.” The hag cackled as if this were the best joke she had ever told. Maybe it was.

  The woman’s speech pattern—starting every sentence with the word well—was getting on Zoe’s nerves. “What do you mean? Was she abusive?”

  “Well, I don’t know what you call abusive, but she sure walloped her sons a lot. Her daughter even worse, I think. And she’d scream at them and throw things at them . . . and that was when she was sober. She got real nasty when she was drunk.”

  “Ma’am,” Tatum said, “we really need to—”

  “Nasty how?” Zoe asked. She felt as if this wrinkled, gnarled hag might hold all the answers. And she seemed to be happy to share.

  “Well, she was damn crazy when she was drunk. Said she could hear the devil speaking to her, or sometimes it was her ex-husband. She sprayed one of her boys with hairspray once, tried to light him up with a match. It was out in the street too. I called the police.”

  She said the word police strangely, pausing after saying po for a whole second, then half screaming lis. Zoe began to suspect Bertha wasn’t the only crazy person who had lived in the neighborhood.

  “And, well, of course, there was the thing with her daughter. Surely you know about that.”

  Her tone was gleeful, as if she knew they didn’t and was dying to tell them, but they had to ask.

  “What about her daughter?” Zoe asked.

  “Well, I thought everyone knew ’bout that. Her daughter died when she was thirteen. It turned out she had lung cancer, probably because Bertha kept smoking in the house. The crazy thing was, when her daughter died, Bertha didn’t tell anyone about it. Just left her there for more than a week. She said the girl was resting. Later we all found out Bertha made her sons keep their dead sister company. She locked them inside, told them their sister was finally behaving like a good little girl. And that they had to pray she’d get better. They were all locked in with that rotting body for over a week. In the damn summer.”