Thicker than Blood (Zoe Bentley Mystery)

by Mike Omer

  Had she been lonely? She might have been dating, perhaps online. If she’d been extra careless, she might have agreed to an offer to pick her up for a date. That would account for the lack of forced entry marks. But no, that didn’t match the torn clothing he’d seen in the images. Catherine hadn’t intended to leave home when she was attacked.

  He glanced at Zoe, was about to mention the clothing, but she was biting her lip, frowning. It was her do-not-disturb mode: she was thinking something through.

  O’Donnell was looking at Zoe too. The detective was blonde, her wavy hair cut just above the shoulders, and she was dressed in gray pants and a dark-blue coat. Her chocolaty-brown eyes were narrowed in suspicion. Tatum loved chocolate and was partial to exotic tastes—salty chocolate, spicy chocolate—but he’d never seen suspicious chocolate before. She tilted her head to the left, as she’d done earlier when she’d met them outside.

  O’Donnell looked like a jaded spectator at a magic show. As if she wanted them to pull a rabbit out of the hat, just so she could say it had been there all along, that they’d hidden it in their sleeve. Come see Tatum Gray, the magical profiler. Pick a card, any card. Your card is . . . the Jack of Spades, unemployed, probably white, aged twenty to twenty-five, and he wet his bed and tortured kittens as a child.

  She caught him looking at her and said, “So? Do you think it’s your guy?”

  “It’s too early to say,” Tatum answered reflexively.

  Her eyebrows arched. “Do you see anything in common with his other victims? Does she look similar? Did he take trophies from the other murders? Did he cover the other bodies?”

  “Rod Glover didn’t cover the other bodies,” Tatum admitted. “But there are similarities—”

  “So why did he cover this one?”

  “There could be several reasons.” Tatum shrugged. “Some serial killers cover their targets when they’re ashamed. It’s also a form of abstraction—turning your victim into an object.”

  “He covered her for the same reason he put the necklace around her neck.” Zoe turned to face them. “He knew her.”

  O’Donnell folded her arms. She seemed about to say something, when the officer from outside called, “Detective O’Donnell!”

  “Excuse me,” O’Donnell said and strode outside.

  Tatum took another glance at the scene and followed her. A man stood outside, on the other side of the crime scene tape, his eyes bloodshot, his hair disheveled. Tatum estimated he was about sixty, but he looked ninety, his body stooped, hands trembling. Tatum knew this look; he’d seen it many times before. This was a man who’d been pulverized by grief. He was probably Albert Lamb, Catherine’s father, who’d found her earlier. He held a small plastic bag.

  “Mr. Lamb.” O’Donnell’s tone transformed, the steely edge from before gone. “I’m sorry, but you still can’t—”

  “I brought her some clothes,” Mr. Lamb said, his voice hoarse. “To dress her. I had some of her clothing at home, and I thought—”

  “Mr. Lamb, this isn’t necessary right now. Later, you can give her clothes to the funeral home, and they—”

  “But her clothes were torn!” Tears were running down the man’s cheeks. “She wouldn’t want . . . she needs . . . please, the shirt has buttons—it will be easy to put it on her. I can do it myself, and then I’ll leave. Just let me in for one minute . . .” He crouched, about to pass under the tape. The officer with the logbook seemed poised to grab him, but O’Donnell stepped forward instead and put her hand on Mr. Lamb’s shoulder, as if helping him through, but also effectively stopping him from moving inside the house.

  “Your daughter’s body isn’t here anymore. They took her to the morgue,” she said. “And they will perform an autopsy. After the autopsy, her body will be released to the funeral home, and you can give them the outfit to dress her.”

  He gazed down at his bag helplessly as a tear dropped from his chin to the ground.

  “Do you want me to take this to the morgue?” O’Donnell asked. “I can tell them.”

  Tell them what? Tatum wondered, but he could see the relief in the man’s face. He’d heard what he’d wanted to hear, took comfort in the detective’s authority and businesslike manner.

  “Yes, thank you,” he whispered.

  “Mr. Lamb, do you think now you will be able to answer a few more questions?”

  “Yes. I . . . I am sorry about before. I just couldn’t . . . couldn’t . . .”

  “It’s quite all right, sir.” O’Donnell flipped a page in her notebook. “Can you please tell me—”

  “Is that the other detective?” The man gestured at Tatum.

  O’Donnell glanced back. “What other detective?”

  “Shouldn’t there be two detectives? Don’t you investigate in pairs?”

  “Yes, we do.” O’Donnell seemed momentarily taken aback.

  There was some sort of issue there. O’Donnell’s partner obviously wasn’t around, and she didn’t want to tell the man that. Perhaps she wanted to avoid the way it would look—as if the police only sent one detective for Catherine Lamb’s death. He stepped forward. “I’m Tatum Gray. I’m working with Detective O’Donnell.”

  Mr. Lamb nodded, distracted. Tatum met O’Donnell’s eyes as she frowned at him again—apparently all he could get from the detective were frowns.

  She turned back to the broken man. “Can you tell me again what happened this morning?”

  “I called Cathy . . . Catherine. She was sick yesterday. She’s been sick a lot lately, so I was worried. She didn’t answer her phone. I called several times, and she didn’t answer. So I came over. I thought maybe she needed help.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Time . . . I don’t know.”

  “When did you call her first?”

  “Around eight.”

  “And how long until you decided to check up on her?”

  “Half an hour, I think.”

  “Right after your last phone call?”

  “Yes . . . no. I called her twice on the way.”

  “So you left around eight thirty, called twice more on your way. And what time did you arrive here?”

  “It’s a fifteen-minute walk. It must have been around quarter to nine.”

  O’Donnell nodded, writing it down in her notebook. “You knocked?”

  “Several times, and she didn’t answer, so I tried the door. And it was unlocked.”

  “Is it unusual for Catherine to leave her door unlocked?”

  “Yes. She always locks her door.”

  “Go on.”

  “I came in. It was messy, and there was a blanket on the floor. With stains. And her . . . I could see her hand peeking out from under the blanket.”

  “Mr. Lamb, are you sure the blanket was on her when you came inside?”

  “Yes!” His voice rose, cracking. “It was on her. I pulled the blanket away, and she . . . she was cold, and her clothes were torn. Blood and bruises all over her body. I called her name, and I shook her. She was stiff.” The man’s eyes turned distant as he recounted the nightmarish moments. “I dialed nine-one-one.”

  “And then what did you do?”

  “They said they’re coming. And her clothes were torn. So I . . . I covered her again. And then I got out of the house. I had to get out of the house. I couldn’t stay there. I waited outside until the police arrived.”

  “She had a necklace on when we got here. A silver necklace with a cross. Was it on her throat when you found her?”

  “Yes. She almost always wore that necklace.”

  She kept asking him about his actions, going through the details carefully, while Tatum listened. Albert’s demeanor was confused and distraught. O’Donnell had to repeat some of her questions several times until he answered them. Tatum found himself hoping O’Donnell would cut him loose. At some point Zoe came out of the house and stood by Tatum’s side, listening.

  “Can you think of anyone who’d want to hurt Catherine?” O’D
onnell asked.

  “No! Everyone loved her.”

  “Anyone she had an argument with? Anything out of the ordinary?”

  A fragment of hesitation before he said, “No.”

  O’Donnell tilted her head slightly. “You mentioned Catherine had been sick this past week.”

  “Yes, she missed work.”

  “Where does she work?”

  “She works as the administrator in my church.”

  “In your church? Are you a pastor?”

  “That’s right, at Riverside Baptist Church.”

  O’Donnell paused for a second to jot that down, and, Tatum guessed, to adjust her view of the case accordingly. He wasn’t particularly attuned to Chicago’s internal politics, but he assumed that a murdered pastor’s daughter, who herself worked in the church, would be a high-profile case, in the eyes of both the media and of officials.

  “So she called in sick recently,” O’Donnell said. “How many times?”

  “Two . . . no, three times in the past week. But . . . she missed some workdays before that.”

  “Did she say what was wrong?”

  “No.”

  “Did she seem sick to you?”

  “Yes. She was tired all the time. Cathy is such an energetic and happy woman, and in the past month . . .” His voice dissipated. The present tense hung in the air, invisible but razor sharp. After a second he cleared his throat. “She missed some of her volunteer work as well.”

  “Mr. Lamb,” O’Donnell said. “You mentioned she seemed tired. Did she look sick? Complain about any pains? About a fever? Did she have a runny nose? Anything at all?”

  “No, nothing like that. She said she had lady problems.”

  “Is it possible that something troubled her? That her problems were personal and not physical?”

  “She would never skip work, not for something like that.” His eyes shimmered, wet and desperate. “The church and her volunteer work were everything to her.”

  “Where did she volunteer?”

  “In the church. As a religious counselor. Our church has two religious counselors, and she was one of them.”

  “A religious counselor to whom?”

  “Anyone in need.”

  “Who did she advise regularly, Mr. Lamb?”

  “All sorts. Troubled youths, poor families, people who were losing their way or their faith . . .” His speech slowed down, sounding like a man who was suddenly trying to think faster than he spoke. “Just people in need.”

  O’Donnell’s eyes narrowed. She probably noticed Lamb’s behavior as well.

  “Troubled people,” she said. “Women. And men.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Lamb answered.

  “People who were trying to mend their ways?” Tatum suggested.

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “Ex-convicts?” Tatum asked.

  A long silence.

  “Was Catherine a counselor to former convicts?” O’Donnell asked, exchanging a quick look with Tatum.

  “Some. You need to understand. These people would do anything for Catherine. They would never . . . not this.”

  “I understand,” O’Donnell said.

  She moved away from the topic, as if it no longer interested her, but the rest of her questions were just fluff, stuff that would lower the pastor’s guard. When, by the end of the interview, she asked for a few contacts, he gave her the details easily. Including the second religious counselor.

  Finally, O’Donnell had gotten all she needed, and the pastor left, his body stooped, drained by the worst day in his life.

  “Well, you said the person who killed Catherine knew her,” O’Donnell said.

  “That’s what I think,” Zoe said.

  “If he’s a former convict from her church, he’s not your guy, right?”

  “Rod Glover has never been incarcerated.”

  “Fine.” Finality entered her tone. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  “The autopsy,” Tatum said. “When will it be?”

  “Probably first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Can we be present? Once we have the autopsy report, we’ll be out of your hair.”

  There was that frown and head tilt again, but she finally nodded. “Fine. Give me your number. I’ll update you once I know the time.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Sunday, October 16, 2016

  Zoe and Tatum waited outside the morgue. The medical examiner, a middle-aged woman named Dr. Terrel, wasn’t thrilled to perform the autopsy with three people watching her. “It’s crowded enough here,” she’d said, gesturing at the rows of body coolers behind her. Zoe had a feeling it wasn’t the first time she’d used that joke. They’d used the time to grab some breakfast in a nearby café, reading the sparsely detailed news articles about the murder. They returned two hours later only to find out the autopsy wasn’t over yet.

  Zoe had already lost interest in the case. The homicide of Catherine Lamb in Glover’s previous neighborhood began to feel like a coincidence and nothing more. There was too much deviance from Glover’s usual MO and signature.

  Glover attacked women outdoors, usually near a body of water, in relatively remote locations, where witnesses weren’t likely. The last time Glover had attacked someone indoors was a month before, when he’d assaulted Andrea, Zoe’s sister. The consequences for him had been nearly fatal, and Zoe found it unlikely that he would do it again.

  The covering of the victim’s body was also not typical of him. In all of his assaults, Glover showed a complete lack of interest in the victim’s body once he was done. She saw no reason for this case to be any different.

  No. Zoe’s estimate was that Catherine Lamb had been attacked by someone she knew. The gloves the murderer used indicated the death probably wasn’t accidental—he had planned to rape and kill her. But after the murder he’d had a moment of regret. He’d been confused, stepping in the blood, leaving his footprints behind. He’d covered the body to alleviate the guilt. Zoe wasn’t sure regarding the necklace—perhaps O’Donnell was right, and it had been there from the start, ignored by the killer.

  Then why take the woman’s underwear? That niggled at her. Taking a trophy didn’t feel like an act of guilt.

  It didn’t matter. Maybe he’d shoved the underwear into his pocket after tearing them. Every murder had its little anomalies.

  She checked her watch impatiently. They were wasting precious time. This investigation couldn’t be indefinite. Mancuso, the unit chief, had agreed to give Zoe and Tatum ten days in Chicago, tracing Rod Glover’s steps, and their time was almost up. They had two more days, and there were still a few leads Zoe wanted to follow up on before they gave up. Every minute they waited here to hear the results of an unrelated autopsy was a minute they could—

  The morgue door opened. Detective O’Donnell stood in the doorway, beckoning them in. She seemed pale, though perhaps that could be attributed to the white fluorescent light.

  Zoe entered the room, her breathing already shallow, anticipating the typical stench of death intermingled with chemicals. Catherine Lamb’s body lay on the table, a large Y-shaped scar over her torso. It was the first time Zoe had actually seen Catherine’s body with her own eyes. Now that she could examine the lacerations on the neck up close, a chill ran up her spine. Glover’s victims all had marks just like these.

  “I’ve concluded the autopsy, and I have a few findings that I already shared with Detective O’Donnell,” Dr. Terrel said. “The preliminary report will be ready tomorrow, but O’Donnell wanted me to tell you what I found.”

  “Thank you—we appreciate it,” Tatum said.

  Terrel nodded curtly. “The body was in full rigor mortis when I first checked it. Typically that means the victim died between twelve and twenty-four hours before, but it could be less than that in certain cases, especially if the victim’s muscle activity was severe before death.”

  “For instance, if the victim struggled,” Tatum said.

  “Exactly. However, I d
id find something interesting when examining the lividity marks.”

  Lividity was the dark bruises that appeared on the body’s skin after death. This was caused by the stagnant blood settling in the body, following the only force that kept working on it even after the victim’s death—gravity.

  “There are pronounced lividity marks on the victim’s left side.” Terrel pointed at dark bruises on Catherine’s left arm and thigh. “But if you look carefully at the victim’s right side, you’ll see the faint lividity marks there as well.”

  “The body was moved after death,” Zoe said. “Someone turned it to the other side.”

  “It was found lying on its right side,” O’Donnell said. “I’m assuming that means it was moved a significant amount of time after death, when lividity was almost complete.”

  “So you think it was the father who moved it,” Tatum said.

  Zoe nodded. It made sense. Albert Lamb had found Catherine. According to his own statement, he’d shaken her, trying to wake her up, not realizing he’d turned her around in the process. If that was really what had happened, it gave them a likely timeline of death, since they knew when Albert Lamb had found the body.

  It was interesting. The most basic instruction at a crime scene was to disturb nothing until the police processed it. But in this case, because of the manner in which Albert had moved his daughter’s body, they had a more accurate timeline than before.

  “It’s impossible for me to know if it was first on the left side or on the right side,” Terrel said. “And it’s possible she was on the right side, turned to the left after a few hours, then turned back to the right when lividity was complete.”

  “Can you estimate how long she was lying on her left side?” Tatum asked.

  “I estimate eight to ten hours.”

  In that case, if the scenario O’Donnell suggested was correct, Catherine Lamb was murdered between eleven p.m. and one a.m.

  “I found signs of very recent sexual intercourse and abrasions on the labia minora. While that doesn’t necessarily mean the victim was raped, these injuries aren’t likely with consensual intercourse.”