by Mike Omer
Terrence glanced at it. “He’s in the church too. His name is Daniel.”
“How well do you know him?”
“I talked to him a few times. Seemed like a nice guy.”
“Did you see him talking to anyone in particular? Did he have any close friends?”
“Not that I noticed.”
“We were at the church this morning and saw the memorial,” Tatum said, taking out his phone and finding the photo of the picnic, Glover’s blurry head in the corner. “Did you take this photo?”
Terrence glanced at it for a second. “Yes,” he said. “I took all the photos on the memorial board.”
“Any idea who Daniel is talking to in this picture?”
“No. I didn’t even notice he was there. This picture is about Catherine.”
“Do you have the rest of the pictures from that picnic?” Tatum asked. “And other activities of the church?”
Terrence shrugged. “Sure. What other activities?”
“There were more pictures on the memorial board,” Tatum said, swiping his screen. “Gardening, sorting clothes, cooking for the homeless . . . anything you have.”
“That would be thousands of images,” Terrence said. “Can you be more specific?”
Tatum and Zoe glanced at each other. Excitement sparkled in Zoe’s eyes. “Anything you have,” he said. “We’ll be happy to have a copy.”
Terrence frowned. Tatum was about to mention that it was crucial to finding Catherine’s killer, when the photographer said, “Sure. It’ll take me a while to get it all sorted. It’s stored on backups in the back room.”
“We can wait,” Zoe said. “Any way we can start looking over some of the pictures while you get us copies of the rest?”
“Sure,” Terrence said, his tone far from thrilled. “I have some other pictures I printed of Catherine that didn’t end up on the memorial board. You can go over those for now.”
He walked over to a plastic drawer stand in the corner of the room and opened the top drawer. It was full of paper envelopes, and he thumbed through them, finally taking one out.
“If you need anything, just holler,” he said, handing the envelope to Zoe. “I’ll be in the back room.”
He left, and Zoe took out a thick stack of photos from the envelope. She started flipping through them, Tatum leaning over to see, their heads nearly touching.
The first time Glover showed up in a photo, both of them stared at it for a long minute, taking in the details. In that picture, they could see the man he was talking to, a burly African American. A few photos later Glover appeared again, this time talking to a pair of women, one of them laughing with her palm over her lips. And then he appeared again. And again.
“Shit,” Zoe muttered.
Tatum shared the sentiment. He’d had a vague hope that the person Glover was talking to at the picnic was his partner, his close friend. It now became clear that Glover didn’t have just one person he was close to in the congregation. He’d slithered into the community, spreading his fake charm, making sure he was known and liked by everyone he’d talked to.
His partner could be anyone in the congregation. Anyone at all.
CHAPTER 24
Zoe’s mind crackled with static. Her body was clenched, as if ready to strike. Somewhere on the street, a car honked twice, and she gritted her teeth, the shrill sound infuriating her.
They’d gone back to their motel, Tatum driving, Zoe glaring out her window. Tatum had tried to talk a few times, but Zoe’s monosyllabic responses had driven him to silence. She’d known that any conversation right then would end badly.
Now, in her room, she paced back and forth on the faded rug. It felt like ants were crawling under her skin, or something was wrong with her fingernails, or her clothes were too tight. She didn’t know if she was too warm or too cold, maybe a bit of both. There was a constant grating noise, like the dragging of something heavy on an asphalt road, and she knew it was her teeth, grinding against each other.
She sat on the bed and forced herself to focus, trying to profile the type of men who’d approach Glover. Men with violent lives who wanted someone to help them get better. And at least one of them made Glover think him. See a potential ally. Someone to corrupt even further. If she concentrated, she could figure out that person’s characteristics, make him much easier to identify.
She grabbed her notebook, a pen. Tapped the pen on the paper a few times, inflicting a series of angry ink dots on the empty page. Pushed the notebook away, turned on her laptop, scrolled through some of the pictures Terrence had given them. Thousands of pictures of events indoors and outdoors, some with just a few participants, some with dozens of people. And Glover was everywhere. He’d morphed the documentation of a wholesome church community into a twisted Where’s Waldo? game.
She began sorting the pictures. Terrence was organized—the folders had a date and a short description of the occasion. She created a copy of the folders, keeping only the images Glover appeared in. She put on a Katy Perry album as she did it, but the music only irritated her, and she shut it off.
A knock on the door. She opened it. Tatum stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets.
“I figured we could talk about what we know and brainstorm about going forward,” he said.
“Sure.” Zoe moved aside, letting him through the door. Tatum walked inside, grabbed the one chair in the room, sat on it. Zoe paced back and forth, biting her lip, not knowing how to start.
“There’s a good chance that more than one man approached Glover for advice like the pastor suggested,” Tatum said. “Do you think Glover really assisted any of them?”
Zoe let out a bark of forced laughter. “Oh, I’m sure he made it seem like it. Talked to them, got them to open up, confess their dirty little secrets to him. Made it feel like there was someone in their corner.”
“Why?”
“Maybe he found it amusing. Or he wanted to know about their vulnerabilities. It’s possible he was looking for an accomplice all along.” Zoe tried to think it through. “He joined this Christian community. But he might have felt uncomfortable, going there Sunday after Sunday, listening to sermons about sin. Maybe he wanted to see there were others in that church who were like him. It would have made him more relaxed.”
“Are you telling me Glover had impostor syndrome?”
Zoe clenched her fists. “He was literally an impostor. It’s not a syndrome if it’s true. Glover tried to worm himself into the community, but all he saw around him were people praying, talking about good deeds and good intentions, and he knew who he was. Even if he pretended to be a stand-up guy, he’d killed several women before, had constant fantasies about killing again. Some part of him must’ve found this dissonance uncomfortable. So he went to that idiot pastor—”
“Don’t call him that.”
“Fine! That gullible pastor, gave him a sob story about his violent past. This gets him two things. First—it’s a confession of a sort, so now he doesn’t feel like he’s hiding. And he gets a queue of ex-cons, wife beaters, violent criminals, all happy to talk to him and get their own guilt off their chest. Lucky for Glover, Baptists don’t have confession, or this ploy probably wouldn’t have worked. Now he can sit every Sunday, listen to the sermon, comfortable in the knowledge that he’s surrounded by violent men. And that moron Albert Lamb believes that he—”
“Stop saying that!” Tatum’s voice had a bite to it, and Zoe paused, bewildered.
“What?”
“Stop calling Albert Lamb an idiot.”
“Why?”
“Because it bothers me.” Tatum raised his voice. “There’s no need to talk trash about—”
“Tatum, he let that man into his community and introduced him to other potential killers.”
“Albert Lamb is a good person. He saw a man who was trying to change his ways and decided to help him.”
“That man raped and killed five women!”
“But he didn’t exactly han
d his résumé to Albert Lamb, did he? How could Albert have known that—”
“He couldn’t! But he could’ve been more careful. A stranger comes to you, telling you he has a violent past, you don’t give him a welcome party. Especially not if you have a whole community that trusts you.”
“What do you want? Everyone in the world to be suspicious of every single person they meet? How on earth do you expect people to function like that?”
Zoe clenched her fists in frustration. “A little suspicion could go a long way!”
Tatum’s eyes widened, his eyebrows rising. “Who are you angry with here?” he asked.
Zoe’s fists tingled. “What?”
“This isn’t about Albert. He had no way of knowing who Glover is. You realize that. Because you did the same thing, right? Didn’t you tell me you once invited Rod Glover to your room?”
“I was a kid!” Tatum was being obtuse. The difference was obvious. “I didn’t know better. Albert Lamb had a responsibility.”
“Like your parents did?”
“No, that’s not—”
“You told me Rod Glover ate at your house plenty of times, right? In fact, he had the key to your front door. Because he was such a nice neighbor.”
“Tatum, shut up, you have no idea—”
“And what about the police in Maynard? Ignoring the truth, even when you laid out the facts in front of them?”
Zoe’s ears hummed; she was about to scream. Just screech wordlessly until Tatum shut up. Her jaw clenched tightly to stop that scream from emerging.
“All the people who later thought you just scared an innocent man away?” Tatum softened his voice. “So you grew up feeling lonely, while Rod Glover found himself a nice new community to love him.”
Zoe realized she was leaning against the corner of the room. Her body tried to shy away from Tatum’s words.
“Albert Lamb, Glover’s coworkers and boss, the police, your parents, you.” Tatum counted on his fingers. “It’s no one’s fault. You can’t prepare for someone like Glover. People who don’t have our training can’t even imagine ever meeting someone like him. And thank god for that, or no one would ever go outside their home.”
“You’re talking about him like an earthquake or a flood. Glover’s just a man.”
“A twisted, perverse man in a perfect disguise of a nice, honest, chummy kind of guy. There’s no way to know what’s inside him. Not unless you’re us.”
Zoe felt exhausted, could hardly stay upright. Tatum looked tired as well.
“Look,” he said softly. “It’s been a long day. I need a rest. I don’t think I can handle another long night.”
“I want to work.” She didn’t feel like she could. But she didn’t feel like she could rest either.
He stood up and sighed. “Of course you do. But I can’t. Not tonight.”
At the door he paused and turned to face her. For a moment, Zoe wanted him to step toward her, gather her into his arms. Maybe that way, she could rest for just a bit.
But he didn’t. “Good night, Zoe.”
“Night.”
The door shut behind him. Zoe wavered on the edge of crying.
She returned to sort the photos instead.
CHAPTER 25
Tatum’s weariness felt beyond sleep. In fact, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to fall asleep at all. He sat on his bed, took off his shoes and his pants, then paused to reflect.
Back in LA, he’d had a partner, Bobby O’Leary, who claimed that he did his best thinking in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet. Because pants, Bobby said, got in the way of any major thought process. So Tatum and he would be talking about a case, reviewing it, thinking it through, when Bobby would suddenly say, “This is a tricky one. Gonna take a dump, think it through.” He’d go for twenty minutes and return with clever insights and ideas. Tatum often suspected that if the bureau let Bobby simply work in his underpants, he’d be promoted to chief in no time.
Tatum wanted this to work for him. He wanted an epiphany that would either crack the case or figure out a way to get Zoe to chill. But the only thing that happened, as he sat on the bed in his underpants and socks, was that he felt chilly.
His phone rang from the pocket in his discarded pants. He struggled with the pocket, wondering why it was always more difficult to get things out of pockets of unworn clothes. Yet another unsolved mystery. It was Marvin on the phone.
“Hey, Marvin, how are you doing?”
“I’m fine, Tatum. How’s Chicago?”
“Pretty much the same. Cold.”
“Yeah? Buy yourself some warm socks. That’s the best way to get warm, Tatum. Socks.”
Sage advice from a wise old man. “I’ll remember that.”
“You do that, Tatum. How’s your partner?”
Tatum frowned. Was the old man telepathic? Did he feel a disturbance in the force? “She’s preoccupied. This case is wearing her a bit thin. But she’ll be fine.”
“Her sister is saying differently.”
“You talk to Andrea?”
“Why are you so surprised, Tatum? People find me nice to talk to. You know why? I listen. You could try that once in a while.”
Tatum sighed. “We were questioning someone today, and she just got so angry . . .” He paused, trying to figure out how to explain it. “When we get a case, we need to be able to keep it at arm’s length. We need to stay objective. It shouldn’t be personal.”
“But this case is personal for her, Tatum. So what are you going to do about it?”
“What do you want me to do? Drag her back to Quantico, kicking and screaming?”
The old man grunted. “That’s not such a bad idea.”
“Look, Zoe is under a lot of stress, but she’s handling it. You can tell that to your new best friend, Andrea, next time you talk.”
“Sure, she’s handling it just fine, Tatum. Your partner was buried alive a month ago, and she’s now chasing a killer who lived next door when she was a kid. I’m sure she’s just dandy.”
“Did you call just to lecture me?”
“I want you to look after your partner—that’s all I’m asking. Her sister is worried about her, and you should know that. Don’t shoot the messenger, Tatum.”
“I’m looking after her. You have my word.”
“Fine.” Marvin grunted. “Listen, I wanted to ask, where are the cat snacks?”
“The what?”
“The cat snacks. Can you hear me? Hello? Cat snacks, Tatum, where are the cat snacks?”
“I heard you, I heard you. Why do you want cat snacks?”
“I think Chicago made you slow, Tatum. I want cat snacks for the cat. What did you think I want them for?”
“The cat? Freckle?”
“Of course Freckle. Do you think I got another cat while you were gone? Did I give you the impression that I crave the company of additional cats?”
“Then . . . why do you want to give it a snack? You hate Freckle.”
“Damn it, Tatum, I ask you a simple question, I expect a simple answer. Not this federal investigation. Is that what you’re doing over there? Harassing your suspects over cat snacks? No wonder it’s taking you so long to get your guy. The ladies from the book club are here. They think the cat’s cute. They want to give him snacks. Is that okay with you, Tatum? Can you please tell me where the cat snacks are? Or do I need to go buy some myself?”
“Settle down, Marvin. Don’t get your blood pressure up. The cat snacks are in the top left cupboard.”
“It’s not there. I looked. The only thing there are those weird salty crackers.”
Tatum frowned. “We don’t have any crackers.”
There was a moment of silence. “Top left cupboard?” Marvin said. “Yeah, okay.”
“Marvin, did you eat the cat snacks?”
“I . . . listen, I’m pretty sure these were crackers. They don’t taste so good, but I’ve had worse.”
“There’s a picture of a cat on the package. They’
re supposed to taste like chicken. Didn’t you find that strange?”
“You know what, Tatum? When you were younger, you didn’t use that tone with me. You had a lot more respect.”
“That’s because I didn’t know you ate cat food.”
“You’re hilarious, Tatum. I’m going back to my guests. It’s a lot nicer than talking to my wiseass grandson.”
“Bye, Marvin.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Tatum put the phone on the night table, grinning. The image of Marvin sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea, and distractedly munching cat snacks was one he intended to treasure. Then, he thought of Zoe. Marvin, annoyingly, was right. Zoe wasn’t okay; Tatum knew that. It wasn’t just today, with her constant short temper and her fury over Albert Lamb. He’d seen glimpses of it the whole week. Moments when she seemed adrift. Losing her focus for long periods of time. Sudden moments when she clenched, her eyes wide in fear, which seemed to fade the moment he asked what was wrong.
He almost decided to go knock on her motel door again. He slid one leg into his pants, then stopped. The thought of walking into her room, the electric sharp atmosphere everywhere, drained his resolve. He would do no good to Zoe in his current state. He needed one evening of rest.
CHAPTER 26
The man in control came home early, unable to wear his facade for long. He kept feeling as if anyone who looked at him knew. They could somehow see through him, perceive the sickness and the guilt. He’d checked his face in the mirror every few minutes, examining it from every angle, making sure that he was the same. And he was, unless the mirror lied. Which was an uncomfortable thought in itself, not an actual fear, not yet, but the hint of a future anxiety. What if the mirror was lying to him?
He’d thought he would feel better, like last time. And he had, for a few hours. After they’d finished the night’s work, they’d gone home; his sleep had been deep and dreamless.
But when he’d woken up in the morning, he could already feel the nervousness clawing inside him. It had been amplified when he’d seen Daniel, felt the simmering rage under his friend’s chilly behavior. A volcano trapped within a glacier. He’d drunk one of the vials then—he’d collected eight this time. But it had given him almost no reprieve.