Thicker than Blood (Zoe Bentley Mystery)

by Mike Omer

He lunged so fast she barely had time to pull back. His teeth snapped inches away from her cheek, and she felt his breath, smelled the rot that rose from his mouth. She pushed her chair back, revulsion and fear swarming her mind.

  “Leave me alone!” he screamed, spittle spattering from his mouth. “Just leave me alone! Get out, get out, get out!” He bucked in his cot, the handcuffs screeching on the metal rails. “Get out get out get out get out!”

  Zoe rose and stepped back, almost colliding with Tatum. He placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, and Zoe took a deep breath. They left the room, Terrence’s screams in their wake.

  CHAPTER 72

  “So Glover’s been gone since yesterday,” Tatum said darkly. “Probably halfway to Canada by now.”

  They stood in the hospital’s hallway, a few steps away from the door to Finch’s room. The painkillers were wearing off, and his arms had begun to hurt like hell. He was half regretting not letting Finch burn.

  “Maybe,” O’Donnell said doubtfully. “He left most of his things behind, including some cash. He didn’t use his credit card or go to the bank. According to Terrence, he can’t drive.”

  O’Donnell looked at Zoe. “He was cagey about the photographs, so I’m guessing it was Glover’s idea.”

  Zoe frowned. “I agree, but I can’t make any sense of it. Glover gets off on violating and strangling women, not posing them in strange satanic ritual settings.”

  “Maybe the photos were just a weird excuse for killing women,” O’Donnell suggested. “Glover tells Terrence that to get better, he needs to photograph those dead women because he gets some sort of psychic energy from it. Then he needs to follow through with that idea. There’s no point in trying to understand the logic of a crazy person.”

  “But there was a consistent logic to it,” Zoe said. “Terrence’s delusion was all about the blood, right? Or it was at first, before he went haywire. Remember, other than that he was completely functional. So he wouldn’t believe some sort of harebrained idea about photos drawing psychic energy. Whatever Glover said, it had to make sense to Finch.” Her voice rose in frustration.

  Tatum eyed Zoe worriedly. He knew his partner well enough by now to spot the pattern. When it came to Glover, her analytical ability faltered. She tried to understand what made him tick, but of all the killers she profiled, this one constantly eluded her. He stood in her blind spot.

  “O’Donnell has a point,” he said slowly. “The photos aren’t for sexual gratification. So they must serve a different purpose.”

  “Maybe,” Zoe said impatiently. “But I just don’t think he could conceivably say that they would cure his cancer.”

  “He didn’t tell Terrence that he needed a cure,” Tatum said.

  “What do you mean?” O’Donnell asked.

  “Terrence said that Glover told him he had no insurance. He didn’t say he was dying or that doctors couldn’t fix him. He said doctors wouldn’t fix him.”

  “Well, we discussed this,” Zoe said. “Glover would make a way to paint himself as a victim.”

  “But he made it sound as if the problem was money. Photos of dead women can’t be used to cure cancer.” Tatum shook his head. “But they can be sold. Remember what Swenson told us?”

  “He said people paid a lot of money for that kind of stuff,” O’Donnell muttered after a moment. “And he mentioned fake snuff. But if they knew it was real . . .”

  “We assumed that Glover only went on the dark web to buy illegal porn,” Zoe said, her eyes widening. “What if he sold it as well? How much would someone pay?”

  “Maybe a lot,” Tatum said. “If they were authentic. If those crazies on the marketplace knew that these were the actual murder photos. If that’s what he did, it would explain why he called to tip off the cops about Henrietta Fishburne. He needed the press to report her murder before he could sell the pictures.”

  “That was how he explained it to Finch,” Zoe said. “He needed money, maybe for a treatment or for private hospital care, and that’s why they had to kill those women and take those photos. I’m betting that the pentagram and the knife were actual client requests.”

  Tatum shook his head in disbelief. “Do what you love, and the money will follow.”

  “If that’s true,” O’Donnell said, “he might be receiving treatment here in Chicago.”

  “We’ve already gone down that road,” Tatum said. “There are too many patients. And they wouldn’t let us look at patient records without a warrant, which is impossible to get.”

  “But we can narrow it down now,” O’Donnell said. “If our theory is correct, we can find out how much he sold those pictures for and when he got the payments. We can look for a clinic that accepts cash as payment and minimizes the paper trail. If those transactions really exist, the more we know about them, the easier it’ll be to find the place and the patient name.”

  Zoe shut her eyes, looking pale. “We need to find him fast. If dead women are his lifeline, there might be another victim very soon.”

  “We’ll make a few phone calls,” Tatum said. “If he sold those pictures, there would be traces in those dark web sites. We’ll get analysts to help us look.”

  CHAPTER 73

  Laughing_Irukandji sat on his throne in his underwear, staring at the monitors, waiting. Lurking.

  He halfheartedly skimmed the forum, checking a thread about a hacked dating app database and another one about a new exploit found in a popular webcam application. He didn’t comment on anything, his face frozen in a sneer.

  On Twitter, the hashtag #FindRhea was trending. He read some of the mind-numbingly boring tweets, a sea of hypocrisy, a multitude of people trying to outshine their peers with their so-called heartfelt prayers.

  He set ten of his bots to spew rumors that Rhea was an illegal immigrant, tagging each tweet with #FindRhea and #DeportRhea, and yawned as the predictable outrage bloomed.

  A few messages popped up, fellow trolls, guessing correctly that the rumors were his doing. Most were amused. One of them thought that he’d gone too far. Laughing_Irukandji smirked.

  If he only knew.

  Another message appeared, and he tensed, his heart rate picking up. Jack_the_Ripper. Finally. His finger trembled as he clicked the message.

  Jack_the_Ripper: I had a few setbacks, I won’t be able to send you the last batch of pictures. But you have the three images I already sent you, and you can check the press to see it’s authentic. Those are the pictures of Rhea Deleon, minutes after she died. No one else has them

  A wave of disappointment washed through him. That wasn’t the deal. He’d given the man instructions, hadn’t he? He typed his answer.

  Laughing_Irukandji: That wasn’t the deal. No pictures, no payment

  The response came immediately.

  Jack_the_Ripper: I need that money. I already sent you three pictures. If you won’t pay me, we’re done

  Laughing_Irukandji: Fine. Then we’re done

  The man had already clarified that he needed the money, and fast. He wouldn’t find someone else who would pay that amount. No way in hell.

  Jack_the_Ripper: Okay, what if I send you something else? Something better? But if you want it you’ll have to pay what you owe me, and extra for the new photos

  Laughing_Irukandji: It’ll have to be something pretty special

  Power rushed through him again. Trolling people on social media didn’t give him a fraction of what he felt right now.

  Jack_the_Ripper: I can do a pregnant woman

  Laughing_Irukandji smiled and let a whole minute go by before answering.

  Laughing_Irukandji: That would work nicely. But I have specific instructions

  CHAPTER 74

  Monday, October 24, 2016

  Tatum scrutinized the task force room, which was now at full capacity. Despite the bloodshot eyes and disheveled looks, everyone seemed sharper that morning. The thrill of the hunt kept them alert and on their toes.

  Well, that and coffee. It seemed
like they were having a cup-size contest. O’Donnell had shown up nursing a mug as big as her head, while Valentine held a large thermos from which he constantly refilled his Styrofoam cup. Even Zoe had abandoned her newly found hot chocolate in favor of a strong cup of Starbucks coffee.

  “Good morning,” Bright said. “As you all know, we arrested Terrence Finch yesterday and found the body of Rhea Deleon in his home. Detective O’Donnell and Dr. Bentley managed to interrogate him yesterday evening when he woke up, but he didn’t give us a solid lead for Rod Glover’s whereabouts. Detectives Koch and Sykes, you went there this morning?”

  “Yeah,” Koch said. “But he lawyered up.”

  “He’s being medicated, so it’s likely that his psychosis is diminishing, making him more careful,” Zoe said.

  “In any case, we’ll go there later, see if he’s more coherent. If he can lead us to Glover, we might be able to cut a deal with him.”

  “We also had some progress on Glover,” Sykes said. “We talked to Finch’s neighbors yesterday, and one of them had seen Glover just two days ago at Finch’s house. She identified him when we showed her pictures but said that he looks different now. We sat her down with a sketch artist, and we have an updated likeness.”

  “Are we under the assumption that Rod Glover is still in Chicago?” Bright asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Tatum said.

  The eyes in the room shifted to him. He paused for two seconds and then said, “Yesterday, following leads from Finch’s interrogation, we theorized that Rod Glover might have been selling photos from his recent murders to fund his cancer treatment.”

  “Selling to whom?” Bright asked.

  “To customers on a dark web marketplace dedicated to illegal porn,” Tatum said. “We had a few analysts take a look during the night, going through sites we got from Swenson.”

  They’d spent the evening in the bureau’s Chicago office. Tatum, Zoe, and Valentine had kept hovering over the analysts’ shoulders until one of the vexed analysts had politely kicked the three of them out. The final results of the search had been emailed at four in the morning to the three of them.

  “A month ago, a user named Jack_the_Ripper began talking about selling unseen photos of a murdered victim,” Tatum continued, setting a folder on the table. “The people who responded mostly trolled him, but some were interested. He ended up selling images that were shared later in the forums publicly.” He handed a photo from the folder to Koch, who sat to his right.

  “It’s a photo of Shirley Wattenberg, a murder victim from 2008, suspected to have been murdered by Rod Glover,” Tatum said. “This photo looks like it was taken soon after she was killed. He initially wanted five thousand dollars for the photo, but because of the bad quality and the suspicion that the picture was fake, he ended up selling it for two hundred. However, after the forum members realized the photo was authentic, Jack_the_Ripper’s reputation grew. He said he could come up with more.”

  Tatum took two more photos and passed them around. “Next came Catherine Lamb. All taken soon after the murder. We know he sold eight of those, but only two were shared with the rest of the members. The exact amount he got for those pictures isn’t clear, but the analysts estimate it at above eight thousand dollars.”

  “Why didn’t anyone find this earlier?” Bright asked angrily. “Those pictures were online for anyone to see?”

  Valentine cleared his throat. “Not anyone. Just a few select members of this forum. Do you know how many Tor websites dedicated to illegal pornography are up at any given moment? Over eighty percent of the entire dark web. Thousands of websites. There are currently about thirty million images and videos, constantly exchanging hands.”

  Tatum knew the statistics well, but it always made him nauseous to hear them again. It was like lifting a rock in a field. You knew there would be critters underneath, but it wasn’t the same as actually seeing them crawl and scuttle. The majority of those images and videos were of underage children. To actually find something specific in that mountain of depravity was a difficult and sickening task.

  He took a moment to let them all understand what they were dealing with and continued. “The next time Jack_the_Ripper appeared in the forum, he sold the images of Henrietta Fishburne. He stated that most of those were sold to a private client who had commissioned certain specific props for the images beforehand.”

  “Props?” Koch frowned.

  “The knife and the pentagram,” Zoe said. “They never fit the profile of either Finch or Glover because it wasn’t their signature. These things, and the ritualistic posing of the body, were the fantasy of a third person.”

  “Do we know who this private client is?” Koch asked.

  “No,” Tatum said. “We’re trying to find out, but the entire thing was negotiated on a private chat on the dark web. I don’t think even Glover can really tell you who he talked to. The private customer never shared the photos he bought, but other images from the murders were shared.” He passed two more images around. In a way, these were the worst, because they had been taken when Henrietta was still alive. They were close-ups of her face, mouth open in a soundless scream, a tie wrapped around her throat. The arm holding the tie was visible. It belonged to a Caucasian man. The hand clutched the tie tightly, veins standing out, scratch marks on the skin. This fit the findings of the autopsy—skin cells underneath Henrietta Fishburne’s fingernails. And since they had a DNA match for those skin cells, it could only mean that it was Glover’s arm.

  Tatum waited for the photos to be passed around and then resumed. “Because the press reported the murder on that very day, affirming the authenticity of the photos, they went for four thousand dollars each. Several of the forum members pooled their bitcoins together to buy the photos and share them. We don’t know how much the private client paid for his photos. But they were tailored to his requests, and we’re guessing Glover wouldn’t have done it if it hadn’t been worthwhile.”

  He glanced at O’Donnell, giving her a small nod.

  “We believe the money earned from selling those photos was used to finance Glover’s cancer treatment in a private clinic,” O’Donnell said. “There are over twenty such clinics in Chicago.”

  Bright frowned. “Well, we’re not likely to get a search warrant for those clinics. It’s an interesting hunch, but without confirmation—”

  “One of the clinics caught my attention,” O’Donnell interrupted him. “The Celeste Cancer Center. It’s an expensive clinic, with a high patient survival rate. Two things seemed to stand out. First, it’s one of the smallest clinics; the regular staff is only six people. Glover would like that since there would be less people who could identify him. Second, it’s one of the only clinics that will accept cash payments.”

  “We believe Glover has a contact in Chicago who converts bitcoin to cash,” Tatum interjected.

  “I went to the clinic this morning,” O’Donnell continued. “I verified his cancer type was treated there and that the treatment could be done in payments that more or less match what we assume he had. It checks out. Following that, I showed our recent sketch of Glover around. I also explained to a very impressionable young nurse what Glover does to women he meets. She explained she can’t break patient confidentiality but constantly stressed that there could be a good reason for us to get a warrant. She also mentioned that on November second, at half past two, it might be a great idea if we showed up in force. Patients go for routine treatments in the clinic, and I’m guessing this is when Glover’s next treatment is scheduled.”

  O’Donnell had already told Tatum all this earlier, but now something caught his attention. Something about the sketch. What was it? He gritted his teeth, trying to focus. The nurse had identified Glover by the sketch. It was likely she’d seen his photo on the news before, but that photo had been taken months ago, when Glover was still healthy. So what?

  There was something there.

  “That might be good enough for a warrant.” Koch smiled. “
November second is next week. If he shows up for his treatment, we can nail him then.”

  “There’s a problem with waiting that long,” Zoe said. “We know Glover still searched for victims after Henrietta Fishburne. That’s why they originally picked up Rhea Deleon. But I don’t think Rhea’s murder went according to plan, and I don’t know how much time he had to take photos.”

  “None of Rhea’s photos showed up on the marketplace as far as we could tell,” Tatum said.

  “If we wait until Glover’s appointment, he might kill someone else to finance his next treatment,” Zoe said.

  “Point taken,” Koch said. “I’ll see if we can get a warrant for that clinic. Maybe once we look through their records, we can find a lead to Glover. A phone number, an address, an emergency contact. These places have endless forms people need to fill out. He must’ve screwed up somewhere.”

  “We’ll also talk to Finch again, see if we can extract something else from him,” Valentine said.

  “And we’ll send copies of the recent sketch to the media,” Bright said.

  Tatum was aware of some more talk, followed by the meeting breaking up. He thought about the sketch, about how Glover had changed. The participants filed out of the room, but Zoe noticed that he didn’t get up and walked over to him.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “How did Patrick Carpenter know Glover was sick?” he asked her.

  “What?”

  “When we arrested Allen Swenson, Patrick Carpenter showed up and said that it was impossible for Allen to do all this with a dying man. But we had never mentioned in the press that Glover was dying or that he had cancer. We never mentioned this to Patrick either. And Glover looked healthy in the photo.”

  “Maybe Glover told Patrick about his cancer a while ago,” Zoe said. “Or he heard about it from someone.”

  “But we know he was diagnosed with cancer when he was in Dale City. So Patrick had to learn about it in the past month. So Patrick either discussed this with someone who’d talked to Glover recently . . .”