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

by Mike Omer

  The victim’s hands covered her face in a perfect imitation of a person sobbing. If it weren’t for her unnatural stillness and the slight grayish hue of her skin, it would have been impossible to guess she wasn’t alive. She wore a long-sleeved yellow shirt and a brown skirt, which was bunched around her thighs. Her feet were bare. There was a bruise circling her throat and bruises around her wrists and ankles. Tatum didn’t need the ME to tell him she had probably been bound. Had she been tied when she was killed? Had her death been painful? Had she screamed, begged her captor to let her go? He looked away and stared at the waves, feeling angry.

  It was a windy day, and Lake Michigan’s small waves broke against each other randomly, creating eddies of white foam. A bad day for surfing, he thought automatically, even though he hadn’t surfed for over fifteen years. Once he had begun surfing, he could never look at the waves without trying to assess if they were good enough.

  It was a nice beach, the water on one side, the high buildings of the Chicago shoreline on the other, their windows mostly tinted blue, as if mirroring the water. There was a small green park to the south. The residents must love coming here, walking or running alongside the beach, maybe going for a swim. How long before they began doing that again? Would the beach be full tomorrow, even though a dead woman had been left there not long before?

  “Can you estimate the time of death?” he heard Zoe ask. He turned to her and the body again. She was talking to the ME.

  “Maybe later, when I do the autopsy, but I’m not sure. If she’s embalmed, like the ones before, it’ll be tricky.”

  “Are you the ME who checked the previous two?” Zoe asked.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “I’d be happy to talk to you later, compare your findings for the three victims.”

  Happy. Zoe sure could pick her words. Happy to talk about women who were strangled to death and embalmed. Overjoyed. Tra-la-la.

  The ME nodded, then grabbed one of the victim’s hands carefully while holding the upper arm firmly with his other hand. He pulled, and the hand moved away from the face.

  “She’s more flexible than the other two,” he told Zoe.

  “Her eyes are closed,” Zoe said, looking closely.

  “And her mouth,” the ME said. “The first victim’s mouth wasn’t shut.” He slid a paper bag over the palm and fastened it there with a rubber band.

  “She has a ring,” Zoe said, pointing at the other hand.

  “Yeah. They’ll remove it in the morgue,” the ME said, pulling the second hand down, uncovering the face completely. Both of the victim’s eyes were shut, her face a mask of calmness.

  “Can I?” Zoe asked, motioning at the palm.

  “I’d really prefer that you—”

  “I’ll be careful,” Zoe said. She grabbed the palm carefully and slid the ring aside. She looked carefully at the finger, then at Tatum. “No tan line,” she said.

  “Maybe she has no tan,” Tatum suggested.

  Zoe shook her head impatiently and gently shifted the shirt’s collar. A slight difference in the skin tone was clearly visible. “She had a tan line here,” Zoe said. “A different type of shirt, one that exposed more skin.” She pulled the collar downward, exposing the same tan line near the body’s chest. “More cleavage,” she added.

  “So?” the ME asked as he put a paper bag on the second hand.

  “She was used to being in the sun in shirts that exposed her body.” Zoe chewed her lip. “There’s a good chance she was a prostitute.”

  “Or a bike delivery girl,” Tatum said. “Or a Cubs cheerleader. Or an unemployed girl who liked to walk in the morning in a spaghetti strap shirt. You can’t deduce—”

  “I’m not deducing anything,” Zoe said sharply. “But one of the previous victims was a prostitute. High-risk victims are the main targets of serial killers. I think it’s probable.”

  Irritated, Tatum turned and walked away. He approached the civilian who stood with Lieutenant Martinez. The man had blond hair and an almost invisible mustache. The contrast to Martinez’s facial hair was very noticeable.

  “Is this the guy who found the body?” Tatum asked.

  “Yup.” Martinez nodded. “Dan Finley.”

  “And I really need to go,” Dan said, his voice high. “I have business to attend to and—”

  “What kind of business?” Tatum asked.

  “I’m a quinoa supplier. I have stores and restaurants that depend on me. These days, if you’re late on one shipment, people move on to a different supplier. There’s no loyalty, no partnership. It’s every man for—”

  “What time did you get to the beach?” Tatum asked.

  “I went through this twice already. How many times do you expect me to answer the same questions?”

  “It’s a murder investigation, Mr. Finley,” Martinez said. “We don’t want to make any mistakes. I’m sure you understand that.”

  “Like I told the others, I got to the beach around eight.”

  “And you didn’t report the body until nine thirty?” Tatum asked.

  “I didn’t know she was dead. I thought she was crying.”

  “There was a woman crying on the beach for an hour and a half before you checked it out?”

  “No one else approached her either. I didn’t want to intrude,” Dan said, his mouth twisted in bitterness. “These days you can’t go to the beach without something like this happening.”

  “You can’t go to the beach without finding a dead body?” Tatum looked at the man, incredulous.

  Dan pursed his lips and said nothing. Tatum shook his head and walked away. Martinez joined him a minute later.

  “Third victim,” Tatum told Martinez.

  Martinez nodded. “And only eleven days after the last one.”

  Tatum folded his arms, looking at the lake. He was frustrated and worried. He hoped they’d manage to get the killer before a fourth dead woman showed up.

  CHAPTER 13

  Zoe stared at her chicken salad with disinterest. Aside from the parking spot they had found nearby, the place they had stopped for lunch didn’t have a lot going for it. The waitress—a curt, unpleasant woman with a rash on her neck—had recommended the chicken salad. She said it was her favorite dish. Zoe doubted that. The chicken was dry and spiced with an unidentifiable green herb, and the vegetables had been frozen and defrosted so many times they had the texture of a napkin.

  The company didn’t help her appetite either. Tatum was surly and silent, stewing in his rage. He ate a hamburger, taking huge bites and swallowing them without chewing more than a couple of times. Clearly, he wanted to get this lunch over with.

  Finally, he put down his half-eaten burger and said, “You could have backed me up. Staking out the crime scenes is a solid approach, and now Martinez won’t do it.”

  “It wouldn’t have done any good,” Zoe said, trying her best to stay patient. Back at the most recent crime scene, Tatum had made her question her own deductions, and she’d said nothing to Martinez about her theory that the victim had been a prostitute. She regretted that now. “The killer won’t return there.”

  “You don’t know that. You’re only guessing.”

  “I am not guessing,” Zoe said sharply. “I am deducing from previous cases and from the available evidence. That’s what I do. That’s my job.”

  “Speaking of your job, couldn’t you have been a bit subtler with Bernstein? I brought you here to shake their trust in him, not to decimate him.”

  “You’re not the one who brought me here. Mancuso sent me. And she sent me to consult with the Chicago police. Which is what I did and what I’m still doing.”

  “Consult? You’re like Dr. Bernstein. The two of you are no better than psychics. Inventing stories for the detectives, messing with the investigation, just to justify your paycheck.”

  Her face heated up, her heart racing. She felt like grabbing the chicken salad and chucking it in his face. “Fuck you. You know what, Tatum? I don’t know
what your damn problem is with me. The reason I didn’t back you up was because your suggestion was dumb. Anyone with a shred of experience with serial killers could have seen that. But of course, you don’t have any experience. You got to the BAU because they didn’t want you anywhere else. So get over the size of your penis or your bed-wetting issue or whatever it is you’re compensating for, and man up. If you want me to back you up, you’ll have to keep up with me. And I move fast.”

  She stood up and stormed out of the restaurant. He could damn well pay for the tasteless chicken salad.

  She stomped down the street, feeling like she was fourteen again, that cop looking at her with a patronizing face.

  Listen, honey, leave the policing to the grown-ups, okay?

  Damn Tatum, and damn that cop from nineteen years ago whose name she had intentionally forgotten. Damn all the FBI agents who resented her for taking a “real agent’s” job. Damn the condescension that kept following her despite all her achievements. Would there ever be a point where she’d get the appreciation she deserved?

  There were tears of anger in her eyes, and she quickly wiped them away with the back of her hand, swallowing hard, forcing herself to calm down. She stood still and focused on her breathing. A deep breath emerged with a tiny hiccup; the next one was completely smooth and steady. Her heart slowed down. The anger was there, but she was back in control.

  Tatum called her name behind her. Damn it. She started walking away again.

  “Zoe! For God’s sake, wait up.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Sure, whatever,” he said coldly behind her. “But I thought you might like to know they’ve identified the girl. There was a match with a missing person report. Her name is Krista Barker, and she was a working girl.”

  A working girl. That was Tatum’s way of saying she was a prostitute without using the word prostitute. Without admitting she’d been right. She should have told Martinez when she’d thought of it. It would have made him more receptive to see she got things right.

  “They’re on their way to talk to her roommate, a girl named Crystal. Martinez asked if we want to join him. Should I tell him you’re not interested?”

  She whirled around, furious. Tatum looked at her, his face blank and cold.

  “No,” she said coolly. In complete control. “I want to hear what the prostitute has to say.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Crystal fidgeted on the bed, occasionally glancing at the strangers who had come to see her. Agent Gray had said he was from the FBI, and Martinez was from the Chicago PD. The woman hadn’t said where she was from. Was she the FBI agent’s girlfriend? It sure looked that way. The way they were pointedly avoiding each other’s eyes was a dead giveaway. And the way they both nodded when the detective talked but actively ignored each other. Yeah, those two were banging each other, no doubt about it.

  She wished they’d go away. She’d just had a morning client, which only happened, like, every third day. Men usually preferred the cover of darkness when paying for sex. A twenty-dollar bill sat in her pocket, and once the cops left, she could go downstairs to R. T., buy a rock from him, and smoke it—start the day on the right foot.

  Her stomach rumbled. She could also get something to eat. When had she eaten last?

  No, first a rock, then she’d try to get another morning client. Who knew? She might get lucky. Then she’d definitely buy some breakfast.

  She wasn’t listening again, and the detective, Martinez, looked frustrated.

  “Sorry, what?” she asked.

  “When did you see Krista last?”

  Krista. She missed Krista so much. Her friend had been what made life bearable. Krista could really make her smile, sometimes. They were always a pair, Krista and Crystal. People would laugh when they introduced themselves, like it was some sort of hilarious joke. Look at the two crackheads, Krista and Crystal. R. T. used to say they should start using meth instead of crack. Then they could say Krista and Crystal were doing crystal. Har-har, ain’t life just a barrel of jokes.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “A week ago, I guess? Maybe more?”

  “You reported her missing four days ago,” Martinez said.

  “Yeah, then I guess maybe it was more than that. Because she was missing for, like, four or five days before I reported it.”

  “Why did you wait so long?” Agent Gray asked.

  She could feel the ants crawling under her neck. She always did after a day without crack. The day before had been crap. Only one customer, just wanted a BJ, and he had stiffed her, given her only ten bucks when he was done. R. T. had said he’d chase the guy, get the missing money, but he never did. What was the point of having a pimp if he didn’t stick up for you when it mattered?

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “She’s been gone before. Krista was always disappearing. She had clients who’d pick her up for a day or two. Krista always got the classy clients.”

  Because Krista was good looking, unlike her. Her teeth were still good, and she wasn’t as skinny.

  “Do you know who those clients were?” the woman asked. What was her name? Zoe. She had freaky eyes. They burrowed into Crystal, digging up all her secrets. She looked away. God, she needed a rock.

  “No,” she said.

  “Who does?”

  “No one.” R. T. probably did, but he’d kill her if she gave them his name. “Any progress? On the case? Do you think you’ll find her?”

  Crystal knew the score. Girls like them, if they disappeared, they didn’t come back. Only Julia Roberts could disappear for a week and come back with a new wardrobe and a billionaire for a lover. A girl like Crystal, if she disappeared, you could be sure she was lying in a ditch somewhere.

  But not Krista. Crystal always assumed her friend wouldn’t go that way. Krista was almost like Julia Roberts, in a way. She had this glow, this . . . aura. Like she was meant for something else.

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news,” Martinez said. “Krista is dead.”

  The first thought that went through Crystal’s mind was the eighty dollars Krista had hidden from R. T. The eighty dollars Crystal had sworn she would never touch. It was the money Krista had saved to get out of Chicago for good. Her emergency fund. And it was Crystal’s now, and she could use it to buy four rocks . . . no, three rocks and a good breakfast and . . .

  At that point she burst into tears. The three strangers probably thought she was crying for her dead friend, but she wasn’t. She was crying for herself.

  The agent and the detective became restless. The hell with them both. But the woman, Zoe, crouched to look into Crystal’s eyes. Her intense gaze mesmerized Crystal, whose sobbing slowly faded into a whimper.

  “I’m sorry for your friend,” Zoe said. “It was a man who did it.”

  Crystal nodded. Of course it was.

  “We’re looking for him,” Zoe said. “We want to catch him before he hurts anyone else, and we could really use your help. But I need you to focus. Can you focus, Crystal?”

  Maybe the woman was from social services. She definitely reminded Crystal of a social worker she’d met once. She had the same look in her eyes, like she wanted to help but also knew there was no help for someone like Crystal. There was no pity there, no sadness or disgust. There was understanding.

  “Sure.” Crystal sniffed.

  “Was Krista doing crack too?” Zoe asked.

  Bam. The woman didn’t beat around the bush. Crystal didn’t ask her how she knew. Crack left its marks—though it wasn’t always obvious. Some were better at hiding it, but Crystal sure wasn’t.

  “Sometimes,” she said. “Not as much as I do.”

  “What was Krista like?”

  “She was . . . kind. Some of the whores on the street, they can get real mean, you know? But Krista was never like that. And she got along with almost everyone. Even most of the mean ones.”

  And R. T. didn’t beat her as much as he beats me.

  “Did Krista have a ring
?”

  “A what?” Crystal asked.

  “A silver ring. With a small ruby. It might have been fake.”

  Crystal snorted. “She would have pawned it a long time ago if she did. Or someone would have taken it.”

  “She probably got it very recently.”

  “No ring,” Crystal said.

  “How did Krista usually dress?” Zoe asked.

  “You ask the weirdest questions, lady. She dressed like a crack whore.”

  “Did she own a long-sleeved yellow shirt or a brown skirt?”

  “She would never wear a yellow shirt,” Crystal said. “She always said yellow wasn’t her color. And she didn’t own a brown skirt.”

  “Okay.” Zoe nodded. “Lieutenant Martinez? Do you want to ask any additional questions? Or maybe you, Agent?” She said agent like people usually said asshole. What was up with these two?

  “Yes,” Martinez said. “Who sells you the crack?”

  “I want to help, but I’m not telling you that.”

  “Even if it was the same man who killed her?”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Can you tell us about the last time you saw her?” Agent Gray said.

  “We were working in the street, and I went into the alley with a john,” Crystal said. “When I came back, she was gone.”

  “Did anyone see who she went with?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see any suspicious people that night?”

  She snorted. “The places I work in, everybody’s suspicious.”

  “Anyone that stood out?”

  “Yeah,” she suddenly recalled. “There was this really creepy dude in a banged-up car. Tried to get a bunch of us to go with him, but no one would.”

  “How did he look?” Tatum asked.

  “Tats all over him. Face, arms, neck,” Crystal said, thinking back to that night. “And he talked funny. Like, a real high voice.”

  “Do you know the type of car?” Martinez asked.

  “I don’t know. But it was blue. The color was peeling off.”

  “Did he try to get Krista to come with him?” Agent Gray asked.

  “Yeah, but she’d never get into a ride like that.”