by Mike Omer
“My penis, Tatum. My penis is in my lap,” Marvin clarified. “I’m not letting that thing near my penis. You get your serial killer and come back here, because this cat is getting out of hand.”
“Working on it. Did you talk to Dr. Nassar about the pills?”
“Not yet, Tatum. He’s a very busy man.”
“Call him first thing tomorrow morning, or I swear to God, I—”
There was a sound of a door banging open, and the music volume intensified.
“Marvin, are you coming?” Tatum heard a woman shout over the music. “The booze is here!”
There was a sudden crash in the background and a feminine cry of dismay.
“Marvin,” Tatum said. “Don’t ruin my house.”
“It’s the cat, Tatum. Everything is the cat’s fault. I gotta go.” The line went dead.
Tatum’s hand went slack, the phone nearly dropping to the floor. Next time he would hire someone to babysit Marvin and Freckle. The ongoing destruction of his home was only half of his worries. Marvin, despite his behavior, was not seventeen years old. What if the old man had a heart attack? God knew that with the amount of alcohol he drank and the weed he smoked, it wasn’t a far-fetched idea. He needed someone around to watch over him.
Tatum needed a drink. There was a nice-looking pub just on the other side of the road, a place called Kyle’s.
He shoved his wallet into his pocket and holstered his gun on his hip. Then he left the motel and crossed the street to Kyle’s. On his way, he looked around him, soaking in the atmosphere. Damn, he missed the feeling of a real city. LA had been his home for the past ten years. At first, having grown up in Wickenburg, Arizona, a town where you knew almost everyone by sight, he had found LA to be loud and oppressive. His senses were constantly under attack—too many lights, too many people, too many smells, and way too many sounds. But slowly the place had grown on him. He had begun to enjoy the feeling of the constant vibrating life around him. And then, due to one small misunderstanding between him and his superiors, followed by about fifty similar misunderstandings, he found himself living in Dale City, Virginia. Hardly a place of endless thrills.
Chicago was not LA, but it was a place where he could once again feel the excitement of being in a place where things happened. A group of women passed him by, laughing hysterically as one of them blew him a kiss. Three men went past him, all looking at their phones in concentration. A taxi driver stopped, asking if he needed a ride. Movement. Life.
He reached Kyle’s and opened the door, welcomed by a Leonard Cohen song, which instantly made him like the place.
“Hey.” The hostess smiled at him, a cute redhead, looking fresh out of high school. “Joining a table?”
“Uh . . . no. I’m on my own.”
“Well, we’re quite full tonight,” she said apologetically. “We have a few spots on the bar, but—”
“The bar’s fine,” he said.
Hesitantly, she led him to the bar, and he was immediately struck by something strange. The place was packed, but there were four empty stools on the bar, two on each side of a woman sitting with her back to him.
“I’m sorry,” the hostess said. “We’ll tell her to clear the photos again. She’s making everyone uncomfortable.”
“It’s okay.” Tatum grinned at the hostess. “I can handle it.”
He sat on a barstool and glanced at the woman. Zoe, of course. She stared intently at a row of photographs she had spread on the bar top. The images were from the three crime scenes, as well as close-up images taken during the autopsy. No wonder the people around her had fled. The barman approached him.
“A pint of Honker’s Ale, please,” Tatum said.
The barman nodded. “If you can get her to put those away, the beer’s on the house,” he said.
“I don’t think I can get her to do anything,” Tatum answered truthfully.
The barman poured him a pint and walked away, trying to avoid looking at the pictures.
“You’re making everyone uncomfortable,” Tatum said.
“Can’t be helped. I can’t concentrate in my own room. There’s a couple screwing next door.”
“They’re bound to stop eventually,” Tatum said.
“You’d think so, right?”
Tatum sipped from his mug, relishing the taste. Sometimes nothing was as good as beer. “Any thoughts about the case?”
Zoe shook her head, frustrated. “I don’t get what he’s doing,” she said, pointing emphatically at the pictures. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s playing with them like a child plays with dolls. Dress them up, pose them, move them from place to place . . .”
“And that’s impossible? This isn’t a normal person.”
“No, he isn’t,” Zoe said. “But he isn’t completely delusional, either. This is him living out his fantasy. But I doubt his fantasy is to play with human-sized dolls.”
“How do you know he doesn’t hear voices telling him to do it?”
“Whoever did this is cold, calculated, calm. Anyone under delusions such as you describe would be prone to impulsiveness, acting out his delusions at the spur of the moment. He isn’t impulsive . . . well, mostly not impulsive, at least.”
“Mostly?” Tatum asked.
“The bodies have signs of sexual intercourse postmortem,” Zoe said. “That happened before the embalming. I think this was just him acting out an impulse craving. I don’t think any of those sexual acts were planned beforehand.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The bodies have almost no bruising, despite the fact that they’d been strangled to death and some of them bound before,” she said. “It makes sense. Any bruise wouldn’t heal after embalming. But the sexual intercourse is rough, violent. He lost control when it happened.”
Tatum took another sip. It wasn’t as enjoyable as the first. Zoe had managed to ruin beer.
“Listen,” he said. “You’re in a pub. Put those things away, okay? I’ll buy you any kind of drink you want.”
She pursed her lips.
“I’ll talk with you about the case tomorrow morning. We’ll think about it together.”
“You mean you’ll come up with a theory, then discount mine and tell me I’m just inventing it to get a paycheck?”
“It was a rotten thing to say. I’m sorry.”
“You said I’m like Bernstein.”
“You said I have bed-wetting issues.”
A glimmer of a smile. Slowly and carefully, she collected all the images, put them back into the folder, and put it in her bag. The barman sent him a grateful look.
“Give her another . . . whatever it is she’s having.”
Zoe shook her head, pushing her empty glass away. “That was soda. I’ll have a pint of beer now, please. Do you have Guinness?”
The barman nodded and turned to the beer taps.
Tatum raised his mug to his lips, enjoying his small victory. He used to be really good with people once, before . . . well, before Paige had left him bitter and confused. It was nice to see he could still make a woman smile.
“So,” he said. “Where do you live? I mean back in Virginia.”
“Dale City.”
“Really? I just moved there.”
She nodded. She didn’t seem to be blown away by the coincidence.
“Do you have anyone waiting for you in Dale City?” Tatum asked.
“Why do you care?”
“Just making conversation.” Tatum shrugged. “You don’t have to play along. We can sit here and drink in silence.”
Zoe seemed to be weighing the options. “My sister,” she finally said.
“You told me about her. I mean besides her.”
“Oh, like a boyfriend? No.”
The barman put a tall glass full of foamy brown beer in front of Zoe, and she took a healthy swig from it.
“How about you?” she asked.
“Just my grandfather and my cat. Oh, and my fish. I completely forgot I
have a fish now.”
“But no wife or girlfriend?”
“Not anymore.”
She sipped from her beer, looking at him.
He exhaled loudly. “There was a girl. Back in LA. We nearly got married.”
“What happened?”
“She left. Halfway through planning the wedding, she packed up and left.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.”
“Your grandfather moved with you when you transferred to Quantico?”
“Yeah.” Tatum tried to figure out how to explain Marvin. “My grandma died last year, and he took it pretty hard, so he moved in with me back in LA. Just a week after Paige left me. Then when I told him I was going to Dale City, he informed me that he was doing the same.”
“Sounds nice to have a grandfather you’re so close with.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Tatum said. “He’s difficult to handle.”
“Yeah, aging people often are,” Zoe said, nodding. “They’re often entrenched in their own routine, so any diversion from it is very challenging for them.”
Tatum blinked, trying to think how well Marvin matched that depiction. Aside from the word challenging, probably not too much.
“Yeah, well, he and my grandma raised me as a child, so the least I can do is help him with his . . .”—Tatum cleared his throat—“routine.”
The background music changed, Nick Cave’s voice filling the bar. Tatum was really happy with this place.
CHAPTER 23
Tears rolled down the woman’s cheeks as he took a step back to look at his handiwork. He had tied her hands behind her back and then to a hook he had drilled into the wall. No more chairs that could be knocked over and broken. She sat on a thick blanket; he didn’t want her to scrape her skin on the rough cement floor. Her body shivered, probably a mix of fear and cold. She had taken off her shirt and skirt just before he had put the knife against her throat. He wondered if he should get her something to wear, then decided she’d be fine. It wasn’t chilly enough to give her actual frostbite, and the cold would probably make her weaker and more lethargic, which would only help when he had everything prepared.
He had discarded her handbag and clothing on the floor. Once he was done with her, he would burn them, as he always did. He now picked up her handbag and rummaged in it, until his fingers brushed against her phone. He took it out and turned it off. In one of the previous attempts, the woman’s phone had rung just as he had been about to start the embalming process. It had scared him half to death. He slid her turned-off phone into his pocket and tossed the handbag on the floor by the clothing.
He walked away and shut the door behind him, ignoring her muffled protests. He had work to do, and the sooner he was done, the sooner she’d be quiet.
He felt giddy with excitement. She was absolutely perfect. A dream girl, one he’d never thought he’d be able to find on the streets. It almost felt like fate.
This made him hesitate before mixing the embalming fluid. He had very little formaldehyde left after the last one. It was enough for what he had originally intended . . . but was it enough for her?
It was a delicate balance. Too much formaldehyde and her body would become rigid, impossible to handle. But too little and she’d begin to decay in a few years.
He wanted to spend the rest of his days with her. Could he really afford to skimp on formaldehyde? Wouldn’t a little rigidity be worth ten more years in her company?
He smiled to himself, imagining getting old with her by his side. Spending the cold winters cuddled on the couch, covered in a blanket, watching TV together. Lying in bed, her head leaning against his chest, a book in her hand as he hugged her waist. Sitting by the dinner table, telling her about his day as she listened with adoring affection. He was surprised to realize that he had a tear in his eye. He was so happy.
He definitely needed to get some more formaldehyde.
He glanced at his watch. Too late to do it this evening. He would have to get some tomorrow.
A twinge of impatience nearly made him change his mind. He glanced at the noose on the table, imagined it tightening around her throat. The final spasm as life fled her body. He felt the tightening in his pants as he thought of her inert body, at his mercy. He turned back to the formaldehyde bottle. Surely it was enough. He picked up the bottle, his hand trembling with excitement.
No. He would spend the next few decades with this woman. He could wait another day. He put the bottle down, taking a deep breath. Tomorrow. He would do it tomorrow.
He thought of opening the door and apologizing for the delay, but he doubted she’d be very understanding. None of them were, before the procedure.
Instead, he left the workshop, locking the door behind him. He was glad to notice that her faint screams couldn’t be heard at all beyond the walls.
CHAPTER 24
Maynard, Massachusetts, Sunday, December 14, 1997
Zoe stared at the open coffin, trying to feel what she was probably supposed to. Grief, horror, fear.
All she felt was emptiness and regret for not going to the bathroom earlier.
When the principal had walked into class two days before, informing them that Nora’s big sister, Clara, had been killed, Zoe heard the kids around her sobbing, screaming, whispering in shock. She could only gaze at the principal’s red eyes, thinking she had never seen him cry before.
Nora was her age, was in most of her classes. Zoe had been to her house three times when she was much younger. They had been friends when they were six years old. She had hazy memories of Clara, then a beautiful ten-year-old girl whom Nora had idolized.
Zoe was worried about her own reaction. She had been borrowing books about serial killers lately and reading a lot about psychopaths. People who had no empathy for other human beings. There were a surprising number of psychopaths. One percent of the general population. Was she a psychopath? Was that why she couldn’t feel anything for Clara? Was that why she hadn’t shed a tear for Nora’s suffering? Her mother cried by her side, and she didn’t know Nora or Clara as well as Zoe did. The chapel was full of people crying, their sobs echoing in the spacious hall. Zoe tried to make herself cry, tried to think how Nora felt right then. Clara, her only sister, taken by the Maynard serial killer. Raped and killed, discarded like trash in the Assabet River.
Nothing.
The school counselor had told them that all reactions were normal, that people experienced grief in different ways. But surely she didn’t mean not having any reaction at all. That was not normal. And obsessing about a murderer, collecting all the articles that mentioned him—that wasn’t normal either; she was certain of it.
When it was time, she made herself approach the coffin, look at Clara’s face. Only four years older than her, killed brutally.
Clara didn’t look like someone who had been killed brutally. She looked as if she were asleep.
Zoe turned away, facing a crowd of teary eyes, searching for anyone who, like her, felt absolutely nothing. Some small kids seemed quite calm. They couldn’t understand what was going on. But every adult face Zoe glanced at was full of tears or seemed as if it were on the brink.
She started heading outside. Her mother followed her, stroking her hair.
A small hand grabbed her own. She looked down at Andrea, who walked by her side, her face serious. Did Andrea know what was going on? She was sleeping in Zoe’s bed every night now. She knew something was very wrong.
The world was white, snow carpeting the chapel’s yard, covering the trees, the grass, a thin layer of snow on the low wall that stood between the yard and the street. She followed her parents to the car, everyone completely silent. Got into the car. Heard the engine start, its sound strangely muffled. She felt lightheaded, almost somewhere else.
No tears in her. No empathy. Just like the killer.
Andrea laid her head against Zoe’s arm as they rode home. She played with Zoe’s fingers, like she sometimes did at night, caressing Z
oe’s thumb over and over. Zoe said nothing, even though it tickled.
The car ride was quick, like every ride inside the tiny town. When they reached home and got out, Zoe couldn’t figure out why the world kept tilting.
And then she was kneeling on the ground, throwing up her breakfast, her heart beating fast. Her mother pulled back her hair, talking, but she couldn’t understand the words. They seemed to blend into each other, and she was coughing and spitting, looking at the lumpy yellow sludge spattered on the snow, trembling violently.
Zoe checked the time again. It was seventeen past two in the morning, and she suspected sleep would not come, ever. Andrea was curled by her side, the blanket covering her up to her neck, a loose strand of hair dangling on her cheek. Zoe had gotten used to sleeping on half a bed. She hardly minded it anymore.
She had cried. Couldn’t stop, in fact. She’d shivered and cried for over an hour, her mom hugging her and caressing her and trying to find the words that would make it stop. Finally, Zoe had stumbled into her room and crashed on the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to empty her mind of the horrific images that kept assaulting her. The rest of the day had been a haze. She wouldn’t talk to anyone, just wanted to be alone. Except for Andrea. She hadn’t said anything when Andrea had walked into her room and plopped on the floor. It had been a slight relief.
And now she just wished she could finally sleep. She was exhausted.
Finally, she sighed, turning on the night-light. Andrea tensed and then rolled over, facing away from the light. Zoe picked up the book she had hidden under the bed, the one she had borrowed from the library. Whoever Fights Monsters, by Robert K. Ressler. It was the fifth book she had borrowed about serial killers, but it was the first one written by an FBI profiler. She hadn’t even known the profession existed.
The more she read, the more things began falling into place. Maynard was far from the only place struck by a serial killer. And these killers, as monstrous as they were, could be explained. Ressler kept stressing that the thing propelling most serial killers to act was a fantasy. It would grow, becoming more powerful and detailed, taking over the killer’s thoughts until he tried to fulfill it. That fulfillment would satisfy the killer for a certain period of time, until he felt the need to kill again.