by Mike Omer
There was a roadblock up ahead. A cop signaled the vehicles to stop, checking each one closely. He stopped the van, frantically looking around. Saw the alley.
There really was only one course of action.
CHAPTER 35
The rain spattered on Officer Mikey Calhoun’s yellow raincoat, trickling down his neck onto his back. By that point, the raincoat was a sham, a nylon wrapping just as effective at trapping water inside as it was at keeping it out. When he had left for work that morning, rain had seemed unlikely, and anyway, he was supposed to be in a car. The future had seemed reasonably dry. But here he was. He had water in places he couldn’t even speak about in public. They were getting intimate, the rain and him. Much more intimate than Mikey and his current girlfriend were lately.
The cars were honking incessantly. He got it. People didn’t like to be held up. They didn’t like traffic jams, and they definitely didn’t like roadblocks. He didn’t either, okay? When he took his daughter to school, he wasn’t happy if he suddenly ran into road construction or a holdup because of an accident. But he knew this was part of living in a big city—not just the job opportunities and the bars and the well-maintained roads. You sometimes got roadblocks. And if you did, the best thing you could do was be a good sport about it and stop that damn honking. Let’s consider for a moment that the interior of a car was dry, right? Much drier than Officer Mikey Calhoun, thank you very much. They even had wipers for their windows, didn’t they? All Mikey had was a hand, as wet as the rest of him, with which he could occasionally wipe his face.
He motioned for the next vehicle to come forward. The traffic moved at the pace of an undernourished snail. The vehicle inched slowly forward, stopping next to him. A dark Nissan van. One driver, no passengers. That meant, according to the instructions Mikey had been given, that this was someone he had to check carefully.
“Hello, sir,” he said. “Where are you going?”
“Driving home, Officer,” the man said. He gave a civilized smile, which Mikey interpreted as understanding. This guy realized Mikey was just doing his job. Maybe he was even sympathetic to Mikey’s predicament, standing outside in this weather.
“Yeah?” Mikey ran his flashlight over the floor of the van. It was spotlessly clean. Mikey avoided turning his light on the man. If people gave him some lip or were impolite, Mikey would aim the beam at their eyes. Sure, it was a bit petty, but at times, pettiness was all Mikey had.
“Would you mind opening the back of the van for me?”
“Why?” the man asked.
“Because I want to look inside.”
“Don’t you need a warrant for that?”
He did. Unless he had probable cause to believe this man had committed a crime. Which he didn’t. Mikey contemplated turning the light on the man. Was he giving him lip? But he just sounded matter-of-fact. A man concerned about his own privacy.
“I need to check your car, sir.”
“The thing is, my van is a bit of a mess.”
“Open the back, please, sir.”
If he wouldn’t, Mikey would tell him to step out of the car. He didn’t really want to do that. It would just hold up traffic even more. And the honking would get louder. But this was his job. He took pride in it.
The man hesitated for another second, and Mikey began to wonder if he had a reason to hesitate. Was this the man they were looking for? His flashlight turned toward the man, the beam of light illuminating his clothes. His shirt was stained with barbecue sauce or something. Mikey moved the light upward to the man’s face . . .
“Okay, Officer, it’s open. I’m really sorry for the mess.”
Mikey went over to the back, keeping an eye on the driver, who sat, both hands on the wheel, like he should. Mikey pulled the door open and cast the flashlight’s beam on the cargo area. It wasn’t that messy. Just a couple of plastic containers. One of them was on its side, and it seemed to have spilled on the cargo area’s bottom, leaving a large dark stain. Mikey shut the door and went over to the man.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Say, what’s this all about?”
“Just routine, sir.”
“Routine? You have the entire neighborhood blocked off. My girlfriend lives back there. Should I be concerned?”
Mikey sighed. The car behind this one honked. He felt very wet. “I’d tell her to stay inside tonight, sir. There’s a dangerous person on the loose. Now, please drive—you’re holding up traffic.”
The car drove off, and Mikey shook his head at the honking car behind them. That one looked angry and agitated. He would get the “light on face” treatment for sure.
CHAPTER 36
Just before midnight, Martinez answered a phone call. As he spoke, mostly in monosyllables, Zoe perceived his shoulder slumping, the hand holding the phone loosening, the color slowly draining from his face. Finally, he turned around, the phone still held in his hand, not bothering to return it to its cradle.
“The body of Lily Ramos was just found in an alley south of Chicago Avenue,” he said listlessly. “The ME is on the scene, and he hasn’t said anything definite yet, but her throat was slashed, and the body is drenched in blood, so I’d say that sounds like a cause of death.”
There was a long silence as the task force digested the information. The rest of the detectives had been summoned back and were all in the room.
“Are we sure it’s Lily?” Scott asked.
Zoe noticed how he asked if it was Lily. Not Lily Ramos. Not Ramos. In the past few hours, as they all did their best to find her and save her, the investigators in the task force and Lily had become close.
“She fits the description we have. Specifically, she has a tattoo of a black cat on her lower back just like Lily did.”
A tattoo. But hidden from sight. It still matched her assumptions. Zoe felt no sense of victory, only emptiness.
“Is she embalmed?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Martinez said shortly. “I’m going to the crime scene right now. Mel, I want you to come with me. Agent Gray, Dr. Bentley, if you want, you can ride with us too. Scott, I want you here talking to dispatch. I’ll get approval from the captain to keep the roadblocks and the helicopter up for half an hour more, so I want you to be our man in the situation room. I want the rest of you following in separate vehicles. This murder is fresh, meaning that the leads are fresh. We will probably split after reviewing the crime scene and start working those new leads.”
New leads. Fresh scene. On paper, the case had just received a considerable windfall. They’d have additional data to analyze. They knew the exact street where the killer had held . . . and probably killed the victim. The killer would be spooked, would be prone to make mistakes.
But just hours ago they had the victim alive, on the phone. Had been closing in on her location. If they had been faster, smarter, better, she would have survived. Perhaps they would have even had the killer behind bars.
They were one step closer to catching the killer. But the cost was too terrible.
The mood in the car was grim. Martinez and Mel sat in front, Tatum and Zoe in the backseat. Zoe thought about Lily. She had heard what were probably Lily’s last sounds. Trying desperately to save herself. Zoe knew very well how it felt to fear for your own life, to have a predator in the next room.
To know that help might be on its way . . . but probably not.
Zoe, open the door. Can’t stay in there forever, Zoe.
She shivered.
“Are you okay?” Tatum asked. There was something soft in his eyes she hadn’t seen before. Or maybe she was just looking for something she needed.
“Yeah,” she said. “Just some unpleasant memories.”
CHAPTER 37
Maynard, Massachusetts, Monday, December 15, 1997
The sound of her alarm clock buzzing made Zoe jump in her bed. Her heart beat wildly, and she looked around her in confusion, getting her bearings. She had given up on falling asleep altogether the night before,
but apparently, just before dawn, sleep had finally caught up with her.
Andrea was already gone, which was strange. Andrea usually didn’t get out of bed on school mornings before their mother physically pulled her out. But mom hadn’t woken Zoe up. Why?
She got up and waited for a moment as a spell of dizziness hit her. She had slept no more than an hour the night before. Once she felt steady enough, she plodded to the kitchen, where Andrea was prattling, an untouched cereal bowl in front of her. Their mother was at the counter, staring at two slices of dry toast that had popped out of the toaster.
“Mom? Why didn’t you wake me up?” Zoe asked.
“She said you need to sleep,” Andrea squeaked. “And I wanted to sleep too, but she said that I have to wake up, which isn’t fair because I’m also tired—”
Her mother turned around, and Zoe saw the exhaustion on her face. She hadn’t slept well either, it seemed. “Andrea, eat your cereal already. We’re going to be late. Zoe, I thought you might like to stay home today,” she said, trying to insert a fake cheerful tone to her voice.
Zoe thought of her meltdown the day before. “Okay, yeah,” she said hesitantly. “Mom, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“What is it?” Her mother began smearing cream cheese on the toast in angry, sharp strokes.
“Uh . . . can we talk somewhere else?” She glanced pointedly at Andrea.
Her mom glanced at her watch. “I have to go, Zoe. And I think you really should get back to bed. I heard you moving around in your room all night. Let’s talk in the evening.”
“Mom, it’s important.” She lowered her voice. “It’s about the girls who were—”
Her mother’s eyes widened, and she gripped Zoe’s arm tightly. She dragged her out of the kitchen.
“Where are you going?” Andrea piped.
“I’ll be back in a minute, sweetie,” their mother said. “Eat your cereal.”
“I don’t want to be alone.”
“Andrea, I’ll be right back. And you’re not alone. We’re in the next room.”
Once they were reasonably out of earshot, her mother hissed, “I asked you not to talk about it in front of Andrea.”
“That’s why I said we should talk somewhere private,” Zoe answered, exasperated. “Listen, I had some thoughts last night. About the killings.”
“Honey, it’s perfectly natural to—”
“Mom, listen for a second.”
Her mother became silent. Zoe tried to organize her speech, the thoughts jumbled in her head. Everything had seemed so sharp during the night, but now it just felt like a hazy clutter of half-formed ideas.
“I think I know who the killer might be,” she said in a shaking voice.
Her mother’s eyes widened, but she said nothing.
“A few weeks ago, after Jackie . . . died, I went to Durant Pond.”
“What?” Her mother’s voice came out sharp, furious. “Why did you go there? Did you go with friends? I told you—”
“I went alone, Mom, on my bike. For just a few minutes.”
“Why? Do you want to die like . . . like . . .” Her mother’s lips quivered.
“Mom, listen. I saw Rod Glover there.”
And then she realized that to fully explain to her mother what she was talking about, she’d have to tell her about serial killers masturbating at the crime scene. No. There was no way.
“He was. I mean . . . did you know that serial killers sometimes return to the scene of the crime?” she asked helplessly.
“You think that Rod Glover is the killer?” Her mother stared at her. “Because you saw him at the pond? Zoe, hundreds of people—”
“There’s more,” Zoe hurriedly said. “There’s a checklist for psychopathy. I learned about it . . . in school. And Rod matches some of those traits.”
Her mom straightened. Zoe knew she was losing her. “Like what?”
“Like . . . superficial charm and . . .” She tried to remember the list, but her mind was fuzzy, and she felt panic rising. “He’s weird. I heard you say that to Dad once. You know that he’s weird, right? And he was at the pond. He was . . . he was . . . he told me about a fire, and I think he was lying and—”
“Who are you talking about?” Andrea asked from the kitchen’s doorway.
“No one,” her mother said quickly, her voice strained. “Did you finish your cereal?”
“Not all of it. Some of it is squishy.”
“Okay, go brush your teeth. We need to go.”
Andrea bounced to the bathroom, and their mother turned back to Zoe.
“Listen,” she said quietly. “I understand. Your friend’s sister died, and you’re hurt. We’ll find someone for you to talk to—”
“Mom. It’s not that. She wasn’t even really my friend.”
“But until then”—her mom raised her voice, ignoring the interruption—“I want you to rest, and don’t you dare go anywhere alone. There’s a killer out there, Zoe. Do you understand? He kills young girls like you, and he . . . he . . . rapes them first. I know you think that it can never happen to you, but it can. You can never go anywhere alone until they catch him. Do you get that?”
“But . . . will you tell anyone about Rod Glover?”
“Honey, Rod Glover is a nice man. He’s a bit strange, that’s true, but that doesn’t turn him into a monster.”
“The killer isn’t a monster, Mom. He’s a—”
“Yes, he is,” her mother whispered ferociously. “He’s a monster.”
The spare key to Mr. Glover’s front door turned in the lock smoothly. Her parents and Glover had exchanged keys a year before, in case of an emergency. At the time, it had seemed like a smart move. Glover could drop by and check if her mother left the stove on, a concern that had driven her to return home early on more than one occasion. But now the thought of Rod Glover having a key to her home gave her chills.
She locked the door behind her, shoving the key into her pocket. Glover was at work—it was a Monday morning—but it made her feel slightly better.
She had been to his house once, on an errand from her mother to retrieve a long-borrowed blender, so she knew the kitchen and the living room. She decided in advance she would ignore those rooms and focus on his bedroom. The bedroom door was closed, and for a moment, she hesitated. What if he was sick and had stayed home?
But no, she hadn’t seen his car parked out front. She twisted the door handle and pushed the door open.
His bedroom was dark and had a sweaty, unpleasant smell to it. The window was covered with a purple cloth, not really a drape, more like something he’d just hung on top of it. She switched on the light and looked at the door, hesitating. Should she close it? She wouldn’t be able to hear if he came in. She decided to leave it open.
It was a small bedroom, the double bed taking up most of the space. It was a mess, bedsheets crumpled, the pillow on the floor next to it. A nightstand stood beside the bed, and a wooden dresser was against the wall. There were a few books and magazines in a pile on the nightstand.
She stood in the entrance, wondering what had driven her here. What did she expect to find? Something to convince her mother? Or perhaps something to make her realize that her suspicions were unfounded? She bit her lip and approached the nightstand, her hand touching the top book in the pile. It was a Batman comic book. She moved it aside to uncover an issue of Hustler. Uncomfortable, she shifted it aside. There was another issue. Then two more superhero comics and a book by John Grisham.
She piled the magazines and the book as they had been before. Not the most wholesome reading material, but probably not so different from what other men had in their homes.
She opened the top dresser drawer, finding shirts and pants thrown together in disarray. She looked through them carefully but could see nothing interesting. The second drawer contained underpants and socks.
The third drawer was a different story.
Her first impression was that it was just
brimming with porn. There were numerous issues of Hustler but also other magazines she wasn’t familiar with. Some of them displayed women tied up in various poses, half-dressed or nude. Zoe had seen porn before, both in magazines and on TV. She and Heather had once found a videotape that her dad kept in the garage and had watched it for ten minutes, giggling hysterically. But this was more than she had ever seen, and the images depicted made her sick. There were several videocassettes as well, the handwritten labels in large, uneven letters with annotations like “Tied Up” or “Flogging and Whips.” Did Glover buy these somehow? Had he recorded them, and if so, when and where?
Aside from the porn, there were at least ten ties in the drawer. Just bland gray ties that Glover probably wore for his job. Why didn’t he keep the ties in the drawer with his socks and underwear? There was plenty of room there. Did he enjoy looking at his porn hoard every morning when he put his tie on?
Part of the drawer was empty, and there was a square-shaped vacancy in the thin layer of dust that had accumulated in the drawer’s bottom. Something was missing. Perhaps the magazines on the nightstand? But they weren’t quite the right shape. She shut the drawer.
Where else could she look? She glanced under the bed. There were some clothes discarded there. Apparently that was where Glover kept his dirty laundry. She was about to stand up when something caught her eye: a smear of something brownish gray on a pair of pants. Hesitant, she pulled the pants from under the bed.
They were a pair of blue jeans, and the bottoms of the pant legs were slightly muddy. She thought about the location where they had found Clara. Another spot on the Assabet River. Clara, like the previous victims, had been half-submerged in water.
How did these jeans get mud on them?
She began pulling out more clothes from under the bed. Some shirts, another pair of pants, none of them muddy. And then her fingers touched something that felt crusty with mud. She pulled it out. A sock, stiff with dry muck.