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

by Mike Omer

  “I can think of other brown substances that might soil a pair of underwear.”

  Tears threatened. No. Not now. He’d never take her seriously if she began crying now. “His socks—”

  “Were wet, yes. He definitely sounds like a slob. Listen, Zoe, I get that you’re afraid. The entire town is afraid. But if you let us do our job—”

  “I want you to do your job,” she yelled, her voice breaking. She was coming apart. The tears sprang from her eyes, her voice becoming wobbly. “Just check him out! I’m telling you, he’s the guy. Maybe I’m wrong, but shouldn’t you at least check it out?”

  He looked at her thoughtfully, as if considering what she’d told him. “Did you say Glover?” he finally asked.

  “Yeah.” She wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

  “Hang on,” he said and stood up, groaning. He went over to a file cabinet, opened the top drawer, and thumbed through it a bit, then finally pulled out a sheaf of papers. He looked through the pages, one after the other, and then back at her.

  “Rod Glover?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Yeah. He’s definitely not the guy.”

  Her heart sank. “How do you know?”

  “Because he had seventy-eight people who were with him at the time that poor Clara was murdered. I was with them too.”

  “Seventy-eight people?” Zoe had no idea what he was talking about.

  “There was a search party when Clara disappeared, kid. Rod Glover is on the list. The time of the search corresponds with the time of death. That means he has an alibi.” He spoke very slowly, as if making sure she understood what he meant. “I’m telling you this so you don’t keep telling people your neighbor is a serial killer. We don’t need that kind of thing right now, okay?”

  “M . . . maybe he just told you he was joining the search party and then—”

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

  Her face flushed, her mouth twisting in humiliation. She felt like dying.

  “You’re Clive Bentley’s kid, right?” Shepherd said.

  “Y . . . yeah.”

  “I think it’s time I take you home.”

  The five-minute ride in the police car was the worst ride Zoe had ever had. She kept feeling like she had to throw up but quickly realized she couldn’t open the window or the door in the back of the squad car. She trembled and sobbed, hugging herself. She was cold, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask Officer Shepherd to turn up the heat. Everything felt wrong. Had she been wrong to blame Glover? She had been so absolutely certain when she’d walked into the police station, but hearing Shepherd state the facts so dryly had pulled the rug out from under her feet. A series of theories and facts that fit so perfectly in her mind but made such an incomplete puzzle.

  Maybe Glover told her tall tales, but she used to think it was ridiculous or funny or both. When had it become so sinister? Why had she been so quick to staple the word psychopath to him? So he had a shoebox with some feminine underwear and a bracelet. Maybe it was something he kept from an ex-girlfriend, something to remember her by. And porn? A lot of people had porn in their homes. Wasn’t it an incredibly prosperous industry?

  Was she simply obsessing about those murders so much that she had to blame someone? Was she the freak?

  At other moments, she thought of the way Glover had looked at her just after she’d left his house. Or how weird the porn in his room seemed. Or of the other pair of underwear, the one that had mud on it. And she had a feeling that maybe she was right. Glover had somehow tricked the police into thinking he had an alibi and then killed Clara. It couldn’t have been that complicated to sneak away during the search, kill her and dump the body, and come back.

  Finally, Shepherd parked the car. Zoe’s hopes that maybe he would just drop her off were shattered as she saw her father opening the door to their home. He crossed his arms and looked severely at the car. Shepherd had probably let him know they were coming. He had called him back from work.

  The portly officer got out of the car and opened the back door. She got out, feeling the tears rise up again as the fear and humiliation hit her. Their neighbor Mrs. Ambrose peeked outside her bedroom window. By that time tomorrow, the whole town would know Zoe Bentley had been brought home in a police car.

  She walked slowly to the doorway, preferring the biting cold outside to whatever waited for her inside.

  “Zoe,” her father said as she got to the door. “Wait for me in your room.” His tone was furious; the words practically shook as he spoke them. She couldn’t recall him ever being so angry at her.

  She walked to her room slowly, pushing the door open, closing it behind her, throwing herself on the bed.

  She cried into her pillow, letting go of everything she had managed to hold inside. It suddenly all seemed so dumb. Zoe Bentley, playing Nancy Drew games. Stupid, stupid.

  Finally, she seemed to run out of tears. Her father still hadn’t come for her, and she decided to look for him. Waiting was worse than the actual lecture and inevitable grounding that would follow.

  She opened the door and heard Shepherd’s voice. He still hadn’t left. He and her father were talking in the kitchen. Walking softly, she approached the kitchen and listened.

  “And her mother is sedated because she tried to kill herself,” her dad was saying.

  “I heard,” Shepherd said. “I’m glad you two are helping them out.”

  “You know, Zoe used to be a good friend of Nora’s, her sister.”

  “I didn’t know that. It explains her behavior.”

  “Yeah, I’m really sorry.”

  “There’s really no need to apologize so much, Clive. This is the third time this week we’ve gotten a bogus report for suspicious activity. People are on edge. Your daughter is just scared. Everyone is.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I hope it’ll all be over soon.”

  “Why?” Her father sounded suddenly alert. “Do you have a suspect?”

  “I can’t really talk about it.”

  “Come on, Will. It would really help if I could tell Zoe you’ve arrested someone for—”

  “Don’t tell her that. We haven’t arrested anyone. But we . . . we think we know who it was. Chase figured it out.”

  “Who?”

  “Look, I can’t give you the name, Clive. You know that.”

  “Will, we’ve known each other for a long time. You can trust me. I just need to put my daughter’s mind at ease.”

  There was a moment of intense silence. Was Shepherd whispering the name in her father’s ear? She crept as close as she could without giving her position away.

  “Okay. But you can’t tell anyone about this; it would screw us all. Our suspect is Manny Anderson.”

  Zoe held her breath. She knew Manny Anderson. He was a high school senior. He often sat in the town’s library, reading by himself. Zoe had seen him several times lately when she’d borrowed books for her own research.

  “Gwen and Pete’s kid? No!”

  “It turns out he was known to follow Beth Hartley around before he . . . before she was killed. And a student testified he heard Manny ask Clara out once. And you know the really weird thing?”

  “What?” her dad whispered.

  “You know how all the girls were found, right? Naked, strangled to death with a gray tie that was left around their throat?”

  Zoe’s eyes widened. She hadn’t heard this detail until now.

  “Right,” her dad said.

  “Pete Anderson wears gray ties to work. Every damn day. We think Manny is using his ties to kill the girls.”

  Gray ties. Zoe had to stop herself from barging into the kitchen, screaming. The one detail she hadn’t mentioned when she had talked to Shepherd in the police station. Glover had a bunch of gray ties in his porn drawer.

  How would it sound if she stepped in now? It would sound like she was using this detail to get herself off the hook. After eavesdropping on their co
nversation. Again, they wouldn’t believe her. And she’d only make things worse for herself.

  Was it just another coincidence?

  Could she keep it to herself? Tell no one?

  “That’s . . . terrible,” her dad said.

  “Manny Anderson was always a weird kid. Keeps to himself. Doesn’t have a lot of friends. One of those quiet types, you know?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But his teacher told me he draws some really weird cartoons in his notebooks, and he plays Dungeons and Dragons with his friends almost every weekend. Never had a girlfriend . . . I don’t know. It all adds up.”

  Zoe was suddenly furious. It added up to nothing. Weird cartoons? Dungeons and Dragons? Shepherd’s reasoning was infinitely weaker than her own. Essentially, the police had done what they’d accused her of. They had searched for a suspect, and once they saw someone who more or less fit, they began tying the case to him.

  They were wrong, and she was right. And they wouldn’t listen to her because she was just a hysterical fourteen-year-old girl.

  “But, Dad, listen.” Zoe was desperate to convince him, but it was like trying to discuss things with an angry brick wall.

  “No, Zoe, I don’t want to hear anything more about this. Do you realize Rod could sue if he found out you’re spreading these lies about him?”

  “I’m not spreading lies. I just told the police what I—”

  “Not to mention the fact that you broke into his house.”

  They had gone over this three times, and every time it came back to the fact that she had broken into Glover’s house.

  “I know, but he had gray ties in his—”

  “Enough!”

  His angry bark shocked her into silence. His face was nearly crimson, and his palms were shaking.

  “Rod Glover is our neighbor,” he said, his voice strained and clipped. “You can’t go accusing people of horrible things without consequence. We know he has an alibi for the time Clara was killed—”

  “But, Dad, we don’t know he really was in the search party. Maybe he joined and then—”

  “I was in the search party. I saw Rod several times.”

  Her entire resolve deflated. It was true, then. Rod Glover hadn’t killed Clara. She had accused him for no reason.

  “Breaking into our neighbor’s house.” He raised a finger, starting to count her misdeeds. “Going to the police, accusing him for no good reason. Going to Durant Pond on your own.”

  They both stared at his three raised fingers.

  “Mom and I are going to a town meeting,” he said. “There’s going to be a discussion about the murders and the emergency measures that the community will take until the killer is behind bars. You stay here with Andrea. And tomorrow, we will talk about your punishment. At length.”

  She sat on her bed, staring at the floor as he left the room. She heard him and her mother saying goodbye to Andrea, and then the front door opened and closed. The lock clicked, and they were gone.

  Andrea walked into the room and climbed into Zoe’s bed. Zoe lay down and blinked away the looming tears. She should have let the police do their job. The killer probably was Manny Anderson. His romantic interest in both Clara and Beth was quite suspicious. And he had easy access to the murder weapon.

  Strangled with a gray tie.

  She shivered, trying to banish the images that popped into her mind.

  “Zoe, are Daddy and Mommy angry at you?” Andrea asked.

  “Even worse,” Zoe said. “They’re disappointed.”

  “That’s not worse.”

  “It kinda is.”

  “Why are they angry?”

  “Because I . . . said some things that weren’t true.”

  Andrea’s eyes widened. “You lied?”

  “No. I was just wrong.”

  “Oh.”

  They lay on the bed, curling against each other. Zoe listened to Andrea’s breathing, drawing strength from her sister’s innocence. She could hear footsteps in the street and then the front door lock clicking. Their mother had probably forgotten her purse again. She always did.

  “Mommy?” Andrea called, obviously thinking the same.

  There was no response and no footsteps. Frowning, Zoe got off the bed and walked to the doorway. There was a shadowy figure in the dark hallway. Too tall to be their mother, too thin to be their father. Their eyes met.

  It was Rod Glover.

  CHAPTER 46

  Chicago, Illinois, Thursday, July 21, 2016

  Veronika Murray, the woman found dead in West Pullman two years before, had been engaged to a man named Clifford Sorenson, according to the police report. Zoe called him and asked if they could meet. Sorenson had a plumbing business in West Pullman and told her she was welcome to drop by his office.

  Sorenson’s Plumbing was more like a warehouse than an office. A small white sign hung above the front door with the business name on it in an uninspiring blue font. The same logo was printed on two blue vans parked in front. Zoe paid the taxi driver, a middle-aged man with a scruffy gray beard and mustache.

  “You want me to wait outside?” he asked.

  “It might take a while,” she told him. “I can call a cab when I leave.”

  “Well,” he said, glancing at a nearby burger joint’s sign, “it’s past my lunchtime, and I haven’t eaten yet. I’ll be around.”

  Zoe sighed. He was a talkative sort of guy, and she wasn’t in the mood for another chat about North Korea on her way back, but she could see no way to shake him off politely. “That’s great,” she said. “But if you get tired of waiting, feel free to leave.”

  He shrugged. She got out of the cab and entered the warehouse.

  The space inside was lined with long metallic shelves, all of them brimming with pipes, faucets, and tools Zoe couldn’t even name. In her past, she was proud to have dealt with a clog in the sink all by herself, but anything beyond that resulted in an immediate panicked phone call to a plumber. Of all the problems that could occur in her home, she felt a plumbing problem was the worst, a crisis that would empty her bank account and turn all of her worldly possessions into a soggy mess.

  Two men stood by one of the shelves, picking pipes and placing them in a large cardboard box. She approached them.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I’m looking for Clifford Sorenson.”

  “That’s me,” one of them said. “You’re Zoe?”

  “That’s right. Thank you for meeting me.”

  He nodded. She looked at him. He was a tall, wide-shouldered man with thinning brown hair and rough stubble on his cheeks. His eyes were red-rimmed and tired. “You said this is about Veronika?”

  “I wondered if you could answer a few questions.”

  “Let’s talk outside,” he said, frowning. He turned to the other man. “You got this?”

  The man nodded. “Sure, Cliff.”

  They stepped outside, and Clifford fished a cigarette pack from his pocket. He put one in his mouth and offered the pack to Zoe. She shook her head. He shrugged, lit his own cigarette, and inhaled. “I assumed the police were done with the case.”

  “It resurfaced in relation to another case that’s under investigation right now.”

  “Yeah? At the time, they told me they were investigating a local drug addict. Is this about him?”

  Zoe shook her head. The drug addict questioned during the investigation was in prison for armed robbery. “Not really.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, his voice tense. “Who, then?”

  “We’re not sure yet. Would you mind if I ask you some questions about that week?”

  The police had questioned Clifford three times, and Zoe had read the transcripts. The first interview was intended mostly to establish if he was a suspect. He had an alibi for the night his fiancée had disappeared—he had gone fishing with three friends. They all verified they had been with him during that time. One of his friends had actually walked inside the house with him because he needed to use th
e bathroom. They’d found the house in disarray, Veronika missing.

  The second interview was when the police arrested the drug dealer as a suspect. They had showed Clifford some mugshots, trying to see if he could maybe recognize the dealer. He could not, said he had never seen any of the people in the pictures as far as he remembered.

  The third interview was after the police had dropped the drug dealer as a suspect and were trying to poke holes in Sorenson’s alibi. Sorenson had quickly lost his cool, screaming at the cops that they were trying to frame him, and he had demanded to have an attorney present. The rest of the interview had been quite short and proved nothing.

  Zoe knew that when an investigator had a suspect or goal in mind, the interview was often skewed to that purpose. There was a very clear example of this in the first interview when Clifford had mentioned that Veronika had seemed a bit on edge in the weeks before she had gone missing. A series of questions had been asked to establish if she had been on edge because of strain in her relationship with Clifford. But after asking him about that, they’d moved on. No one had raised the issue of her being on edge again. The matter had been ignored.

  “I’ll try to answer whatever I can,” he said. “But I can’t promise to remember it very well. It’s been more than two years, and I’ve been working hard at forgetting that week.”

  “I understand,” Zoe said, leaning against the wall. “So when was the last time you saw Veronika?”

  “The morning she died,” Clifford said, his voice emotionless. “Before I went to work.”

  “Did you talk during the day?”

  “Yeah, once. She called to ask me something, I don’t remember what.”

  According to the police report, she’d called to ask about the catering service for their upcoming wedding. Had he really forgotten, or did he simply want to avoid the topic?

  “And then what happened?”

  “I came back from work, and she wasn’t there. She was visiting a friend. Linda.”

  Zoe nodded. That, too, was in the report. Linda was the main reason Clifford was not the primary suspect. She had verified that Veronika had eaten dinner with her, and by the time Veronika had left Linda’s home, Cliff had been long gone for his fishing trip.