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

by Mike Omer

  “I went fishing with three friends. I came back home sometime after midnight. The house was a mess. The table and chairs were overturned. All the closets and drawers had been opened. Veronika was missing, as well as her jewelry.”

  “And what did you do?”

  He looked at her for a long moment. His mouth twisted. “Would you excuse me for a moment?”

  Zoe blinked. “Sure.”

  He turned around. “Hey, Jeffrey!” he hollered.

  The other man appeared in the shop’s doorway. “Yeah?”

  “Can you get that single-bowl Kraus sink to the van? I want us to install it today.”

  “Sure, Cliff.”

  Clifford turned back to Zoe, his face now composed. “When I saw she was missing, I called the police. Frank was with me—my friend. He came inside because he had to use the bathroom. He went looking for her in the neighborhood while I waited for the cops.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “The police showed up. I told them what I knew. They found the body six days later. That’s it, really.”

  Zoe nodded. “Did Veronika seem different the days before she was taken?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “She wasn’t preoccupied? Or worried?”

  “I don’t really remember, Miss Bentley.”

  “Hey, Cliff, I can’t find it,” Jeffrey hollered from inside. “You sure it’s here?”

  Clifford looked at Zoe. “I really need to get back to work—”

  “Just a few more questions. It would be really helpful,” she said smoothly. “Was Veronika the trusting type?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, walking inside.

  She followed him to the back of the store. “Your home was trashed, but there were no signs of a break-in. Would she have opened the door to a stranger?”

  “At night? I don’t think so.”

  “What if he was dressed like a cop?”

  “Are you saying a cop took her?”

  “Not necessarily,” Zoe said. “I’m just theorizing.”

  She was trying to fine-tune the killer’s MO. Though it was possible that the serial killer was a law enforcement officer or working in some other official role of authority, there was another explanation. Several serial killers were known to use outfits or identities of authority figures to lure their victims. Ted Bundy was a well-known example of that. He sometimes approached women pretending to be a police officer and took them somewhere secluded.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Here’s the sink,” he told Jeffrey. He bent and grabbed the sink, then groaned.

  “I’ll get it. Don’t worry about it,” Jeffrey said and picked up the large steel sink, carrying it outside.

  Clifford straightened up, grimacing, a hand on his back. He walked slowly back to the front of the store. Zoe kept following him.

  “Would she open the door if someone was hurt or if there was a woman at the door?”

  “Miss Bentley, I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

  “Did you tell anyone you were going fishing that day?”

  He looked at her, raising an eyebrow. “Why?”

  “The killer knew when to strike.”

  “It was probably just bad luck, Miss Bentley. I go fishing a lot. Twice, sometimes three times every week. Hell, I went four times with my brother last week. Of course, these days I tend to go fishing even more since I have no one at home . . .” His gaze became vacant. “I’m sorry. I really have to get back to work.”

  Zoe nodded. “Thank you for your time,” she said.

  He’d already turned away, checking something on one of the shelves. “Sure,” he said.

  She left the store, disappointed. Outside, the day was bright, and she squinted, protecting her eyes from the glare with her palm. Jeffrey was loading the sink into one of the vans. The sink made a loud clang as he finally lowered it into the back of the van. He slammed the door and turned around.

  “Hey,” he said when he noticed her. “Are you a cop?”

  “I’m working with the police,” she answered, walking closer. He seemed slightly younger than Clifford, his hair thick and brown. He was tall, his shoulders wide.

  “Listen, I don’t know what you told Cliff, but I hope you didn’t get him all worked up. Veronika’s death has been really tough for him. He acted like a zombie for more than a year after it had happened. He’s seemed better only in the last couple of months.”

  “I’m sorry,” Zoe said. “Did you work for him when she died?”

  “Yeah, he was a mess. Hardly left home.”

  “Do you remember if Veronika was preoccupied or worried before she disappeared?”

  “She was mostly just happy. They were about to get married.”

  “Right.”

  “He and Veronika were trying to have a child,” Jeffrey said. “He would have made a great father.”

  Zoe nodded.

  “Do you think you’re going to catch her killer?”

  “I don’t know,” Zoe said. “I hope so.”

  CHAPTER 47

  It was early afternoon, and Zoe, Tatum, and Martinez were sitting in the meeting room. Zoe had just filled them in about Veronika Murray. The three of them sat in silence after she finished talking.

  Finally, Martinez broke the silence. He cleared his throat. “Are you sure it’s the same killer?”

  “No way I can be sure.” Zoe shrugged. “Like in the other cases, the killer was careful, used a condom, and didn’t leave any DNA behind. Maybe there’s some other forensic data you can use to match the cases. I’d talk to your technicians.”

  Martinez nodded. “I’ll do that.”

  “The circumstantial evidence is quite indicative,” she added. “Veronika died three months before the pets started disappearing, and in the same neighborhood. The body was found six days later with indications of postmortem sexual intercourse. Assuming it’s the same guy, I’d say the decay forced him to dump the body, after which he decided he had to find a way to overcome this problem.”

  “And then, while experimenting on animals, he figured out embalming was a good solution,” Tatum said. He seemed intrigued. “That sounds like a very likely scenario.”

  “I agree,” Martinez said. “I’ll have someone look into this immediately.”

  Zoe followed Martinez and Tatum back to the task force room. Zoe sat by her computer and was just about to start writing a detailed report for Mancuso when her desk phone rang. It took her a moment to realize it was her own phone. She picked it up.

  “Hello?”

  “Dr. Bentley? This is Officer Tucker from the front desk. There’s a guy here to see you.”

  “To see me? Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, he was very specific.”

  “Okay, I’ll be right down.”

  Curious, she walked down the stairs to the front desk. There were a bunch of civilians waiting around, but she could see no one familiar. She approached the officer at the front desk. “Hi, I’m Zoe Bentley. You just called—”

  “Zoe Bentley? Dr. Zoe Bentley?” A man got up and approached her, grinning. He had rich black hair and very dark eyebrows that immediately drew attention to his eyes. He had a small smile that made him look as if he were in on a joke no one else knew about. He scanned her, top to bottom, in a way she found offensive. “I’m thrilled to finally meet you. I’m a huge fan.”

  “I didn’t know I had any fans,” she said coldly. His manner irritated her.

  “Oh, you do. At least one. I’ve read all about your involvement with the Jovan Stokes case as well as some interesting earlier cases. And now you’re part of the BAU—that’s incredible.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. You are . . . ?”

  “Harry.”

  “Harry what?”

  He muttered something that sounded like “Barrer,” then quickly said, “I think I have something that’s intended for you.”

  He rummaged in his briefcase for a few seconds and then drew out three brown envelopes. He hand
ed them to her, and she plucked them from his hand and looked at them.

  Her blood ran cold.

  There was no address this time, only her name, but the handwriting was unmistakable. The three envelopes matched the stack of envelopes she had in her apartment in Dale City, one of which she had received only a week before.

  “Who gave you these?” she asked weakly.

  He looked at her carefully. “No one gave me these. I found them.”

  “Where?”

  “One at Foster Beach. The second in Humboldt Park, and I bet you can guess where I found the third.”

  She swallowed and said nothing.

  “No? It was at Ohio Street Beach.”

  The three places where the bodies had been left. “Were they just . . . discarded there? I mean—”

  “They were placed on shrines,” Harry said. “The ones people made for the dead girls. I took some photos. I can send them to you. They’re not so good. I’m terrible with a camera.”

  “I see.”

  “Aren’t you going to open them?” he asked.

  She raised her eyes sharply. He looked at her innocently. “No,” she said. She then saw all three envelopes were unsealed.

  “You’ve opened them,” she said.

  “Well, I wasn’t about to walk into a police station with an envelope that might contain explosives. Or anthrax,” he pointed out. “I wanted to make sure it was safe.”

  “Sure.”

  “You’ll be happy to learn there’s no anthrax inside them. I’m not sure what anthrax looks like, frankly, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t look like that.”

  “Thank you,” she said, feeling sick.

  “I should probably let the cops here take my fingerprints,” he said. “For when they dust these, right?”

  She didn’t say anything. She stood there frozen, dizzy.

  “You should have them take your fingerprints as well.”

  “They won’t find any fingerprints,” she said, her voice a thousand miles away.

  “You’ve received envelopes like these before?”

  “What?”

  “You seem to know what’s inside, and you already know they won’t find any fingerprints. I take it you’ve received envelopes like these before.”

  She tried to focus. “Who are you, exactly?”

  “I’m Harry.” He smiled, two lines of bright-white teeth showing.

  “Harry, you just happened to find these three envelopes?”

  “No,” he said. “I just happened to find one of them. But then I went and looked for the other two.”

  The reality sank in. “You’re a reporter,” she said.

  “That’s right.” He beamed. “So . . . what can you tell me about these envelopes?”

  “Absolutely nothing.”

  “Okay. I guess my story won’t have your response. It’ll just mention the three envelopes containing—”

  “You can’t go public with this. It would hurt the investigation.”

  “Dr. Bentley, it’s not your job or my job to decide. I publish what captures the interest of the public. Well, frankly, I publish what captures the interest of my editor and me, and then—”

  She turned toward the front desk. “Get some officers in here, and detain this man for questioning.”

  “If I don’t call my editor in ten minutes,” Harry said calmly, “he’ll publish what I gave him so far.”

  “You’re bluffing.”

  “Dr. Bentley, you’re the forensic psychologist here. Look at my face, and tell me that again.”

  There was silence, the officer in the front desk watching them both, phone in hand.

  “What do you want?” she finally asked.

  “I want a story,” he said.

  “You can’t write about these envelopes.”

  “Give me something I can write about. Something that no one else knows.”

  She bit her lip. “I need some time.”

  “Absolutely,” the man said. “I trust you, Zoe—”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Okay, then.” He offered her his hand. “I trust you, Dr. Bentley. You have twenty-four hours.”

  He turned around and left.

  Knees buckling, she got herself to the elevator, not entirely sure she could manage the stairs at that moment. It seemed to take her years to get to her desk, the envelopes dragging her hand down.

  Could it be?

  It felt impossible. But so many things suddenly aligned. The strangling. The bodies’ proximity to water. The posing, different but somehow the same.

  She sat down by her table and upturned the three envelopes.

  Three gray ties landed on the table in a twisting pile.

  CHAPTER 48

  Maynard, Massachusetts, Monday, December 15, 1997

  Time trickled slowly, a rushing noise in Zoe’s ears. Behind her, Andrea called out again. “Mommy?” Glover’s eyes held hers. Not the childish, funny neighbor, the goofy man who enthusiastically talked with her about Buffy and Angel. Cold, hard eyes, capable of anything. He tensed. She could see him bracing as the world around her transformed into one long tunnel, Glover on the edge, only darkness between them. He started toward her, a sharp movement that jolted her out of her dreamlike freeze.

  She screamed, slammed the door shut, turned the key in the door’s lock.

  There was a loud thumping noise, the door shuddering. Glover had run into the door. Zoe looked around frantically. Her desk was large and wooden. She dashed to it and began dragging it, inch by inch, Andrea watching her from the bed, her eyes wide.

  “Zoe,” Glover said from the other side. “I just want to talk. I think you may have misunderstood something.”

  She pulled the desk, whimpering, until she could wedge her body between it and the wall. Then she began leaning against it, pushing herself and the desk away from the wall. She breathed hurriedly, short, fearful gulps of air, her body trembling as she strained against the desk.

  “Were you in my bedroom this morning, Zoe? I’m not angry; I just think we should chat about this.” He knocked on the door, politely at first, then thumped it angrily, the loud noise making Andrea burst into frightened tears. The doorknob twisted over and over.

  She remembered that a few months ago, her mother had taken her room key, telling her she didn’t want locked doors in the house. It had taken a lot of begging to get the key back, with Zoe claiming she didn’t want Andrea to barge into her room while she undressed. Now, with the door shuddering as Glover thumped on it, she thanked God her mom had returned the key.

  “Just open the door, Zoe. I’d hate for this to ruin our friendship.”

  “We . . . have . . . no . . . friendship,” she said through gritted teeth as she pushed the desk. It was halfway across the room now. So heavy. She recalled her dad dragging it across the floor effortlessly. She hadn’t realized how strong he was.

  “Zoe! Open the door right now! Or I’ll call your parents and tell them how you’re behaving.”

  “Call them!” she yelled, her voice breaking, and gave the desk another push. The corner now touched the door.

  There was silence, except for Andrea’s sobbing. “We’ll be okay, Ray-Ray,” she said, her voice shaking uncontrollably.

  There was a crash, and the door shuddered even more than before. He was trying to break down the door. Panicking, she gave the desk a heave. She managed to push it against the door, holding it tight. She leaned against the desk, hoping her own weight would help. Her heart thundered in her ears.

  There was a series of loud thumps. He was kicking the door. To her relief, it seemed to hold. She heard him cursing.

  “Zoe, if you open the door right now, things will go much easier on you.”

  “Like they were for Clara?” she asked. “And Jackie? And Beth?”

  “It was terrible, what happened to those girls,” he said beyond the door. “I hope the police find the killer soon.”

  “They will!” she screamed. “I told t
hem everything. They said they’ll check you out.”

  He laughed. A high-pitched, unbalanced laugh. “Did you? Because I don’t see the police here. No, they are after the real killer, right? That Manny Anderson kid.”

  Andrea began to cry loudly.

  “Is that your sister, Zoe? Open the door, and I promise you nothing will happen to her. But if you don’t . . .”

  Zoe left her position by the desk and leaped on the bed, wrapping her hands around Andrea.

  “Don’t worry, Ray-Ray. He can’t hurt us,” she whispered, hugging her sister tight.

  “I would never kill anyone,” Glover said behind the door. “What made you think I would do such a thing? Those magazines? It’s just adult stuff. I bet your dad has some of his own.”

  Zoe covered Andrea’s ears, gritting her teeth furiously. “What convinced me were the souvenirs you kept. And the gray ties.”

  There was silence. “Gray ties?” Glover finally said.

  “I know what you did with them, Glover! I have a phone in here. I’m calling the cops right now.”

  He laughed again. “No, you don’t. I’ve been to your room, remember?”

  Her skin crawled when she recalled it was true. She had invited him to her room once to show him the track trophy she’d won at school.

  Footsteps getting further away, the front door opening and slamming. She rushed to the window, made sure it was locked. Would he try to break it and enter the room from there? She didn’t think so; someone would hear the glass pane breaking. He wouldn’t risk it.

  She hoped.

  “I’m scared,” Andrea whimpered.

  “Shhhh, I’m here, Ray-Ray. You have nothing to be scared about.”

  They waited in silence. After what felt like hours, she considered leaving the room to call the police. She got up, was about to shove the desk away, when a thought occurred to her. She reached out and turned the key in the lock.

  Almost instantly the doorknob twisted, and the door juddered against the desk. Shrieking, she locked the door again. He hadn’t left at all. He’d almost tricked her. Almost.

  There was another laugh from behind the door. Not even a laugh. A giggle. A demented, tortured giggle. “Zoe, open the door. Can’t stay in there forever, Zoe.”

  She couldn’t, but she didn’t need to. Just until Mom and Dad came home. How much longer . . . ?