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

by Mike Omer

  Except . . . some part of him wanted more. It was that nagging, enthusiastic part that had made him take the journalist’s path in the first place. It wasn’t the search for the truth—Harry had never cared much about the truth—but it was the search for a good story. Mysterious envelopes left for a profiler wasn’t a story. It wasn’t even a scene. It had no context, no beginning, no end. It would get people to read it, maybe click an ad or two, but after reading, they’d move on and forget.

  He wanted to write something that would make people talk.

  He sighed, trying to ignore that naive part of him. Better take what he could get. A bird in the hand was worth two in the bush.

  Unless it crapped on your fingers and pecked you. Some birds carried salmonella too. And those two in the bush were awesome birds. They had the prettiest feathers.

  He took out his phone and sent Zoe Bentley a text message. His phone began ringing a minute later.

  “Hello,” he answered, trying not to sound smug.

  “You can’t publish that story,” Zoe said. She sounded hollow. Weary.

  “Give me something better to publish,” he said. “Right now.”

  There was a moment of silence. “What if I give you a damn good story . . . a story no one could possibly have? But you have to promise not to publish it until I tell you.”

  “That . . . depends,” he said, his curiosity flaring. “I want to hear the story, and I want a deadline. I can’t wait forever for your permission.”

  “Okay,” she agreed. “There’s a place not far from the police station called Wilma’s. Do you know it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can you be there in twenty minutes?”

  “Give me half an hour,” he said. “Traffic.”

  “See you there.”

  It took him only twenty-five minutes, and Zoe was already waiting for him, her face a mask of anxiety and exhaustion. He pulled up the opposite chair and sat down. She nursed a mug of coffee. The way she looked, he wasn’t sure coffee was a good idea. He smiled. She didn’t smile back.

  They sat in silence for a bit.

  “I’ll start,” he suggested. “You were about to tell me an amazing story no one else has.”

  She nodded, staring at him. “You can’t publish it until I—”

  “Until you tell me,” he said. “But we have to agree on a final date. And I sure as hell don’t want this story to get out before—”

  “It won’t.”

  The waitress approached him. “What can I get you?”

  “Just coffee, thanks,” he said.

  “Do you want cappuccino, pumpkin latte, or—”

  “Just good old regular coffee.”

  She walked away.

  “Okay, let’s hear it,” he said.

  Zoe’s eyes glazed, as if focusing on a distant memory. “Back in 1997, there was a serial killer in Maynard, Massachusetts. He raped and killed three young women. A suspect was arrested and killed himself while incarcerated.”

  Harry nodded, writing in his notebook. The notebook was mostly for show. He was recording the entire conversation. But writing also helped him concentrate. He penned down 1997—Maynard, killings.

  “Massachusetts,” he muttered, recalling the articles he had read about Zoe. “That’s where you grew up, right?”

  “Maynard was my hometown.”

  His focus sharpened considerably. “Okay,” he said. “How old were you when that took place?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Right. Go ahead.”

  “I believe the man who killed those three women back then is the serial killer currently murdering in Chicago.”

  “The Strangling Undertaker?” he asked in surprise.

  She twisted her lips in displeasure. “I detest that nickname. He is not an undertaker. Just a killer, letting his fantasies and urges take control.”

  “A monster.” Harry nodded.

  “No.” She leaned forward. “Not a monster. Much worse. A human. One of us. I’ve researched you, Harry Barry.”

  Harry winced as she said his full name.

  “You like articles that shock and tantalize. More than half your stories are about sex scandals.”

  “It’s not what I like. It’s what my readers like.”

  “Sure. In any case, you write those tabloid articles . . . but your writing isn’t cheap. You do your research. You don’t fall to clichés, and you give your stories an interesting angle. You take pride in your work.”

  “Thank you,” he said warily.

  “The Chicago serial killer is not a monster. He isn’t the bogeyman. He’s a very dark person with warped sexual ideas and an obsession with death.”

  “Why do you think he’s the same killer as the one in Maynard?” Harry asked.

  She narrowed her eyes, and Harry folded his arms. The tension built between them. He wasn’t worried. He held all the cards here. She’d give him the story he was looking for.

  “Here’s your coffee,” the waitress said, putting down the cup in front of him.

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you want anything else? We have—”

  “No, thank you,” Harry said. “I have everything I need. Thank you.”

  The waitress nodded and left. He sipped from his cup, looking at Zoe. Her face was distant. Some of the worry faded from her posture, she sat straighter. Harry found that concerning.

  He cleared his throat, putting the cup on the table. “You were about to explain—”

  “Look up what I told you,” she interrupted him. “Start doing your research. I’ll give you the rest of the story in a few days. I promise.”

  “You’ll give me the story now, or I go live with what I have.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll deny everything. And you’ll have a dumb story no one cares about. Like so many others you’ve written.”

  He stared at her. Her eyes met his, piercing, unrelenting. Eyes that could see right through him. And for a moment he became convinced she had read his thoughts, fears, and hopes. That was why she had relaxed. She had watched his behavior, his body language, the way he talked to her and to the waitress, and somehow, she knew he wouldn’t publish the story. “But your investigation will—”

  “Like you told me yesterday, it’s not my job to decide what would hurt the investigation. Nor is it yours. You have a taste of the real story. You’ll get the rest in a few days.”

  She took out her purse, took out a bill, and slapped it on the table. “The coffee’s on me,” she said, got up, and left.

  He looked after her, then at the bill on the table. It was a twenty-dollar bill, when all they’d had were two cups of coffee. He shook his head in amusement. People loved their dramatic exits. He picked up the bill and thumbed his wallet for a crumpled ten-dollar bill, which he laid on the table instead. His mouth stretched in a Cheshire Cat grin. There was a story here. A big story. And hidden inside it was an even bigger story.

  The real story wasn’t about the Chicago serial killer or the Maynard serial killer at all. The real story was about Dr. Zoe Bentley.

  CHAPTER 53

  As she sat in the cab, something alerted Zoe, made her tense up, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. It was as if something buried deep inside her brain were emitting faint warning signs, but she didn’t know what it was warning her about or trying to alert her to. She glanced at the cab driver, concerned, but he was the nicest cab driver she’d ridden with since she’d arrived in Chicago. He was polite, and the only conversation he made was asking for her destination. Was it something about his body language? Something that years as a forensic psychologist had etched into her subconscious? No. That wasn’t it.

  She almost felt as if she were being followed. Her mind considered the reporter, Harry Barry. He could have tailed her after their meeting. Would he stoop to following her around?

  Of course he would.

  She glanced at the rearview mirror, trying to catch a glimpse of his smug face in the cars behind, but he wasn’t
there.

  She was just sleep deprived. Of course she felt anxious; she was running on fumes.

  “There we are,” the driver said.

  “Wait here,” Zoe said. “I’ll only be ten minutes.”

  He nodded, and she became convinced that whatever had triggered her alert signals, it wasn’t him. She got out and marched into Sorenson’s Plumbing.

  The only man in the store was Clifford Sorenson’s employee, Jeffrey. He frowned when he saw her.

  “Good day, miss,” he said.

  “Hello. Is Clifford here?”

  “He’ll be back in a moment. Is this about Veronika?”

  “Well . . . yes.”

  Jeffrey nodded. “He’s been upset ever since you last came here. I hoped you’d leave him alone.”

  “I’m sorry. I won’t be long.”

  “Do you think you’ll catch the guy?”

  “I don’t know. We might have some leads.”

  “Okay.”

  Clifford walked into the office from the back room. “Oh,” he said. “It’s you.”

  “Yeah,” Zoe said apologetically. “I just wanted to ask you one question.”

  “Sure.”

  She took out a printout of her Rod Glover image. “Have you ever seen this man?”

  Clifford looked closely at the picture, frowning. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe around the time of Veronika’s death?”

  “Do you think he’s the killer?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’m following some leads.”

  “I see a lot of people. I doubt I would have remembered him even if I did meet him two years ago.”

  Zoe nodded. She wasn’t surprised. He handed her the paper. She took it, and as she had done with Daniella before, she wrote her phone number on the page and placed it on the office desk. “I’ll leave it here. Call me if you happen to remember anything.”

  “Sure.”

  She had turned to leave when Clifford said, “Miss Bentley.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I, uh . . . wanted to tell you something. You asked me before if Veronika was tense before her disappearance.”

  “That’s right,” Zoe said.

  “She was. I think she was afraid. She . . . she was angry that I kept going fishing, leaving her alone in the evenings.”

  “Did she tell you that?”

  “Not in so many words. But once, when she was really agitated, she said some apples really don’t fall far from the tree.”

  Zoe blinked. “What did she—”

  “My father left when I was just a baby. It was a jab at the fact that I kept leaving. I . . . if I hadn’t gone fishing that night . . .”

  “You can’t blame yourself,” Zoe said mechanically. “You couldn’t stay by her side at all times.”

  Clifford nodded, and Zoe knew her words didn’t matter. If he hadn’t gone fishing that night, Veronika might have lived. She doubted he could really shake off the knowledge of that.

  CHAPTER 54

  Zoe looked out the cab’s passenger window, glimpsing the water of Saganashkee Slough between the trees. The murky water of the pond was calm, reflecting the dark-blue sky. The sun was setting slowly, and the tree shadows were lengthening. Zoe cursed herself for not getting there sooner, but Harry had caught her on the phone just as she had been about to leave.

  Then again, she wasn’t there for any specific reason. As always, she found herself drawn to the scene of the crime, as if standing where the killer had stood would somehow give her an insight into his frame of mind. It hardly ever did. Her plan had been to walk around the crime scenes of both 2008 murder victims. First, Saganashkee Slough, where Pamela Vance had been found. Next she’d go to Little Calumet River, Shirley Wattenberg’s crime scene. Seeing the sun set made her realize she wouldn’t have time to see both. She’d go to Little Calumet River tomorrow.

  She glanced at the map she had printed earlier and then at the Google Maps app on her phone. As far as she could tell, she was just about where the body had been found.

  “Can you stop here, please?” she said.

  “Here?” The cab driver sounded surprised.

  “Yeah.”

  He muttered something and nudged the steering wheel, parking the car on the side of the road.

  “Thanks,” she said, rummaging in her shoulder bag for her purse.

  “Uh . . . do you want me to wait?”

  She didn’t want the driver looking over her shoulder as she walked the shore, trying to think. “No, thank you.”

  “But how will you leave?”

  She could see his point. It wasn’t as if she could just flag a taxi down out here. The whole problem had started with her decision to ride with Tatum instead of renting her own car. Now she was stuck, dependent on the goodwill of cab drivers.

  “Yeah, thanks,” she said. “Just wait for me here.”

  “How long will you be?”

  She checked the darkening sky. “Half an hour, tops.”

  He nodded, content. She gave him the credit card, but he waved it away. “Pay me at the end of the day.”

  She thanked him and got out of the cab. She glanced carefully both ways. The road was nearly empty, a single car passing them by. She crossed the road and walked down the grassy shore. Facing the water, she tried to imagine the murder of Pamela Vance, eight years earlier. Her kayak had been found near her body. Had Glover known she’d be kayaking there, or had he noticed her from the road, deciding to seize the opportunity? He might have befriended her, maybe even joined her for a kayaking trip. Did the kayak have one seat or two? The case file hadn’t mentioned this. She made a mental note to check the crime scene pictures again when she returned to the office.

  The shore was in plain sight of the road, and it was the same for a long stretch to the west. But to the east, the shoreline got further from the road, the foliage blocking the line of sight. Glover wouldn’t have raped and strangled her with the road in plain view; that much was certain. She turned to her left and began to pace the shore, the foliage between her and the road thickening until she could hardly see the gray asphalt through the leaves and branches. The shoreline was tricky to navigate, the ground dotted with bushes and trees. It was hard to spot some of the obstacles in the shadowy gloom, and she nearly tripped on a thick root.

  She looked out onto the water again. The air was calm, and there was hardly any wind, the water nearly a straight plateau. The sun was getting lower, the blue shades of the pond water getting darker, nearly black. It was time to leave. She resolved to ride back to the motel and talk to Tatum about the envelopes. The thought filled her with trepidation. She hadn’t mentioned the envelopes to anyone in years. But it definitely wasn’t something she could keep to herself anymore.

  She turned around and froze. A man walked toward her, his face intent on the ground as he stepped around a small bush. He paced slowly. Was it because of the growing darkness?

  No. He was trying to make no noise.

  He was only ten yards from her, the grass and the muddy shore masking his steps. He raised his face from the ground, and their eyes met.

  Twenty years older, putting him in his midforties, the once thin, lanky man now had a sagging belly; his face was a bit fatter as well. He was vastly different from the memory ingrained in her mind, a teenager’s memory of a killer. But his eyes were the same. Those childish, mocking eyes, hiding a mind brimming with violence. It was Rod Glover.

  Her feet were already moving, her reflexes faster than her mind. Glover blocked her way back—she could only go forward, farther away from the road. Leaping over a low bush, she dashed as fast as her weary muscles could take her, the surge of adrenaline rushing into her brain, masking the fatigue, a single message pounding over and over. Go. Go. Go.

  He ran behind her, a heavy man, his steps thudding much harder than hers. She was in good shape. He didn’t seem to be. She glanced backward, saw he was farther back, and dove left into the tree line, toward t
he road.

  It was the reasonable course. The right course. The road meant safety. If she could get to the road, get back to the cab waiting for her, she’d be safe.

  She underestimated how thick the foliage would be. Six feet into the foliage, she ran into a bush, veered left, nearly collided into a tree, veered again, tripped on something, stumbled. Disoriented, she got up and turned around, and he was upon her, hitting her in the face with a blunt object.

  She floundered back gasping, half-blind, spots swimming in her field of vision, darkness surrounding her. It took her several seconds to figure out she was lying on the ground, staring at the dark sky. Something cold and metallic pressed against her neck. Her left ear rang, a constant high-pitched sound.

  “Scream and I’ll cut your throat, bitch,” a voice rasped in her ear.

  She breathed heavily, something sticky trickling on her forehead. Blood? What happened?

  He had hit her with something, she remembered.

  A viselike grip grabbed her under her armpits, pulling her up. She began struggling, and the blade pressed harder against her skin. She bit back a whimper of pain as it broke her skin. Glover had cut the side of her neck, the knife tearing into muscle. More blood trickled on her shoulder and chest, soaking into her shirt.

  “Let’s try again,” he whispered in her ear, his voice vicious, hungry. “Stand up.”

  He pulled, and she complied, standing up on wobbly legs, nausea overwhelming her, nearly making her gag. The blade never left her throat, Glover’s other hand grabbing her arm, twisting it behind her back.

  “Move,” he rasped, pointing her toward the water, away from the trees. Away from the road.

  She stumbled forward, walking slowly, buying time, trying to think through her clouded mind, through the pain shooting up her neck and forehead. Glover wanted to get her away from the road, away from her cab and possible witnesses, where no one would see her, no one would hear her scream. Once he got her far enough from the road, her fate would follow the fate of his other victims. The thought was chilling, and she shivered involuntary. Even that small motion made Glover tense, and he pushed the blade against her.