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

by Mike Omer

  “Okay,” Mancuso said, her voice controlled and measured. “I just read through the extensive reports you both sent me, as well as the very short, angry email I received from Lieutenant Martinez and the one-line email I got from the Chicago chief of police.”

  Zoe lowered her eyes, staring at her palms. Her report was a long, dry account of all the ways she’d messed up. Not sharing her suspicions with the police or her partner. Not informing them about the three envelopes left at the crime scenes. Going to check up on a crime scene on her own. Not noticing the tail. Those were the reasons that Glover had managed to disappear completely.

  “The Chicago police and the FBI agreed not to say anything to the press about the debacle, because tensions in the populace regarding this killer are high, and we want to give an impression of competence.”

  Tatum cleared his throat, looking as if he were about to say something, but Mancuso raised an eyebrow, projecting infinite menace. He said nothing.

  “Of course, both the lieutenant in charge and I are interested in knowing why you withheld crucial information about the case. Neither of your reports explains the reasoning behind this decision.”

  Zoe squirmed uncomfortably. “I—”

  “The tip seemed far fetched at first,” Tatum said, his voice even. “Dr. Bentley began telling me about it, but I convinced her that her theory held no merit. In retrospect, I should have involved the Chicago PD.”

  “Hang on,” Zoe said. “That’s not—”

  “Damn right you should have!” Mancuso thumped her desk, the fish behind her fleeing in horror, desperate to find shelter. “I told you, Agent Gray: this cowboy act of yours won’t work in this unit.”

  Zoe tried to interrupt. “Chief, it was me who—”

  “Sorry, Chief,” Tatum said, his voice loud enough to drown out Zoe. “I think it’s best if I’m removed from this case.”

  “There is no damn case!” she nearly shouted. “The Chicago PD does not want our help anymore. Lieutenant Martinez was very clear about that.”

  “But we’ve made so much progress,” Zoe blurted. “We can—”

  “You can remain at home for your sick leave, instead of showing up here,” Mancuso said, her dark eyes focusing on Zoe. “After this meeting, I want you to get straight home. If I see you here before next week, I’ll fire you.”

  Zoe’s eyes narrowed. The threat was supposed to scare her into submission, but instead, it just made her angry. “Chief, Rod Glover is—”

  “I don’t want to hear it right now,” Mancuso said. She sat down wearily, spent. “Get out of here, both of you.”

  Tatum stood up and left.

  Zoe hesitated, then said, “Agent Gray didn’t—”

  “I’m not blind, Zoe,” Mancuso said, her voice low. “I know what just happened here, and I know what Gray did and didn’t do. Now get out.”

  She left, closing the door behind her. She ran after Tatum, her stitches screaming in protest as she did so. “Tatum.”

  He turned around and smiled weakly at her. “Well, that wasn’t so bad.”

  “Why did you tell her it was your fault?” Zoe asked, furious. “I’m the one who went to the crime scene alone, and I’m the one who didn’t tell Martinez anything. It was my fault.”

  “Yeah, it was,” Tatum said, folding his hands. “So what?”

  Zoe stared at him. She had actually expected him to argue a bit. Still, it really was her fault. “You’re already known as a problematic agent. What if—”

  “I’m a problematic agent with some nice commendations in his file,” he said. “You’re a civilian consultant, taking a position many think should be given to an agent. Who do you think has a better chance of being fired?”

  “Mancuso wouldn’t—”

  “Mancuso is under a huge amount of pressure,” Tatum said. “I don’t know what she would or wouldn’t do. Anyway, you tried to tell me. I should have listened. Though, damn it, I wish you’d tried harder.”

  “Yeah,” Zoe said. Her head was beginning to hurt. Her shoulders slumped. “I think I’ll go home.”

  “Do you need a ride?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll just get a cab.”

  An invisible weight dragged Zoe down as she walked into her apartment. She closed the door behind her and then simply gazed at it for several seconds, her mind blank. She wasn’t sure what she planned to do for the rest of the day or even for the next ten minutes. In fact, the last seventy-two hours had been mostly made up of small actions, one following the next. It had been easy, since most of the time she’d had doctors or nurses to tell her where to go, when to eat, and when to sleep. Later, it was Tatum who had gently guided her to the airport and the plane. And that morning, she’d gone back to work because . . . what else was there to do?

  But Mancuso had made things clear. She didn’t want Zoe in the office that week. Zoe didn’t know if it was really because she had sick leave or because Mancuso hoped people would forget about the Chicago debacle. Was Tatum right? Would Mancuso really fire her? There would be a certain closure to it. Rod Glover was the one who’d made Zoe turn to forensic psychology, and he would be the one to terminate her short-lived career at it. It made her sick to think how much control the twisted bastard had over her life.

  Come to think of it, it literally made her sick. She stumbled to the bathroom and threw up what little food she had in her stomach. Then, seeing as she was already in the bathroom, she figured she might as well shower. She had showered when she’d gotten home in the middle of the night, then again in the morning before work, but another shower wouldn’t hurt.

  She took off her clothes, discarding them in the corner of the room, and turned on the water, setting the temperature to something just below boiling lava. The current felt good as it washed over her back and neck, though it stung as it hit her cut shoulder. She grabbed the soap and began a thorough cleansing of her body.

  After a minute, she realized she was scrubbing the same areas over and over again. Her lower stomach, her upper left thigh.

  She could still feel Glover’s fingers pawing there, struggling with her zipper, his palm sliding for a second into her pants, scraping her thigh. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her rushing pulse. She was a psychologist, and she knew the symptoms as they hit her. Just a brief moment of anxiety. There was no need to lose her cool over this. She put the soap away. Shampooed her hair, wincing as her hand brushed against the bruise on her forehead. Then, after washing her hair, she stared at the tiles in the shower, taking deep breaths.

  When Andrea swung the bathroom door open half an hour later, Zoe was still in the shower, sitting on the floor sobbing, the water running. Andrea rushed to her side, turned off the water. Then she wavered helplessly, finally getting Zoe’s towel.

  “Come on,” she said, helping Zoe get up. She wrapped Zoe in the towel and began rubbing it against her.

  “I can dry myself,” Zoe spat angrily. Andrea took a step back and waited.

  “Would you mind waiting outside?” Zoe asked. It irked her that her sister had that worried look on her face.

  “Tell you what,” Andrea said. “Why don’t you go lie down while I make some lunch?”

  “Fine.”

  She wiped her feet on the shower rug, then walked to her bedroom, closing the door behind her. She was furious at herself, letting Andrea find her like that. She finished toweling her body and then lay on the bed, dragging the blanket over her. She’d get dressed in a minute.

  The bed slowly warmed up, and there was a comforting feeling to it. Bedsheets from her apartment in Boston, a place that felt like home. Not like this apartment, in which she had barely spent any time. She had been happy in Boston. Well, maybe not happy exactly, but content. Why had she moved here? She knew no one here, most of the people she worked with resented her, and Andrea hated Dale City, no matter what she claimed. Maybe they could just go back to Boston. She could try to open a private clinic or work in a school.

  The bedroom door o
pened.

  “Where do you keep your eggs?” Andrea asked.

  “In the fridge.”

  “There are no eggs there.”

  “I guess I’m out of eggs, then.”

  Andrea sighed and closed the door.

  Zoe shut her eyes. She could probably just sleep. She hadn’t slept during the flight, had had only two or three hours of sleep before going to work. Wasn’t that what she was supposed to do? Rest?

  Instead she got up, rummaged in her closet, and found a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of sweatpants. The shirt had once been white, but Zoe hadn’t been careful when she’d washed it with a red dress, and now it was a washed-out pink. A pair of underwear, no bra, because the hell with that. Then she put on the pants and the shirt and padded out. Andrea was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for a small salad, an omelet frying on the gas stove.

  “I thought I was out of eggs,” Zoe muttered.

  “You are. I borrowed four eggs from your neighbor. She’s really nice.”

  “I’m not even sure what she looks like,” Zoe said, sitting down. “I think I only met her twice.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” Andrea said. She took the frying pan off the gas and distributed the omelet onto two plates. She handed one to Zoe and put the other across the table for herself.

  “Thanks,” Zoe said. It looked amazing. Andrea had fried the omelet with basil and sprinkled some cheddar in it. She put a dollop of cream cheese next to it, as well as a nice portion of the salad.

  “You should buy olive oil,” Andrea said. “It would really improve the salad.”

  Zoe cut a piece of omelet and speared it on the fork. She added some cream cheese and ate it, closing her eyes and breathing through her nose. The hot egg and the cool cheese rolled across her tongue, feeling sublime.

  “Hahtishsho good,” she said, her mouth full.

  “When did you last eat a normal meal?” Andrea asked.

  She’d hardly eaten anything for breakfast and had had something tasteless in the airport, and before that, it had been two days of hospital food. “A long time ago.”

  “Next time you feel like crying in the shower, maybe grab a bite first,” Andrea suggested.

  Zoe teared up.

  “I’m sorry,” Andrea blurted. “I was just kidding. You can cry. Oh, damn it, just ignore me and my stupid mouth.”

  Zoe ate another bite of the omelet quickly, the taste mixing with the tears in her throat. She stabbed some vegetables, and they followed the omelet. Slowly, she got control back. Andrea was focusing on her plate, saying nothing. Zoe cleared her throat.

  “There’s soda in the fridge,” she said. “Would you mind getting it for me?”

  Her body ached, and she knew asking Andrea for help would calm her sister down. Win-win. Andrea bounded off her chair and hurried to get Zoe the soda.

  She drank gratefully, then had another bite from the omelet. Life was beginning to look up. The hopelessness from earlier was gone—or at least much faded. Thank God for food.

  “If you want to talk about what happened in Chicago, you know you can tell me,” Andrea said.

  Her sister had picked her up from the airport and had nearly fainted when she’d seen the shape Zoe was in. Zoe had shaken her head when she’d asked her what had happened and had said she couldn’t talk about it. It was true, though not because it was confidential. Simply because it had been too raw to talk about.

  But now, after resting a bit, she thought it might help to talk to Andrea about it. The envelopes Glover had sent her all these years, his recent victims, their encounter, his fingers on her body as she clutched at her throat, desperate for air . . .

  But Andrea had her own memories. Talking about it might help Zoe, but she had no idea what it would do to Andrea.

  “Thanks,” she said. “It’s fine . . . I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I promise you that it won’t happen again.”

  “Okay,” Andrea said, looking unconvinced.

  They ate the rest of the meal. Andrea talked most of the time about troubles at work. Her shift manager was apparently a bitch and hated Andrea. Zoe wondered how bitches who hated Andrea always seemed to pop up wherever Andrea went. It was almost as if Andrea had something to do with it.

  Finally, Zoe pushed away the plate. “That was an amazing meal.”

  “I have a special desert for you.” Andrea grinned.

  “Oh, thanks. I think I’m full.”

  “Really?” Andrea looked at her in mock disappointment. “I guess I’ll have to finish up the Snickers ice cream all by myself.”

  Zoe felt a surge of love for her sister. “You know what,” she said. “I might be able to stuff another bite down.”

  CHAPTER 57

  Tatum sat in his car, frozen by indecision. He knew he should probably go home, but he wasn’t sure it was habitable yet. He had arrived the night before, taken one look at the living room and bedroom, and left, locking the door behind him. He had slept in his car, which was totally fine by him. People underestimated the joy of car camping. The throbbing neck, the freezing cold around four a.m., waking up when the homeless guy knocked on your window . . . good times, good times.

  He had called Marvin in the morning and yelled at him for several minutes, the old man listening patiently to his enraged grandson. His grandfather had apparently slept at a friend’s house and was in a cheerful mood. Finally, when Tatum had run out of words and rage, Marvin had promised to send someone to clean the place up. After seeing the ungodly things that had been done to his couch, Tatum was pretty sure they would need a flamethrower and an exorcist to really get the job done. Come to think of it, an exorcist with a flamethrower would make an awesome movie. They’d call it Burn, Demon, Burn. The exorcist would be played by Dominic Purcell; that was nonnegotiable.

  He sighed, focusing. The real reason he wasn’t home was that he was worried. He had spent a whole week with Zoe, and though the psychologist could be incredibly frustrating, he’d developed a taste for her company. And there had been something . . . off about her ever since the incident. He scrolled through his contacts, located her name, and called her.

  She answered after three rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Zoe, it’s Tatum.”

  “Yeah, I know. I have you in my contact list.”

  “Right. Uh . . . I wanted to ask how you are.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “How’s your hip? Are the stitches—”

  “I’m fine, Tatum. Thank you for calling.”

  “Wait.” He drummed on the steering wheel in frustration. “Listen, I was hoping I could drop by.”

  “Why?”

  “To see that you’re okay.”

  “I just told you I’m okay.”

  “Look . . . it would let me sleep easier at night, okay?”

  There was a moment of silence. “Fine,” she said. “I live in the Dale Forest Apartments. It’s in—”

  “I know where that is,” Tatum said, glancing at the sign out the car’s window that said DALE FOREST APARTMENTS. “I’m nearby. I can be there in five minutes.”

  “Okay,” she said. She gave him her apartment number and hung up.

  He patiently waited four minutes. There really was no need for Zoe to know he had already found her address. Then he got out of the car and went over to her apartment.

  A young black-haired woman with mesmerizing green eyes opened the door for him.

  “Well, hello,” she said, smiling, one eyebrow raised. “You must be Tatum.”

  Her resemblance to Zoe was strong. “And you’re Andrea,” he said.

  “Come in,” she said, giving him another top-to-bottom look. Tatum felt very objectified. He was more than a pretty face, damn it.

  He walked inside, taking in the small living room. Zoe sat on one of the couches, a brown folder open in her lap. She looked at its contents, frowning, and raised her eyes to meet his as he walked inside. He felt a pang in his heart as he saw her black eye, th
e purple bruise on her forehead, the black stitches on her neck. Her eyes were bloodshot and tired. Tatum considered himself progressive—“go, girl power” and all that—but seeing her in that state made him want to take her in his arms and hug her. And then annihilate the man who had done this.

  The sharp look she gave him clarified that if he tried to hug her, she would bite his face off. He cleared his throat.

  “Hey, glad to see you’re”—he searched for a happy word—“sitting.”

  As if to aggravate him, she stood up, wincing as she did so. “Happy you could stop by,” she said. “Do you want anything to drink?”

  “Uh . . .”

  “I’ll get you a cup of coffee,” Andrea said.

  Zoe turned to her sister. “Andrea, I can—”

  “You need to sit or lie down,” Andrea said, in the same stubborn tone he had been hearing from Zoe all week. It made him smile.

  “What?” Zoe asked.

  “Nothing,” he said innocently.

  She sat back down and set the folder on the coffee table, next to a stack of similar folders and some scattered papers.

  “What’s that?” he asked. “I thought you weren’t supposed to be working.”

  “Well, since we’re no longer assigned to the Chicago case, this isn’t work,” Zoe said. “I guess it’s a hobby.”

  He sat down on the other couch and picked up one of the folders and flipped it open. It was a case file, all the paperwork photocopied. The papers were yellow with age, and the printed crime scene photos had a grainy quality. There was a wide shot of a nude female body, lying in what looked like a pond. The victim’s name was Jackie Teller.

  “Is this one of Rod Glover’s victims?” he asked, scanning the details.

  “That depends on who you ask,” Zoe said. “It’s one of the three Maynard serial killer victims from 1997. If you ask the police, they’ll either say it’s unresolved or claim a teenager named Manny Anderson killed her. Which is easy to say, because he’s dead.”