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

by Mike Omer

  Zoe glanced at Tatum, and he looked back at her, his eyes full of horror. There it was.

  “There was a terrible smell coming from there. I had to call the po . . . lis. They barged in, found the daughter covered in maggots, the boys half-sick, vomit all over the place, Bertha drunk and unconscious. Yeah . . .” She became silent. “Thought everybody knew about that,” she finally said.

  “What happened to the sons?” Zoe asked.

  “Well, they’re both still around.”

  “What are their names?”

  “Well . . .” The neighbor stared for a moment. “I’ll be damned. Can’t remember. One of them changed his last name; he hated his mother so much. The other kept the name. I’ll remember in a second . . .” She licked her gums and smacked them. “Nope. Nothing.”

  “Do you know where we can find them?”

  “Well, one of them owns a business. Some sort of handyman. An electrician, I think. Yeah, definitely an electrician.”

  Zoe’s brain cells sparked, a flurry of ideas emerging all at once. Her heart raced. Lily hadn’t been saying “Hummer” or “trucker.”

  “I think he’s a plumber,” she said.

  “Well, I think you’re right,” the old neighbor agreed loudly. “A plumber, not an electrician. His name is—”

  “Clifford Sorenson.”

  “Yes. But when he was a young boy, his mom used to call him Cliff.”

  CHAPTER 70

  Tatum’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel, squeezing it angrily as the traffic moved at a snail’s pace.

  “It all fits,” he told Zoe, his voice sharp and tense. “Sorenson believes the perfect woman is a dead woman. That’s what he learned from his psycho mother. His dead sister was the only one who didn’t make his mom angry. And she kept them inside for a week, holding the body’s hand, combing her hair, God knows what else. I mean, of course he turned out crazy.”

  “So he kills his fiancée,” Zoe said.

  “Right. Body decays—he has to get rid of it, or the neighbors will complain. He dumps it but becomes obsessed with the idea of having a dead spouse.”

  “He could have known Susan Warner because he fixed the pipes at her home,” Zoe said. She stared ahead, biting her lip. “Remember what her friend said? That the apartment’s sewage kept overflowing? She must have needed a plumber multiple times. Plenty of time to look around, see that she lived alone.”

  “You met the man. Does he look like the person in the security footage?”

  “It could be him. It was really hard to get a good look at his face in the video. But he did look familiar. Maybe his body language or his stance.”

  “Fits your profile nicely too. Early thirties, works with his hands . . . does he own a van in addition to his mom’s car?”

  “Yeah. There were two vans when I stopped by. His employee was loading a sink on one. It had Sorenson’s Plumbing painted on it, which explains how Lily knew he was a plumber . . .” She slowed down, frowning.

  “What is it?” Tatum asked.

  “He doesn’t fit the profile so neatly. I saw him try to lift a steel sink and hurt his back. How did he carry those bodies so far away with a weak back? Monique Silva was practically in the middle of the park.”

  “Maybe that’s why his back was so sensitive. From the exertion.”

  “Yeah, but . . . Clifford Sorenson functioned well with women. He was engaged. They were trying to start a family—this wasn’t a man who couldn’t have a relationship. This wasn’t a lonely man. It doesn’t fit at all.”

  “Okay, but listen,” Tatum said slowly, trying to find a way to disagree without saying that maybe she was wrong. “Maybe you were, uh . . .” The hell with it. “Wrong. I mean, you couldn’t have known about this crazy story with his mother. Maybe he just has a thing for dead women, and after some time with his fiancée, he decided—”

  “The other brother,” Zoe interrupted. She clearly hadn’t listened to a word he’d said.

  “Yeah? Sure, there’s another one, but Clifford Sorenson is a plumber, and you said—”

  “What if the other brother is a plumber too? Clifford has an employee named Jeffrey who seemed to be really close to him. And he called him Cliff. That woman said his mother used to call him Cliff when he was a boy, so his brother probably calls him the same. Jeffrey was strong. He picked up the steel sink easily. He would be able to carry a woman’s body if he needed to.”

  “So if you’re right, this guy Jeffrey was the one who went to fix the sewage problems in Susan Warner’s apartment.”

  “Yes. And Jeffrey killed Clifford’s fiancée. That would explain how Clifford had such a tight alibi. Because he really was innocent. It also makes sense that his brother would wait for a day he knew Clifford would be gone. A day when Clifford went fishing with his friends.”

  “Damn. We should call Martinez,” Tatum said.

  “We still have nothing,” Zoe said quickly. “This is completely circumstantial. It’s probably not even enough for a warrant. And we aren’t supposed to be here.”

  She was right. They were building an intricate castle on a fluffy, thin cloud. “Then what do you suggest?”

  “Let’s look around. Maybe we can spot some blood on one of the vans. Maybe if we look through their windows, we can see a container of formaldehyde. I don’t know . . . anything that would give us a shred of actual evidence. Enough to show Martinez.”

  Tatum grimaced. There he was again. Going forward with no backup, without consulting his superior. This time he’d be kicked out of the bureau for sure.

  CHAPTER 71

  The woman and her two children were dealt with, for now, bound and gagged. He had been surprised to find out how easily a mother could be controlled. All he had to do was threaten to cut the throat of her little girl, and she willingly let him tie her up. After that, tying the frightened children took a matter of minutes.

  He stared at the three of them, trying to make up his mind. The little girl was nice; he could imagine himself as her dad, playing with her and her dolls, dressing her up in frilly pink dresses. He smiled at the thought of their shared life together. Him, a father—who would have thought? He’d be a good father; he’d never follow his mother’s example. He would spend time every day with his child, never yell at her or hit her. But the boy? A toddler. A line of snot ran from his nose, his eyes red and teary from crying. To be entirely honest, he didn’t want two children. He wanted only one. Embalming both of them would be a hassle, and he’d have to carry them back to his home, not to mention the endless chore of moving them from one spot to the next once they began their life together.

  No, he had no use for the boy.

  He yanked the child up. Where had he put his knife? He glanced around. There, on the counter. He dragged the boy over to the counter, the little runt screaming hysterically into the rag in his mouth. He grabbed the knife and put it against the kid’s throat. The mother emitted muffled screams as well, her eyes wide, shaking her head.

  “I don’t need him,” he said simply, pressing the blade harder.

  He paused and pulled the blade back.

  He had never embalmed a child before. He might screw things up. It was safe to assume their veins were smaller; he might botch the girl. Having a backup would be useful. He could learn to love the boy, sure. If he had to.

  He inspected the child’s throat. Hardly nicked it at all. Good. He dragged the boy back, dumped him by his sister.

  It was time to prepare the embalming table.

  It was just like the time with Susan. The best place to do it all was the bathroom, where the shower supplied both running water and a drain. He didn’t want blood all over the floor; it would be messy to step in. He had a folding table in the van that would fit well enough. It wasn’t the table in his workshop, but he couldn’t have it all.

  It was a lot of effort, carrying the table, the containers with the embalming fluid, the embalming machine. Then he grabbed the bag with the toys he had bought t
he day before. It was purely sentimental, really, but he wanted to give his child a new toy to play with once they were done. Last time he had been there, he had noticed that most of their toys were used and broken.

  He’d be a good father.

  CHAPTER 72

  Only one van was in front of Sorenson’s Plumbing when they parked next to the small warehouse. One of the plumbers was gone. Zoe got out of the car, slamming the door behind her, and marched toward the remaining van. She heard Tatum run after her, felt his hand grab her wrist.

  “What?” she snapped.

  He looked at her with concern. “We have no warrant or permission to be here. Just . . . be cool.”

  “Right,” she muttered, feeling anything but cool.

  They approached the van together at a measured pace. Once they reached it, Tatum slid against the van, trying the door handle. The door didn’t budge. Locked. Zoe circled the van, glancing inside it, trying to see its interior. The rear windows of the van were darkened; it was impossible to see anything through them. Tatum joined her at the van’s rear, glancing at it.

  “No blood, no formaldehyde, not even a serial killer club membership card.”

  Zoe nodded glumly. “Let’s go inside.”

  “And do what?”

  “Well . . . I’ve been here before. I can just say I came to ask a few more questions.”

  Tatum looked at her unhappily, and she shrugged. Did they have any other choice? Calling Martinez right now would get them nothing except a one-way ticket out of Chicago.

  She walked into the shop, her eyes scanning the interior quickly. Clifford Sorenson sat behind his desk, reading a newspaper. As Tatum joined her, Clifford put down the newspaper and looked at them both.

  “Hello,” he said. “You’re the one from the FBI, right?”

  Zoe swallowed. “That’s right,” she said. “This is Agent Gray, my partner.”

  Clifford nodded at Tatum. “How can I help you?” he asked, his tone of voice slightly chilly.

  “Just a few follow-up questions,” Zoe said. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure,” Clifford said, folding his hands. He didn’t ask them to sit down or offer them coffee. They were not wanted here.

  “I prefer that no one overhears our talk,” Zoe said, treading carefully. “Are we alone here, or is your brother here?”

  “Just you, me, and your partner,” Clifford answered. “My brother went to a client’s house.”

  Zoe nodded, feeling an inkling of satisfaction. They really were brothers. “Okay. I wanted to verify the timeline before you discovered your fiancée was missing. You went on a fishing trip with your friends, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Just your friends? No one else?”

  “No, just my friends.”

  “The reason I’m asking this is that sometimes people remember things differently, especially after a long time. Didn’t your brother join you on your fishing trips?”

  “Sometimes he did. Not that time. And I remember that day perfectly. It was the worst day of my life.”

  Was it? Was it really worse than being locked up with your dead sister in your own house?

  “Do you remember why he didn’t join you on the trip?”

  Clifford’s eyes narrowed. “I get the idea that this isn’t just a follow-up, Agent. Are you trying to pin this murder on me again? I think I should call my lawyer.”

  “Was Susan Warner a customer of yours?” Zoe asked desperately.

  “Now I’m definitely calling my lawyer.”

  “We’re not accusing you of your fiancée’s murder, sir,” Tatum said in a low voice. “But we do have a likely suspect. And it would help if you answered our questions.”

  “Really?” Clifford said. “Because it sounds like those questions are about me.”

  Her insides churned as she stared at the man’s hardening features. How sure was she that his brother was the murderer and not him? Because if she was wrong and told him what they knew, he could give up his brother’s location, and then, once they were gone, he could disappear. The prudent thing to do was to talk to Martinez. Try to convince him they had a good enough case here. Get a search warrant, maybe someone to watch both brothers.

  The only problem was that she couldn’t shake the hunch that Jeffrey was prowling for a victim. Maybe had even found one. They could have only hours until another woman was dead. Or minutes.

  But this was all it was. A hunch. For all she knew, Clifford was the murderer. Or maybe both of the brothers. Or they could both be innocent. Would she really endanger the case by showing their cards?

  She glanced at Tatum worriedly. His eyes were calm, and he gave her a gentle nod. He trusted her.

  She turned to Clifford Sorenson. “Sir, we have reason to believe your brother is the man who killed your fiancée.”

  His eyes widened. He picked up the desk phone and began to dial. “I’m calling my lawyer,” he said. “And then I’m calling my brother to make sure he talks to my lawyer too. You bastards—”

  “Think back,” Zoe said hurriedly. “Did Jeffrey usually miss your fishing trips? You said you went fishing with him several times two weeks ago. But on that night, he didn’t join you, did he? And where was he during the week that your fiancée was missing, before her body was found?” She could see that he’d stopped dialing, that his hand trembled. “Did you see him at all? I’m betting you didn’t. Where do you think he was? What was more important than supporting his brother and helping in the search?”

  Sorenson looked ill, and she knew the possibility had occurred to him that his brother had been with his fiancée’s body.

  “Remember what you said? Veronika told you some apples didn’t fall far from the tree. She wasn’t referring to your father and you. She was talking about your brother and your mother. We know about your history, Mr. Sorenson. We know about your mother’s illness. What if Jeffrey began saying strange things to Veronika? What if his irrational behavior was scaring her? That would explain why she was so tense, why she didn’t want to be left alone. Did Jeffrey have a key to your home? Was he stable after what happened with your sister? Or maybe he got into trouble. Did he ever date anyone? Ever meet any of his girlfriends? Can you really be sure it wasn’t your brother, Mr. Sorenson?”

  It was a shotgun blast of guesses and hunches, and his face showed that some, or even most, hit their mark. He slowly put the phone back in its cradle. Zoe knew that the shock would fade, that in a minute or two he would start rationalizing, finding answers to all her questions. She had to keep striking now, while the metal was hot.

  “A woman named Susan Warner died a few months ago,” she said. “You might have read about it in the paper. We have reason to believe her death was linked to Veronika’s. And we suspect she may have been your client, that your brother went to her home several times. Can you look it up? Maybe we’re completely mistaken. Maybe this was all just a huge misunderstanding.”

  Clifford turned to his laptop and began tapping, his keystrokes mechanical, his expression dazed. Finally, he leaned back and said in a defeated, toneless voice, “Susan Warner was our client. Jeffrey went to her home three times.”

  Zoe’s mind whirred. There were so many questions she wanted to ask this man. But one question took priority over all the rest.

  “Where is your brother now?” she asked.

  “I . . . I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.”

  “You said he went to see a client.”

  “That’s what I assumed. He didn’t tell me.”

  “We need a list of all the clients your brother’s handled in the past three months,” Tatum said.

  “Could be hundreds of names.”

  “Let’s check, okay?”

  Clifford’s fighting spirit had been shattered. He showed them how to read the Excel sheet on the laptop. Tatum sat by the computer and began to go over the list. Zoe was about to argue but then saw he was clearly much more proficient than her when it came to manipula
ting the data. For a burly FBI field agent, he had impressive computer skills.

  There were ninety-three names on the list.

  “He’ll be attacking her in her home,” Zoe said. “That means he’ll probably target a single woman.”

  Tatum removed the men, leaving forty-one names.

  “Do you think he’s targeting a woman with children?” Tatum asked.

  “Probably,” Zoe said. “But we can’t really tell if the client is a single mother from this list.”

  “Laura Summer,” Clifford said. “She wanted a discount because she’s a single mom.”

  Zoe glanced at the name. “He visited her twice,” she said. “I think that’s her.”

  “We need to make sure,” Tatum said.

  Zoe dialed the number on the file, and as she listened to the phone ring, she said, “Email this list to Martinez. We’ll call him on the way and explain.”

  Tatum nodded. As he worked on it, he asked Clifford, “Does Jeffrey have a phone with him?”

  “Uh . . . yeah. Sure.”

  “We’ll need the phone number.”

  Clifford nodded and grabbed a piece of paper.

  Zoe waited, tapping her foot anxiously. Laura didn’t answer her phone.

  “No answer,” she said.

  Tatum pressed send and stood up, grabbing the piece of paper with Jeffrey’s number on it. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 73

  The blue van Zoe had first seen by Sorenson’s Plumbing was parked in front of Laura Summer’s home, instantly dispelling Zoe’s hope that Jeffrey Alston was really fixing someone’s drain. Tatum switched off the engine and checked his gun.

  Zoe had called Martinez on the way and explained in very general terms what they had learned. Martinez sounded livid but was professional enough to realize that his top priority had to be taking the serial killer off the street. He’d handle the rogue FBI personnel later. Police squads were on their way.