by Mike Omer
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Police,” a sharp, formal voice declared.
Tatum flattened his body against the wall and unlocked the door, then opened it slightly and peered out. A cop in uniform stood outside, an old, confused-looking man next to him. Tatum sighed, put the Glock on the small stand nearby, and opened the door.
“Good evening, sir,” the cop said. “Do you know this man?” He glanced at the befuddled gray-haired man beside him.
“Yeah.” Tatum sighed. “He’s my grandfather. His name’s Marvin.”
“We found him wandering around Logan Park,” the cop said.
“Where is Molly?” Marvin asked in a frail voice.
“He keeps asking for her,” the cop said.
“Molly was my grandmother. She passed away,” Tatum said. “We just moved here . . . I think he’s having a hard time adjusting.”
“I’m very sorry,” the cop said. “He was with some young men who ran once they spotted us. I think they were about to rob him.”
“I see,” Tatum said. “Thank you, Officer.”
The cop glanced at the table where the Glock rested.
Tatum cleared his throat. “I’m a federal agent,” he said. “My badge is in the bedroom, if you want to—”
“That’s okay.” The cop nodded. “You should make sure he stays indoors, sir,” he said. “He shouldn’t be walking around at two a.m. It’s dangerous.”
“You’re right, Officer. Thank you. You heard that, Grandpa?”
“Is Molly asleep?” Marvin asked, his voice trembling.
“You have a good night, sir,” the officer said and walked away as Tatum closed the door.
Tatum and his grandfather looked at each other silently as the cop’s footsteps faded.
“Goddamn it, Marvin.” Tatum exploded once he knew the cop would be out of earshot. “What the hell?”
“Well, what did you want me to do?” Marvin asked, straightening, the confusion fading from his face. “I don’t run as fast as those youngsters. Would you rather I called to say I’d been arrested for buying drugs?”
“I would rather that you weren’t buying drugs at all,” Tatum said. “What the hell are you buying drugs for, anyway? You’re eighty-seven years old.”
“They’re not for me. They’re for Jenna,” Marvin said, striding into the apartment.
“Who’s Jenna?”
“A woman I know, Tatum.”
“Where did you meet this woman?”
“Bingo night.”
Tatum shut his eyes and breathed deeply. “How old is Jenna?”
“She’s eighty-two,” Marvin yelled from the kitchen. “But she’s very feisty.”
“I’m sure she is,” Tatum muttered, walking after his grandfather. “Well, if Jenna’s eighty-two, she shouldn’t be doing cocaine either.”
“Tatum, at our age, we can do whatever we want,” Marvin said. “I’m making a cup of tea. Do you want one?”
“I want to go back to sleep.”
“You have a flight in a couple of hours anyway,” Marvin said.
“Yeah, listen—about that. Don’t get arrested while I’m gone. I need you to take care of Freckle.”
“No way.”
“It’s just for a few days.”
“Why don’t you take the cat to a shelter? Or, I don’t know, dump it on the highway.”
“I should take you to the shelter,” Tatum grumbled as Marvin handed him a mug. He took a sip. “Listen, just make sure he has food and that he doesn’t destroy the house. We just moved in. And make sure he doesn’t eat the fish.”
“What fish?”
“The one in the bowl in the living room. I need you to get an aquarium for it. I’ll leave you some money.”
“We have a fish?”
“Yeah. His name is Timothy, and apparently, he’s a bastard. You two should get along great. Just keep Freckle away from him.”
“That beast hates me.”
“He hates everyone,” Tatum said. “But maybe if you stopped throwing your shoes at him—”
“If he’d stop pouncing at me, I might stop throwing shoes at him.”
Freckle prowled into the kitchen, glanced at Marvin, and hissed menacingly.
“Cut that out,” Tatum told the cat. “I need you two to behave when I’m gone.”
The cat and the old man both looked at Tatum, their eyes round and innocent.
Tatum sighed. “And feed the damn fish,” he said.
When Tatum saw Lieutenant Samuel Martinez from the Chicago PD, he was quite taken with the man’s mustache. He shook his hand, wondering how the mustache would look on his own face. It was well groomed and thick, with a Tom Selleck-ish style, giving Martinez’s mouth an aura of importance. The thick-rimmed glasses framing the man’s eyes further elevated the seriousness he conveyed. Tatum suspected that if he tried the same face décor, he’d look like a pervy literature teacher who slept with his students. Some mustaches belonged on other people’s faces. So far Tatum had failed to find one that belonged on his own.
“Agent Gray, I’m glad you could come,” the lieutenant said. They stood in the entrance of the Chicago Police Department headquarters, where the Central Investigation Division was housed. It teemed with people, both cops and civilians, and the air carried the faint buzz of several conversations merged together. Martinez’s voice penetrated the hubbub easily, his words clipped and measured. “Please follow me.”
They took the elevator up two floors and then walked down a corridor into what appeared to be a meeting room. Half a dozen people sat around a large white table in the center. Several whiteboards hung on the walls, on which various images were tacked and timelines drawn. A large map of Chicago was taped to the wall to Tatum’s left, marked with circles drawn with a red Sharpie in two spots.
“This is the situation room for the Strangling Undertaker cases,” Martinez explained. “Please, come in.”
“The Strangling Undertaker?” Tatum raised an eyebrow.
“That’s what the newspapers started calling him,” Martinez said. “A reporter came up with the nickname a few days ago, and it’s caught on.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Tatum muttered.
Martinez introduced Tatum to the people in the room. Five were detectives. The sixth, a much older man with frizzed hair and numerous liver spots, was introduced as Dr. Ruben Bernstein.
“Bernstein joined the task force three days ago, soon after we found the second body,” Martinez said. “He’s an experienced profiler, and he’s already been a tremendous help.”
“That’s good to hear.” Tatum nodded and shook Bernstein’s hand. The old man’s handshake was limp, making Tatum feel as if he were handling a dead fish. “I take it there’s been some progress? When my chief filled me in, she described the situation as quite dire.”
“Well, it’s definitely bleak,” Martinez said, his face grim. “People are scared. These bodies showed up in very public places and were seen by families with kids. But Dr. Bernstein’s narrowed the pool of suspects significantly, so we’re finally making some headway.”
“Good,” Tatum said. “I’m glad to hear you’re moving in the right direction. Do you want to fill me in?”
“Have you read the case files?” Martinez asked.
“I did,” Tatum said. “And I’m only here to consult, but I’d be glad for a short summary and an up-to-date assessment of the situation.”
“Absolutely. Have a seat,” Martinez said.
Tatum glanced at the table. The five detectives all sat on one end, Dr. Bernstein at the other, with several empty chairs on either side. He sat down next to the old profiler.
“This is Susan Warner,” Martinez said, pointing to an image on one of the whiteboards. It depicted a woman lying on the grass, her entire body rigid, her mouth agape. She was dressed in a black evening dress, one of its sleeves torn, the bottom scrunched up to her thighs. Her legs were bare. Her body seemed to be in almost perfect condition, her
skin pink except for her left foot, which was black and green and slightly bloated.
“Victim is twenty-two years old. She was found on April twelfth of this year on the shore of Foster Beach. The body was embalmed except for the left foot, which was already in an advanced state of decomposition. Warner was an art student living alone in Pilsen. She was reported missing by one of her friends four days before her body was found. Time of death was hard to estimate because her body was embalmed, but according to the state of the foot, the medical examiner estimated she’d been dead for at least five days. The cause of death was strangulation. We found traces of embalming fluid and blood in the shower at her apartment. There were indications that the body was sexually assaulted postmortem.”
Tatum listened carefully. He had read all that twice already, but he wanted to know what the lieutenant would focus on.
“The second victim”—Martinez pointed at another image—“was Monique Silva.”
Tatum looked at the picture he had first seen in Chief Mancuso’s office. Monique Silva’s body stood on a wooden bridge above a stream, leaning on the railing, as if staring at the water. Her eyes were open, her mouth shut. She was dressed in a skirt, stockings, and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Her skin was completely gray.
“Silva was aged twenty-one, a prostitute working Logan Square. She was found a week ago, on July seventh. A man who identified himself as her cousin but is a known pimp reported her missing only a day before her body was found, but he said she had been missing for at least a week before that. Cause of death was, again, strangulation. There were bruises indicating she had been tied up before being killed. Again, the body was sexually assaulted postmortem. We checked with eyewitnesses—”
“Hang on,” Tatum said. “Was there embalming fluid found in her home as well?”
“No, but she wasn’t living alone,” Martinez said. “We believe she was snatched off the street and taken somewhere else.”
“Okay.” Tatum nodded. “Do you know why the body’s skin color is gray? The first body’s skin looks much better.” This hadn’t been mentioned in the case file.
“According to the ME, the killer probably used a different mixture of embalming fluid,” Martinez said. “The lifelike colors in the first body are because of a red dye in the embalming fluid.”
“I see,” Tatum said. “What are your leads?”
“The killer was careful,” Martinez said. “Hardly any traces of DNA on Susan Warner’s body. There was a reasonable amount of semen found on Monique Silva, but she was a prostitute, so that wasn’t entirely surprising. No matches on CODIS to the samples.”
Tatum nodded.
“Absolutely no witnesses for the first murder,” Martinez said. “The second victim was probably taken from the street, and we’ve interrogated some of her associates. We have several descriptions of male customers who approached the victim the last evening she was seen on the street, but they’re very general. We found a bunch of fingerprints in Susan Warner’s apartment, at least seven different people, and tracing those fingerprints led us nowhere.”
“So you have nothing substantial so far,” Tatum said.
He could sense the atmosphere in the room tensing. He got dirty looks from two of the detectives, and Martinez’s mouth pursed. Tatum made a mental note to be careful with anything that might sound like a criticism. “I mean, the killer covered his tracks very well.”
“On the contrary,” the throaty voice of Dr. Bernstein interrupted. “I’d say the killer has left us a very clear path.”
Tatum folded his arms and looked toward the doctor. “I take it you have a lead?”
“Well, I have a description,” Bernstein said. “And using that description, the detectives can find the killer.”
“All right,” Tatum said. “Let’s hear it.”
The doctor stood up and walked over to the whiteboard. Martinez sat down, giving the doctor his full attention.
“The killer is male, white, in his late twenties or early thirties,” the doctor said. “He—”
“How do you know?” Tatum interrupted him.
“What?”
“How do you know he’s a white male in his late twenties or early thirties?”
“Well, I don’t really know anything. But the probability is very high, and we need to narrow the pool of suspects.”
“Okay. What makes you think he’s likely to be a white male of that age?”
“Well . . .” The doctor seemed to be warming up. “He’s male because—”
“I know why you think he’s male. Fine. Why white?”
“Almost all serial killers are white,” the doctor said. “And the sexual assault of white women is very indicative.”
Tatum’s face remained fixed, but his heart sank. “I see,” he said. “Why early thirties or—”
“This murder couldn’t have just popped into the killer’s mind overnight,” the doctor answered patiently. “It’s the result of a very intricate fantasy. It has likely taken years to reach the point where the killer had to act it out, so he can’t be too young. And if he were older, we would have seen other similar murders.”
“Okay,” Tatum said, feeling tired. “Go on.”
“He’s leaving the bodies in very public places, clearly demonstrating his superiority over the police and enjoying his moment in the spotlight. It is likely he either talked to the police, pretending to be a witness, or has involved himself somehow in the cases—by approaching the families of the victims, coming to their funerals, and so on. He is intelligent, with a high school and even possibly a college education. He owns a car. He is clearly well acquainted with embalming practices, which leads me to assume he has worked in a funeral home or perhaps still does. He plans everything meticulously, choosing his victims in advance. The fact that he keeps the bodies for longer periods each time displays an impressive amount of patience. He is single, though he might be dating quite often, and may be quite charming and manipulative.”
“That’s a very detailed profile,” Tatum said.
“It has been my experience that this kind of murder—”
“What experience?”
“Excuse me?” The doctor looked insulted.
“You said it has been your experience. Where did that experience come from?”
The doctor’s face flushed in anger. “Young man,” he said, “I’ve spent years studying the practices of serial killers. I’ve been an expert consultant on the matter for more than a decade. I—”
“I’m sorry.” Tatum raised his hands. “Like you, it’s my job to be a consultant to the police. I tend to doubt everything I’m told. It comes with the job. I didn’t mean to imply that I question your impressive credentials.”
The doctor frowned, clearly suspecting he was the butt of a joke, but Tatum had already turned to face Martinez and the rest of the detectives.
“So what are you all doing now?” he asked.
“According to the psychological profile, the suspect is likely to have worked in a funeral home,” Martinez said. “We’ve begun searching through the records of funeral homes in the areas where the killer has struck, looking for someone who matches the profile.”
“Okay.” Tatum massaged the bridge of his nose. “What about staking out the crime scenes where the bodies were dropped?”
Martinez shrugged. “These are very public places,” he said. “Thousands of people go there every day.”
“But they’re empty at night, right?” Tatum said. “I assume that’s how the killer managed to drop the bodies.”
“Well . . . yes. But why would he . . . ?”
“Serial killers sometimes return to the scene of the crime,” Tatum said and added, “I’m sure Dr. Bernstein can tell us why.”
“Of course,” the doctor said. “It’s a very common phenomenon. Serial killers often subconsciously want to get caught—partly out of guilt and partly to receive the fame they desire.”
Tatum sighed. “Lieutenant, thank you for filling m
e in,” he said. “Is there somewhere I can sit down, go over your recent case notes? I need to write up a report. You know how the bureau is.”
Martinez smiled. “Of course. There’s an available desk in our task force room. Let me show you the way.” He turned to the rest of the detectives. “Dana, can you split today’s locations between you? I want to get some progress on those funeral homes.”
“Sure, Lieutenant,” a serious-looking woman said.
Martinez led Tatum out and down the corridor. Once they were far enough out of earshot, Tatum stopped.
“Listen,” he said. “Your profiler is useless. Fire him.”
“I’m sorry?” Martinez asked, tensing.
“I doubt he has any real experience. He—”
“Dr. Bernstein is well known in this area, Agent,” Martinez said coldly. “He’s the number one media expert on serial killers in Chicago.”
A media expert. Of course. Tatum shook his head. “Listen, maybe he’s good enough for the media, but—”
“Are you a profiler, Agent Gray?”
“All FBI agents are trained as profilers,” Tatum said.
“But do you have actual experience as a profiler?”
“No, but—”
“Dr. Bernstein does. He’s personally interviewed John Wayne Gacy and written a book about it. He’s frequently hired as an expert witness on sexual murders. Trust me—he knows more than you or I ever will about serial killers.”
“Serial killers don’t go back to the crime scene because of guilt or desire for fame, Lieutenant, no matter what your profiler thinks,” Tatum said, irritated. “They go back to recall the crime and masturbate. Your killer might go back to one of the crime scenes this very night to relieve himself, and if you’d only stake out the—”
“We don’t have the manpower to stake out the crime scenes,” Martinez said. “No offense, but this is exactly why I was hesitant in involving the bureau. You storm in here, take over the investigation with your patronizing manner and offensive tone—what next? Will you tell the media how inept we are?”