A Killer's Mind (Zoe Bentley Mystery #1)(50)

She locked the door behind her, shoving the key into her pocket. Glover was at work—it was a Monday morning—but it made her feel slightly better.

She had been to his house once, on an errand from her mother to retrieve a long-borrowed blender, so she knew the kitchen and the living room. She decided in advance she would ignore those rooms and focus on his bedroom. The bedroom door was closed, and for a moment, she hesitated. What if he was sick and had stayed home?

But no, she hadn’t seen his car parked out front. She twisted the door handle and pushed the door open.

His bedroom was dark and had a sweaty, unpleasant smell to it. The window was covered with a purple cloth, not really a drape, more like something he’d just hung on top of it. She switched on the light and looked at the door, hesitating. Should she close it? She wouldn’t be able to hear if he came in. She decided to leave it open.

It was a small bedroom, the double bed taking up most of the space. It was a mess, bedsheets crumpled, the pillow on the floor next to it. A nightstand stood beside the bed, and a wooden dresser was against the wall. There were a few books and magazines in a pile on the nightstand.

She stood in the entrance, wondering what had driven her here. What did she expect to find? Something to convince her mother? Or perhaps something to make her realize that her suspicions were unfounded? She bit her lip and approached the nightstand, her hand touching the top book in the pile. It was a Batman comic book. She moved it aside to uncover an issue of Hustler. Uncomfortable, she shifted it aside. There was another issue. Then two more superhero comics and a book by John Grisham.

She piled the magazines and the book as they had been before. Not the most wholesome reading material, but probably not so different from what other men had in their homes.

She opened the top dresser drawer, finding shirts and pants thrown together in disarray. She looked through them carefully but could see nothing interesting. The second drawer contained underpants and socks.

The third drawer was a different story.

Her first impression was that it was just brimming with porn. There were numerous issues of Hustler but also other magazines she wasn’t familiar with. Some of them displayed women tied up in various poses, half-dressed or nude. Zoe had seen porn before, both in magazines and on TV. She and Heather had once found a videotape that her dad kept in the garage and had watched it for ten minutes, giggling hysterically. But this was more than she had ever seen, and the images depicted made her sick. There were several videocassettes as well, the handwritten labels in large, uneven letters with annotations like “Tied Up” or “Flogging and Whips.” Did Glover buy these somehow? Had he recorded them, and if so, when and where?

Aside from the porn, there were at least ten ties in the drawer. Just bland gray ties that Glover probably wore for his job. Why didn’t he keep the ties in the drawer with his socks and underwear? There was plenty of room there. Did he enjoy looking at his porn hoard every morning when he put his tie on?

Part of the drawer was empty, and there was a square-shaped vacancy in the thin layer of dust that had accumulated in the drawer’s bottom. Something was missing. Perhaps the magazines on the nightstand? But they weren’t quite the right shape. She shut the drawer.

Where else could she look? She glanced under the bed. There were some clothes discarded there. Apparently that was where Glover kept his dirty laundry. She was about to stand up when something caught her eye: a smear of something brownish gray on a pair of pants. Hesitant, she pulled the pants from under the bed.

They were a pair of blue jeans, and the bottoms of the pant legs were slightly muddy. She thought about the location where they had found Clara. Another spot on the Assabet River. Clara, like the previous victims, had been half-submerged in water.

How did these jeans get mud on them?

She began pulling out more clothes from under the bed. Some shirts, another pair of pants, none of them muddy. And then her fingers touched something that felt crusty with mud. She pulled it out. A sock, stiff with dry muck.

What else was there? She reached, grabbed a handful of other clothes, and pulled them out. Another shirt, a pair of underpants, and a pair of feminine underwear.

She held up the underwear. They could be explained, of course. Rod Glover occasionally had a woman over.

But there was a smudge of mud on the yellow cloth.

She stared at it for long seconds, her heart pounding. It dropped from her fingers.

She was becoming convinced she was standing in the bedroom of the Maynard serial killer. She had to get out of there. She bent to push all the clothing back under the bed, when something else grabbed her attention. A rectangular black shape under the bed. A shoebox. With trembling fingers, she pulled it out and lifted the lid.

There was a clicking sound, and it took a second to register. The lock on the front door.

She dropped the lid on the box, her mind in turmoil, and pounced at the bedroom door. She quickly shut it, taking care not to let it slam, just as she heard the front door opening. Had he seen? She leaned against the door, listening, hearing only the thumping of her own heart.

And then, a cupboard opened. He was in the kitchen. She let out a shaking breath and looked around her. Quickly, she shoved all the clothing and the shoebox under the bed, her mind still processing what she had seen in it. A few pieces of crumpled female lingerie. A bracelet.

She pushed the thoughts away. She couldn’t be distracted right now; she had to get out. Get out and call the police. They would handle it all.