A Killer's Mind (Zoe Bentley Mystery #1)(89)

“Desperate to find a suspect,” Tatum said.

The chief twisted his mouth in clear distaste. “Desperate to find a killer, Agent Gray.”

“That too,” Tatum said, standing up. “Thank you for your time, Chief Price.”

The chief glowered and stayed silent as Tatum nodded at him and left the office.





CHAPTER 61

Zoe had to admit that her home office had begun to look like the rooms of some of her subjects. Every image from the four crime scenes in Chicago was hanging on the wall, as well as images from the 2008 killings. She had a map of Maynard and a map of Chicago, both marked with the locations of the murders. Various articles from her Maynard serial killer scrapbook spotted the wall as well. She had purchased two whiteboards and filled them with all of the victims, both from Maynard and from Chicago, listing their names, ages, professions, and times and locations of disappearance. She stopped herself before she began tying bits of strings between things that seemed connected.

It was, perhaps, a good time to find a real hobby.

The room had a single bed, for when Andrea decided she wanted to crash at her apartment. Zoe had nodded off on it the night before. She had woken up in the morning surrounded by crime scene photos and case files. After orienting herself, she returned to work, trying to connect the dots, fill in the missing time between 1997 and 2016.

At times she could feel her resolve weakening. She considered grabbing a book or watching something dumb on TV. But then she’d recall Tatum’s face when he said he thought she was wrong. It intermingled with memories of her parents telling her she should leave Rod Glover alone and of the cop telling her to leave the detective work to the grown-ups. If any of them had listened to her, Glover would have been incarcerated a long time ago. Lives would have been spared. Tatum should have known better. But all he saw when he looked at her was a civilian taking the place of a real agent.

Knowing she was locking herself into one train of thought, she’d occasionally try to stop thinking of the Chicago serial killer as Rod Glover. She’d try and call him the killer in her mind. When the killer grabbed Krista or the killer needed a steady supply of embalming fluid. But pretty quickly she’d find her thoughts dragged back to Glover grabbed Krista and Glover needed a supply of embalming fluid.

Her stomach and left thigh chafed. She’d scrubbed them raw in the shower, and they were now inflamed and tender to the touch. But at least she didn’t feel as if Glover’s fingers were on her anymore. His face still hounded her, the predatory look in his eyes as he approached her by the lake. The voice in her ear as he held the knife to her throat. On your knees. These would suddenly flicker into her mind, and she’d lose her train of thought, stand staring at the plethora of evidence, chills running down her spine. And then she’d start over.

She had to do this right.





CHAPTER 62

He could see them through the window, bathed in the soft yellow glow of their kitchen’s light. The two children were young; he could just see the tops of their heads through the glass pane, their bodies hidden by the house’s wall. One of them, the little girl, bounced excitedly as she talked to her mother.

The mother was a lovely thing to look at, her beauty barely marred after two childbirths. He could already imagine her after his treatment, eternally adoring, with everlasting motherly affection. She was a good mother even now, as her children were scurrying around. Making them dinner as she listened to her daughter’s tales of her day.

No father.

He didn’t know the whole story, but he knew enough. There was only the mother. He’d been watching them from his car two nights in a row, and he hadn’t seen the face of a new boyfriend in sight. The woman was still alone, just like she had been a month before. He could do the treatment in their own house.

He could hardly wait. He considered entering at that very moment but realized he was in the wrong car. All his gear was in the van. He was alternating between his two vehicles in case someone noticed the strange car parked in the street every night. Neighbors could have prying eyes.

No, not tonight. But soon, very soon.

He envisioned their lovely future. Christmas evenings together. For the first time ever, he would have a reason to buy a tree, decorate it, buy the children gifts. When he’d wake up in the morning, they would sit with him around the table as he ate. He could put them to sleep, read them a bedtime story. He would never be like his parents. He would be a good father.

And he wouldn’t have to suffer through the pain of watching his kids grow up, become strangers, leave his home to raise families of their own. No, these kids would stay with him and love him forever. Alongside their mother.

One woman, a boy, and a girl. A family, ready to be his.

Forever.





CHAPTER 63

Maynard’s Summer Street was quite charming, countless trees casting their shade on the narrow road. Large yards dotted the street, most of them trimmed with care. Tatum got out of his rental and stood in the sun for several moments, enjoying the tranquility that the place offered. Finally, feeling he had dawdled enough, he went up the driveway of the house he had parked near. It was a white house with an orange tiled roof, two windows, and a door in the middle. It was the kind of house Tatum used to draw as a child. It was easy, really. A blue pencil to color the top of the page—that was the sky—then a green pencil to color in grass at the bottom of the page. A square in the middle of the grass and a triangle on top. Two squares for windows and a rectangular door. Add flowers according to your mood and the colors at your disposal. Oh, and a yellow quarter of a circle on the top left part of the page. That was the sun. This house was almost as symmetrical as Tatum’s drawings, though a bit larger, and some small trees decorated the grass.