A Killer's Mind (Zoe Bentley Mystery #1)(90)

He knocked on the door. A few minutes later, an old, gray-haired woman with pearl earrings and a kind smile opened the door.

“Yes?” she said.

“Dr. Foster?” Tatum asked.

“That’s right.”

He flipped his badge. “I’m Agent Gray from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

“Oh.” Her eyes widened. This woman, he decided, had never seen an FBI agent outside her television set before. “What about? Is everything all right?”

“Yes, just a follow-up on an old case.”

“Okay. Do you want lemonade? I just made some.”

Drinking lemonade was something that would definitely diminish his intimidation factor. But he didn’t feel like intimidating this nice lady, anyway. And lemonade sounded wonderful.

“I’d love some,” he said, smiling.

She led him to a back porch, where two plastic chairs stood by a small table. He sat down in one of the chairs while she went inside. He glanced at the time. He had a few hours before his return flight. He was cutting things close. Living on the edge.

Dr. Foster came out a moment later with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses.

“Cookies?” she asked as she set the jar on the plastic table.

The line had to be drawn somewhere. “No, thank you.”

She sat down and poured the lemonade. “How can I help you?”

“I’m following up on the murder of Clara Smith,” he said.

“Oh,” she said. “That was a long time ago. She was killed by a very disturbed teenager.”

“Really?” Tatum sipped from his glass. “I thought no one was ever convicted.”

“Only because he killed himself,” Foster said. “It’s a well-known fact that it was him.”

Tatum nearly winced at the word fact. If all the people around you said the same thing over and over, it could easily turn from suspicion to fact.

“I wanted to ask you about your time-of-death estimation,” he said, pulling out the case file and verifying it was the right one.

“I hope I’ll be able to answer. It’s been quite a long time.”

“Of course. You estimated that Clara Smith died between . . . six and seven p.m.”

“If you say so.”

“But Chief Price told me that your initial estimation had pegged it as a bit earlier,” Tatum said, the lie slipping easily. He smiled and took another sip of the cool lemonade.

“Well, yes. I remember that. I initially thought it had been earlier, but I became convinced I was wrong. It was tricky to estimate. The body had been left in the water on a snowy day. It cooled very quickly.”

“Completely understandable.” Tatum nodded, his suspicion verified. “So do you remember what your initial assessment was?”

She frowned. “I don’t know. Somewhere around noon, I think. Maybe around two p.m.”

“But that couldn’t be right,” Tatum said. “Because Manny Anderson was in the library between one and four p.m. He couldn’t have killed her then.”

“Well, as I said, I quickly saw I was wrong.”

“Not so quickly, Dr. Foster,” Tatum said. “It took you two days.” He showed her the report.

There was a flicker of something in her eyes. Suspicion, shrewdness. The transformation was uncanny and disappeared as fast as it had appeared.

“I . . . can’t really remember. It was a long time ago.”

Tatum emptied his glass. “This is really good lemonade,” he said. “I have an interesting fact for you. During your estimated time of death, a search party was looking for Clara. People were worried after she disappeared, and it was organized quickly. And Clara’s real killer was in that search party. But because of your estimation, he had an ironclad alibi.”

The color drained from Dr. Foster’s face.

“Manny Anderson never killed anyone,” Tatum said. “But he was under heavy suspicion. When people are scared, they just want someone to blame. Chief Price—he wasn’t chief then, of course—told you that you were wrong, that the time of death couldn’t possibly be right. Maybe it took him two days to convince you. Maybe it just took him two days to verify that Manny had no alibi for that evening. Either way, you changed your estimation so Manny could be prosecuted.”

“It . . . it was hard to be sure. It was so cold outside . . .”

“Of course,” Tatum said.

“And the killings stopped. It had to be the Anderson kid.”

Tatum sighed. He almost told her about the killings in Chicago in 2008. The grief Manny Anderson’s parents had gone through, losing their only son and then trying for years to prove he was innocent. But he remained silent. His job was to catch killers. Not to upset seventy-year-old women who made good lemonade. She’d made a mistake, but she had been scared and desperate, just like the rest of the town.

“Did you change your time-of-death estimate from two to sometime between six and seven?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said weakly.

“And did you know about Manny’s alibi at the time?”

“Yes, but—”

“Thank you, Dr. Foster.”





CHAPTER 64