It was not. These days, people focused on the now, ignoring the future. His health was the most important thing he had.
The woman to his left still sat there, sobbing. She had been there for the past hour, and he had done his best to give her the privacy she deserved. He had noticed she was crying only after he had sat down, or he would have chosen a different spot on the beach. Sitting next to a crying person was an absolute downer. Of course he wasn’t enjoying himself, with this chick crying her eyes out ten feet from him.
Perhaps she wasn’t crying at all. She was sitting on the sand, her face buried in her hands. It totally looked as if she were crying. But maybe she had just fallen asleep. Come to think of it, she hadn’t moved much since he’d sat down.
Maybe it was just a cry for help. Was she sobbing on the beach, hoping someone would ask her what was wrong? Of course, no one would. These days you could climb a building and threaten to jump, and all the passersby would just film you for their YouTube channels. No empathy. He was outraged.
Slowly, he got up and walked over to the woman. She seemed sickly somehow, her skin pale, almost gray. Maybe she had a skin condition. She shouldn’t be in the sun like that. Had she put sunscreen on? She had no bag with her, not even a towel. She just sat on the beach, dressed in a long-sleeved yellow shirt and a skirt.
“Excuse me, uh . . . miss? Are you okay?” he asked.
She didn’t move. Didn’t answer. He almost turned away. She didn’t want to be bothered. But something seemed . . . off with her. She needed help; he was sure of it.
“Miss? Are you okay? Do you want a drink?” He crouched next to her. “Miss?”
He put a hand on her shoulder.
Her shoulder was rock hard, rigid, and cold. He suddenly realized her neck had a very clear, dark bruise around it, that her skin was gray, that she wasn’t moving at all. Not even breathing.
“Shit!” he screamed, falling back.
This girl was dead.
CHAPTER 11
Tatum tried to rectify his mistake—Zoe had to give him that—but she was furious and far from a conciliatory mood. She had been doing something important at Quantico, and he had yanked her away from it to essentially be his wingman. She was icy for the remainder of their meal and their drive to the police headquarters, where Tatum quickly led her to the special task office and introduced her to Lieutenant Martinez.
“Nice to meet you,” the lieutenant said, shaking her hand. “I didn’t know the FBI would send any more agents. We really don’t have anywhere you can sit. This wasn’t my intention when I asked for the bureau’s assistance—”
“I’m not a federal agent,” she said quickly, sliding into her intended role. “I’m a forensic psychologist. And I’m here just for a short visit; I don’t need anywhere to sit down. I’m just interested in what Dr. Bernstein has to say about this case. I find this murderer intriguing.”
“Do you?” Martinez said, his eyes looking from her to Tatum in suspicion. “Are you familiar with Dr. Bernstein?”
“Most people in my profession are.” She smiled sweetly at Martinez. “He’s very well known. And I’m sure he’s probably heard of me, so it would be an interesting discussion. We might have some new conclusions when we’re done.”
“I’ll ask him,” Martinez said.
Zoe waited as the man made a phone call. He clearly suspected Tatum had brought her to shoot down their profiler. It was a cheap trick, incredibly transparent. But she might as well do her job if she was there.
“Okay, great. See you there,” the lieutenant said and put down his phone. He turned to Zoe and smiled at her. “You’re right. Dr. Bernstein has heard of you and was excited at the prospect of discussing this with you. He just walked in the building. Let’s meet him in the meeting room. I’ll call the other detectives—”
“No need to waste their time yet,” Zoe hurriedly said. “I think just the four of us should do, at least to kick things off. Maybe later we can have a larger, formal meeting.”
“Well, they might be out in the field later.” Martinez frowned. “Okay, let’s head to the meeting room and see what the doctor thinks.”
She followed the two men as they led her to a room down the hall. Dr. Bernstein already sat inside at a long table, reviewing his notes. Zoe was familiar with the man, had seen him several times on TV. He seemed to pop up whenever a serial killer was in the media’s focus. He wasn’t the only one. There was a group of so-called experts who were always overjoyed to be interviewed and to show off their extensive knowledge of the subject. These people weren’t harmless. They spread misconceptions and hysteria in the general population and often changed the course of investigations, just like this case.
“Dr. Bernstein.” Zoe smiled, her eyes widening in fake admiration. “It’s an honor to finally meet you.”
“Thank you,” the man said, standing up to shake her hand. His handshake was limp, passive.
Zoe kept her smile, sitting down. “So I’m interested in what you have to say about this . . . Strangling Undertaker.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer we start discussing it from scratch?” The doctor sat down as well. “It might prevent your own opinions from being influenced by mine.”
Zoe was amused by the idea of Bernstein affecting her opinions. She glanced at Tatum and Martinez, who sat down at the table. “I don’t want to waste time. You’ve clearly put a lot of effort into it, so let’s start with what we already have.”
“Very well.” Dr. Bernstein stood up again. “Well, the subject is male, probably white, in his late twenties or thirties—”
“I definitely agree,” Zoe said, nodding.
Bernstein smiled modestly and sent a victorious glance over to Tatum, whose face was blank, his jaw clenched.
“In fact,” Zoe continued, “I’d say there’s a sixty-three percent chance he’s white and only a twelve percent chance he’s black and a sixteen percent chance he’s Hispanic or Latino.”
The doctor blinked in confusion.
“That sounds very specific,” Lieutenant Martinez said. “How can you tell—”
“That’s the division of the population in the United States,” Zoe explained. “So if you choose any man at random, it would match these probabilities. I assume that’s what the doctor meant, since there’s no other way to know he’s white. Serial killers are spread pretty evenly through all races.”
“That’s not entirely what I meant,” the doctor said, pursing his lips. “As I’ve said in two of my books—”
“I’m sorry,” Zoe said, her tone apologetic. “I haven’t read any of your books.”
There was a moment of silence.
The doctor finally cleared his throat, turning away from her, speaking to Martinez. “Well, if Dr. Bentley here had my experience, she’d agree he targets white victims, and that indicates—”
“We have two victims,” Zoe said. “We don’t know what he targets yet. And there have been white killers who killed black women and vice versa.” She felt impatient. His jab about her experience rubbed at her.
“It’s very easy to speak of those things as an academic,” Bernstein said. “After all, you’ve only recently graduated. How long have you been practicing forensic psychology as an agent . . . I’m sorry, I meant as a consultant?”
She flushed and smiled, baring her teeth. “A few years. How many cases did you help profile? Aside from your media interviews, I mean.”
“Do you agree with the doctor’s assessment of his age?” Martinez asked, raising his voice slightly.
“It’s probably a good estimate.” Zoe shrugged. “But I wouldn’t treat it as fact. Monte Rissel began to rape women when he was fourteen. He moved on to killing them soon after. By the way, he’s a good example of a serial killer who murdered both white and black women. Right, Doctor?”
“Well, yes . . . uh . . .” He seemed at a momentary loss.
“I really think we’re making progress,” Zoe said. “Please go on.”
“Well . . . he leaves the bodies in public spots, demonstrating his superiority over the law enforcement agencies and enjoying his fame. He—”