Martinez smiled sadly. “You just described most of the men in the department,” he said.
Zoe raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t ignore the possibility that it’s a law enforcement officer of some kind,” she said. “But we still don’t have enough to tighten the suspect list further.”
“Still, you think he might strike again soon . . . I’ll call vice. I know the lieutenant there. She’ll help—she gets things done. Maybe we can make some inquiries, see if anyone went missing. Tell them to keep their eyes open. Any particular area we should focus on?”
Zoe hesitated. She hadn’t done a thorough geographic profiling of the case yet, but from what she saw, this killer didn’t match the standard patterns. He struck all over Chicago, didn’t focus on a certain area. “I have no idea,” she finally admitted.
CHAPTER 26
Tatum rubbed his face and sighed. His head pounded, and when he shut his eyes, he could still see the glare of his monitor etched in his field of vision. He had been reading reports for the past three hours, and he needed some fresh air.
He was going over burglary reports in West Pullman. Serial killers often started on their path with “fetish burglaries.” They would break into homes of women and steal lingerie, clothes, or other items that sparked their fantasies. It was likely this serial killer had started the same way. With a bit of luck, they would find some fetish burglaries in the crime reports that could shed some light on the identity of the murderer.
Well . . . more than a bit of luck. West Pullman was a huge neighborhood, sprawling over two beats in district five. Burglaries were a frequent occurrence there, and Tatum got tired of reading about stolen laptops and jewelry. He managed to mark three suspicious reports, two because the list of stolen items included lingerie and one because it was reported by a widower whose dead wife’s jewelry had been stolen. Tatum reasoned that if the killer was turned on by death, stealing a dead woman’s jewelry could be in his list of earlier transgressions.
They would add these reports to the mounting pile of possible leads. They might find a connection there. Or just background noise. He was beginning to suspect they were chasing their own tails. He wanted a break.
He backed his chair up a bit, its wheels squeaking on the tiled floor. He looked around the room. Only Zoe and Martinez were sitting at their desks; the rest of the room was empty. Was there a party they hadn’t been invited to? He looked at the faces of the other unpopular kids of the team. Zoe’s face showed no emotion as she stared at her monitor, occasionally hitting a button with one finger. Martinez muttered to himself as he wrote down something on a pad of paper. Tatum assessed the distance between his own desk and Martinez’s. It was about fifteen feet, with no obstacles in the way. He grabbed his desk and, pulling hard, shot his chair across the room in a straight line toward Martinez.
Wheeeeeeeeee.
He misjudged his aim a bit and nearly crashed into the neighboring desk, knocking down a wastebasket. Sheepishly, he bent to pick up the discarded papers as Martinez looked at him, one of his serious eyebrows raised.
“Hey,” Tatum said, straightening up.
“Everything okay, Agent Gray?” Martinez asked in a tone usually reserved for a principal approaching an unruly student in the schoolyard.
“Yeah. Didn’t find anything so far. Just some weak leads, nothing concrete,” Tatum said. “What about you? Any news from your detectives?”
Martinez double-clicked an icon on his desktop, opening a document with a list of names and assignments.
“Let’s see,” he said. “Scott is talking to people whose animals were embalmed or taxidermied. Dana and Brooks are looking into Susan Warner’s friends and family, following up on our assumption that the killer knew her. Mel is down in Organized Crime, talking to people from vice. Tommy is checking out some security cam feeds of streets near the Ohio Street Beach crime scene, trying to see if he can find a likely candidate for our killer’s car. So far I have no news.”
“What contacts do you have for Susan Warner?”
“Her parents, of course. An uncle who lives nearby. One ex-boyfriend, a few friends from art school.”
“I can go talk to some of them,” Tatum said hopefully.
Martinez raised an eyebrow. “I think my detectives can handle these interviews, Agent. No need for—”
“I’m not trying to barge in on the investigation, Martinez.” Tatum raised his hands. “I need to clear my mind a bit, and I’m going insane reading burglary reports.”
“Okay,” Martinez said, his lip quirking in what could be interpreted as a smile. “You can talk to . . .” He glanced at the screen. “Daniella Ortiz. Another art student, Susan Warner’s friend.”
“You’re a good man.”
“I just want you out of my task force room.” The lieutenant grinned.
Tatum rolled his chair back to his desk and headed for the exit. Then he paused and turned around, approaching Zoe. He glanced at her monitor. She was reading burglary reports as well and showed no signs of boredom or tiredness. She was probably a robot; it would explain everything.
“I’m going to talk to one of Susan Warner’s friends,” Tatum said. “Want to join me?”
“Aren’t the detectives doing it?”
“I’m giving them a helping hand.”
“We need to go over these reports.”
“Fine.” He shrugged. “I’ll go alone.” He turned to leave.
“Wait.” Zoe grabbed her bag and stood up quickly.
“You were dying to join me—you just wanted to play hard to get,” Tatum said accusingly.
“That’s not true,” Zoe said, marching out of the room. “I’m driving.”
CHAPTER 27
Harry Barry watched the plume of smoke rising from his cigarette. It spread slowly as it intermingled with the general pollution that lingered over Chicago.
He was leaning against a soot-covered brick wall, wondering if he should smoke two cigarettes or settle on one and go back to work. He was leaning toward a second cigarette.
Up until a few years before, Harry’s boss, the owner of the Chicago Daily Gazette, had been content to let the smokers that worked for him smoke leaning out of the window, as if they were contemplating suicide in a half-assed manner. But after a litany of complaints by people citing the Chicago Clean Indoor Air Act, Harry’s boss had caved. Harry and his three smoking comrades were told politely to keep their stench far away from the office.
They had all relocated to a small, dirty alley down the street, quickly dubbed “Lung Cancer Alley.” Ironically, ever since their exile, Harry’s tobacco consumption had nearly doubled, following the reasoning of, “Well, if I’ve already walked all this way . . .” The Chicago Clean Indoor Air Act was destroying Harry’s lungs.
He dropped the stub, stepping on it, and put a fresh cigarette in his mouth. He lit it, brooding about the article he’d read that morning in his paper about the Strangling Undertaker.
Harry was a capable reporter even though his name was a constant obstacle. He made sure to sign his articles as H. Barry. It gave him an air of a respectable American citizen, as opposed to a man whose name was a Seussian rhyme. Despite his struggles, he didn’t change either of his names, because he liked being a Harry, and he liked belonging to the Barry family. As he often said to his friends, if life gave you lemons, you made lemonade. You didn’t go trading the lemons for papayas.
He thought the article was shit. He had sent an email to his editor, the subject of which was “This Is Shit,” and the content of the email was the link to the article. It was not, perhaps, the most political thing to do, but he was in a rotten mood, and besides, if people didn’t want to hear about shit, perhaps they shouldn’t publish it.
Someone walked into Lung Cancer Alley. It was his editor, Daniel McGrath. Harry quickly deduced that Daniel, not being one of the smokers, was there looking for him.