“Yeah, he was a mess. Hardly left home.”
“Do you remember if Veronika was preoccupied or worried before she disappeared?”
“She was mostly just happy. They were about to get married.”
“Right.”
“He and Veronika were trying to have a child,” Jeffrey said. “He would have made a great father.”
Zoe nodded.
“Do you think you’re going to catch her killer?”
“I don’t know,” Zoe said. “I hope so.”
CHAPTER 47
It was early afternoon, and Zoe, Tatum, and Martinez were sitting in the meeting room. Zoe had just filled them in about Veronika Murray. The three of them sat in silence after she finished talking.
Finally, Martinez broke the silence. He cleared his throat. “Are you sure it’s the same killer?”
“No way I can be sure.” Zoe shrugged. “Like in the other cases, the killer was careful, used a condom, and didn’t leave any DNA behind. Maybe there’s some other forensic data you can use to match the cases. I’d talk to your technicians.”
Martinez nodded. “I’ll do that.”
“The circumstantial evidence is quite indicative,” she added. “Veronika died three months before the pets started disappearing, and in the same neighborhood. The body was found six days later with indications of postmortem sexual intercourse. Assuming it’s the same guy, I’d say the decay forced him to dump the body, after which he decided he had to find a way to overcome this problem.”
“And then, while experimenting on animals, he figured out embalming was a good solution,” Tatum said. He seemed intrigued. “That sounds like a very likely scenario.”
“I agree,” Martinez said. “I’ll have someone look into this immediately.”
Zoe followed Martinez and Tatum back to the task force room. Zoe sat by her computer and was just about to start writing a detailed report for Mancuso when her desk phone rang. It took her a moment to realize it was her own phone. She picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Dr. Bentley? This is Officer Tucker from the front desk. There’s a guy here to see you.”
“To see me? Are you sure?”
“Yeah, he was very specific.”
“Okay, I’ll be right down.”
Curious, she walked down the stairs to the front desk. There were a bunch of civilians waiting around, but she could see no one familiar. She approached the officer at the front desk. “Hi, I’m Zoe Bentley. You just called—”
“Zoe Bentley? Dr. Zoe Bentley?” A man got up and approached her, grinning. He had rich black hair and very dark eyebrows that immediately drew attention to his eyes. He had a small smile that made him look as if he were in on a joke no one else knew about. He scanned her, top to bottom, in a way she found offensive. “I’m thrilled to finally meet you. I’m a huge fan.”
“I didn’t know I had any fans,” she said coldly. His manner irritated her.
“Oh, you do. At least one. I’ve read all about your involvement with the Jovan Stokes case as well as some interesting earlier cases. And now you’re part of the BAU—that’s incredible.”
“I’m sorry, sir. You are . . . ?”
“Harry.”
“Harry what?”
He muttered something that sounded like “Barrer,” then quickly said, “I think I have something that’s intended for you.”
He rummaged in his briefcase for a few seconds and then drew out three brown envelopes. He handed them to her, and she plucked them from his hand and looked at them.
Her blood ran cold.
There was no address this time, only her name, but the handwriting was unmistakable. The three envelopes matched the stack of envelopes she had in her apartment in Dale City, one of which she had received only a week before.
“Who gave you these?” she asked weakly.
He looked at her carefully. “No one gave me these. I found them.”
“Where?”
“One at Foster Beach. The second in Humboldt Park, and I bet you can guess where I found the third.”
She swallowed and said nothing.
“No? It was at Ohio Street Beach.”
The three places where the bodies had been left. “Were they just . . . discarded there? I mean—”
“They were placed on shrines,” Harry said. “The ones people made for the dead girls. I took some photos. I can send them to you. They’re not so good. I’m terrible with a camera.”
“I see.”
“Aren’t you going to open them?” he asked.
She raised her eyes sharply. He looked at her innocently. “No,” she said. She then saw all three envelopes were unsealed.
“You’ve opened them,” she said.
“Well, I wasn’t about to walk into a police station with an envelope that might contain explosives. Or anthrax,” he pointed out. “I wanted to make sure it was safe.”
“Sure.”
“You’ll be happy to learn there’s no anthrax inside them. I’m not sure what anthrax looks like, frankly, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t look like that.”
“Thank you,” she said, feeling sick.
“I should probably let the cops here take my fingerprints,” he said. “For when they dust these, right?”
She didn’t say anything. She stood there frozen, dizzy.
“You should have them take your fingerprints as well.”
“They won’t find any fingerprints,” she said, her voice a thousand miles away.
“You’ve received envelopes like these before?”
“What?”
“You seem to know what’s inside, and you already know they won’t find any fingerprints. I take it you’ve received envelopes like these before.”
She tried to focus. “Who are you, exactly?”
“I’m Harry.” He smiled, two lines of bright-white teeth showing.
“Harry, you just happened to find these three envelopes?”
“No,” he said. “I just happened to find one of them. But then I went and looked for the other two.”
The reality sank in. “You’re a reporter,” she said.
“That’s right.” He beamed. “So . . . what can you tell me about these envelopes?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“Okay. I guess my story won’t have your response. It’ll just mention the three envelopes containing—”
“You can’t go public with this. It would hurt the investigation.”
“Dr. Bentley, it’s not your job or my job to decide. I publish what captures the interest of the public. Well, frankly, I publish what captures the interest of my editor and me, and then—”
She turned toward the front desk. “Get some officers in here, and detain this man for questioning.”
“If I don’t call my editor in ten minutes,” Harry said calmly, “he’ll publish what I gave him so far.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Dr. Bentley, you’re the forensic psychologist here. Look at my face, and tell me that again.”
There was silence, the officer in the front desk watching them both, phone in hand.
“What do you want?” she finally asked.
“I want a story,” he said.
“You can’t write about these envelopes.”
“Give me something I can write about. Something that no one else knows.”
She bit her lip. “I need some time.”
“Absolutely,” the man said. “I trust you, Zoe—”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Okay, then.” He offered her his hand. “I trust you, Dr. Bentley. You have twenty-four hours.”
He turned around and left.
Knees buckling, she got herself to the elevator, not entirely sure she could manage the stairs at that moment. It seemed to take her years to get to her desk, the envelopes dragging her hand down.
Could it be?
It felt impossible. But so many things suddenly aligned. The strangling. The bodies’ proximity to water. The posing, different but somehow the same.
She sat down by her table and upturned the three envelopes.
Three gray ties landed on the table in a twisting pile.
CHAPTER 48
Maynard, Massachusetts, Monday, December 15, 1997