“What did the cab driver say?”
“She asked him to take her to Saganashkee Slough, told him where to stop,” Martinez said. “Got out, told him she’d be back in half an hour, and went for a stroll on the shore. A few minutes later, a car stopped ahead of him, and a man stepped out of it.”
“Did he say what the man looked like?”
“Very vague description. They’re working with him in the station right now. He actually tried not to look too hard; he figured Zoe was there to meet the guy for a fling.”
Tatum nodded. Of course.
“Anyway, he waited there. After a while he saw the man coming back. Limping. The cab driver called to him, but the man didn’t answer. Got in his car and drove off. The driver got worried, went to look for Zoe, and found her unconscious a few hundred yards from the road. Which is when he called the ambulance and the police.”
“Did he give a description of the car?”
“A white Toyota Prius,” Martinez said. “Didn’t see the license plate number.”
“Anything from the crime scene?”
“We found the knife and some blood. There was a trail of blood to where the guy’s car was parked, so looks like Zoe cut him as well.”
Tatum nodded.
“Listen, Agent . . . I’ve asked you this before. Why did she go there?”
“I don’t know,” Tatum said tiredly. “I swear I don’t.”
“She didn’t talk to you about it before?”
“No.”
“Didn’t mention the Saganashkee Slough?”
“No.”
“Tatum Gray?” The nurse approached him again. “Please follow me.”
Tatum got up, and Martinez followed suit.
“I’m sorry,” the nurse said to Martinez. “Only—”
He flipped his badge. “Chicago PD,” he said. “I need to speak to—”
The nurse rolled her eyes. “Fine. Follow me.”
She led them down a small hallway and into a small white room. Zoe was lying on a hospital bed, looking groggy. Tatum’s fingers clenched as he took in the bandage on her neck, the black eye and purple bruise on her forehead.
“Agent Gray,” she said, her voice sluggish. “Lieutenant Martinez . . .”
For a second, Tatum thought she was going to say thanks for visiting her. Or reassure them that she was okay.
“Rod Glover,” she said. “That’s his name.”
He blinked. It took his brain a moment to process it.
“That’s the name of the man who attacked you?” Martinez asked, his voice sharp.
“Yes. He followed me from the station.”
Her voice was raspy, as if it was hard for her to talk. There were bruises alongside her neck, where the bandage didn’t hide them. She had been strangled.
“Who is Rod Glover?” Martinez asked.
“He’s a serial killer. I think he’s the man who is embalming those women.”
“How do you know him?”
She remained silent for a moment, her eyes shutting slowly. “He killed three women in Maynard. Long ago.”
“In 1997,” Tatum said, feeling sick.
“That’s right.”
Martinez looked at him. “So you did know?”
“I . . .” Tatum hesitated. He wasn’t sure what he knew. “I think she tried to tell me about it.”
“Why did you go to Saganashkee Slough?” Martinez asked.
“Because I wanted to see where Pamela Vance had been killed.”
“Who is Pamela Vance?” Martinez and Tatum asked, almost in sync.
“Another victim.” She was clearly losing focus, her eyelids fluttering.
“Okay.” The nurse barged in. “That’s enough. You can talk to her again tomorrow morning.”
Tatum shuffled out of the room, dragging his feet as if they were attached to cartloads of rocks. She had told him about Glover, and he had brushed it off. He had discounted her one time too many, and she had gone to check it out by herself. And it had nearly gotten her killed. His fault.
“Agent Gray,” Martinez said behind him, his voice sharp, cold.
He stopped and turned around. “Yeah?”
“You said you knew nothing about this.”
“I didn’t know . . . she started telling me about it. A serial killer who murdered three young women in the town where she grew up. And I wouldn’t listen.”
“And she didn’t tell us,” Martinez said. “And she got hurt.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me what you do know.”
Tatum told him what he remembered of his discussion with Zoe, back at the restaurant. It wasn’t much.
“Okay,” Martinez said. “I’ll come back tomorrow to question her more thoroughly. And as of right now, you two are no longer part of this case.”
“What?” Tatum asked in shock. “But we—”
“You’re running an investigation on your own. Like I thought you would. Dr. Bentley endangered herself, and it was partly because you didn’t share all the information earlier.”
“Hang on—”
“We’re done here, Agent. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 56
Quantico, Virginia, Monday, July 25, 2016
Zoe couldn’t remember Mancuso ever looking as furious as she did when they walked into her office on Monday morning. The unit chief breathed steadily, inhaling through her nose and exhaling slowly, while looking at them both, saying nothing. Zoe was almost sure Mancuso was silently counting, and she wondered up to what number.
They both sat in front of Mancuso’s desk. Tatum sat on the right-hand chair of the condemned, his face a mask of atonement mixed with defiance, a neat trick. Zoe sat to his left, wincing as the stitches in her hip flared in pain. She had a slight concussion and stitches on her neck as well, the wound on her shoulder glued. She also had a huge black eye. Whenever she made a sudden movement, everything would start hurting at once. Last night, just before their flight back from Chicago, a woman had approached her in the airport and handed her a flyer: a shelter for abused women. She had also given Tatum a dirty look, probably assuming he was Zoe’s spouse.
“Okay,” Mancuso said, her voice controlled and measured. “I just read through the extensive reports you both sent me, as well as the very short, angry email I received from Lieutenant Martinez and the one-line email I got from the Chicago chief of police.”
Zoe lowered her eyes, staring at her palms. Her report was a long, dry account of all the ways she’d messed up. Not sharing her suspicions with the police or her partner. Not informing them about the three envelopes left at the crime scenes. Going to check up on a crime scene on her own. Not noticing the tail. Those were the reasons that Glover had managed to disappear completely.
“The Chicago police and the FBI agreed not to say anything to the press about the debacle, because tensions in the populace regarding this killer are high, and we want to give an impression of competence.”
Tatum cleared his throat, looking as if he were about to say something, but Mancuso raised an eyebrow, projecting infinite menace. He said nothing.
“Of course, both the lieutenant in charge and I are interested in knowing why you withheld crucial information about the case. Neither of your reports explains the reasoning behind this decision.”
Zoe squirmed uncomfortably. “I—”
“The tip seemed far fetched at first,” Tatum said, his voice even. “Dr. Bentley began telling me about it, but I convinced her that her theory held no merit. In retrospect, I should have involved the Chicago PD.”
“Hang on,” Zoe said. “That’s not—”
“Damn right you should have!” Mancuso thumped her desk, the fish behind her fleeing in horror, desperate to find shelter. “I told you, Agent Gray: this cowboy act of yours won’t work in this unit.”
Zoe tried to interrupt. “Chief, it was me who—”
“Sorry, Chief,” Tatum said, his voice loud enough to drown out Zoe. “I think it’s best if I’m removed from this case.”
“There is no damn case!” she nearly shouted. “The Chicago PD does not want our help anymore. Lieutenant Martinez was very clear about that.”
“But we’ve made so much progress,” Zoe blurted. “We can—”