At times she could feel her resolve weakening. She considered grabbing a book or watching something dumb on TV. But then she’d recall Tatum’s face when he said he thought she was wrong. It intermingled with memories of her parents telling her she should leave Rod Glover alone and of the cop telling her to leave the detective work to the grown-ups. If any of them had listened to her, Glover would have been incarcerated a long time ago. Lives would have been spared. Tatum should have known better. But all he saw when he looked at her was a civilian taking the place of a real agent.
Knowing she was locking herself into one train of thought, she’d occasionally try to stop thinking of the Chicago serial killer as Rod Glover. She’d try and call him the killer in her mind. When the killer grabbed Krista or the killer needed a steady supply of embalming fluid. But pretty quickly she’d find her thoughts dragged back to Glover grabbed Krista and Glover needed a supply of embalming fluid.
Her stomach and left thigh chafed. She’d scrubbed them raw in the shower, and they were now inflamed and tender to the touch. But at least she didn’t feel as if Glover’s fingers were on her anymore. His face still hounded her, the predatory look in his eyes as he approached her by the lake. The voice in her ear as he held the knife to her throat. On your knees. These would suddenly flicker into her mind, and she’d lose her train of thought, stand staring at the plethora of evidence, chills running down her spine. And then she’d start over.
She had to do this right.
CHAPTER 62
He could see them through the window, bathed in the soft yellow glow of their kitchen’s light. The two children were young; he could just see the tops of their heads through the glass pane, their bodies hidden by the house’s wall. One of them, the little girl, bounced excitedly as she talked to her mother.
The mother was a lovely thing to look at, her beauty barely marred after two childbirths. He could already imagine her after his treatment, eternally adoring, with everlasting motherly affection. She was a good mother even now, as her children were scurrying around. Making them dinner as she listened to her daughter’s tales of her day.
No father.
He didn’t know the whole story, but he knew enough. There was only the mother. He’d been watching them from his car two nights in a row, and he hadn’t seen the face of a new boyfriend in sight. The woman was still alone, just like she had been a month before. He could do the treatment in their own house.
He could hardly wait. He considered entering at that very moment but realized he was in the wrong car. All his gear was in the van. He was alternating between his two vehicles in case someone noticed the strange car parked in the street every night. Neighbors could have prying eyes.
No, not tonight. But soon, very soon.
He envisioned their lovely future. Christmas evenings together. For the first time ever, he would have a reason to buy a tree, decorate it, buy the children gifts. When he’d wake up in the morning, they would sit with him around the table as he ate. He could put them to sleep, read them a bedtime story. He would never be like his parents. He would be a good father.
And he wouldn’t have to suffer through the pain of watching his kids grow up, become strangers, leave his home to raise families of their own. No, these kids would stay with him and love him forever. Alongside their mother.
One woman, a boy, and a girl. A family, ready to be his.
Forever.
CHAPTER 63
Maynard’s Summer Street was quite charming, countless trees casting their shade on the narrow road. Large yards dotted the street, most of them trimmed with care. Tatum got out of his rental and stood in the sun for several moments, enjoying the tranquility that the place offered. Finally, feeling he had dawdled enough, he went up the driveway of the house he had parked near. It was a white house with an orange tiled roof, two windows, and a door in the middle. It was the kind of house Tatum used to draw as a child. It was easy, really. A blue pencil to color the top of the page—that was the sky—then a green pencil to color in grass at the bottom of the page. A square in the middle of the grass and a triangle on top. Two squares for windows and a rectangular door. Add flowers according to your mood and the colors at your disposal. Oh, and a yellow quarter of a circle on the top left part of the page. That was the sun. This house was almost as symmetrical as Tatum’s drawings, though a bit larger, and some small trees decorated the grass.
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.”