Zoe’s opinion of the detective improved slightly. “You think it was the knife?”
“I’m almost sure it was. If you go over there, you’ll see a few drops of blood, just by evidence marker sixteen. I think they came from the blade.”
Zoe stepped over to the corner of the room and crouched to look at the floor. There they were. Several perfectly round brown stains. Tatum crouched beside her.
“Vertical blood drops,” he said. “That’s why they’re circular and not elliptical. That means it couldn’t have been spattered from the other side of the room. It’s likely that the weapon was dropped here.”
Zoe nodded, trying to imagine it. “He could have walked here, knife in hand. Then stopped for a few seconds. That would account for the drops as well.”
“I’m not a forensic expert,” Tatum said carefully. “But see how there’s no spatter pattern around the drops? If they had dropped from the height of one or two feet, you’d see a small circular spatter around each drop. There’s none, meaning the blood dropped from the height of just a few inches. I think Detective O’Donnell is right. The weapon lay here, dripping blood, and the killer crouched to pick it up.”
Zoe agreed. It was the simplest explanation. She imagined it. The killer attacked the victim, threatening her with the knife. During the struggle, the knife cut the victim’s arm. Then what? Had the victim managed somehow to disarm the killer, throwing the knife to the corner? Maybe.
She straightened and tried to think. There were conflicting behavior patterns in the entire scene. Stepping in the blood, covering the body, leaving blood smears all over the apartment. That all reeked of confusion, fear, maybe shame. But wearing gloves spoke of planning. The missing underwear was a trophy. The necklace fit nowhere. Had the death been accidental? It was impossible to guess; Zoe wasn’t even sure if the victim died of blood loss or asphyxia.
Usually she could picture the possible scenarios in her mind quite easily. But here, the different details didn’t mesh well.
They were missing something.
CHAPTER 4
Tatum scanned the room again, trying to get a feel for the victim.
In a way, it was his comfort zone. He’d seen Zoe slip into the mind of a killer, as easy as if she were putting on a sweater, and it never ceased to impress and slightly unnerve him. It wasn’t the same for Tatum. Sure, he knew the statistics; he read endless research papers and serial killer interview transcripts, had studied serial killer profiles until he dreamed about them almost nightly. But to use his own sweater analogy, for him slipping into the mind of a killer was like putting on a straitjacket two sizes too small. It was uncomfortable, almost impossible to do and left him aching and exhausted.
But a lot of their work revolved around knowing the victim. Understanding the victim’s routine indicated what attracted the killer to them. Figuring out how the victim reacted when attacked also helped, and that often had significant implications about the killer’s psyche. Some killers became more violent when facing a meek victim, while others became deadly only when the victim struggled. Know the victim, and you were already halfway to understanding the killer.
Catherine Lamb had been distracted, perhaps depressed. There were signs of recent neglect throughout the house—unwatered plants, dusty windowsills, an overflowing laundry basket. Sure, this could also mean she was a slob, but there were endless indications that she wasn’t. Her clothing was folded neatly; the bathroom, aside from the recent bloodstains, was clean; the food in the fridge was fresh. The mess and neglect were superficial, recent, a thin layer of unhappiness.
Had she been lonely? She might have been dating, perhaps online. If she’d been extra careless, she might have agreed to an offer to pick her up for a date. That would account for the lack of forced entry marks. But no, that didn’t match the torn clothing he’d seen in the images. Catherine hadn’t intended to leave home when she was attacked.
He glanced at Zoe, was about to mention the clothing, but she was biting her lip, frowning. It was her do-not-disturb mode: she was thinking something through.
O’Donnell was looking at Zoe too. The detective was blonde, her wavy hair cut just above the shoulders, and she was dressed in gray pants and a dark-blue coat. Her chocolaty-brown eyes were narrowed in suspicion. Tatum loved chocolate and was partial to exotic tastes—salty chocolate, spicy chocolate—but he’d never seen suspicious chocolate before. She tilted her head to the left, as she’d done earlier when she’d met them outside.
O’Donnell looked like a jaded spectator at a magic show. As if she wanted them to pull a rabbit out of the hat, just so she could say it had been there all along, that they’d hidden it in their sleeve. Come see Tatum Gray, the magical profiler. Pick a card, any card. Your card is . . . the Jack of Spades, unemployed, probably white, aged twenty to twenty-five, and he wet his bed and tortured kittens as a child.
She caught him looking at her and said, “So? Do you think it’s your guy?”
“It’s too early to say,” Tatum answered reflexively.
Her eyebrows arched. “Do you see anything in common with his other victims? Does she look similar? Did he take trophies from the other murders? Did he cover the other bodies?”
“Rod Glover didn’t cover the other bodies,” Tatum admitted. “But there are similarities—”
“So why did he cover this one?”
“There could be several reasons.” Tatum shrugged. “Some serial killers cover their targets when they’re ashamed. It’s also a form of abstraction—turning your victim into an object.”
“He covered her for the same reason he put the necklace around her neck.” Zoe turned to face them. “He knew her.”
O’Donnell folded her arms. She seemed about to say something, when the officer from outside called, “Detective O’Donnell!”
“Excuse me,” O’Donnell said and strode outside.
Tatum took another glance at the scene and followed her. A man stood outside, on the other side of the crime scene tape, his eyes bloodshot, his hair disheveled. Tatum estimated he was about sixty, but he looked ninety, his body stooped, hands trembling. Tatum knew this look; he’d seen it many times before. This was a man who’d been pulverized by grief. He was probably Albert Lamb, Catherine’s father, who’d found her earlier. He held a small plastic bag.
“Mr. Lamb.” O’Donnell’s tone transformed, the steely edge from before gone. “I’m sorry, but you still can’t—”
“I brought her some clothes,” Mr. Lamb said, his voice hoarse. “To dress her. I had some of her clothing at home, and I thought—”
“Mr. Lamb, this isn’t necessary right now. Later, you can give her clothes to the funeral home, and they—”
“But her clothes were torn!” Tears were running down the man’s cheeks. “She wouldn’t want . . . she needs . . . please, the shirt has buttons—it will be easy to put it on her. I can do it myself, and then I’ll leave. Just let me in for one minute . . .” He crouched, about to pass under the tape. The officer with the logbook seemed poised to grab him, but O’Donnell stepped forward instead and put her hand on Mr. Lamb’s shoulder, as if helping him through, but also effectively stopping him from moving inside the house.