Mike Omer - In the Darkness

“Is this . . . some sort of political statement?”

Zoe shook her head. “The video was posted on Friday morning.” She pointed at the time stamp of the “Experiment Number One” video. “The news footage was live and streamed at the same time. He’s proving to us that his own video is a live video.”

Tatum glanced at the date again, his pulse racing. If the police could have located him as he was streaming the video, the entire thing would have been over almost before it had begun.

On-screen, the man lowered the phone and pocketed it. He then leaned toward the camera, and the top half of the footage went black. Nicole’s crying got louder and more hysterical as she thumped on the wood on top of her again.

“In a minute or two the video will adjust itself to show her on full screen,” Zoe said.

“You watched the whole thing?”

“Yeah.”

Tatum cleared his throat. “What happens in the end?” The question sounded crass and dumb in the context, and he was disgusted with himself for asking.

Zoe moved the cursor to the video progress bar and dragged it to the right. Flashes of the video flickered as she dragged it up to 57:07. When she released the button, Nicole was mostly silent, occasionally sniffing. After ten seconds, the video went dark.

“The feed just stops,” Zoe said.

Tatum frowned. “I’d expect him to leave it on, show us how she suffocates.”

“Maybe she doesn’t suffocate.”

“Right.”

“And maybe Nicole isn’t really in that grave. Even if Nicole isn’t pretending, this could still be a very sick practical joke. She could be locked somewhere else.”

“Maybe the video of Nicole trapped wasn’t live footage,” Tatum suggested. “The man only showed the live news footage in the top half of the video. There’s nothing that necessarily connects it to the bottom half that showed Nicole.”

“It’s possible that there’s a reference to Schrodinger’s cat.” Zoe pointed at the uploader’s name, Schrodinger. “I don’t know the exact details, but Schrodinger’s cat is an experiment where you trap a cat in a box.”

“And you don’t know if it’s alive or dead. So it’s both.”

“And here we have a woman trapped in a box, and we’re left to wonder if she’s alive or dead.” Zoe leaned back in her chair. “So what do you think?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is this really a woman being buried alive? The video is called ‘Experiment Number One.’ There could be more.”

“Let’s assume it’s real . . .” Tatum’s heart suddenly lurched. “She could still be alive.”

Zoe shook her head. “Not if she was left there. That’s the first thing I checked. I called Lionel and asked him to take a look.”

Tatum nodded. Lionel was one of the analysts working with the BAU.

“He managed to approximate the grave’s size by comparing it to the man’s legs and the box’s height by comparing it to Nicole’s head. At most, if the box is big enough to fill the entire grave, it would be about ninety inches long, thirty inches wide, and twenty-five inches tall—probably just slightly larger than a coffin. According to Lionel, even if we factor in a large mistake in his calculations, Nicole would have suffocated within thirty-six hours at the most. And considering the fact that she was quite hysterical at first, she probably consumed much more air than she needed. Lionel thinks she was probably dead after twelve hours.”

Tatum sat on the edge of Zoe’s desk, atop a few papers. “So . . . Mancuso wants you to discern if this is some sort of deranged prank or a killer, right?”

“Could be something else. Maybe someone really took Nicole but didn’t kill her. The caption ‘Experiment Number One’ could just mean it’s the first of many videos that will feature Nicole.”

That thought was somehow the worst so far, and Tatum flinched. “So how can you figure that out?”

Zoe was about to answer when the door opened, and Mancuso stepped in.

“Oh, good,” she said, glancing at Tatum. “You’re here. I was about to ask you to join us. Did you see the video?”

“Parts of it,” Tatum answered.

Mancuso nodded, satisfied, and turned to Zoe. “Any initial thoughts?”

“I need to talk to the detective in charge to understand the details of the case better. It would help to know more about Nicole Medina. And surely there’s technical data in the video with which we can—”

“So you think we should investigate this a bit more thoroughly?”

“Even if this is a prank, Nicole is not likely a willing participant,” Zoe said. “At the very least, this is a case of kidnapping.”

“Okay. I want you both to go there,” Mancuso said. “As early as possible in case Nicole Medina is still alive. I want to do what we can to help the San Angelo police.”

Tatum frowned. “Chief, I doubt this requires us to fly to Texas. I’m sure a few phone interviews would be more than enough—”

“I’d really prefer to have people there,” Mancuso said smoothly. “This feels like a case that has the potential to escalate, and I want to be prepared in case that happens.”

“But Chief.” Zoe’s face registered both surprise and worry. “My sister—”

“Your sister is fine, Bentley. Buy flight tickets, for tonight if possible.” Mancuso’s voice was hard, not to be argued with. “I want this unit to be involved in the Nicole Medina case.”

For a few seconds, Zoe and Mancuso stared at each other. Tatum fought an urge to lean away from their glares.

In a moment of clarity, he realized that the chief’s decision had additional reasons other than Nicole Medina’s safety. Mancuso didn’t want Zoe interfering with the Glover investigation anymore. It was common knowledge in the unit that Zoe and the agent who was assigned to the case were constantly arguing about Glover’s profile—to the point that the agent complained that Zoe was making his job impossible.

And, of course, the chief also wanted Tatum temporarily out of the way and far from the clutches of Larson and the internal investigation.

Finally, Zoe glanced away, pursing her lips. “Anything else, Chief ?”

“Contact the San Angelo police to inform them about your arrival. I want constant updates on this case.”

Tatum could hear Marvin, his grandfather, shouting even before he opened the door to the apartment. The old man sounded furious, and Tatum wondered who had peed in his cereal. It was usually Freckle, Tatum’s cat. In fact, Tatum wouldn’t have been surprised to find out that the cat had literally peed in Marvin’s cereal. He peeked inside carefully. Lately Freckle had decided that his new bed was in front of the door. Opening it too fast resulted in a very angry cat, and in Freckle’s case, an angry cat meant bleeding calves for all humans involved. Today, though, the miniature tiger prowled somewhere else, and the entrance was cat-free.

The shouts emerged from the kitchen. By their one-sidedness, Tatum concluded that Marvin was talking on the phone. Or ranting on the phone, in this case.

“Look, miss, just let me talk to your supervisor or anyone else there that has more than two brain cells. I want to . . . well, of course I want health insurance—that’s why I called, right? No, I’m not talking about senior citizen health insurance, damn it! I specifically asked for . . . hello? Hello!”

Tatum rolled his eyes and walked into the kitchen. Marvin sat by the table, a half-empty cup of tea in front of him. His sharp glare immediately met Tatum’s.

“Goddamn insurance agents! Bloodsucking leeches! They want your money, but god forbid they actually have to work for it. Think out of the box for once!”