Mike Omer - In the Darkness

“And did you happen to see anything about him? Anything at all?”

“He drove a white van. Didn’t get no license plate or anything, but it was white and looked kinda crap.”

Tatum and Foster exchanged looks. Finally, something.

“Do you know how I can get in touch with Jeff?” Foster asked.

“No, man. He moved somewhere near San Antonio, I think.”

“We’ll find him. And can you tell us anything else about the van? What brand? Anything that stood out about it?”

“It was white,” Paul said apologetically. “I was mostly paying attention to the hole.”

“Thanks, Paul. You’ve been very helpful,” Foster said.

The boy nodded and milled around, maybe hoping to talk to Officer Wilson again. But after a while he must have realized it wasn’t in his immediate future and shuffled away.

“Could the killer have been planning this thing for a year and a half?” Foster asked Tatum in a low voice.

Tatum glanced sideways, seeing Zoe approach them.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“We have a witness who saw our man dig the hole,” Tatum said, “a year and a half ago.”

She paused, stunned. “A year and a half?”

“He’s clearly been planning this for much longer than you thought,” Foster said. “You were wrong.”

Tatum expected Zoe to snap back. You were wrong were not her favorite words to hear, and certainly not in that order. But instead she just gazed ahead. He knew that look. An idea was taking shape in her mind.

Zoe paced back and forth in the station’s meeting room, her mind churning. Tatum sat by the table, chewing a pizza slice. They’d bought a whole pizza on the way, a replacement for both lunch and dinner.

“Sit down,” he said. “Eat. We don’t brainstorm on an empty stomach.”

She sat down, forgot why she was sitting, and stood up. Sat down again. Grabbed a pizza slice. It was topped with grilled ham and pineapple. The pineapple debate was a sore spot between Zoe and her sister, but she was happy to discover that Tatum was not as averse to the idea as Andrea. They’d ordered half with pineapple and ham and half with pepperoni and hot peppers. She took a bite, making sure it contained both ham and pineapple, and shut her eyes.

The ham was grilled to perfection, its edges crispy, and the contrast with the pineapple sweetness, the thick layer of mozzarella, and the garlicky pizza sauce managed, for one blessed second, to drive everything else from her mind. She was in pizza nirvana. She was one with the pizza. She chewed carefully and swallowed. When she opened her eyes, Tatum was looking at her, a small smile tugging at the side of his mouth.

“What?” she said, feeling defensive.

“It’s nice to see you enjoy something for once. It doesn’t happen much.”

She cleared her throat. “It used to be more frequent before . . .” Before Glover reentered my life. “Before things became so hectic.”

“Right.”

She sighed and checked her phone. She’d talked to Andrea half an hour ago, and her sister had sounded fine. Marvin kept her company; the police watched outside; she felt safe. Still, Zoe wanted to be there. Wanted to hug Andrea, to tell her nothing would happen to her, that her big sister was there for her.

“Let’s talk about Schrodinger’s Killer,” Tatum said.

Zoe rolled her eyes. The press had nicknamed the killer, and it threatened to stick. Zoe hated this particular nickname because the killer had chosen it for himself. He’d baptized himself Schrodinger, knowing it would end up being his nickname.

“Our initial theory seems to be wrong,” Tatum said. “We assumed he began planning these murders a few months ago, after succumbing to his fantasy for the first time. But it now looks like he’s been planning this for years, preparing the graves, planning his websites, stalking potential victims—”

“No,” Zoe interrupted. “I stand by my initial assessment. He began planning this whole thing with Schrodinger and the weird experiments a few months ago. After he killed for the first time.”

“He was seen digging the pit over a year ago.”

“This guy’s sexual fantasy revolves around burying women alive. But he didn’t, for years. Instead, he fantasized. And part of his fantasy was digging those pits. He probably dug them imagining he could use them. I’m betting that he’d sometimes masturbate near these pits. He’d leave them covered, knowing he could, potentially, one day use them. That thought must’ve excited him.”

“So you’re saying when he dug that pit a year and a half ago, he never planned to really use it.”

“I’m saying he toyed with the idea, but it was a fantasy. Then, a year later, he snapped. Decides to bury his first victim, and he already has pits ready all over the place. All he has to do is choose one.”

Tatum took a slice of pepperoni pizza. “So why does that help us?”

Zoe eyed the pizza box. She still hadn’t finished her slice, but Tatum seemed intent on eating just the pepperoni slices, and there was only one of those left. She took a huge bite from her slice, knowing that time was of the essence. “At first,” she said, her mouth full, “we thought he’d dig a pit, kidnap a victim, then bury her in the pit, right? But that’s not the case. He already has pits. Dozens of them, probably. All we have to do is find them.”

Tatum paused, the slice halfway to his mouth. “And we wait for him there. A stakeout.”

“That’s right.”

“These damn pits could be anywhere.”

“Not anywhere.” She stood up, approaching the map on the wall. She marked a small red X in the spot where they’d found Maribel Howe. “This is where Maribel was buried. And this ”—she pointed at another X that was already there before—“is where Nicole was buried. Both are about four to five miles from San Angelo. Our guy gets an urge, he drives a few miles out of the city, digs a pit. So these pits are several miles out of the city, near roads, but hidden enough so he doesn’t get interrupted.”

“That’s still a shitload of ground to cover.”

“Maybe there’s a way to locate these holes efficiently. We need to talk to an expert. Some . . . dirt expert.”

“You mean a geologist?” Tatum smirked.

“Whatever.” Zoe finished her slice and snatched the last pepperoni slice before Tatum could get to it. The smirk disappeared from his face.

“Okay.” Tatum grabbed one of the pineapple slices. “Along with the hotline that Foster started this morning, that’s two proactive steps we’re taking. I like it.”

“We know something else about the killer,” Zoe said, her tongue starting to prickle from the hot peppers. “He stalks the victims. That’s almost a certainty. Both Nicole and Maribel were taken when they returned late at night to their homes. The killer waited for them there. He was probably staking out their homes for days, waiting for an opportunity.”

“So he’d be someone who wouldn’t be easily noticed. Dressed as a maintenance man, like that kid in the park said.”

“That sounds like the most reasonable conclusion,” Zoe agreed.

“We can tell Foster. Have the police patrols check out maintenance people working alone, make sure they’re actually working, and take their names. Check the type of van they use. Look into the ones that fit our profile.”

“Good idea. Number four.” Zoe raised four fingers. She huffed heavily through her mouth, trying to get more airflow to soothe the burning. “I want to establish a dialogue with the murderer.”

“Like a public letter in the newspaper? They tried it with the Son of Sam—it didn’t work.”