Mike Omer - In the Darkness

“Okay.” He hesitated. “Make that the past three years, and just San Angelo.”

“Mmmm.” She didn’t sound thrilled. “It’s going to take a bit of work, and you know I do have people I actually need to do stuff for—”

“But none of them are as charming as I am.”

“You’d be surprised. Let me see what I can do.”

“Thanks, Sarah. You’re the bee’s knees.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She hung up.

Smiling, Tatum slid the phone into his pocket. He nipped inside and sent Sarah the image file of the smudged fingerprint. Then, not wanting to endure the ongoing butt parade, he decided he could go grab a coffee and a sandwich somewhere nearby.

Sarah’s email landed in his inbox just as he returned to the station’s parking lot. He read it on his phone, leaving the engine on for the sake of the air-conditioning. There was a possible match to seven crime reports. Three gang-related shootings, two break-ins, one auto theft, and one rape. There were no details on the files, just names and local case file numbers.

He walked inside and crouched over Foster’s desk, pointing his own butt at the back of his empty chair.

“I have some possible matches to the fingerprint,” he said. “One is a rape.”

“Seriously?” Foster tensed. “Do you have a name?”

“Derek Woodard.”

Foster’s shoulders sagged. “That asshole. He’s in prison. We got him for a series of sexual assaults. He targeted old pensioners.”

“Damn.” Tatum ignored the twinge of disappointment in his mind. “Well, I have six other matches here.”

“Let’s see them.”

They went over the list, checking the case file numbers. Three more were incarcerated, one was dead, and one had been shot in his back and was now in a wheelchair.

The only two remaining cases were the auto theft and one of the break-ins. Although no one had been caught in the auto-theft crime, it involved three perpetrators who’d broken one of the car’s windows and taken the car for a ride, finally leaving it discarded, all of its tires flat, outside San Angelo. It had happened nine months before, and Tatum couldn’t think of a crime that was less likely to involve their killer.

The other, which Tatum thought was a break-in, was just an attempted break-in of a local gas station, four months before. A window had been smashed, and once the alarm had sounded, the perpetrator had fled. This wasn’t likely to be related either, but the case file did note that the unknown person had been caught on the security camera trying to break in. The actual footage was missing. The fingerprints didn’t hit a relevant match on AFIS.

“I’ll go have a look,” Tatum said.

“I can send someone over,” Foster answered. “You don’t need to trouble yourself.”

Tatum glanced around him, the busy, angry hum feeling almost unbearable. “It’s okay. I could use a break.”

The gas station was on the outskirts of San Angelo, and only one other vehicle was there when Tatum parked his car. A woman stood by the pumps fueling her car while three children sat in the back seat. She seemed tired to the point of exhaustion and ignored her kids as they made faces at her through the back window. Tatum smiled at her, trying to convey sympathy, and entered the station’s store.

A thin man stood behind the counter, and as Tatum approached him, he let out a hiccup.

Tatum pulled out his badge. “Agent Gray, FBI. I wanted to ask you about the—”

“Hic.”

Tatum blinked. The hiccup had been somewhat violent and had broken his train of thought. “Uh . . . I wanted to ask you about the attempted—”

“Hic.”

“Sorry. Um. Do you want a drink of water?”

“No,” the man said. “Hic.”

“It could help with your hiccups.”

“It won’t.”

“Right.” Tatum slung his thumbs through the belt. “I wanted to ask you about the attempted break-in that happened four months ago. Did you work here back then?”

“Hic. Yes.”

“I understand that the man who tried to break in was caught on camera.”

“Yes.” The man gestured at a screen that was split to four, displaying the security feeds of the gas station’s cameras. Two displayed the inside of the store. One showed the front door. The fourth was aimed at the gas pumps. Tatum saw the woman outside on the screen. She had finished filling the gas tank and stared into space as her kids took turns mashing their faces against the window.

“Can I see the footage?”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Hic. It was a long time ago. The computer only retains footage a month back. Hic.”

“And you didn’t save a copy of that film?” Tatum asked incredulously.

“No. Why—hic—would I? The man wore a mask.”

“What kind of mask?”

“A ski mask. It hid his face almost completely. He broke that window over there.” The man pointed at a window near the door. “Then the alarm started, and he ran. Not much of a movie.”

Tatum kept waiting for the next hiccup, feeling a strange tension coiling inside him. The man met his eye calmly. The hiccups were apparently gone.

“Can you tell me—”

“Hic.”

“Are you sure you don’t want a drink of water? It really helps with hiccups.”

“It won’t help me.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve been—hic—hiccuping for a while now.”

“Maybe drinking water would fix that.”

“Hic. It didn’t fix it for the past four years.”

“You’ve been hiccuping for . . . four years?”

“Hic. Yes. And drinking water didn’t help. You know what else didn’t help? Holding my breath. And—hic—drinking water from an upside-down glass. And being surprised or—hic—frightened. And biting a lemon. And helpful suggestions by—hic—FBI agents.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t like hiccuping. It doesn’t help my sex life. It wakes me up at—hic—night. So I’m tired, which makes me hiccup even more. Also some people think it’s funny. Hic.” The man eyed Tatum suspiciously.

“I don’t think it’s funny,” Tatum said, feeling a bit guilty.

“Anyway, there’s no footage. Hic. But I watched it several times. Just a guy with a mask and gloves. He broke the window with a hammer, then ran. Hic.”

“Gloves?” Tatum asked, surprised. “I thought there was a fingerprint.”

“There was.” He indicated the window. “He wore latex gloves, and they—hic—tore when the window was broken. So he got a fingerprint on the glass.”

Tatum nodded, distracted. It didn’t sound like their guy. “Thanks. And good luck with the—”

“Hic.”

“Yeah.”

He left the store, the blazing heat hitting him straight in the face. For a moment, his eyes adjusting to the bright light outside, he could almost imagine he’d walked into the middle of the desert. Across the road, he could see nothing but a flat expanse of sand, spotted with cacti and numerous rocks.

He frowned, then looked behind him. The security camera was easily visible above the automatic glass door. And looking from where he stood, it was impossible to tell its exact angle. He turned back to the large empty field, then glanced at the camera.

He had a crazy idea. Pulling his phone, he dialed Zoe.

“Are you near the map?”

“Yes.”

“Can you check something for me? I’m at a gas station on Route 67, about a mile outside San Angelo’s south side. Can you see if it’s one of our easy digging spots?”

“Hang on.”

He waited, feeling as if he was wasting his time and hers along with it.

“Yes, it’s in one of those areas,” she finally said. “Why?”

“Well . . . there’s a gas station here, and there was a break-in attempt four months ago. The fingerprint they found in the crime scene yesterday might match the one here. The security camera above the front door looks like it’s aimed straight at the area across the road.”