Mike Omer - In the Darkness

Tatum frowned at the image, unable to shake the feeling that he’d seen this fellow Clyde a bunch of times. He flipped through the yearbook, but Clyde wasn’t in any of the group photos or in any of the clubs.

Clyde Prescott. Tatum took another look at him, at that solemn face. At the curly mass of hair.

Curly.

This was the medical examiner. Suddenly, the nickname he had made perfect sense. He had been curly once. And he’d been with Foster at school.

Curly had shown up at the scene the day before when they’d dug up the body, unlike the previous times. He’d hurried to the body as soon as he could, as if to make sure he got to it first. Had he been trying to remove something? A piece of evidence?

And though Foster had reacted when he realized the victim had been at school with him, Tatum didn’t recall Curly saying anything. That was downright bizarre. Anyone would have said something.

Unless they wanted to avoid being associated with the victim.

Tatum took a long breath, focusing, trying to see if more pieces fit. The killer had figured out they were about to locate Juliet Beach, as if he’d been tipped off. Curly could easily have found out, either by hanging around the police station or by calling one of his many acquaintances in the force, what was going on.

What about the profile? Very intelligent, around forty, white. Working at a job that demanded thoroughness but not speed.

And there was his manner—always trying to show off. Trying to prove how smart he was. That estimation of Maribel Howe’s time of death. Ridiculously specific. It was the same with Nicole Medina’s time of death. A demonstration of his capabilities.

The time of death. Tatum suddenly recalled the details of the Whitfield case, the dead prostitute who had been found buried in the desert. During the trial, it had turned out that the time of death had been off. Curly would have been one of the main people who’d be blamed when the suspect walked. Would he really have risked it happening again by estimating the time of death of Howe and Medina so specifically? Never. Not unless he’d known he was right. And it was easy to know it, if he’d killed them himself.

That was the recent stressor in his life, the thing that had finally pushed him over the edge. The Whitfield case had been opened eight months before. The trial had probably taken place a few months after that . . . the blaming fingers would have started pointing at Curly around April or May. Just when Debra Miller had been murdered.

They’d thought the killer would want to insert himself into the investigation—that was why they’d begun the hotline, requesting information. But Curly was already a very integral part of the investigation. Tatum bunched his fists. Curly had easy access to the situation room, to their map, the outline of their profile, the crime scene photos.

It was all very vague and circumstantial. But it felt right .

He checked the time. It was almost two. Zoe had been buried for about six hours. Right or wrong, they didn’t have long to find her. All he had was a hunch. He had to verify it fast, see if he was right, and if not, he’d sit down with Foster, go over the rest of that school’s students one by one. Which would take too damn long.

Zoe’s life depended on him. He had to be right.

Clyde Prescott irritably prepared the toxicology samples for the bureau’s lab. He’d already done blood and vitreous fluid and now removed a portion from each of the organs, labeling them methodically. He was completely exhausted, having slept less than three hours the night before, and the task seemed Sisyphean and redundant.

He wasn’t thrilled with the upcoming visit of Agent Gray, who’d called him twenty minutes before, asking if he could drop by and check Maribel Howe’s body for something. The agent was quite vague about what he needed, only saying it was related to Zoe Bentley’s burial location.

Clyde couldn’t imagine what the agent was talking about. The rest of the police were concentrated in the widespread search of the local schools.

He heard the steps of someone approaching and raised his eyes. It was Samuel Foster.

“Hey, Curly.” Foster smiled at him wearily.

“Hey, Samuel,” Clyde said. “Any progress?”

“Nah. We still don’t have enough K-9 units for the search. They’re sending additional units from Austin and Houston. But so far, nada.”

“How’s Zoe doing?”

“The feed stopped about an hour ago,” the detective said grimly. “We’re hoping she’s fine, but we’re estimating she’s been in that box for seven hours, could be more. I’m not optimistic.”

“It’s a terrible business.” Clyde marked the container with the kidney portion using a black marker and set it on the counter. “How can I help you?”

“I’m here to meet Gray. He said he’s coming over with a witness.”

Clyde tensed slightly. “A witness?”

“Yeah. Didn’t really catch the details. Something about Maribel Howe’s body . . .” Foster shrugged. “He said it’d just take a minute. He was very distraught.”

“That’s understandable.”

“I can’t imagine what the man’s going through.”

Clyde nodded, and they both lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Foster seemed about to say something when Agent Gray stepped into the room.

“Oh, good,” Foster said. “You’re here. What’s this about?”

“I just wanted my witness to have a look at Maribel Howe’s body,” Agent Gray said. He turned around. “You can come in, miss.”

There was the sound of the hesitant footsteps of high-heeled shoes. And then Juliet Beach stepped into the room. Her gaze met Clyde’s, and she froze. Her eyes widened, and she let out a sharp exhale, her hand flying to her mouth.

Clyde’s gut dropped. He leaned on the counter, trying to act casual, but his fingers trembled.

“Now, miss, if you don’t mind having a look at—” Tatum paused when he saw Juliet’s face. “Miss?”

She let out a gasp and dashed out of the room.

“Agent Gray,” Foster said. “What—”

“Neither of you move!” Tatum barked. “Both of you stay right here.”

He ran after the girl.

“What was that all about?” Foster asked. “What was he doing, bringing that girl here? She’s already traumatized enough without walking into a goddamn morgue.”

Clyde cleared his throat. “Maybe I should go after her,” he croaked. “This place is not for civilians.”

“No offense, Curly, but you’re not exactly a people person. I suppose I should follow him and see what this is all about, though.”

“You probably should,” Curly said hurriedly. “The sooner we—”

Gray stepped back in the room, blocking the doorway. His expression had morphed, his jaw clenched, eyes blazing in anger.

Before he realized what he was doing, Clyde took two steps back, placing the autopsy table between them.

“Well, Prescott,” Agent Gray growled. “Guess what? It’s over.”

“What are you talking about?” Clyde blurted. “What’s that girl—”

“What should I call you? Curly or Schrodinger? Which do you prefer?”

“What?” Foster sputtered incredulously. “Agent Gray, what are you—”

“He knows what I’m talking about.” The agent pointed a shaking finger at Clyde. “Don’t you?”

“I don’t!” The blood drained from his face. The girl had recognized him. One glance and her memory had come back. “I have no idea what’s going on.” He was thinking furiously. All he had to do was bullshit his way out of there. Get to his car. Drive off.

“Agent Gray, are you saying Dr. Prescott is . . . that he is the serial killer?”