Mike Omer - In the Darkness

“Go talk to Juliet,” the agent said. “She has a very interesting story to tell.”

For a moment no one moved.

“It’s ridiculous,” Clyde said. “Even if that girl thinks she recognizes me . . . she’s been through a lot. She might be making accusations all over the place. Just before she said she didn’t remember who had taken her, right?”

Foster stared at him, his eyes narrowed.

“Go get her,” Clyde urged. “Bring her here. We’ll talk about it.”

“You’re right,” the agent suddenly said. “We don’t have time to throw wild accusations around.”

“Right.”

“We can clear this up fast. Let’s take your fingerprints.”

“W . . . what?”

“Compare them to the partial fingerprint we have. And the fingerprint from the attempted break-in into the gas station. It’d take only fifteen minutes. I have a contact who can compare them super quick.”

Foster watched Clyde intently. “What do you think, Dr. Prescott? Would you mind giving us your fingerprints?”

He’d always known it would come to that. The least he could do was to act respectably.

“No need,” he answered, feigning calm. “You got me.”

He thought of Zoe Bentley, deep below the ground. His final experiment. The one that would make him famous.

He would never tell them where she was.

Tatum left the morgue, feeling exhausted. He strode through the hallway to the station’s entrance and stepped out. Prescott had already made it clear he wasn’t about to give up Zoe’s location. They would have to crack him, and do it fast.

Juliet waited by the door.

“Did . . . did you arrest him?” she asked. She was trembling.

“Yeah. He already confessed.” There was a small puddle of vomit a few feet away. Poor kid.

“He’ll go to prison, right? They won’t let him, like . . . pay bail or something?”

“No. He’s too risky.”

“And I won’t have to testify, right? In court? I mean, he confessed.”

Tatum hesitated. “I hope not.”

Juliet exhaled, and a single tear ran down her cheek.

The door opened, and Foster walked out, looking shaken.

Tatum turned to him. “Where is he?”

“The interview room. But he won’t say a thing.”

Tatum nodded. “I’ll go to Prescott’s house. Maybe he left something there. A map or a journal or something.”

“Hurry. We don’t have much time left.” Foster turned to Juliet. “It’s a good thing you identified him, miss. You may have saved Zoe Bentley’s life.”

Juliet gaped at Foster blankly. Tatum snorted.

“I didn’t identify anyone,” Juliet said. “I just did what the agent told me to. I don’t remember what happened that night—I already told you. I don’t think I even saw his face.”

Foster blinked, then turned to Tatum. “A bluff?”

“He was dying to confess. Just needed a bit of prodding.”

“But how the hell did you—”

“Later, Detective. I’m going to look in that asshole’s house. Did you send a patrol car there?”

“They’ll meet you there.”

“Okay, and get someone to drive the actress of the year back to her home. You did an amazing job, Juliet. You deserve a goddamn Oscar.”

The interrogation room was stifling hot. Tatum forced himself to shut the door, leaving the cool air of the other room behind him. Prescott was used to working in the morgue, where the temperature was significantly lower than the rest of the building. It was a reasonable bet that the heat made him uncomfortable.

Then again, he was also used to digging in the blazing sun.

While Tatum had searched the man’s apartment, Foster had released Joseph Dodson, who was now obviously in the clear. Then he began interrogating Prescott, grilling him from over an hour. Prescott had asked for no lawyer and had been happy to talk about his previous murders. But when it came to Zoe, he’d stayed silent.

Tatum sat down, saying nothing, looking at the man. Prescott seemed at ease, almost bored. It was a mask; Tatum was sure of it. He’d seen the fear in the man’s eyes when confronted with Juliet. Seen the color drain from Prescott’s face. It had taken him a few moments to get his act together. But Tatum had glimpsed the real man behind it.

And he needed to find him again and make him crack.

Unfortunately, he’d lost the interrogator’s most valuable tool. Time. Zoe would be dead in a few hours; he couldn’t afford to waste a single moment. But he also couldn’t let Prescott see that.

He let the silence stretch, counting the seconds in his mind, each one heavy and loud.

“There’s a password-locked application on your laptop,” Tatum finally said. “Controlling the video feed from wherever Zoe is.”

“That’s right,” Prescott said. His voice was cool, distant. A note of smugness there as well.

“I have a deal for you. Give me the password. And I’ll turn on the feed.”

Prescott raised his eyebrow. “And in return?”

“I’ll let you watch it.”

Prescott folded his arms, smiled slightly, saying nothing.

“I know you want to.”

“You know nothing about me, Agent.”

“This is your last opportunity to glimpse any of your precious videos. There’ll be no movie time in prison.”

For one moment, the man seemed to hesitate, and Tatum forced his own face to remain expressionless. He needed to know if Zoe was alive more than anything. He estimated that she’d been in the coffin for almost ten hours. Maybe more. Not knowing gnawed at him, emitted a constant white noise of panic in his mind.

Prescott shook his head. “No.”

Tatum didn’t expect any other reaction. This was part of Prescott’s mask. It wasn’t likely he’d let it drop that easily. Still, Tatum couldn’t resist the temptation to ask. Already, he regretted giving the man this little victory.

He took a notebook from his briefcase, flipped a few pages. “I don’t suppose you saw the profile we composed of the Digging Killer?”

Prescott cleared his throat. “No, I didn’t. It would be interesting to hear what you think.”

“Aged between thirty and forty-five. White. Has a van. Works in a job that emphasizes thoroughness. Not very riveting stuff. There are some things here that match your background quite well. But the part where it gets really interesting is—”

The door opened, and Foster walked inside carrying a few evidence bags. He placed them on the table. Lyons followed him, carrying a portable paper shredder, which she placed by the evidence bags, not glancing at Prescott. Both of them left, closing the door behind them.

Prescott scrutinized the evidence bags. Tatum got up, grabbing the power cable for the shredder.

“Where was I? Oh yeah. It gets really interesting when we started estimating what makes you tick.” He plugged the shredder into the wall, then sat back down. He opened one of the evidence bags, took out the laptop that was in it. “You really should have locked the entire thing with a password. It’s amazing the kind of things we found here.”

“Maybe I wanted you to find them.”

Tatum turned on the laptop, which had been hibernating. “Maybe you did. But people often forget the astounding amount of information their computer collects about them.” He looked at the screen as the computer whirred to life, forcing himself to ignore the sluggish pace of the ancient hardware, doing his best to avoid glancing at the clock on the bottom right corner. Time—it was everywhere.

“One of the things that stood out about you is that you are driven by fame.”

Prescott snorted in derision. “Right. Hollywood is just around the corner, waiting for me.”