Mike Omer - In the Darkness

Tatum raised an eyebrow. “Not Hollywood, maybe. But you have your own hall of fame, don’t you? Let me read you some of the search queries from your browser.” He opened the history tab on the browser. “Most famous serial killers. Infamous serial killers. Famous serial murderers . . . nice trick there, swapping killers for murderers. Let’s see what else . . . oh, I like this one. Important serial killers. Almost every day, you look those things up. Are you imagining your name in those articles and charts? Here’s an article you keep returning to. ‘Twenty of the Most Infamous Serial Killers America Has Ever Seen.’ Where do you think you measure there? Number thirteen? Nine? Seven?”

“I couldn’t care less.”

“Well, that’s good, because I have news for you. A serial killer who managed to kill only three or four people doesn’t really get to those charts.”

Prescott just smirked, shuffling in his chair to make himself more comfortable.

“But of course, you don’t really care about numbers, do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“What do you care about, Prescott?”

Prescott folded his arms. “Humanity.”

The man inserted a lot of pathos into that one word. Tatum felt like wrapping his fingers around the doctor’s neck and squeezing. Instead, he smirked. “Of course. You’re a regular humanitarian.”

“Sometimes you need to kill a few to save many.”

Tatum quirked his eyebrow. “Save them from what?”

“Themselves.” The cool facade dropped off. A fervor filled Prescott’s eyes. “No one has time to think anymore, do they? We all used to have time to think. Waiting for the bus to come, standing in line in the supermarket, maybe just sitting in your living room. But what do we do now when that happens?”

Tatum said nothing, letting the man preach his sermon.

“We whip out our mobile phones. Check Twitter or Instagram or play a game of Candy Crush. Because god forbid we actually think for five minutes. What do you think this will do to us in the long run? The whole human race, avoiding their own thoughts?”

“And that’s what you gave your victims. Time to think.”

“It was more than that. I gave everyone time to think. Whenever I stopped the video feed, everyone would start wondering. Is she dead? Is she alive?”

“Superposition.”

“ That’s right. Superposition. A question with no answer. I forced their hand. They had to think.”

Tatum sighed and let a small weary smile show. “Yeah . . . your mission, right? I know all about it already. Do you know what Zoe wrote down on your profile? She wrote that you are so obsessed with yourself and your so-called mission that she expects to find a meticulous journal about it in your possession.” Tatum opened another evidence bag, taking out a stack of papers. “Look what I found. Not a journal, even better. A partial draft of your autobiography. There’s a preface where you wrote down what you just said. Humanity, time to think, mobile phones, blah blah blah—it’s tiresome stuff. But you were invested in this thing. These pages are full of your own corrections and editing notes. You were working really hard, getting it just right. I bet you can’t wait to write the final two or three chapters and find a publisher. In fact, I even saw in your browser history that you were researching agents. Methodical planning there.”

Tatum picked up the top page. “I hope you remember your own notes.” He skimmed it, a bored expression on his face, then turn to the shredder and slid the page in. The shredder buzzed to life, whirring as the page turned into long, thin ribbons.

Tatum took another page and shredded it, then the third. He watched each page as it shredded, the ribbons piling on the floor in a growing heap.

“You’re destroying evidence,” Prescott said. His voice was cool, but Tatum could feel something else underneath the surface.

“We have evidence up the wazoo, as far as you’re concerned.” Tatum shredded the fourth page. “How many chapters do you think you have left to write?” He shredded another page.

“Some. This interview would make for a great scene.”

“You know what I think?” Tatum shredded another page. The sound of the shredding was very satisfying. He hoped Jensen wouldn’t barge in, screaming that he was destroying evidence. “I think you have maybe . . . three chapters left. One for Zoe. One for your capture, and one covering the legal proceedings that follow. Maybe an epilogue for your time waiting for your death sentence.”

“Is that your professional opinion as an editor?”

“As an avid reader.” Tatum put the stack of pages down and picked up the last evidence bag, opening it. He slid the book out. “ The Bundy Murders. Found it in your library, along with four more like it. You liked to read about Ted Bundy, didn’t you?”

“I found him interesting.”

“There are some pages here that are underlined and earmarked repeatedly. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

Prescott said nothing. Tatum let the silence stretch while he shredded a few more pages. Every second, Zoe’s death inched closer. He wanted Prescott to feel there was a price for the trickling of time as well.

“I’m talking about the pages about Bundy’s escapes.” Tatum said. “Tell me, Prescott. Do you really think you might be able to escape prison?”

“I never considered it.”

“Ted Bundy escaped in 1977. We’ve improved since then. And I’ll personally make sure you’re placed in the most secure, isolated vault available, watched twenty-four seven. Trust me—there’ll be no chapter in your autobiography about how you managed to get away.” It was Tatum’s turn to smirk.

“You’re wrong about me, Agent. I’m done.”

“Of course you are.” Tatum raised a page and skimmed it. “I like this note of yours. ‘This section needs work; it feels trite.’ I have to say I agree with your assessment. Also, you misspelled the word rhythm here. There should be an H after the R . Ah well.” Tatum shredded it too. Prescott’s mask was hanging there well, but Tatum was sure now that there was a tension in the man’s posture. He was getting to him. How much further would he need to take it? How much longer?

“There were no other copies of your autobiography, as far as we could tell. The forensic team is looking further, but I’m pretty sure there’s only one. I found a five-hundred-page package of paper on your desk, and it was about half-empty. This draft is—well, was , really—two hundred and thirty pages long. Double spaced so there’s room for your notes, right?” Tatum shredded another page. “Yeah, it’s the only copy. Aside from the one on the laptop.” Tatum put the pages down, turned to the laptop. “There it is. The file name, as you probably remember, is ‘Time to Think.’” He clicked it. “If I were to delete this . . . would you be able to rewrite it?” His finger hovered above the delete button.

A few seconds passed. Prescott didn’t budge, his face blank. Not calm anymore. Not at ease. Simply contained.

“We’ll just have to find out.” Tatum hit the keyboard with two fingers. “Shift delete. Don’t want you to get it from the Recycle Bin, do I?”

There it was. The first spark of anger, the first twitch of fury in Prescott’s lip. Tatum leaned back and shredded pages again. Now, Prescott’s eyes were intent on Tatum’s hand as he shredded each page in turn, and Tatum knew he was right. Prescott had no other copy of the file.

“Are you already planning to rewrite it?” Tatum asked. “Trying to remember your favorite paragraphs for later? Maybe a sentence you were particularly pleased with? Do your best, Prescott, but you better remember hard. Because I’ll make sure you won’t get anything to write with. No pens, no pencils, no goddamn crayons. And paper? You won’t get a single Post-it. When you go to the toilet, you’ll have to wipe with your fingers, because you can forget about toilet paper. This autobiography will never see the light of day, unless I get what I want. And you know what that is.”