Terrence Finch in his studio, circling the toddler he was photographing, taking pictures from all angles.
“And that was what the necklace was about, and the pentagram, and the knife. It was a setting. They were props for his pictures.”
“She’s too dark,” O’Donnell said. “Remember? The drug addict, Tony, told us one of the killers had said, ‘She’s too dark.’ We thought it was a racial preference, but maybe he was talking about how she appeared in the photo. He was looking through the photos and saw that they weren’t good enough.”
“That guy Tony also mentioned flashes of lights, right?” Tatum said. “We thought it was an effect of the crack, but maybe those were actual flashes, from a camera.”
“Why would he take staged pictures of the murders?” O’Donnell asked.
“I don’t know yet,” Zoe said. “Killers sometimes took pictures of their crimes for later sexual relief. But this murderer didn’t kill for sexual pleasure. And besides, if that was the case, he wouldn’t use props.”
“Hang on,” O’Donnell said. “Didn’t you talk to Finch yesterday?”
She had. And he’d kept the phone conversation short, agreeing almost too quickly to give her the missing pictures. Because, as she’d said just a few minutes before, he was spinning out of control and couldn’t withstand a prolonged conversation. And maybe because she’d threatened him with a search warrant, and he knew they’d find a lot more if they actually came looking.
“I missed it,” she muttered. “It was him, and I missed it. We need to get there.”
“Hang on—we have nothing solid,” O’Donnell pointed out. “Give me a few moments. I’m making a phone call.” She stepped out.
Zoe shut her eyes. “I’ve talked to him. I could have seen it, but I was too distracted. What if Rhea—”
“We don’t know anything for certain yet,” Tatum said. “It’s just conjecture.”
Zoe didn’t bother arguing. It was far more than conjecture. It fit. Like nothing else so far. She could imagine Glover spotting Terrence as he took photos. Maybe he could see a darkness there already, the way Terrence sometimes took photos when people didn’t notice. Trying to catch them off guard, whipping out the camera. Glover would approach him, say he liked photography too. Befriend him. Find out the man’s weaknesses.
Or maybe Terrence had gone to him, when Albert Lamb had told them anyone who was struggling with darkness could approach Glover. Maybe Terrence had needed to get something off his chest.
O’Donnell returned to the room, her expression grim and alert. “I just talked to Swenson. He never threatened to sue Finch. He threatened to expose Finch’s secret. Something he’d heard from Glover on one of their guy-to-guy talks.”
Zoe’s gut sank. There it was.
“Apparently, Finch was obsessed with the notion of drinking human blood.”
CHAPTER 69
He dropped the bag with the Chicago Daily Gazette copies on the floor, letting them spill out, Catherine’s all-knowing eyes staring at him from multiple angles. She knew; she would tell. He had to fix it.
No. He had to focus. First he had to take care of the woman.
He went to the bathroom, crouched by her side. He gently removed the gag.
“Can you get me some water?” she whispered, voice cracking.
He nodded, went to the kitchen, and filled a glass of water. He put it to her lips and tipped it, and she drank. Some of it spilled, dribbling down her chin. He felt her forehead, relieved to see it was no longer burning. She was getting better.
Was she doing well enough? Could he drink from her?
He almost went to get a scalpel, but if he accidentally killed her, he would never taste her again. Now that he knew what actual pure blood tasted like, he couldn’t afford to take any risks.
“I have to take care of something now,” he told her. “But as soon as I’m done, I’ll get you some food, okay?”
“Okay.”
He left the bathroom and went to get the newspapers. He took a quick glance at the topmost paper, meeting Catherine’s stare. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I have to do it; I’m so sorry.”
“You’re only doing what you have to,” Daniel told him, sitting on the couch. “Don’t apologize. It’s this country and the insurance companies. They forced our hand. They were the ones who did it, not us.”
He placed the pile of newspapers on the table and picked up the top one. “I remember taking that picture,” he said sadly.
“It was when we painted that shelter,” Daniel said. “It was a nice day.”