a moment’s thought. “It’s also possible he peed in jars because Rhea was in the bathroom.”
“Could be,” O’Donnell said. “Also, someone slept in the guest room for a while. I told them to leave it for last because I figured you’d want to have a look.”
Zoe blinked in surprise. “Thank you.”
“Just put on gloves and shoe booties before you step inside.”
Zoe did as she was told and stepped into the other bedroom, the nylon on her shoes crinkling with her footsteps.
Like the rest of the house, it smelled bad. But underneath the smell of death and fire, she sensed another stench, somehow even worse. Sweat and sickness. The room was dirty, the bedsheets stained and rumpled, scattered around the room.
“No blood in this room, not as far as we could tell,” O’Donnell said behind her. “And not a lot of possessions, mostly clothes. But we found a box in the bottom of the closet.”
Zoe opened the small closet. There were underwear, shirts, and pants tossed on the shelves. A tangle of gray ties lay on one of the shelves, like coiled snakes. A rectangular box sat on the bottom shelf. Zoe crouched and pulled it out, her heart beating. She already knew what she’d find inside. For a moment, she was fourteen again, looking under Glover’s bed. Her hands trembled as she lifted the lid.
“What do you think?” O’Donnell asked.
“His trophies,” Zoe said. She hoped O’Donnell thought it was the smoke inhalation that made her voice hoarse. “I’ve seen some of them before.”
Several pairs of torn underwear. A bracelet. A thin golden necklace. She lifted one of the underwear pairs. It had several holes in it, as if it had been eaten by moths. It was old. When she’d glimpsed it last time, all those years ago, it had been relatively new.
Underneath the trophies, she found newspaper clippings. The article about the arrest of Jovan Stokes, with a picture of the task force that had caught him, with her at the corner. Then a picture of her and Tatum at a crime scene. Another article, written by Harry Barry, covering the arrest of the Strangling Undertaker. And a few articles, again by Harry, covering the murders of Clyde Prescott in San Angelo. Unlike many serial killers, Glover didn’t collect news articles related to his own crimes. He was interested in her.
CHAPTER 71
The hospital room had two beds, but only one was taken. Terrence Finch lay in it, his hands cuffed to the bed, dressed in a turquoise hospital gown. His arms and legs were bandaged, and he was hooked to an IV. The doctor had told them Terrence was getting some pain relievers, as well as antipsychotics. He was gazing at the wall in front of him and didn’t turn his head as they walked inside. Zoe sat down on a chair by the bed, and O’Donnell sat next to her. Tatum remained standing behind them.
“Mr. Finch, I’m Detective O’Donnell, and this is Dr. Bentley and Agent Gray,” O’Donnell said. “We need to ask you a few questions.”
He blinked and woozily turned his gaze to them. “Dr. Bentley,” he mumbled. “We’ve met.”
“Hello, Terrence,” Zoe said steadily.
“I understand you’ve been read your rights,” O’Donnell said. “But I would like to do it again before we talk.”
As she read Terrence his Miranda rights, Zoe scrutinized his face. He didn’t seem to listen, and his eyes flickered at one point to look behind them. Zoe took a quick glance to see what he was looking at, but there was nothing there. Despite his medication, she suspected he still hallucinated. It was doubtful that anything said here could be used in court. But Zoe didn’t care about that. Terrence Finch wasn’t going anywhere, and only he could give them Glover.
O’Donnell nodded at her. Zoe leaned forward.
“Terrence,” she said. “Tell us about Rod Glover.”
He tensed, glancing behind her again. “Who?”
“You first met him as Daniel Moore. But you must know by now that he was really named Rod Glover.”
“No,” Terrence said. “He was Daniel. Rod is the tumor. He’s trying to take over Daniel, to kill him. But Daniel is still in there. He’s in there.”
“Okay.” Zoe decided to skirt the subject for now. “Tell us how you first met Daniel.”
“I had thoughts,” Terrence said. “I needed someone to talk to. Someone who understood. I tried to talk to Catherine, but she just said I should go to a doctor and pray. Praying didn’t help, and the doctor made me take more pills. I hate