those photos was used to finance Glover’s cancer treatment in a private clinic,” O’Donnell said. “There are over twenty such clinics in Chicago.”
Bright frowned. “Well, we’re not likely to get a search warrant for those clinics. It’s an interesting hunch, but without confirmation—”
“One of the clinics caught my attention,” O’Donnell interrupted him. “The Celeste Cancer Center. It’s an expensive clinic, with a high patient survival rate. Two things seemed to stand out. First, it’s one of the smallest clinics; the regular staff is only six people. Glover would like that since there would be less people who could identify him. Second, it’s one of the only clinics that will accept cash payments.”
“We believe Glover has a contact in Chicago who converts bitcoin to cash,” Tatum interjected.
“I went to the clinic this morning,” O’Donnell continued. “I verified his cancer type was treated there and that the treatment could be done in payments that more or less match what we assume he had. It checks out. Following that, I showed our recent sketch of Glover around. I also explained to a very impressionable young nurse what Glover does to women he meets. She explained she can’t break patient confidentiality but constantly stressed that there could be a good reason for us to get a warrant. She also mentioned that on November second, at half past two, it might be a great idea if we showed up in force. Patients go for routine treatments in the clinic, and I’m guessing this is when Glover’s next treatment is scheduled.”
O’Donnell had already told Tatum all this earlier, but now something caught his attention. Something about the sketch. What was it? He gritted his teeth, trying to focus. The nurse had identified Glover by the sketch. It was likely she’d seen his photo on the news before, but that photo had been taken months ago, when Glover was still healthy. So what?
There was something there.
“That might be good enough for a warrant.” Koch smiled. “November second is next week. If he shows up for his treatment, we can nail him then.”
“There’s a problem with waiting that long,” Zoe said. “We know Glover still searched for victims after Henrietta Fishburne. That’s why they originally picked up Rhea Deleon. But I don’t think Rhea’s murder went according to plan, and I don’t know how much time he had to take photos.”
“None of Rhea’s photos showed up on the marketplace as far as we could tell,” Tatum said.
“If we wait until Glover’s appointment, he might kill someone else to finance his next treatment,” Zoe said.
“Point taken,” Koch said. “I’ll see if we can get a warrant for that clinic. Maybe once we look through their records, we can find a lead to Glover. A phone number, an address, an emergency contact. These places have endless forms people need to fill out. He must’ve screwed up somewhere.”
“We’ll also talk to Finch again, see if we can extract something else from him,” Valentine said.
“And we’ll send copies of the recent sketch to the media,” Bright said.
Tatum was aware of some more talk, followed by the meeting breaking up. He thought about the sketch, about how Glover had changed. The participants filed out of the room, but Zoe noticed that he didn’t get up and walked over to him.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“How did Patrick Carpenter know Glover was sick?” he asked her.
“What?”
“When we arrested Allen Swenson, Patrick Carpenter showed up and said that it was impossible for Allen to do all this with a dying man. But we had never mentioned in the press that Glover was dying or that he had cancer. We never mentioned this to Patrick either. And Glover looked healthy in the photo.”
“Maybe Glover told Patrick about his cancer a while ago,” Zoe said. “Or he heard about it from someone.”
“But we know he was diagnosed with cancer when he was in Dale City. So Patrick had to learn about it in the past month. So Patrick either discussed this with someone who’d talked to Glover recently . . .”
“Or he talked to Glover himself,” Zoe said.
“Let’s go have a chat with Patrick,” Tatum suggested.
CHAPTER 75
Leonor Carpenter’s days were an endless roller coaster of anxiety and relief. Her emotional state was completely in the hands of her unborn child. Or more accurately, in his feet.
Every time he kicked, she felt a surge of relief. He was still there, still alive. But then, as time went by with no movement, she’d start worrying. Had he choked himself on his