yellow crime scene tape looked like the crowd at a rock concert, all shoving and jostling each other to get to the front row.
This crime scene was very far from the relatively private murder of Catherine Lamb.
The tape was stretched across the paved trail that led down to the river, and it cordoned off a large stretch of the woody area that surrounded the water. Beyond it, Tatum saw uniformed police officers moving slowly through the brush.
“There’s O’Donnell.” Zoe pointed at the detective, who was getting out of her car.
O’Donnell motioned them over. There was a section of parking designated for the officers, EMTs, and crime technicians. Tatum parked the car by an ambulance.
Zoe got out and hunched her shoulders against the morning chill. The air smelled of wet earth and wood, but another odor intermingled with it. A stench of death and rot.
“Glad you could make it,” O’Donnell said.
Zoe nodded. “Thanks for calling us.”
“What do we have?” Tatum asked.
“Got a call from Officer Ellis, from Chicago South,” O’Donnell said. “A woman named Henrietta Fishburne went missing on Monday night. A patrol officer found her body this morning when he followed up on a call to dispatch about suspicious individuals entering the woods here.”
“Why did they call you?”
“The ME saw a similarity between this and the Lamb case and suggested contacting me.”
“So this Ellis is the detective in charge?” Tatum asked as they reached the crowd surrounding the crime scene tape.
O’Donnell took point, jostling through the gaggle of onlookers toward the yellow tape. “No, he was the officer who got the missing person report. He kept at it after his shift, found her car in the 147th Street train station’s parking lot, about a mile from here. There were bloodstains near the vehicle, but nothing conclusive. He was on shift again when the body was found and drove straight to the crime scene. There’s a detective from Chicago South in charge here, but it’s up to the brass to figure out who’s leading the investigation.” She shrugged. “For now everyone’s playing nice.”
Zoe followed O’Donnell and Tatum to the cop who stood by the tape. O’Donnell flashed her badge, which didn’t seem to impress him. She explained who they were, and it turned out he hadn’t been told to expect them. He had to check it out with the detective in charge.
Zoe scrutinized her surroundings, waiting for the officer to let them enter the crime scene. It seemed like a good place to dump a body. Anyone could drive a few hundred yards into the park, and the foliage was wild, creating a dense hideaway from prying eyes. A killer could just pick his spot, walk ten yards through the bushes and trees, and hide the body. She glimpsed patches of the river between the trees.
“What river is that?” she asked.
“It’s the Little Calumet River,” a familiar voice said by her ear. “Fancy that.”
She turned around and saw the waggling thick eyebrows, and her gut sank.
“Harry Barry,” she said dryly.
“Zoe Bentley! What an amazing coincidence. We keep meeting in the strangest places.”
“It’s not a coincidence. You’re following me everywhere.”
He widened his eyes, his face twisting in a wounded expression. “Me? I’m not following you anywhere. I live here.”
“You live in the Kickapoo Woods?”
“Well, no,” he conceded. “But when I heard a young woman was killed, so soon after the Lamb murder, it made me wonder. After all, with you here, it could mean only one thing.” He mimed with his lips, Serial killer.
Zoe’s expression remained wooden. “I’m just here as a professional courtesy. As far as I know, this case has no connection to what I’m investigating.”
“I was just wondering about that. Wasn’t there another murder some years ago by the Little Calumet River?”
She felt sick. She’d known he’d bring it up. One of the two murders they believed Glover was responsible for in Chicago occurred by the Little Calumet River. She’d told Harry this when he’d written his long article about her, months before. And the obnoxious man forgot nothing.
“Zoe,” Tatum said. “We can go through.”
“Don’t write anything without talking to me first,” Zoe said, her teeth clenched. Then, before he could respond, she turned away and crouched under the crime scene tape.
She signed the crime scene logbook and took a pair of latex gloves that O’Donnell handed to her, sliding them on. Then she followed the detective down the paved trail.
A young uniformed officer approached them, wearing latex gloves as well. “Are you O’Donnell?” he asked.
O’Donnell nodded. “That’s right.