In a way, it was his comfort zone. He’d seen Zoe slip into the mind of a killer, as easy as if she were putting on a sweater, and it never ceased to impress and slightly unnerve him. It wasn’t the same for Tatum. Sure, he knew the statistics; he read endless research papers and serial killer interview transcripts, had studied serial killer profiles until he dreamed about them almost nightly. But to use his own sweater analogy, for him slipping into the mind of a killer was like putting on a straitjacket two sizes too small. It was uncomfortable, almost impossible to do and left him aching and exhausted.
But a lot of their work revolved around knowing the victim. Understanding the victim’s routine indicated what attracted the killer to them. Figuring out how the victim reacted when attacked also helped, and that often had significant implications about the killer’s psyche. Some killers became more violent when facing a meek victim, while others became deadly only when the victim struggled. Know the victim, and you were already halfway to understanding the killer.
Catherine Lamb had been distracted, perhaps depressed. There were signs of recent neglect throughout the house—unwatered plants, dusty windowsills, an overflowing laundry basket. Sure, this could also mean she was a slob, but there were endless indications that she wasn’t. Her clothing was folded neatly; the bathroom, aside from the recent bloodstains, was clean; the food in the fridge was fresh. The mess and neglect were superficial, recent, a thin layer of unhappiness.
Had she been lonely? She might have been dating, perhaps online. If she’d been extra careless, she might have agreed to an offer to pick her up for a date. That would account for the lack of forced entry marks. But no, that didn’t match the torn clothing he’d seen in the images. Catherine hadn’t intended to leave home when she was attacked.
He glanced at Zoe, was about to mention the clothing, but she was biting her lip, frowning. It was her do-not-disturb mode: she was thinking something through.
O’Donnell was looking at Zoe too. The detective was blonde, her wavy hair cut just above the shoulders, and she was dressed in gray pants and a dark-blue coat. Her chocolaty-brown eyes were narrowed in suspicion. Tatum loved chocolate and was partial to exotic tastes—salty chocolate, spicy chocolate—but he’d never seen suspicious chocolate before. She tilted her head to the left, as she’d done earlier when she’d met them outside.
O’Donnell looked like a jaded spectator at a magic show. As if she wanted them to pull a rabbit out of the hat, just so she could say it had been there all along, that they’d hidden it in their sleeve. Come see Tatum Gray, the magical profiler. Pick a card, any card. Your card is . . . the Jack of Spades, unemployed, probably white, aged twenty to twenty-five, and he wet his bed and tortured kittens as a child.
She caught him looking at her and said, “So? Do you think it’s your guy?”
“It’s too early to say,” Tatum answered reflexively.
Her eyebrows arched. “Do you see anything in common with his other victims? Does she look similar? Did he take trophies from the other murders? Did he cover the other bodies?”
“Rod Glover didn’t cover the other bodies,” Tatum admitted. “But there are similarities—”
“So why did he cover this one?”
“There could be several reasons.” Tatum shrugged. “Some serial killers cover their targets when they’re ashamed. It’s also a form of abstraction—turning your victim into an object.”
“He covered her for the same reason he put the necklace around her neck.” Zoe turned to face them. “He knew her.”
O’Donnell folded her arms. She seemed about to say something, when the officer from outside called, “Detective O’Donnell!”
“Excuse me,” O’Donnell said and strode outside.
Tatum took another glance at the scene and followed her. A man stood outside, on the other side of the crime scene tape, his eyes bloodshot, his hair disheveled. Tatum estimated he was about sixty, but he looked ninety, his body stooped, hands trembling. Tatum knew this look; he’d seen it many times before. This was a man who’d been pulverized by grief. He was probably Albert Lamb, Catherine’s father, who’d found her earlier. He held a small plastic bag.
“Mr. Lamb.” O’Donnell’s tone transformed, the steely edge from before gone. “I’m sorry, but you still can’t—”
“I brought her some clothes,” Mr. Lamb said, his voice hoarse. “To dress her. I had some