by Brenda Novak
“Price, I’m fine. Really. I’m all set to testify against Martin’s partners. I have everything laid out. As for the rest of it,” she sighed. “I’m doing my best to put it all behind me. The shrinks cleared me. Internal Affairs cleared me. The DA’s office and the GJ cleared me. It is past, gone, forgotten.” That’s it, girl, she thought to herself. Keep up a brave front. He doesn’t need to know about the whispers from the other officers, the panic attacks, that you can’t sleep without horrific nightmares.
Price stared at her for a split second longer and she wondered if he knew everything she’d been thinking without her saying a word. But the moment passed and he nodded.
“Then go find me a name for our Parthenon girl.”
Six
Taylor closed the door quietly behind her. She took two steps and tripped over a ream of paper. She fell into her desk, banging her leg on the corner of a half-opened drawer. She bit back a curse, rubbed at the bruise. Surveyed her kingdom.
The Homicide squad was crammed cheek to jowl into a crappy forty-by-forty-foot bullpen. The close quarters meant no privacy and constant distractions. At least there were fewer bodies to deal with. Six months earlier, the decentralization of Violent Crimes had created several distinct homicide units. Each city sector now housed a grouping of general detectives who handled everything from fistfights in bars to aggravated assaults to murders in the projects. In Nashville, Homicide covered the full gamut of physical crimes.
Taylor’s group was unique. She ran an elite squad of homicide detectives. Nicknamed “The Murder Squad,” they were the most successful shift in the CID. What made Taylor’s team different from Nashville’s other homicide detectives was the element of mystery in their jobs. If a violent crime occurred which resulted in a death, and there was no suspect, they caught the case. If the trail went cold after twenty-four hours, it was theirs. If another shift didn’t want to deal with a case, it fell into their laps.
Taylor was damn proud of her team of detectives. They had an incredibly high close rate, nearly eighty-six percent, which had its good and bad points. It got them good press and made the Department look good, which meant perks all around like interesting cases, less scrutiny, and more freedom for outside work.
But success was always tempered with a desire to see failure. There were the detectives who dumped their loads simply because they wanted to see her fail. She hadn’t made a lot of friends when she’d killed David Martin, even though he was as dirty as they come. There were grudges aplenty among the detectives who’d worked with him. In some minds, if she’d just come forward with what she suspected, Detective Martin could have been charged and tried with his partners instead of killed. No one wanted to see a cop dead, even if he was a bad guy.
Which would have been fine by her, if Martin hadn’t tried to kill her first.
She was on shaky footing. Her once carefree demeanor had changed. Her actions were tempered with caution. Her words more measured and thought out. She was on edge all the time, though she thought she was doing a pretty good job of hanging in there.
The news she would testify again this week was actually welcome. She just wanted to get it over with so she could put it all behind her. Though she knew as soon as the grand jury handed down the indictments, the plea bargaining would start, then the trials. It wasn’t going to end, not really, for a very long time. And there was nothing she could do to temper the memory of David Martin dead on her billiards room floor.
None of it mattered. She had a job to do, and she was going to do it.
She sat on the edge of her desk and called her team together. “Hey guys, let’s get started.” Her detectives faced her expectantly. Marcus Wade, her wet-behind-the-ears rookie. Lincoln Ross, her seasoned computer expert. Fitz, her veteran, made up the fourth on her team. Between the four of them, she was pretty certain they could crack any case that came their way.
Fitz wandered into the squad room, whistling.
“Ahh, Mr. Fitz. Thank you for joining our little party.”
“Don’t mention it. I strive to achieve perfect timing.”
“And so you have. What’s happening at Centennial?”
“There’s nothing turning up on the grid search. So far, there aren’t any witnesses. Even ADIDAS claims to have been asleep on his personal bus bench, like a good little boy.”
ADIDAS, so named for his labeled gym bag from the sporting goods company, was a well-known fixture around the park and one of Nashville’s many homeless citizens, but not a threat to anyone but the pigeons. “Was he sober?” Taylor smiled to herself. Fat chance of that.
“Naw, he was reeking like a distillery. He must have lit it up last night. Didn’t even hear the sirens this morning.”
“Too much to ask to have a witness, I guess. Okay, boys. Here’s what’s going to happen. Price and I decided Fitz is going to take over some of my cases so I can focus on our murder this morning. Is that cool with you, Fitz? I’m going to keep you in the loop on everything that happens, and if we need to pull you back in full-time, we’ll do it. I’m hoping we can wrap this up quickly, but if not…”
“Fine by me. You gonna let the kid here run with you?” He pointed at Marcus Wade, who sat up straighter in his chair. This was the highest profile case he’d ever been tapped to work.
“Yep, that’s the plan. If you would be so kind as to wrap up the park and file your report, I’d appreciate it. Then you can start messing around with my stuff.”
“Sure thing.” He gave her a smile, and Taylor thanked whatever being had sent Fitz her way. Any other detective would have gotten snotty or hurt by the request to stand down, but Fitz knew enough about the politics not to worry. They had known each other for years, and Taylor knew he would never suspect her of cutting him out of a case to take the glory for herself. He had told her from the beginning that her move to lieutenant would cut back some of his responsibilities and allow him the space to prepare for a graceful retirement from the force in a few years. Taylor gave him a smile of gratitude.
She turned to Marcus. The kid was handsome, with long brown hair and puppy dog brown eyes. He made a good impression to the outside. Taylor knew under his happy-go-lucky exterior, he was smart, and despite his lack of experience, she was happy to have him. Eagerness was sometimes a better quality in a detective than years of experience.
“Marcus, you work with the Metro spokesman, Dan Franklin. He needs to be briefed so he can give a statement. I want to be in complete control of all the info before we talk to anyone. So no leaks about anything, okay? Hopefully we’ll have an ID on this girl and can inform her next of kin, maybe even a cause of death, and we can release it in the statement. The Mayor’s pressing for something official ASAP.” Taylor snorted through her nose. “She’s pretty fired up. The big arts and crafts festival starts Friday, and she’s pushing to get the scene cleared and the park open.”
“Got it.”
“And Marcus? I know you and Lee Mayfield have been seeing each other. No preferential treatment, and no pillow talk. Okay?”
Marcus turned three shades past eggplant and looked at his desk. It wasn’t a huge secret that he had been dating the crime reporter for The Tennessean.
“Umm, actually, I broke it off. She’s not very cool. I’ll talk to Franklin.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. Okay, maybe I’m not. Forget about her. You’re right, she isn’t cool at all.”
She felt badly that Marcus had been forced to air that tidbit in front of everyone, but such was life. Lee Mayfield was a bitch, and Taylor was happy Marcus had gotten her out of his system. She would sink her claws into any man she thought would give her some scoop.
She focused on Lincoln. He was wearing a beautiful blue suit, white shirt, and purple tie today.
“Linc, I want AFIS set and ready. Number one priority is putting a name on this girl.”
AFIS, the Automated Fingerprint Identification System, would run the dead girl’s fingerprints through the local fingerprint database. If
there wasn’t a match, the prints would go into the huge national AFIS database. “If we get a hit on her prints, I want you to track down where she’s from so we can go check it out. Go through the whole drill. I want you to run everything through the computers. Go up to the Intelligence Unit, log into the ViCAP database. Upload our details, and check for any similar MO’s.” ViCAP, the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program database maintained by the FBI, would look for any similar crimes that matched the description of their murder. “Look for killings without rapes, unsolved violent rapes. And we have something unique to run through VICAP. Check for herbs found at murder scenes.”
Eyebrows rose all around.
“Sam noticed a sweet smell coming off the body. She bagged a whole bunch of leaves and stems, though we don’t know what kind of herbs they are yet. We need to keep this real quiet until we know what’s going on. Marcus, keep Franklin out of the loop too. It may end up being nothing.”
“Or everything,” Lincoln chimed in.
“Or everything. So no leaks. No one outside this office knows about this but Sam. Keep it that way. There’s also DNA to plug in. I want you to search through the sexual offender’s database too, see if someone’s done anything similar in any of the nearby jurisdictions. Check on the guys convicted of sexual crimes before, only on a smaller scale. Peeping Toms, our friendly flashers. Remember we had a rash of those last year in Bellevue? Pull any of the files that look good. Also, monitor the Missing Persons listings. If he’s snatched anyone else, we need to be ahead of the game. Any calls with young girls missing, I want to hear immediately. Drag me out of whatever I’m doing.”
“Gotcha, boss. I already started running the Missing Persons list to see if anyone matching her description has popped up. So far, nothing, but I’ll keep looking.”
Lincoln’s deep, velvety smooth voice made Taylor take a deep breath and blow it out slowly. She gave him an appraising glance. He had the most beautiful skin she had ever seen, a shade somewhere between caramel and mocha latté. His straight nose led to sensually full lips. He was sensitive about the gap between his front two teeth. Taylor thought it only added to his charm.
“Lincoln, are you wearing another new suit? You’re going to go broke here soon.” Taylor loved to tease him about his obsession with clothes. He was always dressed impeccably, favoring Italian suits and couture ties. He bought his shoes from New York, beautifully worked leather that seemed to mold to his feet. He was single and spent all his money on his wardrobe.
“Well, I may have had a purchase arrive yesterday. Gotta keep looking sharp for the ladies.” He gave her a huge smile, and Taylor smiled back fondly. She privately thought he looked like Lenny Kravitz sans nose rings and could easily understand his appeal to women of all ages and races. Maybe in another life…
“So if you’re done raggin’ on me…I’ve got ViCAP running already, but I’ll go plug the herb thing in. I’ve also pulled our open case files that have a sexual component, in case one looks remotely like this. I just want to see if this guy may have been working before. When Sam has a DNA sample, I’ll get together with the TBI and take a run through CODIS, see if there are any matches to the semen."
All of the acronyms the Feds came up with amounted to alphabet soup as far as Taylor was concerned. It seemed every day the FBI or the law enforcement community came out with a new acronym for the tools they used. A new database, neoteric scientific tests, flowchart and task forces, none were immune to the alphabet game. The standard joke was that the acronyms were formed before the official names so the higher-ups could make sure the nicknames ‘worked.’ They got so busy digging through the bowl trying to see what they could put together they often fell in and drowned.
Taylor smiled at her crew in appreciation, and told them to scatter. “Rock and roll. Keep checking in with me. Fitz, let me run those files by you real quick.” She turned to her desk, then swung back. “Gentlemen? Let’s find this guy. Now.”
Seven
Taylor took the long way when she headed out to Sam’s office. Blowing by the exit that would lead her to the morgue, she turned north and felt herself relaxing as she drove up the interstate, letting the wind from the open window blow her hair around. Thirty minutes of head-clearing drive time wouldn’t change anything. The girl would still be dead. And Sam would probably applaud her taking a few minutes to herself.
She settled into the fast lane and started passing cars, pushing eighty. Cruising mindlessly, she jumped when her cell phone chirped. She let out a deep sigh, moved over three lanes and pulled onto the shoulder.
“Yeah, Jackson.”
“Hey, LT, it’s Marcus. We got a hit on the prints.”
“That was quick. Who’s our girl?”
“Shelby Kincaid. She’s a student at Vanderbilt. She doesn’t have a record, but we got lucky. She was printed for a job she applied for at a daycare center on West End.”
“Damn it,” Taylor said with heart. “A student at Vandy, and no one reported her missing?”
“Nope. At least there’s nothing official. Want me to call Vandy?”
She thought for a minute. “Tell you what. Let me get over to Sam’s and see what she’s found from the autopsy. We’re going to want to tread lightly. Vandy won’t cooperate with us without some paper. Go ahead and get a subpoena started for her records. Besides, I don’t want to start a panic if we can help it. This is going to be the lead story on the news. It was sensational enough that she was found at the Parthenon. When the media finds out she was a Vandy coed, they’re going to go nuts.” She ran a hand through her hair, unconsciously combing out the wind-blown tangles. Catching a knot, she looked in the mirror in aggravation and struggled to put it into a ponytail while holding the cell phone. She lost the whole mess, hair and phone alike. She grabbed the phone from between her legs and brushed her hair out of her eyes impatiently.
“I assume there was contact information with her print card?”
“Yep.” She could hear him shuffling papers in the background before the roar of an eighteen-wheeler passing much too closely drowned him out.
“…Kentucky. Want me to…”
“Wait, wait, say that again. Couldn’t hear you over the traffic.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m pulled over to the side of Interstate 24. Where’s she from again?”
“Bowling Green, Kentucky. The contacts are Edward and Sally Kincaid. I assume they’re her parents. We need to get them notified.”
Taylor rubbed the back of her neck. “Go ahead and call Reverend Spenser. I always like to have him around when I have to do a notification. He can get in touch with the Bowling Green police, see if their chaplain’s available to do the notification. Ask him to arrange to have them driven down here, too.”
“Will do. They’re going to want to talk to you, I’m sure.”
“Yes, but I don’t want to talk with them until Sam has more definitive results. I’d like to be able to give them her cause of death, if we have one. Damn, this really sucks. Get the family notified, then we’ll go ahead with Vandy. Be delicate, Marcus. This is going to be beyond difficult for them.”
“Yeah, I imagine it will ruin their lives. I’ll talk to the chaplain and get it all arranged.”
“Thanks, man. I’ll be back after I see Sam.”
“Um, Taylor, before you go?”
“What?”
“Your dad called.”
Her father. Her chest tightened. Oh man, talk about something she didn’t need.
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“No, just that he needs to speak with you. He said it was important.”
“Yeah, it always is,” she muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing. Go on and get in touch with Shelby Kincaid’s parents. I’ll talk to you later.”
She hung up, pushing thoughts of her father away and getting her mind back on the case. There was nothing worse than having to tell parents they’d outlived their child. She
was more than a little relieved Marcus was going to handle the notification.
She pulled back out on the interstate and took the first exit leading her back into the city. She tried not to think and, instead, enjoy the few moments of freedom she had left. A pointless endeavor. She gave up and gunned the car.
The late afternoon traffic was terrible, and it took her twenty minutes to plow her way through to Gass Boulevard. The State of Tennessee Center for Forensic Medicine was run by a private group contracted with the city. Their brand-new, twenty-thousand square foot building looked more like the local offices of a corporate giant than a morgue.
She pulled into the parking lot, more than a little jealous of Sam and her new realm. It sure beat Homicide’s crappy little office. Then again, they didn’t have dead bodies next to the break room.
She was buzzed through the door into the spacious lobby. She was facing the family viewing room, where family members of the deceased could identify their loved one’s mortal remains on closed-circuit TV.
She was thankful the new system had been put into place. It was easier for the family not to go through up-close-and-personal body identification, or deal with photographs of their dearly departed. They had a quiet, nicely furnished room, professional support, and some distance from their family member. It was a good system.
One of the grief counselors would eventually be back there with Shelby’s parents, ready to bolster and guide the family through their worst nightmares. Taylor felt chill bumps on her arms. She was glad she didn’t have to come back and deal with them tonight.
Despite the constant flow of people who entered and exited the building throughout the day and night, there was never a magazine out of place, nor a small piece of trash sitting on a side table. Taylor secretly thought members of the cleaning crew lurked in the hallways, ready to sneak into the foyer unseen to straighten and sanitize at a moment’s notice.
She waved to the receptionist, Kris, and entered the door leading to the autopsy suite. The odor hit her like a sour washrag that had been left in the shower too long. In contrast to the sweet, clean smell of the open foyer, the difference in atmosphere always surprised her. No amount of disinfectant could cover the lingering scent of death. The reek settled in her sinuses. Taylor tried to concentrate on other things as she walked in. She knew that within a few minutes the odor would dull, becoming sufferable.
