by Brenda Novak
Price sighed and spoke again. “Yes, Julia, I can reach her. One hour? Okay. Bye.”
Holding up his finger in a signal to wait, he hit the speakerphone and dialed Taylor’s cell phone. She answered immediately.
“I was trying to call you.”
“Good. Julia Page just called. The grand jury wants you in an hour.”
Taylor let out a huge groan. “No, no, no, not right now. Please tell me you’re kidding. Can’t you get me out of it?”
Price chuckled. “You know I can’t. Just get it over with. We’ll mark you off the rest of the day. Give us a call when you’re back on the grid.”
The annoyance in her voice was barely concealed. “Damn it. Fine. I’ll let you know when I get out. But I have other news for you. The remains from the church weren’t Jill Gates.”
Price and Baldwin shared a look. The relief was palpable, yet tempered with concern. Price jumped back in first. “I take it you don’t have an ID for us?”
“No, I don’t. But we may have a much bigger problem. I got an anonymous phone call a little while ago. Jill Gates is pregnant. Assuming she’s still alive, very pregnant. According to Sam, she’s far enough along that if she had the baby now, it might survive without her.”
Price sat slowly, staring at Baldwin while Taylor continued.
“But I have to go testify in front of the grand jury instead of handling that little detail. I’ll leave that up to you guys. My suggestion would be to get Baldwin working the pregnancy angle. He might have an idea of what this guy is up to. He didn’t answer his phone when I called a few minutes ago.”
“I’m right here, Taylor. Sorry, I must have turned off the ringer accidentally.”
“Okay then. You guys have a fun afternoon. I’m outta here.” She hung up before they could wish her luck.
Price hung up and stared at Baldwin, who didn’t look terribly surprised by the news Taylor had just sprung on them. “Who was in that confessional?”
Baldwin sighed at the rhetorical question. “I don’t know. This is such a departure from the earlier killings, it is possible that it’s not related.”
“You don’t think that’s the case though, do you?” Price asked.
“I’m that easy to read, huh?” He frowned, shaking his head. “No, I don’t. This is all connected somehow, but I haven’t figured it out yet. It’s not common, but killers do shift their patterns, especially when they’re trying to communicate. I think there’s a message in this church burning, and the victims were doubtless chosen for a specific purpose. I’m not sure what it is, though. And now, with Jill Gates having a late stage pregnancy combined with Jordan Blake’s pregnancy…Have there been any more missing person’s reports?”
“Lincoln is our guy there. He’s outside, still working, though Taylor sent him home to sleep.” He went to the door, called Lincoln in.
“What’s up, Cap?”
“We just got off the phone with Taylor. The remains from the church aren’t Jill Gates. But we have to find out who this woman is. Do you have any other MP reports?”
“Nothing that hasn’t been resolved. The only outstanding one was from a former pro missing from Magdalene, but she turned up this morning floating in Old Hickory Lake.”
“Think you can do some trolling, see if there are any others out there?”
“Yeah. I think I need to expand out the area. I was already running state-wide. I’ll go over the entire Southeast, see if anything else pops up. Check ya later.” He turned to go, shoulders slumped with weariness.
Price leaned back in his chair, propped his feet up on his desk, and gazed at Baldwin, saying nothing. Baldwin waited him out. He had no intention of volunteering anything more without a good, long think about things.
Price dropped his feet off from the desk. “C’mon. Let’s go get something to eat.”
Fifty
Baldwin was too surprised by Price’s invitation to do anything but agree.
They made their way out of the building, across the courthouse parking lot and onto Second Avenue, his mind churning with possibilities. Price didn’t speak much as they walked, lost in his own thoughts. He stopped in front of a restaurant with a neon red sign in the window that read SATCO. The San Antonio Taco Company was something of an establishment in Nashville. Their main restaurant was over by the Vanderbilt campus, servicing the students with beer and cheap food on the oversized deck. The small offshoot they were entering didn’t have the ambiance, but the food was still quick and delicious.
Price held the door for Baldwin. “Hope you like Mexican,” he said in a tone that told Baldwin he didn’t give a crap whether he liked Mexican or not. Lucky for him, he did.
The restaurant was set up like a cafeteria. They ordered tacos and enchiladas, retrieved their food and made their way to a private corner. The restaurant wasn’t full, so they had plenty of privacy.
Digging into their meals, they were silent for a moment. Price took a long drink of his soda and eyed Baldwin, finally giving the younger man a smile.
“So how are you finding our little operation? Anyone giving you any trouble? Taylor keeping you in the loop on everything?”
It wasn’t the beginning Baldwin expected, but he rolled with it. “Actually, everyone has been very gracious and helpful. Taylor especially.”
They stared each other down. Ah-ha, Baldwin thought. Maybe this wasn’t about him after all.
“Son, I was a little dubious about letting you in on this case. But your boss and I go way back. Way back. And when he asks me a favor, I’m quite likely to comply. That’s why I agreed to let you come on board and gave you the option of whether you could handle yourself enough to participate. You seem to be doing fine. But I’m wondering just how committed you are to this case. You know what I mean?”
Baldwin suppressed a grin. He felt sure Price was going to ask his intentions toward his Lieutenant, like an overprotective father. It hit him that everyone was a little overprotective of Taylor, though he couldn’t see any reason for them to be so concerned. Her anxiety attacks aside, the woman seemed to have steel fused in her backbone. He was debating how exactly to answer when Price continued, almost reflectively.
“The stuff that’s been happening around here is unusual, to say the least. We don’t have a lot of high profile cases, at least not this many in so short a period of time. I’ve been doing this for a long time, since before you were running around in short pants. I’m inclined to agree with you; my gut’s telling me these murders are related and that we’re dealing with one killer. You said you think he’s trying to send us a message. You’re the profiler on this case. Time to earn your pay.”
Exam time. Baldwin decided to go for it. He felt Price was asking for his opinion sincerely. Perhaps it was time to trust him and show his worth to the man.
“I’m going to think aloud here, ok? We aren’t dealing with a serial killer, not in the accepted sense of the word. This guy is on a spree: a very calculated, very organized spree. Each death has a meaning to him; each placement of the body is intentional. He hasn’t left any physical clues except the semen from Shelby Kincaid. And I think that was deliberate. It’s part of the message. Shelby had been raped, but placed at the Parthenon and shrouded in herbs, which strikes me as a loving gesture. Jordan Blake was pregnant. Now we find out Jill Gates is pregnant as well. There is a fatherhood theme going on here. One interpretation: he feels protective toward them, he wants to be a father figure. Or, he desperately wants to be a father. The father. Look at the church fire. He kills a ‘Father.’” He made the sign of quotations in the air with his fingers. “He places the bodies in a house of God, the Father of Christ. There are so many interpretations out of that alone that we could be puzzling it through for months.”
Price was staring at him open-mouthed, then laughed. “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. But you’re the profiler; you guys are paid to think differently than the rest of us. So profile this guy for me. The University Killer, I guess
he’s being called. Creative name, huh? Lee Mayfield at her best. Not the brightest woman, that one, thinking she can take on Taylor Jackson and win. She hates Taylor’s guts.”
“I heard about their issues. Mayfield may not be too bright, but she hit on something I doubt she realizes. We are dealing with someone who’s smarter than average.”
“Which holds true for most organized serial and spree killers.”
“Yes, but this one keeps breaking his profile. Three girls and one man are dead, with three separate and distinct methods of killing. Another girl is missing. He’s not leaving them in a secret dumping ground; he’s placing them where we’ll find them quickly. Even finding Jordan on the banks of the river was calculated. She could have easily been washed downstream, but I think he weighted her down right there in the area she was found, came back to her body after Shelby’s was discovered and released her, knowing with the slow current she wouldn’t go far. A coincidence, finding them both in such a short period of time? There are no coincidences, not in this world.” He sat back and steepled his fingers under his chin. “You know what they say, ‘Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.’ So unless God ordained that Jordan was going to be found within twenty-four hours of Shelby, it was planned.”
He broke off, taking a sip of his soda. “I think we need to be looking for someone a little older than the standard profiled age. Middle-aged even. And where do you find middle-aged men on a college campus?”
Price smiled. “Professors.”
“Exactly. I think Shelby, Jordan, Jill and our unidentified burn victim have all had contact with him in a controlled environment on campus. How the priest fits in, I don’t know yet. There are no indications the girls were religious or attended St. Catherine’s.”
“Let’s leave Father Xavier aside for the moment. He might have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Focus on the girls. You think they’ve all had contact with the suspect one way or another. Are they taking classes from him?”
“That’s the most obvious explanation. He could be a counselor, or a doctor, or a janitor for all I know. But he definitely has access to them, and I’m inclined to think he’s in a position of authority over them. We’ve surmised they were all dating someone, Jill and Shelby perhaps on the sly. If they were all seeing the same man, and that man is the one who is killing them, it makes it simpler to understand their connection. He’s having affairs with his students, which is a major no-no.”
“So why kill them? They found out about each other? Talk and turn him in?”
“I don’t think so. One explanation for Jordan’s death is her pregnancy. We’ve learned that the DNA of the fetus didn’t match the DNA left at Shelby’s crime scene. It’s possible he was furious that she had gotten pregnant by another man. And Shelby…well, she was raped, repeatedly. Maybe he was trying to get her pregnant. With Jill’s pregnancy…I can’t be certain, but the father angle is the best thought I have for right now. The guy has a God complex.”
Price gave him a long look and wadded up his taco wrappers. “You are scaring the hell out of me. Let’s get back to the squad. It’s time to kick this into high gear.” He stood and took their trays to the trashcan. His excitement was palpable, cases broke on less cogent theories. They started back to the office, walking quickly. Just before they reached the door, Price turned to Baldwin.
“And, son? You hurt Taylor, and I’ll rip your balls off. Got me?”
Baldwin didn’t miss a beat. Apparently their body language had been enough to give them away. He wasn’t sure how she felt, or where it was going, but he did know he wanted to get to know Taylor much, much better. But he didn’t hesitate or play around. He looked Price in the eye, unflinching.
“Yes, sir.” And he meant it.
Fifty-One
Taylor pulled up in front of the Washington Square building on Second Avenue. She looped into the parking lot and took the first open space. She locked her car, walked the twenty yards to the door and entered the building.
She was prepared for this meeting of the grand jury. She wasn’t thinking about guns. Or the coppery scent of blood. Or the slight sense of satisfaction she had felt when she realized who she had killed. None of those things were going through her mind at the moment. She was totally focused on an image of twelve-year-old Tamika Jones, lying in a puddle of blood on her grandmother’s kitchen floor.
Taylor was so intent on her purpose, she walked right past Julia Page.
“Hey, Lieutenant. Over here.” Page trotted after Taylor, an engaging grin on her rotund face. Taylor stopped dead and looked over her shoulder, realizing she had missed seeing the Assistant District Attorney. Granted, ADA Page was maybe five-foot on a good day, so she wasn’t automatically in Taylor’s line of vision, but she shouldn’t have missed her totally.
She started back up the hall. “Sorry, Julia. Lost in thought. We all set?”
Page tried to keep pace with Taylor’s strides, her brown curls bobbing with the effort. “Yes, we’re all set. Are you ready?”
Taylor stopped, realizing the shorter woman was practically running to keep up. “Ready as I’ll ever be. I want to get this over with.”
ADA Page pursed her lips and looked her over, as if to gauge whether Taylor was telling the truth. “I don’t blame you. The grand jury is in room 502. They’re waiting for you. You know I can’t go in there with you. Taylor,” her pug nose twitched and her demeanor became all business, “You know how important this is.”
“That almost sounds like coaching, Julia. I’ve got it covered. I’ll see you after, okay?”
With that, Taylor strode away, catching the elevator at the last moment. She shoved her hand in between the closing doors, and they slid back open. There was only one other passenger. He sighed loudly in annoyance. She gave him her brightest smile and fingered her Glock. He blushed and looked at the floor.
The ride was quick. The elevator stopped at the second floor. Taylor watched the man’s pudgy ass waddle off the elevator. Should have taken the stairs, buddy.
She got off at the fifth floor. Following a black and white diamond patterned corridor, she stopped in front of Room 502. She didn’t hesitate. She rapped three times, almost amused that it seemed like a secret knock. The door opened immediately by the foreman of the jury, and she was ushered into the room.
Twelve members of the grand jury were already seated at the table. Taylor recognized the faces. She’d sat in front of them just a few weeks before. She had testified on her own behalf, explaining the shooting of Detective David Martin as self defense. Thankfully, the grand jury had agreed with her assessment and did not indict her. Now, they had to decide the rest of the case, the one Taylor had blown wide open.
She took her seat at the head of the table. The thirteenth juror, the foreman, a sweet gentleman with a thick Southern accent and black glasses, held the chair for her. She thought he looked a bit like the Colonel from the fried chicken chain. When she was seated, he took the chair to her left and cleared his throat.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you all know Lieutenant Jackson. Lieutenant, could you state your name and occupation for the record, please?”
Her voice cracked when she answered. “Certainly. My name is Taylor Jackson, Lieutenant, Criminal Investigations Division, Homicide Unit. Badge number 4746. Let me apologize up front for my voice. I’ve caught the Tennessee Crud. I’ll try not to sneeze on you.” That drew a few smiles and laughs from the room. Taylor relaxed. It was better to work with an audience that was at ease.
“Thank you, honey,” the Colonel replied, his courtly Southern demeanor overshadowing his professionalism. He addressed the room. “We’re here today to gather information relating to the possible criminal activity of Ray Alvarez, Tom Westin and Nelson Sanders, all employed by the Nashville Metro Police Department, working in the vice squad, and David Martin, of the Homicide Unit.” The contempt in his voice was apparent. Handing down indictments of officers of the law was not taken lightly.
He continued. “Now, we’ve read a summary of the case. Lieutenant Jackson, we understand that you were called in to investigate a suspicious death, a young girl named Tamika Jones. And the investigation led you to uncover information that implicated four fellow members of the Metro Police—David Martin, now deceased, Ray Alvarez, Tom Westin and Nelson Sanders. These men were complicit in a black market scheme that was ultimately profitable for them. Am I correct in this summary?"
Taylor nodded.
The Colonel smiled and leaned back in his chair. The business end was over. It was time to hear Taylor’s version of events. “Now then, let’s discuss Tamika Jones. Could you go over it for us, please?”
Taylor surveyed the room. Here were thirteen very powerful people. They had the mission of deciding who and what got prosecuted in Nashville’s criminal courts. They met in secret, were basically a self-governing body. No lawyers, no district attorneys were allowed. It was just the person who had been subpoenaed to appear, and the thirteen jurors, like a lopsided cabal. Yet for all the seriousness of their job, the spirit in the room was congenial, friendly even. This particular meeting held the futures of three men in the balance, but the atmosphere was reminiscent of a mystery book club gathering.
Taylor cleared her throat and took her notebook out of her pocket. She didn’t need to open it. “Of course, Foreman. On October second of this year, I was called to the home of Clementine Hamilton, 453-A Moore Street, Nashville, Tennessee. It was coming on ten o’clock in the evening. When I entered the premises, I found the woman’s twelve-year-old granddaughter, Tamika Jones, on the kitchen floor. She was lying on her right side, curled in the fetal position. There was a pool of blood under her body.”
Taylor quickly lost herself in her narrative. She couldn’t have imagined how investigating Tamika Jones’s death would change her life forever.
