The computer room was housed three doors down from interrogation room one. She unlocked the door, turned on the light, and took the computer out of sleep mode. They all had their personal computers on the desk, but fingerprint searches in iAFIS and requests to the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program had to run through a separate system that was tied to the state and federal databases. Antiquated systems out here in the field, but at least Lincoln had set these computers to go as quickly as was humanly allowed.
Within twenty minutes, she hit Send. The questionnaire was forty pages long, but she didn’t have a lot to go on, would update the file as more information came in. She filled out the forms as completely as she could, using her notes when necessary. She included the photos she’d forwarded to her work address. Having the crime-scene pictures would help with the analysis.
She asked for three separate searches. One, for art thefts in the metro Nashville area. Two, for any murders that might have an artistic component to them, with music or paintings or sculpture. And third, for murders in which the victims were starved to death. They’d process while she and McKenzie took Bangor back to his house.
That was the trick with ViCAP. You needed to give it parameters to search within, but keep them focused enough that it wouldn’t be a wild-goose chase. She wished it would spit back answers, but instead it looked at trends, which she’d need to interpret.
But just in case something fantastically close to their murder popped out…She left a note for Rowena Wright, the department administrator, that she was expecting the results back on a ViCAP search. Rowena was a jovial black woman who’d been a cop before Taylor was born, blazing a trail that Taylor was honored to follow. Rowena had started in admin, then became a patrol officer, a training officer, passed the sergeant’s exam and nearly made detective before a mild heart attack forced her to step out of the field. There weren’t a lot of people that Taylor trusted around headquarters these days, but Rowena was one of them.
When she made it back to the interrogation room, McKenzie was passing Hugh Bangor a hand wipe. He turned to greet Taylor with a big smile.
“Mr. Bangor was happy to give us his fingerprints and a DNA swab for comparison.”
“That’s good. Excuse us for a moment?”
Bangor smiled. He knew the score. She stepped out in the hall with McKenzie. “What did you find on Allegra Johnson?”
“Nothing much. There’s an address listed on one of her arrests, down in one of the projects. I cross-checked it, and it’s also listed as the address for three other people with arrest records. Either she was in with a bad crowd, or they’re using the address as a fake.”
“Okay. We’ll do this thing with Bangor, then head down there. Father Victor is available to go, just in case?”
“Yes. He said to call him whenever you were ready, he’d meet us there. He seems like a nice guy.”
“He is. You haven’t met him yet?”
“No. Never had cause.”
“You’ve never done a notification?” she asked, incredulous.
“No. Everyone always sends me off to do something while they handle the family. So if she has any, this will be my first.”
“How old are you, exactly, McKenzie?”
“I’ll be twenty-seven here in another month.”
Twenty-six, and already a detective. She’d thought he was older. They’d moved him along quickly. She wondered why.
“Okay. Let’s do this.”
They retrieved Bangor from the interrogation room.
As they walked to the car, Bangor tried to make conversation. “Detective McKenzie here was just telling me he used to have a girlfriend who was quite a fine artist.”
“Um, yes, sir. I did.” He looked at Taylor apologetically, as if he’d been caught doing something very bad.
“What kind of artist was she, McKenzie?” Taylor asked, openly forgiving him so he’d relax. No harm done letting the man see a little compassion from her this morning.
“Oils, mostly, and some pastels. She was very good.”
They walked out into the parking lot, and Taylor realized she hadn’t signed out. Tough beans, Elm.
“Was very good?” Bangor asked, gently. Taylor had missed something. McKenzie looked like he might cry.
“Um, she’s dead. She killed herself. Today’s actually the anniversary.”
Oh. That was the same girl he was talking about this morning at the autopsy, Taylor figured. Poor kid. Never good to lose someone you loved.
Bangor obviously felt the same. He clapped McKenzie on the shoulder in sympathy.
“I lost my partner five years ago.” Bangor hesitated for a moment, then said, “AIDS.”
McKenzie just nodded, didn’t say anything. Taylor looked at Bangor again. She hadn’t picked up that he was gay. Polished, certainly, but he had no affectation, no femininity about him. That made life a little less complicated. This crime screamed hetero, man on woman violence. Bangor was most likely not their suspect. Taylor had already gotten that sense, but the biographical details helped solidify her conclusions.
The drive out West End to Love Hill was quick, with Bangor regaling them with stories of famous actors who were in fact gay despite all appearances.
When Taylor made the left onto Love Circle and wound her way up the hill, she was shocked. Last night, in the dark, it still held that romantic feel. In the harsh light of day, she could see how run-down the Hill had actually become. Trash littered the grassy banks of the park, some graffiti on the electric transformer box had been inexpertly painted over. A ragged chain-link fence was sagging in spots, bearing the kick marks of some drunken youth. It wasn’t the Hill she remembered, and she remarked on that to Bangor.
“Yes, it’s been hard to keep the vagrants out of the park at night. It’s so quiet, and there aren’t a lot of patrols through here. We force them out, they reappear. The kids who come up here aren’t the nicest element. Between them and the break-in, I’m glad for my security system.”
“We didn’t get any alarms from your system last night. Is it possible that you left it off when you left town?”
“No. I’m religious about setting the alarm. But it’s entirely possible that Miss Carol failed to turn it back on. She was taking care of Sebastian for me, and sometimes she forgets. It’s happened before.”
Taylor glanced at McKenzie. That matched the neighbor’s statement, at least. Convenient that the alarm was turned off. She wondered if the killer knew there would be a good chance of that, or if he’d come prepared to disengage the system. That would speak to an even higher level of intelligence than she’d previously thought. And a more personal connection to Hugh Bangor.
In the daylight, Bangor’s home was a sharp contrast to the surrounding grime. The lawn was neat and well-cared for, though trampled a bit by the multitudes of law enforcement who’d been tromping through it all night.
The crime-scene tape fluttered around the porch. Taylor unwound it from the support columns and let Bangor and McKenzie pass. Once inside, Bangor immediately tensed. Taylor watched his reaction with interest, wondered briefly whether they were going to have an issue. But Bangor merely shook his head, and turned to her with his eyebrow raised.
“I’m missing something rather dramatic, aren’t I? What happened to my post?”
Taylor looked at McKenzie. “Go ahead,” she said.
“The victim was pinned to the post with a knife. We had to take it with us to preserve the integrity of the wound tract.”
“My God. Who could do such a thing? You’ll replace it, won’t you?” Bangor asked.
Taylor nodded. “I’m sure we’ll be able to figure something out. Destruction of private property isn’t in our purview. We didn’t have a choice last night.”
“Fair enough.”
They moved to the back door, where Taylor showed him the cutout piece of glass.
Bangor tsked. “This is just so violating.”
Taylor touched his arm. “I know it
’s hard. Just bear with us a little longer.”
They drifted toward the kitchen as they talked.
“Are you a fan of Dvořák?” she asked.
He cocked his head to the side. “Actually, not so much. I’m more of an Outlaws type—good old country music. Did you know that John Rich built that house down the street? He’s a very nice man. I’m not a big fan of his music, there’s a bit too much ego in it, but he’s been a good neighbor. Raised the property values, at least.”
“That always helps. Do you have any Dvořák CDs?”
“No.” Bangor sat heavily at his kitchen table. “Why?”
“There was a Dvořák CD in your wall system here, playing on a loop last night.”
“Now that’s one I know I had nothing to do with. I left it on Lightning 100. Sebastian likes alternative rock, I usually leave it on for him while I’m away. Maybe it’s his?”
“The cat?” McKenzie looked serious all of a sudden, but Taylor laughed.
“Now there’s a scenario I haven’t encountered in a murder investigation. The cat did it.”
McKenzie got the joke and joined the laughter, a little too strongly.
“Maybe the cat will solve it. Do you know where Sebastian is?” Bangor asked.
“Your neighbor took him to her house last night.”
“Too bad I’m not a cat whisperer. That would make life easy. He could tell me what he saw.” Bangor grew serious. “I’m sorry for that girl, whoever she is. Do you know her name?”
Taylor nodded at McKenzie, who replied, “It’s Allegra Johnson.”
Bangor shook his head. “I don’t know anyone of that name, though it’s beautiful. Maybe I’ll put her in a piece one of these days, as a memorial. My God. Did she die right here?”
He was staring at the invisible column as if he could imagine the scene from the previous night. Taylor was glad that he couldn’t; it wasn’t one she’d soon forget.
“No, sir. I don’t believe she did. Do me a favor and take a quick look around. If you don’t see anything else out of place, we’re going to get out of your hair.”
Bangor searched the house for five minutes, then returned to the kitchen shaking his head. “Nothing. It’s all here except for the book from my coffee table. Do you think I’m in any danger?”
Taylor shook her head. “We took the Picasso monograph for examination. I don’t think you’re in danger, but I can’t say one way or another. I’m reluctant to jump to the conclusion that someone was sending you a message, but that may be the case. I’d appreciate it if you did some sleuthing of your own, look into your e-mails and correspondence for the past few days, see if anyone made threatening gestures. Maybe someone involved in your screenwriting didn’t like what you had to say about their work?”
Bangor smiled. “I’m actually to the point where young screenwriters fight to have me play with their words. They are usually more sycophantic rather than threatened. But I’ll give it some thought.”
“Okay, then. I appreciate your cooperation. And I’d appreciate you keeping the information I gave you to yourself.”
“Can I go back to the coast?”
“Stick around for another day or so, while we check some things. We’ll be in touch.”
Bangor walked them out. “I’m going to go get Sebastian, bring him home. Thank you for being so cautious. I appreciate how difficult this must be.”
They shook hands. Taylor and McKenzie got into the vehicle. She watched Bangor knock on Carol Parker’s door and go inside, heard the loud meowing of the cat in the background. A happy homecoming for one member of the family, at least.
“He didn’t have anything to do with it, did he? He seems like a really nice guy.” McKenzie was fiddling with the crease in his slacks, running his thumb obsessively over the edge.
“Probably not, but that doesn’t mean someone wasn’t sending him a very clear message.”
“Made him an offer he couldn’t refuse?”
“Why McKenzie, I never pegged you for a Godfather fan.”
She put the car in gear and drove. Someone was sending Hugh Bangor a message. And she needed to find out who it was before he tried again.
Twelve
The J. C. Napier Homes were one of Nashville’s nastiest projects. Many of the city’s homicides happened there; Napier and its fellow, the Tony Sedekum Homes, accounted for half of the arrests in all the housing projects in Davidson County. Poverty begat deeper levels of poverty. Guns were rampant. Some murders and assaults were fueled by drugs, most others by desperation. Whatever the cause, the effect was that the Napier projects saw nearly thirty percent of all the murders in Nashville in a given year.
The patrols in these projects were on bikes—the streets were few and far apart, running lengthways. There was little to no access between the buildings and courtyards. On bikes, they had a chance. But it was dangerous work. The residents didn’t have much hope, anyway. Taking potshots at cops was a favorite pastime.
Taylor’s window was down; she heard the usual catcalls. She smelled burning garbage: another boredom-killer on warm summer days, setting fire to the Dumpsters. In these projects, men, women and children roamed the streets aimlessly at all hours of the day and night, talking, watching, being. The typical crowd gathered around her Caprice; McKenzie grew pale under his already light complexion.
“Ignore them. They’re just playing.” But she put the window up.
“It’s not that. How can people live like this?”
Taylor glanced at him. “Do you think they have another choice?”
“Yes. They could try. They could get a job instead of having babies so they can collect more food stamps for beer. Have you ever been inside one of their apartments? They’ve got better electronics than most yuppies. Where’s the money coming from? Certainly nothing legal. And if they have enough to trick out their homes, why in the world would they choose to live here? I’ve never understood it.”
That was quite a speech.
“To use a terrible cliché, McKenzie, it’s not that black and white. I want all of them to get jobs, as well, to stop running crack and heroin, to clean this shit place up and try to make a better life. You give them driveways and pretty houses, the crime rates dwindle. Look at what HUD did with the Hope IV grants—John Henry Hale, Preston Taylor, Vine Hill are all clean, safe places. It’s amazing the difference architecture and bright colors can make. But down here, they’re still in the land time forgot. The power of a few overrides the desires of the many. They’re scared. They’ve been brainwashed not to trust anyone who wants to help them. The dealers and pimps threaten the women, rape them, force them into this life. They terrorize the children, conscript them into the game by making them run the drugs from the buy to the sale. I agree, they should want out, and I applaud the ones who try. It’s sad, but it’s out of our hands. All we can do is enforce the law to the best of our abilities.”
Father Victor’s Chevy Lumina slid in behind Taylor’s Caprice. She and McKenzie got out of the car and met him by the trunk. It was department policy that a clergy member attend all death notifications. It was a welcome policy; having a spiritual guide along certainly helped.
“Ready?” she asked the chaplain.
“As I’ll ever be. Detective McKenzie? I’m Father Victor.” The two men shook hands. The chaplain’s blue eyes were sad, and Taylor realized that he’d started to go gray. His predecessor, Father Ross, had been stolen away by a diocese in Maine just two weeks earlier. Father Victor had been the backup chaplain. But Taylor knew the Father from around town. He’d been a fixture in the archdiocese for years, was a priest at the Cathedral. She knew he was in his late forties, but didn’t know his exact age.
“It’s good to meet you, sir,” McKenzie replied. Taylor glanced at him sharply. He seemed deferential to the priest. Catholic, maybe? With a name like McKenzie, it was a good chance.
They turned to the building that hopefully housed some answers about Allegra Johnson.
; Taylor ignored the rude gestures, the propositions and threats. She walked through the manufactured similitude of the run-down buildings to the front door. The screen was cut. The wooden door stood open. The homes had been renovated just a few years earlier; they were already falling in on themselves again. No one cared enough to worry about upkeep.
They knocked. A cracked voice yelled, “Come in.”
Taylor rested her hand lightly on her weapon, just force of habit entering a strange building. They entered the cramped ground-floor apartment. The walls were paneled with dark walnut. Lace curtains, yellowed with cigarette smoke, hung limply over the window. Taylor could see a bullet hole in one pane. The carpet was a dirty orange shag, about a million years old, that didn’t quite reach the four corners of the room. Fetid despair hung from every corner like deserted cobwebs.
Wrinkling her nose, Taylor took the four steps that led her into the kitchen. Small things scuttled away from her feet—mice, roaches, silverfish? Taylor didn’t know, didn’t want to know. She immediately realized why the home was such a mess—there was an old woman sitting at the tiny, unstable kitchen table. Her eyes were milky white, made more opaque by the contrast with her blue-black skin. She was old, very, very old. Her blind eyes searching for her guests. Taylor bit back a curse. The woman should be in a home with people to take care of her, not living on her own.
There was something akin to recognition behind the woman’s blank eyes. For a moment, it seemed they were alone, just the two of them in the putrid little kitchen. She looked right into Taylor’s soul. Taylor got goose bumps, rubbed her hands up and down her arms to shake off the creepy feeing. She stopped a foot away and didn’t stretch out her hand to shake.
“Ma’am? I’m Detective Jackson with Metro Homicide. This is Detective McKenzie, and our chaplain, Father Victor. Do you know a young woman by the name of Allegra Johnson?”
“She dead?” the woman asked.
“Ma’am, are you related to Miss Johnson?”
“She my grandbaby. She dead?” she asked again.
“What’s your full name, ma’am?” Father Victor asked softly.
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