So he swallowed the liquid courage in a single gulp, pulled out the picture Noelle’s roommate had given him and set it on the bar. He poised the folder above the picture and opened it. The sight made him want to vomit.
There was no question. Noelle Pazia was dead.
He looked away from the file and caught the bartender’s eye, signaling for another shot. The man slid the bottle to him, it was as if he decided it wasn’t worth the time it would take to refill the glass again and again. Grimes nodded his thanks and poured himself a glass to the brim. His hands were shaking as he brought the liquor to his lips. He needed to call Baldwin, give him the confirmation. Before he had a chance, his phone rang.
The call didn’t take long. As he hung up, staring in disbelief at the cell, all thoughts of calling Baldwin left him. He set the phone down on the oak-planked bar. He pulled out his credentials case, eyes lingering on his FBI shield. All the things it meant to him. Fidelity, loyalty, bravery. Ah, this fucking case.
All he wanted to do was suck down a few more drinks and float away.
Fuck the Southern Strangler.
Fuck Baldwin and the FBI while you’re at it.
Fuck it all that seven girls had died at the hands of this maniac. The hand burglar. For fucking what?
Noelle stared up at him with those baby-brown eyes, and he heard her voice in his head. “You’re drunk, Grimes. It’s okay, you don’t have to get so upset. These things happen. You know that. These things happen and there’s nothing you can do about it, you just have to try and catch the man who did this to me. To all of us. Do you understand what I’m saying? You need to catch him and stop him, he’s going to do this again.”
The big brown eyes started to cry and Grimes slammed the folder closed. Jesus, he couldn’t take this anymore.
What was this freak hoping to accomplish? And here he was sending the poems to a reporter. Did he want to get the story out on the news? Or did he just have the hots for this chick? Did he just want to impress her? Well, it was going to be pretty hard to impress her now, buddy. She’s dead, and you don’t even know it. You can come and fuck her and get off on all the wonderful things you did for her, you stupid son of a bitch. She’s dead and cold, and all of these girls are dead and cold, and you can’t have any of them anymore, you bastard.
Grimes was shouting, hysterical, flinging his arms around and becoming more incoherent by the minute. He’d chugged his way through more than half the bottle of scotch and was looking like he needed a good place to sleep it off. That’s what the bartender saw, he had come over to try and slow him down. Grimes was crying and blubbering, spilling liquid from his glass on the bar and the seat next to him. His hand was on his gun, and when the bartender tried to get him to stop he swung out his arm. Crying, he told the man to tell Baldwin he was sorry. He put the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Baldwin beat the early-evening traffic out of town, heading south on I-65 to Franklin. He took the exit onto Highway 96, into the heart of downtown Franklin, passing picturesque row houses and the quaint downtown square. Precise choreography got him through the traffic circle, he came out the other side and found himself in front of Health Partners headquarters.
He parked and went inside. The cool air-conditioning gave him goose bumps. He introduced himself to the receptionist, who sat behind a clear glass desk, showing off young supple legs. He was expected. She gave him a charming smile that he returned, then rose and indicated a door to her left. Coming out from behind the desk, she brushed against him provocatively as she walked to the door. He smiled, the girl couldn’t be more than eighteen. Nice to know he was still remotely attractive to the younger generation. Not attracted to, of course. With a woman like Taylor at home, he wasn’t attracted to much else these days.
“Do you need anything?” she asked, and he shook his head.
“Too bad.”
The girl pushed a combination of numbers on a keypad and the door unlocked with an audible click. He followed her through the door, down a spare hallway and into a larger, more comfortable waiting area. A tall black man with crinkly gray hair came out of an office and made his way to Baldwin. He stuck out a hand and introduced himself.
“Louis Sherwood. You’re Agent Baldwin? Good to meet you. That will be all, Darlene, thank you.” The girl shot her boss a look of annoyance and left them.
Sherwood ushered Baldwin into a spacious office decorated in dark mahogany. Just the kind of office you’d expect from a CEO. Tastefully decorated, expensively accented, yet understated enough to make it seem that Health Partners wasn’t totally rolling in dough. A nice presentation, overall.
Sherwood motioned to a matching set of overstuffed brown leather chairs with brass nails running up the sides. Was there an office anywhere that didn’t have this kind of chair? Baldwin took a seat, and Sherwood sat opposite him.
“Can I get you anything, Agent Baldwin? Coffee, tea?”
“No, thanks, I’m fine. Darlene already offered.”
“So then, what is it that I can do for you?”
“Like I said on the phone, I’d like to ask about your traveling employees.”
Sherwood leaned forward and started running a rake through a Zen garden. “Any in particular?”
Baldwin’s antennae went up. “Are there any in particular that you think I should be looking at?”
“No, no. I just wondered if you’d narrowed it down. We’ve got quite a few travelers on our rosters, as you can imagine.” Rake, rake, rake. Baldwin sensed the man was killing time.
“How about we narrow it down to your people who have traveled to the cities in question, the cities you’ve lost employees.”
“What cities exactly would those be?”
Baldwin gave Sherwood a long, level gaze and spoke as clearly as he could. “I’d appreciate it if you’d drop the act and tell me what I need to know.”
Sherwood leaned back in his chair, appraising. Baldwin just stared him down.
After a moment, Sherwood broke into a huge smile. “Just testing there, son. Wanted to make sure you was on the up-and-up, you know? Just can’t ever tell with folks these days. Now, you want to know about our travelers. Mostly, we send the girls on the road. Our marketing team only has one gentleman.”
“Jake Buckley?”
Sherwood’s eyes popped open. “Why, yes, as a matter of fact. Jake is one of the finest men I’ve ever had the privilege to know. One of the finest.”
“That’s great. Does Jake Buckley cover your interests in Alabama, Louisiana, Mississippi, Georgia, Virginia and North Carolina? And has he been traveling in those specific areas recently? I’m aware that he was here in Nashville during some of that time. That’s all I need to know.” He sat back in his chair and waited.
Sherwood’s mouth drew into a firm line. “And I don’t think it’s wise to go around sullying the man’s name, if you know what I mean. He has a lot of very powerful friends…but that’s neither here nor there.”
“Mr. Sherwood, you don’t seem to understand. You’re in an interesting position. Several of the killer’s victims worked for your companies. The media hasn’t seized upon the connection, but rest assured, they will.”
Sherwood’s eyes narrowed, and Baldwin could see the wheels spinning. He picked up a pen and started twirling it, breaking eye contact as soon as he started to speak. Baldwin prepared himself for the lies to come.
“Now, Agent Baldwin, you have to understand. We’re a small company here, just trying to make the world a better place for some people that normally wouldn’t have the chances we give them. Do you understand that, son? It breaks my heart that we’ve lost three employees to violent deaths, it surely does. But could Jake Buckley be involved in those deaths? There isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of that, you mark my words.”
He leaned in close, ready to impart a great secret. Baldwin stayed put. “Buckley hardly knows what to do with a live woman. I can’t imagine he’d know
what to do with a dead one.”
Sherwood leaned back, guffawing. “Naw, good ole Jake couldn’t have done this. He’s too twitterpated by that wife of his. He can’t afford to fuck things up. She’s got the money, not him. God knows I’m not paying him enough to live on.”
“How much are you paying him, Mr. Sherwood?” Baldwin felt pure disgust. Over the phone he sounded like a man seriously intent on helping with the investigation. Now it was obvious that he was just an ass.
“Aww, son, that’s neither here nor there. Isn’t much more than a couple hundred, give or take. How much they paying you FBI boys these days? Bet I could make you an offer that would blow your socks off. How ’bout it? Come work for me, personal security. I can make it worth your while.”
This was a fruitless endeavor. The man wasn’t going to tell him anything. If he were a bit more jaded, he would think Sherwood brought him in to gauge his knowledge of the cases and the company, but he dismissed that thought. No, this was just a guy who had some power being a jerk.
“That’s awfully kind of you, Mr. Sherwood, but I’m happy with my current position. I suggest you think about cooperating with me. It won’t take me long to procure a warrant for your records.” He stood and stalked to the door.
Sherwood just laughed. “You get a warrant, and then I’ll chat with you.”
“Count on it.” Baldwin grabbed the handle and threw the door open, then retraced his steps to the locked entrance that led to reception. He banged through it to find Darlene, smiling expectantly at him.
Seeing the fury on his face, she dropped the cutesy affectation and gave him a sympathetic smile. He realized she was older than he first thought, probably more like twenty-five.
“Sherwood being an ass again?” she asked with a sigh.
Baldwin nodded. “I don’t know how you stand him.”
“I don’t. Here. I have something for you.” She handed him a plain manila file folder. He opened it and read ITINERARY in boldface at the top. “Jake Buckley” was directly underneath. A quick scan showed that Jake’s travel had taken him all over the Southeast, confirming Baldwin’s suspicions. No more wasting time, and no need to get that warrant.
Baldwin looked up to see a tear in Darlene’s eye. But her voice was hard. “Nail him, if he did this. Nail him for me.”
Baldwin nodded, not knowing exactly what to say. He had the impression that perhaps Jake Buckley did know what to do with a live girl after all.
He took her hand, squeezing it gently, and sincerely promised to do just that.
*
Baldwin was finally home. The weather had cooled off after the storms, so he’d showered and defrosted a container of Taylor’s homemade vegetable beef soup. He settled in to wait for Taylor to come home. He was also waiting to hear from Grimes. The man should have called by now to let him know if there had been any reports of a missing girl in the Asheville area. He’d talked to the men on the ground in Louisville, and it was starting to seem like this may be a different killer. Though the girl they had found was a brunette that seemed to be in her late teens or early twenties, there was no visible cause of death, and she still had her hands. The Louisville police were desperately searching their databases and tip lines to see if anyone had reported a girl missing that fit the description of their Jane Doe, but there hadn’t been so far. Maybe they were in luck. If Buckley was their killer, he seemed to be taking a break.
Baldwin went to the kitchen, pulled a Guinness out of the refrigerator, popped the top and poured it into a glass, then walked back into the living room. He should call Grimes, check his status.
He dialed the number, and an unfamiliar voice came on the phone.
“Who is this?” the voice demanded.
“This is Special Agent John Baldwin with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Now, who are you?”
“I’m the one wiping blood off this damn phone so I can answer it. Do you know a Jerry Grimes?”
Blood? Shit, what was happening? Had Grimes managed to get himself into an accident?
“Yes, I do. I’m working a case with him. Can I speak to him?”
“Um, I’m sorry, sir, but you’re going to have to wait on that. I’m Detective Moss, Mike Moss, with the Asheville police. It seems your friend Grimes had a little accident with his gun. Shot himself in the head. I’m sorry, but he didn’t make it.”
Baldwin sat in silence for a moment. Accident. Blood. Gun. Head. None of the words added up, and he shook his head, trying to sort them out.
“Wait a minute. Are you saying Grimes shot himself, or was shot by someone else?” Baldwin was up off the couch. This was bad. Very, very bad.
“No, sir, he shot himself. We’re in the bar of the hotel that Mr. Grimes was staying in. It’s absolute pandemonium here. Apparently he’d been in the bar drinking for a couple of hours and just lost it. Started yelling and throwing his arms around, the gun went off right next to his right temple. I’m willing to bet that our M.E. will find a way to call it an accident, but I’ll tell you for true, he shot himself. Now, are you coming up here to claim the body, or what?”
“Whoa, man, slow down. I need something from you first, then I’ll decide what to do. Did Grimes have anything with him? Files, his briefcase? Anything?”
He could hear the man asking the question to the room. He came back on the line.
“Yeah, there’s a file that was sitting on the bar next to him, a manila folder with what looks like crime scene photos. And there was a picture on the bar, a real pretty little thing. Oh…” He got silent for a few moments. “The picture of the girl on the bar is definitely the same girl from the crime scene photos. There’s also a plastic bag in the file, looks like it’s got a note and a pushpin in it.”
“Read me the note, please.”
Baldwin listened as the man recited the first few lines of “The Flea.” Dammit, Grimes.
“Tell me, does the picture have an identification with it? Is there a name or anything?”
“Yeah, there’s a picture here, looks like an official school photo, you know, with the border along the bottom? Ah…damn, man, she’s a student here in town. Goes to UNC–Asheville. There’s a handwritten name on the back of the photo. Noelle Pazia, 2004. Damn, guess I have a dead body on my hands. Where do you think he left her?”
Baldwin realized the officer thought Grimes had committed the murder, then killed himself. “Whoa, no, Grimes didn’t kill her. I believe that’s the identity of a body found in Louisville, Kentucky. You’re looking at the crime scene photos that were sent to Grimes from the Louisville police. We’re operating under the assumption that the murder was perpetrated by the Southern Strangler. Which means I need to get the Louisville team up to speed on this. I need you to fax that information you’ve got in front of you to me immediately. Send it to this number—615-555-9897. And where are they taking Grimes?”
“He was declared here at the scene. Been transported to our M.E. Is there a family that we need to notify?”
“I’m going to call my boss. His name is Garrett Woods. He’ll call you and get everything worked out. Damn. Grimes was a good man. You take care of him, okay?”
“Will do, sir.”
They hung up and Baldwin sank into the sofa. Shit. What the hell had happened? He knew Grimes was tense and not holding up great. This was his fault, if he had stayed there maybe he would have been able to stop his suicide. He heard the phone ring and the fax tones kick in. He went into the office and watched as the photo of Noelle Pazia scrolled out of the fax machine. He looked in her eyes and for a moment thought he understood what Grimes had done. He’d been there himself once, too. But this girl, she was so full of innocence and hope and it spilled out of her eyes like a waterfall of goodness. And he was just looking at a fax, he couldn’t imagine what the real thing looked like.
Not strangled, her hands weren’t cut off. If it were the Strangler, he’d taken some kind of pity on this girl and hadn’t ravaged her like the others. Baldwin didn’t tota
lly understand, but he could see that she was just so innocent that she might have just turned the killer off. Maybe that was it. He’d already taken her, but when he saw her he couldn’t go through with it. Hell, he’d never know. These killers did what they wanted no matter what. Profiling them was almost a joke, you just never knew what they were going to do or say anymore.
Okay, man, pull yourself together. He needed to focus, there was a lot that needed to get done. He started making a list as he dialed the number for the field office in Louisville. A woman answered the phone and he asked to speak to the SAIC.
“That’s me, Special Agent in Charge Eleanor Walker. How can I help you?”
Baldwin identified himself. “I’ve got an ID for you on your brunette. Her name’s Noelle Pazia and she’s a student at UNC–Asheville. He took her and no one missed her right away. The killing is being attributed to the Southern Strangler, though the information I’m getting doesn’t match up with his MO. Am I correct in that information?”
“That’s the information we have. The fact that the girl is from Asheville would tell me that it’s the Strangler, but the absence of violence disturbed me, too. We’ve got an initial cause of death from the medical examiner up here—looks like she suffocated. High levels of histamine in her system, petechial hemorrhaging—he’s calling it SAA, sudden asphyxic asthma. She had a fatal, massive asthma attack. We’ll get as much evidence as we can gather, get it to Quantico ASAP.”
An asthma attack. Now, that was interesting. Maybe she died before he could kill her. That would explain why her body wasn’t interfered with.
“I appreciate that, Agent Walker. Right now, all I know is what you know. I’m working a lead here in Nashville and I’ve just been informed that we’ve lost an agent. I’m kind of up to my ears right now.”
“Please tell me it wasn’t Jerry Grimes?”
“You know him?”
“I do. There’s been some rumors flying this afternoon. I talked with him earlier, sent him the crime scene photos of our Jane Doe, now ID’d as Noelle Pazia. He sounded drunk. Did he have an accident?”
Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 1 Page 51
