They’d been riding their bikes that day. They’d ridden down a garden path they’d discovered that led from the back edge of their parents’ estate. The path traversed a wooded area and opened onto a grassy clearing, which bordered the west edge of Belle Meade Boulevard. It was hidden from the road by a long line of crepe myrtle trees. Whitney’s bicycle had gotten a flat. Instead of making their way back through the woods, they’d decided to go the long way, to push their bikes along the boulevard, back to their house.
He flipped the page and stared at the photo of their kidnapper. The file identified him as Nathan Chase, a thirty-seven-year-old construction worker, more often out of a job than in one. He had approached the girls, offering them some ice cream, a treat to cool them down on a hot summer day, and a ride back to their house so they didn’t have to push their bikes.
In the time of innocence, before Amber Alerts and children being schooled day in and day out about the horrors lurking behind every stranger’s shadow, the girls had accepted. They were on the Boulevard after all. They wheeled their bikes to his truck. After Quinn’s bike was safely in the back and she was climbing into the cab, he’d grabbed Whitney, shoved her in behind Quinn and taken off, leaving Whitney’s flat-wheeled bicycle behind. And then they were gone. Disappeared. Vanished.
But their story had a happy ending. Three days later, the girls appeared on Charlotte Avenue, disheveled, dirty, bloody, but alive. A Good Samaritan had seen them stumbling toward home and called the police.
It was Whitney who had explained how Chase had gotten drunk, had passed out, that the girls had seen an opportunity and had made a successful break for freedom.
It was Whitney who had identified Chase and his truck. She gave detailed descriptions of his home, a tiny, dirty two-bedroom bungalow off of Charlotte Avenue. The girls had only been five miles from home for the duration of their captivity. Quinn never volunteered any information, had only nodded in confirmation as Whitney told their story. PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder, was Quinn’s biggest problem. She’d suffered such a shock that she’d been mute for weeks after the kidnapping, the file said. Whitney, having told the story, given all the information she could remember, had sat quietly waiting for her parents to take her home. The stronger of the twins.
The police had followed the directions Whitney gave them and found Nathan Chase alone in his living room, sucking on a Budweiser, watching a movie on television. He’d just smiled as they’d cuffed him, refused to confirm or deny the charges against him.
He’d been tried and convicted on the strength of Whitney’s testimony, Quinn refused to come to court, wouldn’t take the stand, but the jury decided in only two hours that Nathan Chase was guilty as hell. He’d been sentenced to thirty years, a decent amount of time and punishment for a kidnapper in the early 1980s, and was serving out the remainder of his time at Riverbend, a maximum-security prison that had opened in 1989. He spent his days watching television, reading, working in the library and being a model prisoner.
Baldwin sat back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. Nathan Chase. What kind of man kidnaps two little girls, beats them, but lets them get away? Then sits in his house, drinking a beer and waiting for the cops to come a-calling?
Baldwin leafed through the pages again. There was no sign of the sheets that mentioned the sexual assault. The girls’ reports were of multiple beatings and sleepless nights. They said he’d talked to them, told them stories, tried to entertain them. The odds that they weren’t assaulted were so slim that Baldwin finally sought Taylor out. She was in her office, sipping a Diet Coke and reading a case file.
“Whatcha up to?” Baldwin lounged in her doorway, drinking in her beauty. She should look frazzled and tired, it was the middle of the night, they’d been working for so many hours Baldwin had lost count. But she sat serenely at her desk, eyes wide and clear, looking like she’d just gotten up from a refreshing twelve hours in the bed. Except for the black eye. It gave her a rakish air. He briefly imagined her in his bed and smiled. She caught the look and laughed, closing the file in front of her.
“Lincoln just brought me up to speed on our Rainman suspect. Norville Turner. He works at the precinct filling station, doing mechanical work on the squad cars. Apparently, there’s no great psychosis behind his pattern. He’s a cop buff, couldn’t get on the force. He failed his entrance exams at the Academy four times, so he’s spent all this time trying to get back at us. Thought that setting up his crimes in a bizarre pattern would make him look mysterious. He’s just an everyday rapist. The good news is, he admitted to the rapes, which is an excellent first step. Now we have to do all the fun stuff, matching the DNA and all, but it looks like we got our man.”
“That’s great news, hon.”
“Yeah, I’m just happy it’s over. What are you doing?”
“Trying to figure out why Quinn and Whitney’s file doesn’t mention anything about the sexual assault.”
“It doesn’t? That’s strange. There’s no documentation on it?”
“Not a thing. Their hospital records don’t have a record of a rape kit being performed on either of the girls.”
“Well, that can’t be right. Chase went to jail after he was found guilty of kidnapping and sexual assault. I’ve seen those pages myself. There must be a part of the file that’s missing.” She started rooting around her desk, didn’t find anything of use, then went out into the Homicide office. She looked through the papers on Fitz’s desk and found a slim file labeled Connolly.
“Here’s something. Looks like Fitz didn’t grab all the files. Let’s see.” She opened the file and scanned. “Says here that only one of the girls was assaulted. That’s the reason it’s not in the hospital reports, it wasn’t reported the night they found them. It came a few weeks later. Hmm. Now that’s funny. It doesn’t say which girl was raped. Huh.” She handed the file to Baldwin. “That’s a little bizarre, isn’t it? The girls’ personal physician made this report, but he doesn’t identify which girl it happened to. Granted, this was twenty years ago. It’s still strange, don’t you think?”
They went back into Taylor’s office. Baldwin sat in the visitor’s chair and propped his feet up on her desk. “Didn’t you say there were rumors about the girls after they transferred in to Father Ryan?”
“Well sure, there were rumors,” Taylor answered him, rubbing her temple. “But it was all just that, rumors. They came in as freshmen my sophomore year, and I didn’t know too much about them. They were attending Harpeth Hall before, and I think I remember someone saying they’d taken a year off, then came over to Ryan. I know their mom was pregnant while all of this was going on, that I do remember. They had a little brother, what’s his name again? Oh yeah, Reese. Reese Connolly. Quinn said he’s a doctor, doing his residency at Vanderbilt.”
Baldwin raised an eyebrow at her. “The timing’s right, don’t you think? They take a year off, and suddenly they have a little brother?”
Taylor was taken aback. “You think that one of them got pregnant by Nathan Chase? And had Reese, then their parents covered it up? Man, that’s screwed up. They were only twelve. But it begs the question. Which one would it have been?”
“That’s something we may want to find out. In the meantime, I want to see if Nathan Chase has had any visitors lately. I have a feeling what happened to Quinn and Whitney twenty years ago may be linked to what’s happening today. Remember Quinn said she should have told Jake the truth from the beginning? You think she was trying to confess that she’d had a child and he rejected her?”
“Lord, Baldwin, you’re just grasping at straws now. There’s nothing in the evidence that leads that way.”
“Maybe not, but I want to get a list of Nathan Chase’s visitors anyway. We’ll do that in the morning. In the meantime, let’s go home. I’m too tired to think anymore tonight. Anything new on Whitney’s computer?”
Baldwin had dropped the laptop off in Taylor’s office earlier.
“No, nothing since we arres
ted Jake Buckley.”
“Maybe that’s a sign. Let’s get out of here.”
Taylor nodded, so they gathered up their things, straightened up her desk and left the Homicide office. Five minutes after they left, the light began blinking on Whitney Connolly’s laptop, informing one and all that she had new mail.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Baldwin’s phone rang at six in the morning, rousing him from the best sleep he’d had in weeks. He’d gone to bed without the report of another missing girl floating through his brain, without wondering what new horror awaited him when he opened his eyes. He slept dreamlessly, snuggled beside Taylor in the warm bed, knowing that he was close to cracking this case.
Though he’d been a bit circumspect about Jake Buckley’s culpability in the series of murders, the talk he and Taylor had gone through on their way home abated his concerns. Taylor’s theory was a strong one. Quinn Buckley had told the truth to her husband about what happened when she and her twin sister were kidnapped. That they had been raped, had borne a child in secret, that the news was too much for Buckley to take. Already a promiscuous, bullying man, he’d gone over the edge, making his regular travel a cover for murder. A bit thin, but plausible. Today was the day they’d put it all together. The DNA would confirm everything.
The phone call would derail every theory they had.
“Baldwin,” he answered, yawning.
“It’s Garrett. Why are you sleeping so late?”
“It’s 6:00 a.m. Central time, Garrett. You’re an hour ahead of me, remember?”
“I do remember. You need to get up. We have a problem.”
Baldwin groaned and rolled over, realizing Taylor wasn’t lying beside him. Where had she gotten off to? He sat on the edge of the bed, running his fingers through his hair, dreading the answer to his next question.
“What’s the problem, Garrett?”
“The DNA sample you submitted for Jake Buckley doesn’t match the Strangler. He’s still out there.”
Baldwin was wide awake now. “Aw, man, damn. Shit.” He threw out a few more expletives, enough to get Taylor back in the room, eyes questioning what was wrong. He held up a hand, stopping her question.
“But Buckley had Ivy Clark in the trunk of his car. Are you saying that he really didn’t know she was there, like he claims?”
“I can’t tell you that, Baldwin. I’d talk to him again, but without a DNA match, you’re going to have to figure something else out. He definitely isn’t a match to the DNA found at the Dale crime scene, that much we know for sure. I can’t say he didn’t murder those girls, but it seems likely that he’s not your man.”
“All right. Let me get on this. I’ll need to talk to Buckley again. Shit, Garrett, I knew something wasn’t right about this.”
“As usual, your intuition pays off. Always trust it, Baldwin. Now get out there and find us the real killer before he hits again.”
Baldwin clicked off the phone and flopped back onto the bed. Taylor eyed him, concerned. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re never going to believe this. The DNA from Buckley doesn’t match the Strangler’s vics. Come on, let’s go to your office. We’re going to need some help on this one.”
*
Half the day was gone by the time they had gotten Buckley back from the sheriff, interrogated him again, nailed down his timeline, then sent his sorry ass home. Taylor didn’t think he’d be all that welcome when he showed up at Quinn’s door, but didn’t feel sorry for him in the least. The man was a horse’s ass, and she was sorry that they had no charges they could press against him, just for being a jerk.
He’d left threatening to sue, and Taylor waved to him as he left, wondering how quickly the suit would appear.
She glanced at the corner of her desk where Whitney Connolly’s laptop had taken its place of honor. The e-mail light was blinking.
Holding her breath, she opened the cover and booted up the system. Whitney’s e-mail was practically empty compared to the other times she’d checked. There was one new message, flagged in red, and Taylor’s heart began to race when she saw the address. [email protected]. It was him, it was the Strangler. And the time code was from the previous evening. Shit, that meant…
“Baldwin!” she yelled. He was right outside her door, stuck his head in as quickly as her shout ended.
“What? What’s wrong?”
She turned the laptop around so the screen faced him. He saw it immediately, rushed into the room and double clicked to open the message. There was yet another poem. He read it aloud.
“Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it suck’d from thee?
Yet thou triumph’st, and say’st that thou
Find’st not thyself nor me the weaker now.
’Tis true; then learn how false fears be;
Just so much honour, when thou yield’st to me,
Will waste, as this flea’s death took life from thee.
“The rest of ‘The Flea.’ And there’s more. It says, ‘I AM FINISHED.’” He sat down in the chair, white faced. “Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch!” He ran his hands through his hair, shoulders slumped.
Taylor went to him, speaking softly. “He’s still out there, Baldwin. I don’t care if he says he’s finished. He’s not. Someone like that will never just stop what he’s been doing. Never. We have to find him, Baldwin. We have to find him now.” She set a hand on the back of his neck and squeezed. He reached up and took her hand, grateful for her touch. He gathered himself as if a great decision had been made.
“Okay. Okay, let’s do it. This is just further confirmation that someone was setting up Jake Buckley. Someone who would know his schedule, his habits.” He was back on his feet and pacing the small room. “Where’s the information from Nathan Chase? I made a request for his visitors’ log. And we need Lincoln to do the back trace on the e-mail address. Maybe something will hit this time. We deserve a break.” He took a deep breath, composure regained, and picked up the phone. Taylor smiled at him and stepped out to see Lincoln.
She found him on the computer at his desk, trolling through some area of cyberspace that she wasn’t familiar with. He threw up his hands as she walked up, yelling, “Score!”
“Playing games on company time again, Lincoln?” He turned, his smile wide, eyes shining. “Not that kind of game. The more esoteric version. I had a link set up to Whitney Connolly’s address, put a worm in her system that would enable me to see where any message she received came from. I got him, Taylor. I know where your Yahoo guy sent his last e-mail.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Taylor, Baldwin and Lincoln stood outside a coffee shop named Bongo Java, right off the campus of Belmont University. The shop was teeming with people, bohemian students, yuppies in suits, grunge rockers with tattoos and black fingernail polish. It was one of those places that transcended class, didn’t care what your background was or who you were trying to be. It served coffee, had a great Internet café and was one of the most popular places in town precisely because it was so ordinary.
They’d secured a quick warrant to smooth their path. As they entered, Taylor took a deep breath, savoring the rich scent of coffee. A latte wouldn’t go amiss right now.
They went to the counter and ordered drinks. Baldwin paid, winking. The Bureau would be buying today, a semicelebratory drink for getting on the correct path at last. Taylor and Lincoln withdrew their badges and asked to see the manager. The owner of the shop came out from the back room instead, ready to help Nashville’s finest with anything they might need.
While Lincoln talked, explaining what they needed, Taylor looked around. Notices about bands playing, apartments for rent, an upcoming writers’ night all crowded into a small but organized corkboard. The realization hit her that the Strangler had probably stood right where she was standing, and a chill crept down her spin
e. They were close, she could feel it. A visceral reaction to the presence of evil. He could be here at this very moment. She glanced around. That one, with the semi-Mohawk and pierced nostril. Her gaze slid away when the punk gave her the finger. Anarchy, baby. Or him, the mild-mannered-looking man sitting by himself with his briefcase open, staring out the window as if his world had just ended? Perhaps the owner himself, a potbellied man easing into his fifties, looking somber while he talked to Baldwin. Evil took many faces, many of them benign. It just wasn’t always apparent.
Lincoln was sitting at a computer docking station, fingers flying, running a program he’d written through the hard drive of the computer. He looked over at her and made an okay sign. He’d found the right computer, found the tracks of their killer in cyberspace.
But the fact that the message had been sent the night before meant that countless people could have used the computer since the Strangler had sat there, typing out his message. Prints weren’t an option. There was no other way to trace him. They’d found his last vessel of communication, but couldn’t do anything about it.
Taylor went back to the owner, interrupting his conversation with Baldwin. “Is there anyone in here that you recognize from last night?”
Baldwin nodded at her. “That’s what we were talking about. He doesn’t see anyone that was here last night other than their regulars. They had a poetry reading, an open-mike night, and there were about fifty people gathered around. He didn’t notice anyone unusual.”
“I did.” A small voice peeped up, right below Baldwin’s elbow. A pixie dressed in a long flowing peasant skirt and a vivid rainbow scarf practically had to raise her hand to get their attention. She was tiny, under five feet tall, and beautifully delicate. She gave them a winning smile when they looked down to see her.
“I mean, I saw someone in here last night, working on the computer, during the reading. I was people watching, you know? You get all kinds, they’re great fodder for work. I’m an artist,” she stated proudly. Taylor bit back a grin, the girl was so tiny, so garishly dressed that Taylor liked her immediately. She’d always admired people who could express themselves in such ways.
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