Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 1

by J. T. Ellison

  Taylor’s gaze went around the room, stopping in turn on each victim, a silent tribute. She’d done this every day for two months.

  The first murder occurred in January 1986. A young woman went missing from an evening out with friends. Her body was found a week later, her lips painted in a wide red grin, brutally assaulted, raped and her throat cut. Her name was Tiffani Crowden. The brand of lipstick was identified as Chanel Coco Red. She was the first confirmed kill for the Snow White Killer. Each subsequent murder scene was identical, though he never left the bodies in the same place twice.

  The next victims were Ava D’Angelo, an eighteen-year-old waitress, and Kristina Ratay, who attended the prestigious all-girls’ school called Harpeth Hall. In late October 1986, Colette Burich was killed; she worked as a nanny for a wealthy family.

  In early 1987, Evelyn Santana, a Belmont coed whose parents were well-respected doctors in town, showed up dead. In late summer, Danielle Seraphin and Vivienne White, both French exchange students, were found together in Centennial Park, slain in a double homicide.

  In 1988 there were three more murders, Allison Gutierrez, Abigail McManus and Ellie Walpole. Each girl was found with her throat cut in various parks around the Nashville area.

  And then he stopped. She wished she knew why. And why it had started again.

  Ritual complete, Taylor brought her attention back to the table. There was a separate pile of information in front of them. On the top was the key piece of evidence from the killings—the letter written by the Snow White Killer back in 1988. A polite fuck you, you’ll-never-catch-me type of communication to the police. Every bite Taylor took, her eyes were drawn to the letter. She just knew, in the way of all good detectives, that there was something in the killer’s words that would help solve the cases. There must have been something in the old files that the detectives who handled the cases back in the eighties had missed.

  That was next on Taylor’s agenda, speaking to the homicide detective from the case. His name was Martin Kimball, and he’d retired the year before Taylor joined the homicide team. She needed to interview him, glean all she could from his memory. She hoped it was solid and intact.

  Taylor swallowed her chicken salad and mused. She also needed to talk to the reporter who’d handled these cases from the beginning. She’d been trying to reach the man but had been stymied; he was in Europe. He was due back tomorrow, and he was aware that she needed to talk to him. Those were her next steps, talking to Martin Kimball and Frank Richardson, the Tennessean reporter.

  She put down her sandwich and started in on her Kettle chips.

  “So,” she crunched, “the crime scene was clean. No new evidence. Talk to me. Why are we so sure that this isn’t the Snow White Killer?”

  “We’ve gone over this a million times,” Fitz grumped at her.

  “I just want to have all the information in front of me to think on. Start talking, old man.”

  “Naw, I’ll go. He still has half a sandwich left.” Marcus threw the older man one of his trademark puppy-dog grins, and Fitz nodded his thanks.

  “Yeah, let the little man speak,” Lincoln teased.

  Marcus responded with a halfhearted “Shut up, Lincoln.” Taylor was reminded of two wildly diverse brothers, two boys who loved to razz each other. They all interacted in a family dynamic. The closeness of their unit simply escalated their success rate. Taylor oversaw all of Homicide, Fitz was her sergeant—the troops reported to him. But this core group of four was responsible for an eighty-six percent close rate on their individual cases, a record unheard of in the rest of Metro.

  Marcus was running the case down. “Okay, here’s what we know for certain. Snow White was left-handed. He attacked from behind, pulling on the hair of the victim to expose the throat. The knife moved across the girls’ necks from the right side, severing the exterior carotid artery and moving across, through to the internal carotid, to the left. The knife impressions were deeper at the end of the slash. This was consistent on all of the victims.

  “Our new killer is right-handed, though he’s trying to make it look like he’s left-handed. He’s cutting their throats from the front. The knife enters the right side of the victims’ necks, moves across, severing both carotid arteries. But the knife slash is deeper at the point of origin, instead of at the end. So it’s safe to conclude that this new killer is right-handed.”

  “That’s a biggie, too. Good. What else?” Taylor finished her last chip, pushed her plate away.

  “The DNA hasn’t come back yet, but the blood types match. The rope fibers lifted from the victims’ wrists and ankles are inconsistent with the fibers from the earlier cases, though the knots are nearly identical. Obviously the original Snow White killer didn’t leave presents in his victims’ hoohahs, either.”

  Taylor suppressed the urge to laugh. “Hoohahs? Something wrong with the technical term?”

  Lincoln and Fitz cracked up when Marcus blushed.

  “No, I just hate that word. It sounds so, I don’t know. Fine, never mind. He didn’t leave news articles in the victims’ vaginas. Happy now?”

  “Very, puppy, very. What else?”

  “Tox screens on the first three new victims show high levels of Rohypnol, and elevated BALs. So they all drank doctored drinks. That wasn’t something the original killer did, either.”

  Taylor fished a piece of paper out of her pile. “Make that four. Giselle’s lab work was identical. He’s getting them wasted to lower their inhibitions.”

  Fitz chimed in. “You’re right. I was in uniform when these cases were ongoing. The word from Homicide was Snow White was a charmer, he sweet-talked the victims instead of drugging them. All the reports say he’d approach them in a safe environment, was someone they could trust. Girls nowadays aren’t as trusting, they’ll need a little extra incentive to go with a stranger willingly.”

  Taylor nodded in agreement. “Well, now we have the makeup of this cream found on their temples. Arnica, frankincense and myrrh? What’s up with that?”

  “I think we’re dealing with a religious nut. Look at the biblical aspects—the gifts of the Three Wise Men were gold, frankincense and myrrh. They also used myrrh oil in Roman times to cover up the smell of dead bodies. I looked up the modern uses—perfume, anti-inflammatory, homeopathic cholesterol-lowering agents…there’s tons of uses and tons of availability. But the most common use is in churches and synagogues. It just makes more sense that this has some sort of significance to the killer. And the placement on their temples makes it seem like he’s anointing them.”

  “Lincoln’s right, there might be a religious component to all of this. Toss that into the mix.”

  Marcus played with one of his chips. “Maybe he stopped killing back then because he got called to God. You know, took the opposite road, tried to repent. Hell, he might have become a priest or something. And then he just couldn’t stand it, broke free and started killing again.”

  They were all silent for a moment, thinking about those implications.

  “I wish we had the DNA comparison. That would at least tell us definitively if we are dealing with the same man or a copycat,” Fitz said.

  “You’re right, Fitz.” Taylor absently twirled a piece of her ponytail around her forefinger. “Without the DNA, we can’t go too much further.”

  “Have you heard what the holdup is? I know TBI is backed up and they passed it up the chain to Quantico, but still. This should be a priority case for them.”

  “I know, Fitz, I know. Now that Baldwin’s assigned to the case, I’ll ask him to tag a priority to the lab work. Remind me, okay?”

  “When’s Price back?” Lincoln asked.

  “He should be here tonight. Baldwin sent the plane for him. Let’s get back to the rundown, boys. Now, the lipstick. Giselle St. Claire’s neck wound was rimmed in red lipstick. Tests aren’t back yet, but I’ll throw out the assumption that it’s the same lipstick that was found on all of the previous victims’ lips, that Chanel Coco R
ed. As far as we know, this is a new step, one he hasn’t done to any of the other victims. Coupled with the fact that there wasn’t a separate dump site. Why? Any ideas?”

  Marcus nodded. “There has to be a pathology behind the lipstick in the first place. Something from Snow White’s past that drove him to defile the girls, to paint them. To alter the way they looked naturally. Something his mother did, perhaps? But the new killer, he’s just copying his predecessor. So the lipstick on Giselle’s throat could just be his way of saying this is my kill. I did this one. It screams ‘Mine.’”

  “That’s a good start, puppy. Why wouldn’t he do it to the first three?”

  “Because he knew by this kill we would have figured out that he was a copycat. He knew we’d have DNA to match, and would know he was right-handed instead of left. He’s ready to be acknowledged.”

  Lincoln pointed a finger at Marcus. “But we don’t have the DNA results, so we can’t be absolutely sure that this isn’t the work of the original killer. They’ve been known to lie dormant for years, have lives, make a name in the community. That could be the case here. If it is the original killer, what would drive him to the tipping point? What would make him start killing again?”

  Taylor nodded. “The usual stuff. Loss of some kind. We have to find out what the trigger was. I’m open to ideas.”

  No one answered, all four heads shaking slowly. Fitz started crumpling the paper insert his sandwich had been wrapped in, and Taylor decided to call it quits.

  “All right, that’s it for now. Go focus on Giselle St. Claire. I want to know what she was doing, where she was headed, and why she was targeted. Did he know she was the daughter of a celebrity or was it chance? All that stuff. Let’s talk again later this afternoon. I’m going to go bug Baldwin for the DNA.” She started to turn, then stopped.

  “Fitz? You know what? Let’s go talk to Martin Kimball right now instead of waiting. Can you be ready in half an hour?”

  “Yep. I’ll meet you out back.”

  They scattered, teasing one another. A solid team confident in their ability to break another major case, to right the wrongs of this egregious killer. Taylor watched them go, filled with a sense of pride and a small nugget of hope. They were hers, and she loved them.

  *

  Fitz drove to Martin Kimball’s house. He wanted to check out Taylor’s new ride and had the 4Runner in four-wheel drive, powering the truck through the icy streets.

  They talked casually of the case, the impending wedding. Taylor was always open with Fitz. He was more like a father to her than her own ever was. She never had to worry about her image, never was concerned that he had a problem being the older man, the second in command to the younger woman. Fitz was edging closer and closer to retirement; he’d been making noises about leaving sooner rather than later. Taylor hoped this visit to Martin Kimball would change his mind; maybe Kimball would be bored and depressed, and that would be enough to convince Fitz to stay on board for a while longer.

  They arrived in front of the bungalow on Granny White Pike. The land itself was worth at least $500,000, the cottage another $200,000. The houses on the left and the right of the Kimballs’ had been razed and rebuilt into monstrosities, a stone-and-timber Tudor on the left, a red-brick, columned colonial on the right. Each would easily sell for well over $800,000. Both had elaborate landscaping that belied their small lawns, wrought-iron gates across their tiny driveway entrances. This area was booming, and the Kimballs’ cottage, though the original plan for the area, looked out of place among the finery.

  That news had not reached the Kimballs. Christmas lights decorated every square inch of the front their home. A festive evergreen wreath hung on the door, festooned with curling red ribbons. The walk had been meticulously shoveled. A fine spray of cat litter was scattered along the bricks in polite readiness for any guests who might arrive. Taylor and Fitz took this path, Taylor’s boots squeaking on the remaining snow. She knocked on the freshly painted bright red door. It may not have the biggest house on the block, but it was clean and cared for.

  The door opened, a small face peeked out at their knees. “Merry Christmas. Welcome to the Kimball home. May I help you?”

  Taylor bit back a laugh. The urchin couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, but what a presence.

  “Yes, miss. May we speak with your grandfather?”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “He knows we’re coming.” Taylor bent at the knee, got face-to-face with the little one. “I’m Taylor. This is Fitz. What’s your name?”

  “Sabrina.” The little girl stuck out her hand to shake. Taylor took it, all seriousness now. Sabrina gave her a nod, as if she’d been judged and found worthy, then opened the door fully.

  The rooms within were filled with gaiety and love. A warm fire crackled in the hearth, the house was decorated to within an inch of its life with red and green—popcorn and cranberry strings, garlands, paper rings. Sabrina led the way to the kitchen, where the aroma of pumpkin pie and gingerbread wafted. She announced their visitors to the two people in the room.

  “Gran, Grampy, this is Taylor and her friend Fitz. Grampy, they say they have an appointment with you. Are you ready to see them?”

  Martin Kimball turned to his granddaughter with a glint of amusement in his eye. He reached out and grabbed her by the waist, swinging her into his arms as he stood. The waif reined in, he smiled at his old friend Fitz, nodded politely to Taylor.

  “Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in. Pete Fitzgerald and his lovely lieutenant. What can I do for you fine folks today? We’ve got a lot of pie, and we’re building a gingerbread house for Sabrina. Plenty of gumdrops hanging around. Care to help?”

  Fitz looked wistful for a moment; Taylor knew his love of sweets was undermining his willpower. He gathered himself, a pillar of strength and resistance. If retirement meant a warm, loving home and a happy family, it didn’t look all bad. But Fitz had never married, didn’t have this built-in infrastructure to keep him satisfied.

  “Wish we could, Marty. We need to talk. You got someplace private where we can chat?”

  “Sure, we can go in the den. Here you go, sugar.” He handed off the child to his wife, a cheery-looking woman with red cheeks and a plump chin.

  “Don’t be too long, Marty. The gingerbread is about ready.”

  He kissed her on the forehead, patted the child’s hair, then signaled to Taylor and Fitz to follow. He went the length of the kitchen, through a swinging door and into a short hallway. The first room on the right was a small, cozy office/den, the blue-and-white choo-choo-train border along the ceiling giving away the space’s previous employment as a child’s bedroom. There was a plush, soft chocolate chenille couch and a cherry desk with two ladder-backed chairs on either side. Three weathered brown corrugated boxes sat on the desk. They bore the mark of private evidence files. All investigative cops had one or two stashed away.

  They got settled, Taylor and Fitz on the couch, Kimball leaning against the desk. Taylor took the chance to size the man up.

  Kimball’s hair was gray, cut in a military-style bristle top. His face had a permanently mournful expression, his eyes hangdog. His clothes were old-fashioned, from a previous generation. He wasn’t old, but he was certainly not doing anything to make himself seem any younger than his sixty-four years.

  He was soft-spoken, and Taylor imagined he’d been a shy man once, with jug ears and a slow, sad smile. Retirement had eased some of the pressures on his mind, but the years were etched on his face. He’d seen too much, witnessed too many vicious crimes, to have a smooth, carefree aspect. He stooped slightly, and Taylor wondered if it was the weight of all he had seen in his years on the force.

  Fitz had told Taylor that Kimball was the detail man of the old homicide unit, the one attuned to every nuance and ripple in a case. He was the homely one, the man any victim would confide in, the man every criminal confessed to.

  He rested against the desk and
waited for them to speak. Just like the old days, she assumed. No sense pushing an issue if it was going to come to you, anyway.

  Satisfied they were in good hands, Taylor started. “We wanted to talk to you about the Snow White murders. The early ones. We’re pretty sure these new ones are a copycat, but you’d be the best person to confirm that with. The DNA isn’t back yet, but you know this guy. You can tell us if it’s him doing these crimes or if it’s someone else.”

  “Okay.” Kimball walked behind them and shut the door. No sense in scaring his granddaughter if he could help it. Fitz got up and examined his friend’s bookshelf, whistling softly.

  Kimball reperched himself on the edge of the desk. “What do you want to know?” He held up a hand. “No, let me ask you something first. Why do you think this is a copycat?”

  “To start with, the wound tracks are inconsistent. Snow White was left-handed, you confirmed that with all the original autopsy findings. This guy looks like a righty trying to make himself look like a southpaw. He’s cutting them from the front instead of from behind. There are two other major discrepancies—the news articles placed in the vaginas, and there’s a cream on each girl’s temples. It looks like it’s arnica cream, and we’ve found the composition includes frankincense and myrrh. We can’t be sure that the substances are combined or separate just yet, but regardless, it’s a big deviation from the original murders. We’re tossing around the idea that this might be some sort of religious ritual.”

  “So there’s no hair evidence?”

  “You mean at the scenes? Not that we’ve found.”

  “No, I mean the new victims’ hair wasn’t pulled out at the roots like the first girls’?”

  Taylor and Fitz exchanged a glance, and Fitz answered, “Not that we’ve come across, no.”

  Kimball went to the boxes on his desk, flipped the lid off the center box, slipped on a pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses. He thumbed through the center of the files and pulled out a manila folder marked Photos. He paged through until he reached one he liked. He held it out for Taylor to look at.