by M. Z. Kelly
***
After filling Dawson in on what Taylor had said, we checked in at the ADX administration building and left the prison. It was just after three in the afternoon and I felt exhausted after my encounter with the mad woman. I knew that I needed to mentally shift gears and prepare myself for what was to come, but I had trouble finding the strength.
“I think she’s just a looney tune, gone off the rails,” Dawson said as he drove us. “I doubt anything she said has any credibility.”
“Maybe…”
He glanced at me. “What is it?”
I drew in a breath and released is slowly. We were on the main highway now, headed away from the prison. “Her last words to me were to look for a signal; a sign that her game has begun.”
“Any idea what she meant?”
I shook my head, looking out the window at the passing scenery. We traveled in silence for a couple of minutes.
Dawson must have sensed my anguish. “You okay?”
I glanced over at him and nodded. “It’s just…” I met his pale blue eyes. “Janice Taylor might be crazy, but I believe what she said. I don’t think…” My words drifted off as I glanced out the widow again and held on something. “Stop the car!”
“What for? What’s going on?”
“You need to stop and turn around. I saw something back there beside the road…I’m not sure, but…” I gulped in a breath, my anxiety level shooting through the roof. “Just do it, Joe. Turn around.”
He did as I asked. A couple of minutes, later we pulled off the highway in an area where I’d seen something a few yards off the highway. We both got out of the car and examined the brushy roadside.
“I think it was over there.” I pointed to a nearby area, at the same time hearing the dread in my voice and not wanting to believe what I’d seen.
Dawson followed me as we walked past some shrubbery. In a moment we were standing near a clearing about twenty yards off the main highway. My spirits sank as I took in the horrific scene in front of us.
“Son of a bitch,” Dawson said, now focusing on what I’d seen.
I blew out my breath as the realization hit me that this was the signal Janice Taylor had told me about. I counted the rows. Seven. I had a thought there might be some significance to the number, since there were seven original disciples.
Dawson had his cell phone out and was cursing about not getting a signal as I walked over to examine the horrifying spectacle that the monster I’d spoken with a few minutes earlier had put on display. The sun was warm and I saw that insects had already begun to take advantage of what had been left for us.
I bent down to one of the offerings, realizing that a spike had been used in the perverse display. It was a woman with long blonde hair.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered.
Of course, there was no response. Her dead eyes just stared into the void. I stood up and sighed, thinking Janice Taylor had made good on her word. The signal she’d sent that would mark the beginning of her killing spree was in front of me. The second of the seven disciples, the woman who had loved Azazel, had left her calling card in the form of seven severed human heads.
SIXTEEN
I ended up spending the night in Denver after taking the rest of the day and most of the night processing the crime scene near Florence with Joe Dawson. I’d called Lieutenant Oz and explained what happened, telling him I needed another twenty-four hours to work with the feds. He told me to take my time and said he would see me back at Hollywood Station when I was finished. I’d also made arrangements for Natalie and Mo to keep Bernie for another day.
Of the seven human heads we recovered, four were female and three were male, but we had nothing to identify any of the victims. We spent the day scouring the area but didn’t find their bodies, telling us that the victims had been decapitated elsewhere. The area around the display had been raked, removing any footprints or other evidence. All we could hope for was that the medical examiner might be able to use dental records to identify them.
I had a long night and didn’t get much sleep, unable to shake the image of the field of severed heads from my mind. I even contemplated going back to Janice Taylor and demanding answers, although I knew I wouldn’t get much. The monster had set her game in place and it was up to us to now learn the rules.
I’d managed to pull myself together and steady my nerves by the time I met up with Joe Dawson at the FBI headquarters in Denver the following afternoon.
“How you doing, Buttercup?” Joe asked as we walked down the corridor to a meeting room.
I glanced at him. “As good as anyone can be after dealing with a monster and spending a day harvesting heads.”
We stopped outside the conference room and he turned to me. “Blue-eyed soul. We keep the faith and work this case like all the others.”
I took a breath and nodded. Joe Dawson had made a point of telling me once that, despite all the evil there was in the world, cops want to do the right thing and make the world a better place. But all the terrible things that you saw on the job eventually caught up with you and stole your soul. It was a running joke between us that his eyes were a pale shade of blue because of that constant battle he fought.
I knew what Dawson postulated had some truth to it. I’d seen it first hand with cops who’d suffered from alcoholism, broken marriages, and, just like with my partner Ted Grady, had spiraled into depression and committed suicide. I’d also felt it catching up with me over the years. The loss of the man who raised me and the killing of my birth mother at the hands of a deranged madman had only added to that sense of despair. In many ways I felt that my own soul had been permanently damaged by the horrific things I’d seen, both in my personal and professional life.
I met Dawson’s baby blues again, at the same time thinking about Ted Grady, the words he’d once spoken to me about finding love in the form of justice for the victims of this world. “I’m ready, Joe. We’ll send the bastards who killed those innocent people to hell.”
“That’s my girl.”
We spent the next couple of hours meeting with a federal taskforce, consisting of more than a dozen agents and civilian experts, headed by Dawson’s boss, John Greer. The FBI supervisor was in his early-forties, with brown hair that was peppered with gray. His eyes were hazel, about the same color as Natalie’s. He had all the usual FBI trappings, including the standard high and tight haircut and conservative dark suit.
After a discussion about what we’d found on the highway outside of Florence, and that the medical examiner was working to identify the victims, Greer told us how he wanted to handle things.
“The key to what’s been happening obviously rests with Janice Taylor. She’s orchestrating everything from her prison cell. At some point we’re going to need to go back to her.”
“I don’t think that’s necessarily true,” I said. All eyes swung in my direction.
“What do you mean?”
“I agree that Taylor is involved on some level, but she’s in a supermax prison cell without access to visitors or any means to contact anyone on the outside. That means someone’s out there working on her behalf.”
Dawson spoke up. “I agree. Taylor’s basically in isolation. If she set things in motion, it would have to have been set up well before she was incarcerated. It could be there was a prearranged signal. When Taylor got Kate to visit her, it triggered whoever else is involved to leave what we found by the highway yesterday.”
“It’s The Swarm.”
The words were spoken by Jeremy Spender, a civilian psychologist and profiler who was part of a Boston based think-tank, who Dawson and I had worked with in the past. Spender had originally come up with the theory that Taylor’s followers were radicalized killers, something that now seemed to be playing out. Despite his expertise, there was something about him that annoyed Dawson. The profiler was in his forties, bookish, and plain. The way he presented things also tended to grate on me.
“Let’s hear your
theory, Sigmund,” Dawson said, wasting no time irritating Spender.
After a huff and a headshake, Spender said, “My group believes that we’re dealing with dozens, maybe hundreds of individuals, who are part of what Taylor calls The Swarm. These subjects are like members of a terrorist group. They are dedicated followers who believe Taylor’s rhetoric about a new world coming, which will overturn those in power. We need to track down anyone Taylor’s been in contact with in the past and try to begin to identify who else is involved.”
“So, where were you yesterday afternoon?” Dawson said with a grin.
The profiler looked at Greer. “I simply won’t be disrespected again by this...” He looked at Dawson. “This…blowhard.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” Dawson said. “But I’m just getting started.”
Dawson’s boss looked at him. “Enough.” Greer then addressed the entire group. “This is obviously going to take a lot of manpower. As you are probably already aware, this case has eyes on it that go all the way to the top. We’re going to call in some additional resources from all over the country.”
An agent named Harold Charles, who was sitting next to Greer, said, “We’re also going to need to deal with the press on this. I saw where the papers have already picked up on what happened yesterday. I’m told the national media outlets are sending reporters to the area.”
Greer nodded. “Our media people are gearing up. I’m told the director will be scheduling a news conference for tomorrow.”
Another profiler named Kendra Collier spoke up. She was in her thirties, attractive, and blonde. “I agree with Mr. Spender. I think we need to also take a closer look at Taylor’s family, anyone she’s been close to in the past. It could be there’s someone out there who knows about The Swarm and is willing to talk. We’ve had some indications this group is communicating via the Internet and Twitter. It’s likely there are members of The Swarm in other states, scattered throughout the country.”
Greer agreed with her, adding, “I want you and Dawson to work that angle. We’ve also got our cybercrimes agents working on the tech side of things.” He looked at me. “What are your thoughts about going back to Taylor, see what else she’s willing to give up?”
I thought about what he’d said for a moment. Dealing with the insane woman again was the last thing I wanted to do. I also felt personally threatened by Janice Taylor. The only factor working in my favor was that she was, as Dawson said, basically in lockdown, unable to communicate with anyone.
“I’m willing to talk to her again, but maybe we should give it a few days,” I said. “Maybe some more time in isolation will weaken her resolve. From my contact with her yesterday, it was clear that right now, she’s running the show her own way, probably based on what she previously set in place with her followers.”
Greer agreed with me. His gaze then moved around the room. There were a handful of other agents and a couple of experts on serial crimes at the table. “Anything else?”
“I have something.” The woman who spoke up had introduced herself earlier as Ann Roper, an FBI profiler.
“Let’s hear it.”
Roper took a moment, glancing at some paperwork in front of her. She was probably around forty, with short dark hair and brown eyes. She had a solid build that made me think she worked out, lifting weights.
“I think Taylor’s motive for these crimes has a sexual basis.” She looked at me. “We know from the reports you completed on her prior crimes that she told you she was raped.”
I remembered how I tried to stall Taylor while I was being held prisoner in an earthen pit in the basement of a church a few months ago. She had volunteered the information about her past.
I confirmed what Roper had said, adding, “She told me she was gang raped when she was a child by a group of boys in her school. A few years later she began taking revenge, torturing and killing each of the boys involved. She said something about the killing becoming a sexual release for her.”
“Exactly.” Roper looked back at Greer. “Taylor’s crimes are a symbolic continuation of that early trauma but there’s another element, as well. We know that she previously also told Detective Sexton that she was in love with Azazel, the man who was the first of the so-called seven disciples. Azazel controlled Taylor at that time, and, while we don’t yet have anything to back it up, I believe there’s someone else, another male figure who has taken Azazel’s place.”
“You think there’s another devil out there who’s gotten ahold of Taylor,” Dawson said.
“That’s one way to put it.”
Jeremy Spender spoke up. “I disagree. As you said, there’s nothing to back up what you just said. Taylor’s the dominant, controlling a group of submissives called The Swarm. There’s no one above her.”
Dawson scratched his wide jaw and looked at Spender. “So you think Taylor’s the queen bee to a bunch of drones. I think you’re full of something, Jer, and it sure as hell ain’t honey.”
There were chuckles as Spender turned red and Greer headed things off. He looked at Dawson. “Let’s not go there again.” His gaze then swept over the room. “Let’s keep what Agent Roper had to say in mind as we work the case.” He turned back to me. “What are your plans?”
While I wanted to stop Janice Taylor and the others who were engaged in her killing spree, I felt torn, knowing that I had my own cases pending. I also wasn’t sure how much help I would be as an outsider working what was an FBI case. “I’d like to go back to my job. If you need me, I can be here in a matter of hours.”
“Fair enough.” He turned to the group. “Okay, let’s move on everything. I’d like to head things off before the press blows the lid off these killings.”
After the meeting adjourned, Dawson drove me to the airport. We were quiet during most of the trip, each of us lost in our own thoughts about the case. After turning things over in my mind for a while, I decided that what both agents Collier and Roper had said was probably valid. It did seem likely to me there were members of The Swarm scattered throughout the country, waiting for a signal to act. It also seemed likely that Janice Taylor’s actions were rooted in the sexual trauma of what happened to her as a child. Ann Roper’s theory that there was another figure out there who had taken up where Azazel had left off seemed plausible. It might even be that this new subject was one of the remaining five disciples.
I glanced up, my thoughts surfacing as I saw Denver International Airport in the distance. “So, what happens now, Joe?” I looked at him. “Where do you think this leaves us?”
“It leaves us with a queen bee and a hive, waiting to put the big sting on someone.” He looked at me as we arrived at the airport. “Probably lots of someones.”
“You don’t sound very hopeful.”
“I’m a realist, Buttercup.” He pulled to the curb. “There’s going to be more killings before this ends. In the meantime, we watch our backs, try to stay out of the line of fire.”
I met his eyes for a moment before opening the door. Something about him seemed different. I decided that it was the same resolve I’d seen in him before, when we’d worked other cases. Dawson was tenacious and single minded when it came to working a case.
“Be safe, Joe,” I said. “See you on the other side.”
SEVENTEEN
I was alone on the flight back to Van Nuys. It gave me time to process a lot of things, not only about Janice Taylor and The Swarm, but also things that had happened in my own life. As the plane droned on, Dawson’s words about blue-eyed soul became central to my thoughts. While my soul was still in one piece, I realized that it had been badly damaged by the murders of both the man who’d raised me as a child, and my biological mother. In the past few months, my therapist had helped me understand that fact, and also helped me become aware that I’d made a lot of mistakes in choosing relationships to try and make up for that loss.
Despite those past mistakes, I felt like I was finally back on track, especially when I thought about
being with Noah. Even so, I was determined to take things slow with him and make the right choices. There was also the issue of my adoptive mother. Our relationship had been tenuous at best, especially after I’d realized she’d been involved in a relationship with Ryan Cooper at the time she was married to my love-dad. We’d tried to patch things up recently, but I wondered if I’d ever again be able to share the bond we once had, knowing that she’d had an affair with the killer of the man I consider my father. And then there was the matter of my bio-dad. He was the mystery and the center of my life. Not knowing who he was and whether he was still alive also became central to my thoughts.
I glanced at my briefcase on the seat next to me. I took a breath, deciding it was time to move past my anxiety about hearing from the dead mother I’d never known. It was time to read Judy Crawford’s letter.
I removed the manila envelope Collin Russell had given me and held it in my hands. I don’t know why, but I took a moment, moving the envelope up close to me and inhaling. I realized it was a silly gesture, thinking that I could somehow inhale the scent of my long ago mother. I didn’t even know when she’d written the letter. For all I knew it could have been decades earlier.
My hands trembled as I held my breath and opened the envelope, shaking the contents onto the table in front of me. I gasped some air into my lungs when three smaller envelopes fell out, each with my name handwritten on the front. Then I turned the letters over and became aware of something I never expected. My mother had written three letters to me, the dates revealing that each letter had been written over a decade a part. Then I realized something else. The first letter was written on the day I was born.
I held that first letter to my breast, tears streaming down my face. I knew in this moment it was as close as I would probably ever get to the woman who had given birth to me. I then gave voice to the emotions swirling through me as I opened the envelope. “Thank-you, Mom.”
