“No. He’s killed black women and white women. He likes them both. Perhaps he’s a bit of white and a bit of black himself.”
That captured the tall man’s attention. He glanced over in appreciation, then said, “Nicely deduced. That’s one of the adjustments I’ve included in the new profile. I’m assuming he’s biracial. It explains how he could fit in with both types of women. We have no record of their disappearances being against their will. I think he charms them.”
“Or hires them. Some of the street girls we know will take money for just about anything. They allow themselves to be hurt.”
“Yes. That, too.”
“Glad to be of assistance,” Memphis said.
“We’ll have a look at this crime scene, see if we think it’s another II Macellaio victim. I’m planning on presenting the entire profile tomorrow in Quantico. Listen, we’ve got another ten minutes before we’ll be at the lake. Why don’t you fill me in on your side of things, and I can include my impressions. We can talk this through, see if you think it could be the same man. If your schedule permits, we’ll head up to Quantico first thing tomorrow morning instead of this afternoon—I’d like to stick around for a bit and see more about Taylor’s new case. Are you okay with that?”
Hmm. More chances to tête-a-tête with the blond goddess?
“Sounds lovely.”
He launched into a breakdown of the cases he’d been working.
He forced Evan’s doppelganger from his mind. Most of the way.
Twenty
The sun disappeared, replaced by inky gray fog. The forest muffled the sounds of the storm; the drizzle created an insulating barrier cutting them off from the rest of the world. Taylor stuffed her hands into the front pockets of her jeans and sighed. Outdoor crime scenes were a complete pain in the ass. You never knew what would be relevant, had to document and collect even the tiniest shred of disturbed grass. Tim had a massive pile of brown paper bags in the back of his van. The crime lab had a long evening ahead of them.
There was activity on the trail. Good, Baldwin was here.
He and the Brit came around the curve and hurried to her side.
She introduced Highsmythe around. She hurried; she could tell Baldwin was fidgety, anxious to get moving.
“Where’s the body?” Baldwin asked.
She pointed to the creek. “Down there. We’re about ready to get her out of here. Come on, I’ll take you.”
They scrambled down the bank, Taylor in the lead. She stopped five feet from the body.
Both men spoke at the same time. “Ophelia.”
Taylor nodded at them.
Memphis bent down, edged a bit closer. “‘There is a willow grows askant the brook, that shows the hoar leaves in the glassy stream, therewith fantastic garlands did she make, of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies and long purples that liberal shepherds give a grosser name, but our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them.’”
He looked back over his shoulder at Taylor.
“You’re quoting Hamlet?” she asked.
He blushed. “I wasn’t good enough to play Hamlet. I was quoting the queen, actually. It’s Gertrude’s soliloquy to Laertes upon finding Ophelia drowned.” He smiled at her, and she couldn’t help but smile back.
“You know your Shakespeare,” she said.
“Oh, it’s nothing. I played Laertes a few times, dramatic society and what not. Those were my cast-about years.”
“Still, I’m impressed that you remember. I can’t ever recall like that. You and Baldwin must be having a blast together.”
His eyes shot over to Baldwin, who stepped closer and put a hand lightly on Taylor’s back.
“Not to interrupt, but back to the victim?”
“Oh, of course. I told you this looked like the drowning of Ophelia. There must be a hundred versions of this out there.”
“It is many renaissance painter’s favorite subject, no doubt. I thought you were going to Manchester.”
“We were. We got called back around Murfreesboro.”
Baldwin was tapping his fingers against the small of her back.
“I was wrong. I didn’t think he’d strike again so soon. Damn it.”
“It happens,” Memphis said. “We’ve gone off on many a wild-goose chase with II Macellaio.”
Baldwin shot him a look. “Still, two women in two days. He’s escalating. We need to stop him now.”
They made their way back up the bank. Highsmythe excused himself to wander for a bit. When he was twenty feet away, he stopped and stared off into the lake. She and Baldwin watched him for a moment.
“I recognize that look,” Taylor said, gesturing to him. “He’s going to come up with something brilliant.”
“Recognize his looks already, do you darling?”
“Baldwin, don’t tease.”
He cupped her chin in his hand and looked deep into her eyes.
“Just remember something.”
“What’s that?”
“In the school play? I was Hamlet.”
They had the body out of the water, ready for transport to Forensic Medical and Sam when the rain started to fall in earnest. The only noise was the spatter of raindrops on the leaves, the wet slap against the water’s edge and discreet cursing as the doors to the medical examiner’s van slammed shut.
Baldwin and Highsmythe had taken photos, then scattered back to Baldwin’s office to get the profile adjusted.
Taylor and McKenzie stood with the anxious rangers, who were worried for their safety. Kilkowski was still shuddering. Harkins was trying, and failing, to comfort her.
“Should we keep the park closed?” he asked.
“I think it will be fine to reopen, but block off this part of the trail so you don’t have any lookiloos disturbing the crime scene.”
“Okay. Robin, let’s get you something warm to drink. A nice cup of tea should help,” the park manager said. He shook Taylor and McKenzie’s hands. She could tell that wasn’t enough reassuring, but it would have to do.
McKenzie watched them go. “They’ll have the security tapes ready in a minute. Hopefully we can get a timeline on the intruder. Harkins explained their security measures, but they’re more designed to discourage poaching than something like this.”
“Did they give you an idea of the currents? Where she might have gone in the water?”
“I think he put her in that exact spot. You said it’s just like a painting you’d seen, right? I bet he wouldn’t have chanced it.”
Taylor did a three-sixty. McKenzie was right. They were close enough to the west parking lot that the killer could have walked in with the body slung over his shoulder. The tapes would help, if he’d been stupid enough to be caught on them. Taylor somehow doubted this guy would be that careless.
Two bodies in three days. Their boy was getting antsy. She tried doing the calculations—Allegra Johnson had been missing for three weeks. She had no idea who this new victim was, or how long she’d been gone. But with the bodies being dropped in such close proximity, she wondered if he’d had them both, at the same time. Jesus.
No way to tell until Sam got a look at her.
As they walked back to the car, a Newschannel Five van pulled into the parking lot.
“Shit. Stall them,” she said to McKenzie. She slipped into the car and called Rowena to check on the fax from New York. Nothing yet. She asked if Elm was in the office. Rowena just snorted and said hold on. A click later, the phone rang. Elm answered.
“Lieutenant, this is Jackson. I’m at Radnor Lake, attending—”
“Where are you?”
“Radnor Lake. It’s—”
“Not what I meant, Detective. Why haven’t you checked in yet today?”
“Um, sir, Detective McKenzie and I were heading to Manchester to look at an open murder case down there when we got called to this crime scene.”
“It is simply not appropriate for you to start your day anywhere but in this office. Do you understand?�
�
Taylor swallowed the reply telling Elm where to go. She said, “Yes,” instead.
“That is all,” Elm said, then hung up.
Taylor looked at her phone as if it could give her the answers she sought, then closed it and shoved it in her pocket. She needed to do something about Elm, and fast. This administrative bullshit was going to end up getting someone killed. Probably Elm. By her.
Channel Four had joined Channel Five, and the Channel Seventeen van was pulling in now too. The respective reporters tumbled out of their vans like puppies, pulling on rain gear and opening golf umbrellas. She needed to nip this in the bud, fast. Taylor knew how the Nashville press could work a story. She decided to get ahead of it.
She got out of the car. McKenzie leaned against the trunk ignoring the rain streaming down, stone-faced, not answering the multitude of questions being asked him. Good. The kid was learning. She opened an umbrella and went to him. He nodded in appreciation. The news teams were still setting up shop. The cameras weren’t rolling yet. Perfect.
The reporters saw that she was going to talk to them and started scrambling. She really shouldn’t enjoy that, but she did. Oh, well. She was probably going to hell anyway.
“Hi, Scott, Cindy. Hey, Cynthia. Listen, I don’t have a prepared statement. Here’s what I can give you. An unidentified black female, no apparent wounds, found floating in Otter Creek, just off the lake. We have no determination of homicide or suicide. We don’t know who she is, and we don’t have a cause of death. I’ll make sure Dan Franklin gets with you as soon as we have more. Okay?”
The three reporters started peppering her with questions. The one that mattered came from Fox’s Cindy Carter. “Is this related to the Love Circle crime scene? We’ve got two dead girls in two days, both black. Is there a serial killer on the loose?”
“No comment. Seriously, I have absolutely nothing to indicate that the crimes are related.”
“What’s your gut say? Is this the work of the Conductor?” Scott asked.
“I learned not to discuss my gut with you long ago, my friend. Nice try, though.” She spied Cynthia Williams edging away; her cameraman had one of the park rangers in his sights. She’d given them enough. They could conjecture the rest.
She ignored the rest of the questions and left them. They wouldn’t be allowed inside the crime-scene tape while Tim was still collecting evidence, and the angle they had wouldn’t give them anything concrete. It was time to move on.
She and McKenzie shook themselves off and got in the car. They needed to get to Manchester. She really wanted to see those files now.
By the time they reached I-24, the rain had stopped.
They started south again and she asked McKenzie a question.
“Talk to me about the differences in the two scenes, so we’re fresh and clear when we look at the Manchester case.”
“Okay. There was no music playing at Radnor Lake, for one. The victim was clothed, not naked like Allegra. No obvious signs of trauma on the lake girl, but who knows what’s under that dress.”
“And the similarities?”
“Black, bone-thin, staged scenes. Cause of death would be helpful, if she was starved we have something to go on. She’s holding those flowers…with the ring of violets around her neck, too, there’s something about the flowers that have meaning for him. It seems gentler than the Love Circle murder, more serene. But this definitely feels like the same killer, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do. Why do you think he’s changed his M.O.?”
“Thinks he’s smarter than us, maybe? Wants to be seen as a criminal mastermind.” He was quiet for a moment. “So you think he’s talking to us?”
“Absolutely. He wants the glory, wants to be seen as clever and important. He’s playing with us. The first crime scene he posed Allegra like the Picasso painting. This one looks like a variation on the drowning of Ophelia, but narrowing it down to one artist will be difficult. Many, many painters interpreted Shakespeare.”
They continued comparing notes until the Manchester exit. Taylor turned right and entered the small town. Maybe there would be a solid clue here.
Coffee County was named after a confederate general named John Coffee, a good friend of Andrew Jackson’s and a hero of the War of 1812. Down here, there was still pride about the role Tennessee played in the forming of the nation. They called the Civil War the “Late Unpleasantness,” and confederate flags flew high. Most were just country folk; honest, hardworking people who recognized their heritage for what it was. History can’t be undone, regardless of who it might have hurt.
The Coffee County Sheriff’s office was on Hillsboro, only about five minutes from the highway. Taylor hadn’t been down here in years, not since a school field trip to see an air show in neighboring Tullahoma. Now, Manchester was world famous for hosting the hippie jam Bonnaroo, a yearly pseudo-Woodstock.
It wasn’t a rich area, by any means. But it was clean, and safe. For the most part.
The sheriff’s office was quiet and cool. A receptionist called back to Sheriff Simmons, who came out to the front with a big smile and a heavy handshake. He nearly broke Taylor’s arm from her shoulder. He was a bear of a man, wide through the shoulders and gut. A former defensive lineman, she guessed. He was built like a house. And young, too, no more than her age. Probably a little less.
“Detective Jackson, Detective McKenzie! Thanks so much for coming down. I’ve got us all set up in my office. You had another murder in Nashville this morning?”
“Yes,” Taylor said, following him back a short hallway. “Another black female, very thin and posed. I’m doubly anxious to go through your records now.”
He got them seated, asked if they needed a drink. They both declined. Simmons went around to his side of the desk, sat heavily in a gargantuan leather chair. The springs squeaked in protest.
“So here’s the deal. I’ve got the files for you.” He waved his hand at the desk, where three file folders were stacked on each other. “But there’s not a lot there. I read through them all again. I don’t know what help it’s going to be.”
“We appreciate you putting this together for us.” She picked up the first file. “Were you involved in the investigation?”
“I sure was. It was my last case as a deputy, I got promoted right after. But I’ll never forget it. The victim, LaTara Bender, was a girl in my younger brother’s class at Central. I knew she’d gotten into some bad stuff, but you never think things are going to go that far south. The scene was straightforward. The girl was found in the bathtub by her mother. Her death looked like it could have been a suicide or an accidental drowning. You know, maybe the girl got high, passed out, slipped below the water. Her mother kept insisting that LaTara was clean, that she’d been murdered. Once we got the autopsy done, seems like she was right. Medical examiner, right nice lady who I’m sure you know, Dr. Loughley up there at Forensic Medical, found a skull fracture. We investigated her death as a homicide, and it’s still unsolved.”
“So was she drowned?”
“Looks like. Knocked on the head first, right on top of the noggin, too. Not an injury she could have easily given herself.”
“Did your brother know her well enough to talk to us?”
“I’m sure he did. It’s not a huge school, you know. Want me to give him a ring? He’s a deputy now, too, and he’s on shift.”
“Please. That would be great.”
He picked up the phone, asked for Shay Simmons to call in. Within a few minutes, the phone rang.
“Shay, it’s Steve. Can you swing in my office for a minute? Got a coupla detectives from Nashville want to talk to you about LaTara Bender. Okay, thanks.” He hung up.
“He’ll be here in five.”
“Fabulous. Thank you. So, while we’re waiting, what kind of stuff had LaTara been getting into?”
“You know how it is in these small towns, Detective. Some of them want to break free, some are mired in worlds of their own makin
g. LaTara was one of the latter. If you want my opinion, that girl never had a chance. I wasn’t surprised to find her dead. For a while we thought it was just a sad accident, like I said. When we found out she’d been murdered, well…it’s hard for these girls. They get themselves into drugs and spiral out of control.”
“And there was classical music playing at the scene when you arrived?”
Simmons looked at her, a frown creasing his forehead. “Yes, there was. We didn’t think much of it at the time. It was another bone of contention with the family—LaTara’s mother said they didn’t have any classical music, wasn’t her kind of thing. There was a CD playing on the stereo in LaTara’s bedroom.”
“Do you know what it was?”
“It’s in the files, I’m sure. Can’t say I recall off the top of my head.”
A soft knock made them all turn and look at the door. A younger version of Simmons filled the doorway. Taylor laughed to herself. These corn-fed farm boys were huge.
“Shay, come on in,” Simmons said. The younger man entered the office and gave his brother a handshake. Taylor could tell they were close.
“Shay, this is Detective Taylor Jackson and Detective Renn McKenzie. They’re investigating a series of murders in Nashville, want to hear about LaTara. Can you tell them what you remember?”
The younger Simmons’ face colored. “Poor LaTara. That girl…such a sad case. She got into drugs, started staying out all night. Stopped going to church, stopped coming to school. By the time we graduated, she was turning tricks. She had a hard life—her uncle raped her when she was seven or eight, and she had to testify against him. It was all done by video, but still, it was a horrible situation. She used to talk about it, how scared she was sitting in the judge’s office. She never really got over it.”
“It sounds like you knew her well.”
“Not that so much as I tried to help her. She was a scared mouse in school, you know the kind. Jumping at shadows. But she got into drugs, and once that happened, there was nothing I could do for her. Mostly prescription stuff in school, some pot and meth, too, though I’m sure she moved on to the harder drugs once she dropped out.”
The Cold Room Page 16
