All the Pretty Girls

by J. T. Ellison

  But she wasn’t anywhere near home. She was on the side of a road in North Carolina, sick with the croup and not a bowl of soup in sight. She needed to get back to campus and get to her study group in the library. Even sick, she felt the responsibility of schoolwork, and wouldn’t miss the group. Most everyone had this crud anyway, so she didn’t need to worry about giving it to anyone. There was a lot of work to be done now that she was fully into her major coursework, and if that meant she had to put off bed for a few more hours, that’s just what she would do. She pushed her damp bangs out of her eyes, swung her leg back over the bike and started pedaling.

  Thinking about her father’s soup brought back more memories. As she rode, she remembered the compromise that she’d come to with her father. Giovanni was a stern man, hardworking and strict. He’d emigrated the family to America from a small mountain town in Italy called Sestriere so his six children could attend American colleges. Noelle was his youngest child, the last to go to college. She wanted to go to Colorado and study climatology, to go skiing and mountain biking in the biggest mountains in the country. Giovanni thought that Colorado was too far away. So they’d come to a deal after Noelle found the Department of Atmospheric Sciences at the University of North Carolina—Asheville. It gave her the mountains, and it gave Giovanni the peace of mind that she was only a few hours from home instead of three days’ drive.

  For the quiet, serious Noelle, UNC–Asheville was a dream come true. She loved her department heads, her roommate and the environment of the campus. She’d joined the cycling club and had made many friends. She’d even found a group of Catholic students that went to the church off campus, and she joined them as often as she could. Now, her sophomore year, she felt right at home. She had a lot of attention from the boys on campus, too. She was five-six, a hundred twenty pounds of lean muscle, shiny brown hair and soulful ethnic brown eyes, and she got quite a bit of attention from the opposite sex. But she was her father’s daughter, and shunned formal dating because it was his wish. It didn’t bother her, she had a lot of work to do for school and dating wasn’t the most important thing on her plate.

  She pedaled back through the gates to the university, rode through campus and pulled up to her dorm, West Ridge Hall. Securing her bike in the rack, she chained it and went inside. Wheezing as she walked the hall to her room, she wondered if she should cancel her attendance at the study group for her climatology class. She came to her door, unlocked it and went inside. She and her roommate kept the blinds up; their room afforded a beautiful panorama of the mountains, and they both enjoyed lying in bed gazing at the view. Noelle put her backpack down on the floor and stretched out on her twin-size bed.

  Oh, that felt good. Too good. She knew she needed to get up and get going. Being sick was no excuse for missing that study group. So she managed to get herself up, slip on a jacket, grab her books and make her way out of her cozy room toward the library.

  Ramsey Library stood in the center of campus, and the walk felt good. Physical activity had always been Noelle’s cure when she didn’t feel well, so a short walk to the library wasn’t going to hurt. She walked along the quiet pathways, waving at people she knew, and went into the library to her study group.

  They worked for a couple of hours, and Noelle was starting to feel pretty crappy. Just as they decided to take a break, her cell phone rang. Noelle excused herself and made her way to the side entrance of the library. She hated talking on her phone in a group setting, she found it rude when people talked on phones in restaurants and grocery stores. So she was mindful of the other students in the library, and she needed some air anyway.

  It was a friend from the cycling club, asking if she wanted to go biking in the morning. As much as she wanted to, she turned the offer down, until she was done with her antibiotics, it just wouldn’t be smart to push herself too hard. They chatted for a while as Noelle walked out of the library and sat on the steps. It was getting full dark, and as she hung up the phone, she thought she saw a shadow on the side of the building. She shook it off, there were so many people on campus, anyone could be walking around the corner of the building. Regardless, she decided it would be a good idea to go inside. She’d heard about that poor girl from Virginia, and as she moved toward the door, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She glanced behind her and saw that the shadow had become a man, but she laughed when she realized it was just another student. He was certainly too young and too handsome to be anything but. She gave him a smile and held the door for him.

  He smiled back, and that was the last thing Noelle remembered.

  Thirty-Two

  Taylor woke up with a sense of purpose. Showered, dressed and fed, she grabbed the Tennessean from her front step and plopped down on the couch. Lee Mayfield, a crime reporter who Taylor didn’t get along with, had the byline for the Rainman lead. She read through the article, scoffing. As usual, Mayfield had the details wrong. It wasn’t just the police who couldn’t stand her, her fellow reporters got fed up with her, too. She was infamous for showing up at the end of a press conference, or after shootings had wrapped at a scene, and getting her stories from the other media on the scene rather than doing her own work.

  Taylor didn’t bother finishing the article, or the paper, for that matter. Disgusted, she threw the paper on the floor and turned to business she had some control over. Whitney Connolly’s cell phone. Scrolling through the options, she found memo and hit playback. Whitney’s voice floated through the air, running down a to-do list. The last item was interesting, and Taylor replayed it several times.

  “Need to talk to Quinn about the notes.”

  That was it. No clues, no other directions. It didn’t even sound like this was important. Was she talking about the e-mails?

  Taylor picked up the phone and called Quinn Buckley. Quinn answered on the first ring.

  “Quinn? It’s Taylor Jackson. I have been going through Whitney’s personal effects that were in her car, and I have your sister’s cell phone here. There’s a recorded memo on the cell phone, I want to play it for you and get your impressions. Okay, I’m going to play it now.”

  She held the cell phone up to her own portable phone and replayed the memo. Whitney’s voice rang out like a shot. Taylor couldn’t help but get goose bumps, she didn’t usually commune with the dead. That was Sam’s job. She lifted the receiver back to her ear and heard Quinn crying softly.

  “Oh damn, Quinn, I’m sorry, I should have warned you it was going to be her voice.”

  “No, that’s okay,” Quinn sniffled through the phone. “I just wasn’t prepared to hear her voice again, like that. Was there nothing else?”

  Taylor shook her head though no one was there to see it. “No, Quinn, there wasn’t anything else. Do you know what notes she’s talking about?”

  “Who knows with Whitney? I was getting us both some note cards, maybe that’s what she meant. She must have changed her mind about the style, or something. I had so hoped there would be something more.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, but I’ll keep working on it. I’m sorry.”

  “No, Taylor, you’re doing your best. I appreciate your help. They’re going to release Whitney’s body today. I think we’ll be having the memorial next week, as soon as I can get in touch with my husband and little brother and make arrangements for the service. They’re both out of town. I would appreciate it if you would come.”

  “Of course. Just leave me a message as to time and place, and I’ll be there.”

  They hung up and Taylor felt terrible. Here the woman’s sister was dead, her husband was perpetually out of town on business and she couldn’t even contact her younger brother to help make the funeral arrangements. For a privileged life, it seemed very lonely.

  Taylor decided the best thing she could do was get into the office. She brushed her still-wet hair into a ponytail, grabbed a Diet Coke and her keys.

  The phone rang just as she was getting ready to walk out the door. She set her t
hings down and answered it. Baldwin’s voice boomed through the line as if he were in the next room, and she felt an overwhelming loneliness. Silly, she chided herself, he would be home soon.

  “Hi, honey. Everything okay up there in North Carolina?”

  “Well, no one’s gone missing this morning, so I guess we’re making improvements. I can’t predict this one, Taylor, and it’s driving me crazy.”

  “Then sit down and write me a love poem,” she teased. “That should get your mind off things and back to where it belongs.”

  The comment was greeted with silence. Taylor wasn’t hurt exactly, but she felt stung, usually Baldwin would coo right back at her. But before she could say anything, he spoke.

  “What made you say that?”

  “Well, I’m sorry, hon, I was just joking around. They’ve been on my mind since I saw them at Whitney Connolly’s house. She had a boyfriend or admirer that was sending her love poems in her e-mails, and I read a couple while I was going through her stuff. It’s no big deal.”

  But Taylor could feel the intensity coming off Baldwin through the phone. “Taylor, do you remember what the poems were? Anything in particular about them?”

  “No, I didn’t pay that close attention. Why, Baldwin, what’s going on?”

  “We haven’t released this to the press, okay, so I need you to keep it very quiet. The killer is leaving the victims poems. Love poems, classics by Wordsworth, Coleridge, Yeats. You have to get me the poems off Whitney Connolly’s computer.”

  “At the crime scenes? I don’t recall anything like that at Shauna Davidson’s apartment.”

  “One of Grimes’s men found it in her desk drawer. They are completely innocuous, unless you know what to look for, the notes are easily missed.”

  “Jesus, Baldwin, if you’d told me I could have given you all of this yesterday. It didn’t even register, I only glanced at a couple of them. Crap.”

  Taylor’s head felt like it was going to spin off into space. She loved it, that rush of adrenaline that came when you got the big break. Things were making a little sense now. The notes.

  “Baldwin, Whitney was trying desperately to reach her sister yesterday, remember? Her memo on her cell phone that you suggested I check? There was a message there that she needed to talk to Quinn about the notes. We thought it was something benign, like note cards. Maybe we were wrong. What do you think?”

  “I don’t want to jump to any conclusions. But I want you to get a hold of those poems and read them to me, let me see if they’re a match to what we’re getting at the scenes. The killer may be a fan of Whitney Connolly’s, who knows. Can you get to that computer?”

  “Yeah, let me call Quinn Buckley and get permission to go into Whitney’s house again. I’ll call you as soon as I have them in front of me.”

  Baldwin flipped on the news, trying to gauge public opinion on their handling of the case. The murders were the lead story, the sensational nature of the slayings, the fact that all the victims had a medical tie-in, the speed at which the killer was progressing. Everyone was baffled, desperate for answers. Gun sales were on the rise, and locksmiths were doing a brisk business all along the southeast corridor. Great, nothing worked better for an investigation than instilling fear in the public. And where were they getting all that information? Only a select few knew about the medical tie-in, the leak was high up on the food chain. He would have to deal with that sooner rather than later.

  Baldwin sat incredulous on the bed for a few moments. Then a thought hit him. He opened up his computer and went to the Health Partners Web portal. He had glossed over a lot of the information last night, but something was tickling his conscience. He navigated the site until he found a section that was entitled Contact Us. He clicked it open, and there it was. The home office of Health Partners was in Nashville.

  He started scrolling through but couldn’t find any more information. The company must have a listing of officers and executives, he just wasn’t finding it online. No matter, that was something a quick phone call could provide.

  He dialed the number that Health Partners had listed in their contact information. A pleasant southern voice answered, but Baldwin quickly realized it was voice mail. Damn, he was hoping to get a secretary. The voice gave him the option of hitting zero to speak to a live person, and he did just that. Muzak drifted out from his earpiece and he rolled his eyes. There was just something so wrong about hearing synthesized Aerosmith. “Dude (Looks Like A Lady)” just didn’t work in the dulcet tones of elevator music.

  After a few minutes, the music stopped and a real voice came on the line.

  “Health Partners. Can I help you?”

  He cleared his throat and gave a brisk no-nonsense answer. “Yes, you can. This is Special Agent John Baldwin with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I need to get an organizational chart of your company.”

  “Sir, is there a problem?”

  Great, he managed to get someone that wasn’t impressed by the credentials and cop voice. “No, ma’am, not a problem, but I would like to find out more about your employees. Could you give me some information?”

  “Yes, I can, but why does the FBI want to know about us? Are we under investigation for something? I think I’d better let you talk to Louis Sherwood. He’s the CEO, so you should be able to get everything you need from him. Please hold.” The Muzak started up again, this time with The Scorpions’ “Rock You Like A Hurricane.” Baldwin gave out a little laugh. Whoever decided hard rock made melodious calming music was crazy.

  It seemed as though he had been on hold for an hour, but it was probably more like five minutes when a voice came back on the line. “I’m Louis Sherwood. Is there something I can help you with, Agent Baldwin?”

  “Yes, sir. I’d like to get some information about your traveling executives. I’m in the middle of an investigation and your company’s name has come up in relation to the case. Would you be willing to give me some information?”

  Sherwood didn’t hesitate. “This is about the Southern Strangler, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s the case I’m working on. You are familiar with it?” Silly question, he knew, anyone who owned a TV, lived next door to someone who owned a TV, drove a car with a radio, walked, slept or ate knew about the cases. The virtues of modern media.

  “I am familiar with it, and I’m glad you’ve contacted me. I understand that three of the victims worked for our company in one capacity or another. I think that merits a sit-down discussion, don’t you?”

  Baldwin was pleased, anything that would shed light on any aspect of the case was important. “Absolutely, sir. When would you be available?”

  “I’m free anytime for you. Are you here in town?”

  “No, sir, I’m in North Carolina, but I was planning on coming back to Nashville today, if nothing keeps me here.” Yeah, like another girl getting snatched.

  “Back to Nashville? Do you have some interests here in town already?”

  “Oh, sorry, I actually live in Nashville. I work out of the field office, handle national cases as needs be. I can be back in Nashville by late afternoon. Will you be available then?”

  “I will be waiting for you. Do you need directions?”

  Baldwin took down the information and thanked Sherwood. It felt good to do a little old-fashioned detective work rather than stand over dead girls. Now he needed to get the information about the poems from Taylor, and it was time to head back home. He figured he might as well rent a car and drive back instead of flying. Grimes was going to be here in Asheville for the time being anyway, finishing up with Christina Dale’s autopsy and the other aspects of the investigation. Baldwin needed some time to think, and the four-hour drive to Nashville was the perfect opportunity.

  He called Grimes and told him what he was planning on doing, and told him about the meeting with Louis Sherwood. Grimes thought that sounded great and asked for Baldwin to keep him filled in. Baldwin didn’t mention the poems on Whitney Connolly’s e-mail
. He figured it would be better to have some kind of confirmation on them before he threw that little wrinkle into the mix.

  They hung up and Baldwin called down to the front desk of the hotel and asked for them to secure a rental car for him. They told him it would be quicker for him to get it himself, the rental-car agency was on the same block, just on the opposite side of the building. He agreed and checked out of the room. Within ten minutes he had a car and was on his way home.

  Thirty-Three

  Taylor was sitting in front of Whitney’s laptop computer, looking through the e-mail that had been piling up in the two days since Whitney’s accident. She was distracted, worrying. Baldwin’s case was completely out of control, but hopefully, these notes would be the key. She had to search through at least two hundred e-mails, some boring, some interesting, most completely irrelevant. She continued to scan and soon found the original six messages with the love poems. She sent the messages to the printer so Baldwin would have a hard copy.

  She reached to close the laptop and saw that there was another e-mail from the same address that had been sending the poems. She’d missed one in her distracted state. This one was marked “Unread,” which meant it had come in after Taylor and Quinn had left Whitney’s house.

  She opened the e-mail and saw another poem. She sent it to the printer. Knowing now that these were possibly copies of notes that had been left at the scene of the murders was very disconcerting. And Baldwin had not given her enough information about them for her to deduce anything. She decided it would be best to send the e-mails to Baldwin’s e-mail address and let him look at them firsthand.

  She started forwarding the messages and decided to send them to her home computer, as well. Ah hell, why not just take the whole computer with her? She could get out of there now, being in Whitney’s house made her uncomfortable. It made more sense to do that anyway. God forbid, if Whitney continued to get these messages, they wouldn’t have to come over to her house every time they wanted to check something out.