Taylor smiled at her crew in appreciation, and told them to scatter. “Rock and roll. Keep checking in with me. Fitz, let me run those files by you real quick.” She turned to her desk, then swung back. “Gentlemen? Let’s find this jerk. Now.”
7
Taylor took the long way when she headed out to Sam’s office. Flying by the exit that would lead her to the morgue, she turned north and felt herself relax as she drove up the interstate, letting the wind from the open window blow her hair around. Thirty minutes of head-clearing drive time wouldn’t change anything. The girl would still be dead. And Sam would probably applaud her taking a few minutes to herself.
She settled into the fast lane and started passing cars, pushing eighty. Cruising mindlessly, she jumped when her cell phone chirped. She let out a deep sigh, moved over three lanes, and pulled onto the shoulder.
“Yeah, Jackson.”
“Hey, LT, it’s Marcus. We got a hit on the prints.”
“That was quick. Who’s our girl?”
“Shelby Kincaid. She’s a student at Vanderbilt. She doesn’t have a record, but we got lucky. She was printed for a job she applied for at a day care center on West End.”
“Damn it,” Taylor said with heart. “A student at Vandy, and no one reported her missing?”
“Nope. At least there’s nothing official. Want me to call the school?”
She thought for a minute. “Tell you what. Let me get over to Sam’s and see what she’s found from the autopsy. We’re going to want to tread lightly. Vandy won’t cooperate with us without some paper. Go ahead and get a subpoena started for Kincaid’s records. Besides, I don’t want to start a panic if we can help it. This is going to be the lead story on the news. It was sensational enough that she was found at the Parthenon. When the media finds out she was a Vandy coed, they’re going to go nuts.” She ran a hand through her hair, unconsciously combing out the windblown tangles. Catching a knot, she looked in the mirror in aggravation and struggled to put it into a ponytail while holding the cell phone. She lost the whole mess, hair and phone alike, and cursed. She grabbed the phone from between her legs and brushed her hair out of her eyes impatiently.
“I assume there was contact information with her print card?”
“Yep.” She could hear him shuffling papers in the background before the roar of an 18-wheeler passing much too closely drowned him out.
“...Kentucky. Want me to—”
“Wait, wait. Say that again. Couldn’t hear you over the traffic.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m pulled over to the side of Interstate 24. Where’s she from again?”
“Bowling Green, Kentucky. The contacts are Edward and Sally Kincaid. I assume they’re her parents. We need to get them notified.”
Taylor rubbed the back of her neck. “Go ahead and call Reverend Spenser. I always like to have him around when I have to do a notification. He can get in touch with the Bowling Green police, see if their chaplain’s available to do the notification. Ask him to arrange to have them driven down here, too.”
“Will do. They’re going to want to talk to you, I’m sure.”
“Yes, but I don’t want to talk with them until Sam has more definitive results. I’d like to be able to give them her cause of death, if we have one. Damn, this really sucks. Get the family notified, then we’ll go ahead with Vandy. Be delicate, Marcus. This is going to be beyond difficult for them.”
“Yeah, I imagine it will ruin their lives. I’ll talk to the chaplain and get it all arranged.”
“Thanks, man. I’ll be back after I see Sam.”
“Um, Taylor, before you go?”
“What?”
“Your dad called.”
Her father. Her chest tightened. Oh man, talk about something she didn’t need.
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“No, just that he needs to speak with you. He said it was important.”
“Yeah, it always is,” she muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing. Go on and get in touch with Shelby Kincaid’s parents. I’ll talk to you later.”
She hung up, pushing thoughts of her father away and getting her mind back on the case. There was nothing worse than having to tell parents they’d outlived their child. She was more than a little relieved Marcus was going to handle the notification.
She pulled back out on the interstate and took the first exit leading her back into the city. She tried not to think and, instead, enjoy the few moments of freedom she had left. A pointless endeavor. She gave up and gunned the car.
The late-afternoon traffic was terrible, and it took her twenty minutes to plow her way through to Gass Boulevard. The State of Tennessee Center for Forensic Medicine was run by a private group contracted with the city. Their brand-new, twenty-thousand-square-foot building looked more like the local offices of a corporate giant than a morgue.
She pulled into the parking lot, more than a little jealous of Sam and her new realm. It sure beat Homicide’s crappy little office. Then again, they didn’t have dead bodies next to the break room.
She was buzzed through the door into the spacious lobby. She was facing the family viewing room, where family members of the deceased could identify their loved one’s mortal remains on closed-circuit TV.
She was thankful the new system had been put into place. It was easier for the family not to go through up-close-and-personal body identification, or deal with photographs of their dearly departed. They had a quiet, nicely furnished room, professional support, and some distance from their deceased family member. It was a good system.
One of the grief counselors would eventually be back there with Shelby’s parents, ready to bolster and guide the family through their worst nightmares. Taylor felt chill bumps on her arms. She was glad she didn’t have to come back and deal with them tonight. Loss wasn’t something she was ever comfortable with.
Despite the constant flow of people who entered and exited the building throughout the day and night, there was never a magazine out of place, nor a small piece of trash sitting on a side table. Taylor secretly thought members of the cleaning crew lurked in the hallways, ready to sneak into the foyer unseen to straighten and sanitize at a moment’s notice.
She waved to the receptionist, Kris, and entered the door leading to the autopsy suite. The odor hit her: in contrast to the sweet, clean smell of the open foyer, this area was antiseptic and metallic, overlaid with chemicals, like a hospital corridor. And it was colder, sterile and overtly hygienic. The smells weren’t unpleasant. They were simply what she always associated with death.
The odd reek settled in her sinuses. Taylor tried to concentrate on other things as she walked in. She knew that within a few minutes she’d get used to it. She always did.
Stopping briefly in the biovestibule, she changed into a pair of disposable scrubs and went inside.
The main autopsy suite held four fully functioning workstations, two on the wall facing Taylor, and two on the opposite wall. Sam was at the far table, the natural sunlight from the huge skylight above streaking her hair with rosy highlights.
“Sam.”
Sam turned toward Taylor with a look that said, Go away, I’m trying to work.
“Sorry, Sammy, I need to talk. We’ve got an ID. Her name’s Shelby Kincaid. Went to Vanderbilt. We’re notifying her parents right now, so I wanna see what you have.”
Sam actually looked at her this time, blinked, finally realized who was there, and said, “Oh, hey. Gear up. Vanderbilt, huh?” There was almost no inflection in her voice. She was lost in her work.
Taylor pulled on the remaining protective gear and gloves gracefully, the motions born of too many repetitions. She donned her eye shield and joined Sam at the table. Lying on a tan plastic washable coating cove
ring an icy, stainless steel slab were the remains of Shelby Kincaid. She didn’t look like a sleeping child anymore. The huge Y-cut, actually shaped like a deformed U, cut from her sternum to her pubis, exposing her internal organs, which Sam was in the process of weighing. She set the mud-colored liver in the scale, dictating the weight into the microphone clipped to the front of her smock. She handed it to her assistant, who wandered off to busy himself with something. He knew Taylor and was more than a little afraid of her. Sam watched him go, chuckled, then became all business again.
“Ventricular fibrillation. And something’s hinky with her liver.” She didn’t elaborate.
“Okay. Wanna expound on that? I don’t know if hinky will stand up in court.”
Sam’s forehead wrinkled. “That’s the problem. On the surface, I can’t tell you what’s wrong. I sent off the tox screen, so we should get that back quick enough. But they can’t look for anything but the obvious, and the way her organs look...my gut tells me we need to look deeper. I sent a runner with all kinds of samples to Simon’s lab—blood, urine, tissue, the works. I asked them to do a more comprehensive workup than the normal drug and alcohol screen. I’m hoping they can isolate something off the standard panel.”
“Like what?”
She waggled her head casually and shrugged, like a child with an important secret. “Oh, I’m thinking poison.”
“No way. Poison? Cyanide?”
“Not cyanide, I didn’t get an almond smell when I opened the body. I don’t know what we’re looking for, but I definitely think she ingested something, and it didn’t sit right with her system.”
“Ingested something like what?”
Sam gave Taylor a sweet smile. “Honey, that’s what we’re going to find out. Back to business. She was raped repeatedly. Even more bruising and tearing than I’d thought, lots of semen. We’re going to have to wait for the labs on that, too.”
Taylor’s shoulders knotted up. “How long’s it gonna take?”
“Well, it won’t be overnight. I’ll try to talk Simon into dropping all his other fascinating cases and handle the toxicology right away, but I can’t promise anything. As far as the semen is concerned, I can send it up to TBI with a push and have them do the rapid DNA, or I can throw it to Simon and ask him to handle it as a personal favor. We haven’t talked in a couple of days though, so he may blow me off.” She busied herself with a scalpel.
Taylor waited for a more detailed explanation, but seeing none forthcoming, decided not to voice an opinion on the rocky relationship’s latest turn. “I already ran it by Price. It won’t be a problem. Go ahead and give it all to Simon. If you don’t want to call in one of your own, tell him it’s a favor for me, and I’ll owe him one.”
“Got it.” She gestured toward the computer screen behind her. “The rest is basics. Height, one hundred seventy-six centimeters, weight, forty-seven kilograms. Blond hair, blue eyes. Maybe a little anorexic. No distinguishing characteristics, no tattoos, nothing out of the ordinary. Doesn’t look like she’s had any surgeries except a tonsillectomy.” She looked up, gave a wan smile. “Sorry, Charlie. Right now we’ve got a run-of-the-mill dead girl. Little Shelby didn’t put up much of a fight, nothing under her nails, no defensive wounds. That’s about as exciting as it gets.”
Taylor sighed. She knew the drill. Nothing else could be done here until they had the lab results back. “Can I give her parents a cause of death?”
Sam thought quietly for a moment. The parents would want every detail, and there weren’t a lot to give them. She shrugged. “Tell them we’re doing more tests and hope to have an answer for them quickly.”
“Great, that helps a lot. All right, keep me in the loop on anything you find. And I mean anything. I don’t care how obscure it is. I can deal with Simon if you don’t want to do it yourself.” It was a dig for information, but Sam saw right through it.
“Yeah, I may do that.”
Taylor knew discretion was the better part of valor when it came to Sam and Simon. “Okay, then. Play nice with Simon. I think he likes you.” She grinned and walked out of the room.
Taylor pulled out on Elliston Pike and started back downtown. As the skyline came into view, she was overcome by exhaustion. She had planned to go back to the office, maybe take the warrant over to Vandy, but it was late; their offices would be closed until the morning. There was nothing she could do tonight. She decided to hit a drive-through and go home. She called Marcus, gave him the update from Sam, told him she was out for the night, and suggested he and Lincoln should do the same.
She stopped at the Taco Bell near her house. Eating her dinner in the car, she finished before she hit her driveway. She stumbled into the house, set her holster and gun on the coffee table, gave the cat a rub on the head, fell onto the couch, and crashed immediately.
Again, there was a field of graves, stretching out before her. A large statue shadowed the land, covering waves of ripe wheat in sheaves, and the path forward was littered with body parts, arms and legs bent in imitations of crosses, bones shaped into grave markers. The sky was red with angry storms, and the wind whipped her hair around her face. Flowers pushed dead from the earth, black and rotted, their scent overwhelming. She walked toward the monstrous statue, the grave markers waving in synchronous motion, reaching out to touch her, strange dead hands and legs and arms draping against her body, grabbing her legs, holding her back, pulling her to the earth...
Taylor woke with a cry, sweating, her breath coming in jagged gasps. She wiped the tears from her face. She groaned when she looked at the clock on the mantel, which read 4:15 a.m. The nightly ritual was fulfilled. She wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep. She hit the shower and headed into work.
THE
SECOND
DAY
8
He watched the body drift away slowly, bumping into driftwood as the current caught it and dragged it toward the shore. He felt a brief pang of sorrow. The woman had been beautiful, perfection in dimension and proportion. Until the end.
Still, she was a worthy sacrifice. She had brought him much joy, much pleasure. It was her own fault she was dead. Dead and gone. No longer.
9
Marcus and Lincoln were futzing around in the captain’s office when Taylor walked in. When Price went out and things were slow or on hold, the squad had a habit of congregating in there to watch TV.
Lincoln vacated Price’s chair for Taylor to sit in. She did so gratefully. It was the one chair in the squad that was remotely comfortable.
“Where’s Price?”
“Ran down to talk to the chief.” Marcus rolled his eyes. “Old windbag wanted to have another press conference so he can look like he’s actually being a cop.”
Taylor laughed. Their chief of police was about as popular as the mayor.
“Did you find Shelby’s parents?”
“Yeah. Reverend Spenser talked to the Bowling Green police chaplain. They did the notification, and BG’s chaplain is driving them down this morning. They’re pretty upset. Her dad’s a Baptist minister. The chaplain knew Shelby, too.”
“Great. Lincoln, any luck on any of the databases?”
“Nothin’ yet. Hit a dead end after her prints popped. Sam have anything new?”
“Outside of the possible poisoning? No. She sent everything over to Simon. It’ll be a day or so before we know what the poison might be.”
“If only we could identify the poison, I could plug it into ViCAP, maybe broaden the scope a little.” Lincoln’s eyes were shining. He loved playing with the technical stuff.
“Once we have it identified, you can put it in the system, but not before. We need to keep it quiet, like the herbs. Especially with her parents.” She looked pointedly at Marcus, a silent warning to keep his own counsel outside of the squad room.
Price’s phon
e rang, and Taylor picked it up. “Homicide... Okay, thanks.” She cradled the phone. “Marcus, Shelby’s parents are here. Wanna go out and get them?”
“Damn, they’re early. I’ll meet you in the interview room.” He stood, brushing invisible lint from his pants. Taylor could see the air of discomfort that washed over him; facing grieving family members wasn’t his favorite thing to do either. He squared his shoulders and walked out. Taylor gave Lincoln a small smile.
“Do we have any coffee or anything we can offer them?”
“I’ll go make some.”
“Thank you. If the chaplains are out there, see if they want some, too. I’d best go save Marcus. Bring the coffee when it’s ready.”
He smiled in acknowledgment and left the office. Taylor pulled her hair out of its ponytail, unsuccessfully attempting to smooth it down. Impatiently reholstering the unruly mess, she squared her own shoulders and marched the short distance to the interview room in the hall. Marcus already had Mr. and Mrs. Kincaid inside. A box of tissues had miraculously appeared at Mrs. Kincaid’s elbow.
The Kincaids were small, unassuming people, easily in their late fifties. Mrs. Kincaid’s eyes were rimmed in red, but there were no tears threatening to overflow. Mr. Kincaid had a vacant look on his face but seemed to be holding up. Marcus introduced Taylor. She pulled up a chair.
“Mr. and Mrs. Kincaid, thank you so much for coming down. I am so sorry for your loss.” Her cliché was worn but sincere. Mrs. Kincaid nodded and sniffed. Shelby’s father took control of the meeting.
“Where is our daughter, Lieutenant? We want to see her.”
“Could we get you anything to drink? Coffee, water...”
Mr. Kincaid cut her off sharply. “No. Where is our daughter?”
Taylor looked at Marcus, signaling him to tell Lincoln to forget the coffee. He stuck his head out the door, gestured to Lincoln, then stepped back in and shut the door behind him, lounging quietly against it.
Field of Graves Page 5
