All the Pretty Girls. J.T. Ellison
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Street, which would be the way she would go if she was walking home. But that’s it. Until she showed up in Georgia, that is. Same guy?”
“Same guy. We found a hand that we think belongs to Jessica Porter at the scene. It’s being processed. But we have a problem.”
“Don’t tell me.”
“Another girl’s gone missing. A doctor from Noble, Georgia. We’re headed that way to get some more information. Keep close to the phone, okay? We should have some more information for you soon.”
“Okay, thanks for letting me know. Talk to you later.”
Baldwin clicked the phone off. “Let’s talk some more about the crime scenes. What kind of evidence did you find at the scenes where the bodies were recovered?”
“Nada. Nothing. Zip. They were lying on their backs with their arms kinda stretched out, legs crossed at the ankle. But there’s nothing to indicate they hadn’t been just dumped there. We don’t even have tire prints. Just some loose trash that the techs collected from the scenes. Cans, bottles, papers, that kind of thing. Did you get any of that from your Nashville site?”
Baldwin took a deep breath. “No, nothing evidentiary at all. Just Jessica’s body and what’s presumably Jeanette Lernier’s hand. We’ll have to wait for DNA to match it absolutely…”
“Just like here in Georgia. Man, this is totally fucked up.”
“He’s not giving us much to go on, is he? And now we have Marni Fischer missing. She’s been gone how long?”
“Since yesterday after her shift ended, around five.”
“If he’s holding them for three days, that gives us until tomorrow night, right?”
“Yeah. And this guy uses the interstates. So he could be anywhere by now.”
Baldwin looked at the file in his lap. Marni Marie Fischer, age twenty-eight. A beautiful face stared at him with laughing eyes. He perused her features, noting the differences between this new missing girl and the ones before. She was older, he saw that immediately. The first three girls had been in their late teens. And Marni had dark blond hair. All of the previous victims were brunette. He found himself saying a quick prayer that maybe Marni Fischer was simply missing, not the latest victim of the Southern Strangler.
Grimes’s phone rang, and he picked it up, listening intently to the person on the other line. He hung up and shook his head as if trying to clear the cobwebs, then dragged his eyes back to Baldwin. “Okay then, let me fill you in on what they’ve got. A whole bunch of nothing, to be succinct. Sheriff wants us to meet him over at the hospital now. They want to tow Marni’s car to the impound lot, but they kindly agreed to wait for us. I know you like to look at your scenes in situ.”
Baldwin nodded at him. “Great, that will be a big help.”
“He’s also bringing photos of the scene so you can see exactly how they found it.”
“Then let’s hope there’s something that will give us an idea of where he’s taken her.” Baldwin slid lower in the seat, chewing his bottom lip. He had a bad feeling that they weren’t going to find anything that would let them save Marni Fischer.
Chapter Thirteen
Taylor and Fitz pulled up to Baptist Hospital’s emergency entrance and parked. Making their way through the emergency-room throng was an adventure. Taylor counted six patients that had blood streaming from various places along their bodies. The fluorescent lights made the blood look orange. She swallowed back a moment of distaste. The last time she had come through these doors was on a stretcher, her own blood threatening to spill onto the linoleum floor.
Her last major case popped into her mind—it was always there, just below the surface.
She and Baldwin had met on that case four months prior. He’d been in town on a sabbatical, Metro had needed the help of a profiler. A mutually beneficial relationship ensued, one that pushed Taylor and Baldwin into long hours and tense situations. Being thrown together, two strong personalities in conflict, there had been an inevitable attraction. They had been on the trail of an armed suspect. In the end, cornered, the desperate suspect had gotten into a face-off with Taylor, and lost.
But it wasn’t without a price.
Even all these months later she could see the knife swinging at her, feel it bite into her flesh. She’d killed the man, but not before he left her a permanent souvenir, a wicked slash across her jugular.
Her hand went to her throat. She wouldn’t have it any other way—she and Baldwin made a good team. When she nearly died, he’d been right at her side, and hadn’t left. Still, being back in this emergency room gave her the chills. She tossed the thoughts away.
“Fitz, where would she be?”
“Probably up in surgery. Chief asked the E.R. doc to put her down as Jane Doe so the media wouldn’t get their hands on the story. Let’s see if it worked.” He went over to the information desk, badged the receptionist and asked for Jane Doe’s whereabouts. He turned to Taylor with a smile and pointed toward the elevator, then lumbered away before the receptionist could get too interested. The subterfuge was working so far.
Taylor joined him, and they rode up to the surgical floor in silence. The antiseptic smell leaked into the elevator before the doors opened. Taylor was assaulted with a memory of time served in the hospital. She was sorry that Betsy would have to experience the other side of policing—recovering from assault. It happened, not to everyone, but often enough. The elevator doors opened before she could fully relive her pain, and they went to the nurses’ station.
“You have a Jane Doe up here?” Taylor asked, trying to look noncommittal. The woman looked right back at her and Taylor immediately saw that everyone knew Betsy Garrison was Jane Doe. But the nurse played along.
“She’s just back from recovery. The doctor is with her now. Down the left hall, she’s in 320.”
They thanked her and walked toward the room. Taking a look inside, they could see two men, one the doctor in his green scrubs, the other Brian Post, Betsy’s partner. He looked stricken, but after a moment he laughed and sat down next to the hospital bed. Taylor knocked softly on the door. They looked up and beckoned her and Fitz in.
Betsy Garrison, the tough, feisty head of the Nashville Metro Sex Crimes Unit, was sitting up in the hospital bed, a huge white bandage covering the left side of her head. She looked beaten up and tired but gave as genuine a smile as she could muster.
“Taylor, Fitz, c’mon in. Join the party.”
Taylor took up residence on the opposite side of the bed from Post, who was scowling possessively at Betsy. That’s interesting, she noted. Looks like Post has more than professional concern for his partner.
She leaned over and gingerly gave Betsy a hug. Fitz leaned against the door to the bathroom, looking distinctly uncomfortable. He was an old-fashioned kind of guy, didn’t like to see ladies in distress. Betsy picked up on it immediately. Her voice croaked as she spoke, still rough from the anesthesia.
“Fitz, I see that your chivalrous sense of justice is piqued. Why don’t you take Brian here and get him a cup of coffee. He’s been mothering the hell out of me.”
Fitz didn’t have to be told twice. He crooked a finger at Post, who reluctantly rose. With a brief kiss on the one unbandaged piece of Betsy’s forehead that was still visible, Post followed Fitz out of the room.
Taylor settled in and gave Betsy an expectant look. They’d known each other for several years, had actually been on patrol together. They were as good friends as two female cops could be, and had a great deal of respect for each other.
Betsy jumped in first. “It looks worse than it is. Broke my nose and the cheekbone. But they got everything fixed up, and I’ll look better than before. That sweet doctor did my nose while I was under. No more bump!”
Taylor