All the Pretty Girls. J.T. Ellison
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is.”
The pursuit car slipped up on the Jag like a black-and-white snake, then gently bumped the back right fender. In a textbook reaction, the driver of the Jag spun out, slamming into a guardrail, losing a fender, and came to rest facing traffic. In an instant, vehicles surrounded him, cops with long guns and sidearms pointed at him. No escape.
The TV anchors congratulated themselves on a story well covered, predicting it would be anywhere from five minutes to five hours before the standoff would be over. Promising not to break away from the coverage until there was a resolution, they brought in the experts, a former police officer and a hostage negotiator, for the requisite public speculation of the criminal’s past. A producer somewhere in New York turned off the five-second delay a moment too soon, and the detectives stared as the door to the Jaguar opened. The suspect jumped out, dragging a woman out of the driver’s-side door by the hair.
There was frantic movement on the ground, a quick tightening of the cordon around the kidnapper. The suspect looked up in the air, making sure the overhead helicopter had a moment to focus its long lens on his grinning face. He pulled the woman upright, lifted his arm and shot her in the head. He was gunned down before she hit the ground, the pandemonium obvious. The network went black for a heartbeat, then focused on the face of the shocked anchor. He looked green.
“Like I said, damn glad we don’t live in California,” Fitz grumbled.
The phone rang and he answered, listening carefully while jotting a few notes. “We’re on it.”
“What’s up?” Marcus had leaned so far back in his chair that he threatened to tip over on his back.
“Body out in Bellevue. I’ll go. I’ll call Taylor from the car.”
Lincoln and Marcus were up immediately. “We’re coming, too,” Marcus said. “I know I don’t want to sit around here anymore. Do you, Lincoln?”
“Hell, no.”
They marched dutifully from the office, gathering suit jackets and keys on the way out. Lincoln grinned, happy at last for an excursion. “At least there won’t be a car chase.”
The day was stifling, humidity in the high nineties, a threat of rain on the horizon. Though it was full light, the sun was not shining. A thick miasma of haze blanketed the sky, turning the blue to gray. Nashville in the summer.
The crime scene was populated with sweating men and women. Their movements were sluggish, practiced, not at all urgent. Several wore masks to shelter their fragile sinuses from the smell. A decomposing body in ninety-degree heat could fell even the strongest professional.
They were assembled in a grassy field at the Highway 70 and Highway 70 South split, near the westernmost edge of Davidson County. The area was known as Bellevue, only fifteen minutes from downtown. Another couple of miles and Cheatham County would have the job. It was Metro Homicide who had gotten the call instead. Taylor had felt the same sense of boredom her detectives were experiencing, and was happy for the diversion.
She stood over the body, drinking in the scene. Her blond hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, her long body casting grotesque muted shadows in the high grass. She wore no mask, her nostrils pinched and white, her mouth open so she could breathe without inhaling death. A Jane Doe, young, brown hair massed beneath her swollen body. Brown eyes glinted dully from cracked eyelids. The bugs had done their duty, ingesting, laying eggs, repopulating their masses. A struggling white larva spilled from the girl’s mouth.
Taylor nearly came undone, imagining that worm in her own mouth, and mistakenly took in a deep breath through her nose. She winced and turned away for a moment, watching the activity around her. Usually the death greeters would swarm like their own type of insect, but no one was in much of a hurry today. Fitz was ambling back toward the crime scene control area, he’d taken a cursory look at the body, covered his mouth and politely excused himself. She could see Marcus and Lincoln conferring in the distance, waves of heat shimmering around their bodies. Crime scene techs carried brown paper bags to their vehicles, patrol officers kept their backs to the body. The scene stirred, listless, the entire group indolent in the heat.
Except the man striding effortlessly toward her. He was a big man, dark haired, graceful. He wasn’t one of hers.
He stopped in front of one of the patrol officers, flipped open a small leather identification case, speaking loud enough for Taylor to hear. “Special Agent John Baldwin. FBI.”
The officer stepped aside to let Baldwin continue his trek toward Taylor. He slipped the case into his breast pocket, then came to her with his right hand outstretched. He winked as he took her hand. She felt the warm pad of flesh press her own for a brief instant. A concussive touch, she felt it all the way to her toes. She stood straighter. At nearly six feet, she generally towered over men. This one was taller by nearly five inches, and she had to look up to meet his eyes. They were the oddest shade of green, deeper than jade, lighter than emeralds. Cat eyes, she thought.
Her heart beat a little faster. Taylor’s right hand went to her neck, an unconscious gesture. The four-inch scar was barely healed; she still looked as if she’d been garroted. A knife slash, compliments of a crazed suspect. A permanent souvenir from her last case. Gathering herself, she flipped her ponytail off her shoulder and gave Baldwin a brief but warm smile.
“What are you doing here? I didn’t ask for FBI backup. It’s just a murder.” She paused for a moment, concerned by the expression on his angular face. She knew the look. “Please tell me it’s just a murder?”
“I wish I could.”
“Why the posturing?” Taylor looked over Baldwin’s shoulder. There were few people on the scene who weren’t familiar with John Baldwin. Her team—Fitz, Marcus and Lincoln—had worked with him before.
“I needed this to be an official consultation. I think I know who she is.” He gestured almost carelessly at the body prostrate at their feet.
“Ah. Out of state, I’d guess. We haven’t had any missing persons reported in the right time frame for this.”
“Out of state. Right. Mississippi.” The statement was absent, an afterthought. Baldwin was circling the body, taking in all the details. The bruises around the girl’s neck were visible despite the decomposition. He made another circle, smiling to himself with a bizarre look of triumph. The body had no hands.
“I think this may be the work of our boy.”
“Your boy?” Taylor’s eyebrow went up an inch. “You know who did this?”
He ignored the question for a moment. “Is it okay to touch her?”
“Yes. The crime scene techs have finished with her for now, and we’re waiting for the medical examiner to haul her out of here. I was just giving her one last look.”
Baldwin reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of thin white latex gloves. He squatted next to the body and reached for the girl’s right stump, knocking a few maggots off in the process.
Taylor prompted him again. “Your boy, you say?”
“Mmm, hmm. I don’t know his name, of course, but I recognize his work.”
Taylor went down on one knee beside him. “He’s done this before?” She spoke quietly. No personnel were within earshot, but just in case, she didn’t want the leaks to start before she had a grip on what was happening. Habit.
“Twice, that I know of. Though he hasn’t hit for a month. We’ve dubbed him the Southern Strangler, for lack of a better name. You know us feds, not an original thought between us.” He tried for a smile, but it came out as a leer.
“Why haven’t I heard of this…strangler?”
“You have. Remember the Alabama case a few months ago, in April? Pretty little college nursing student, disappeared from the U of A campus. We found her in—”
“Louisiana. I remember.”
“Right.