All the Pretty Girls. J.T. Ellison
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Nashville, she could devote herself to raising the children, being a leader in Junior League, and maybe open a little specialty shop or form a small charitable organization, of course only after the children were in school full-time.
A second but not as popular option was to aspire to a profession of her own—medicine, law, marketing—finding a husband during the course of these actions and immediately starting the marriage/baby track.
But Taylor was Taylor, and dismissed both options out of hand. She’d watched her mother’s life: lunches, teas, commitments to charity work that allowed her group of wealthy friends to continue living in their sorority days, never aging, never losing the shallowness that permeated their lives. Taylor knew that they did good work, that their charities made a difference on some level, but couldn’t stand the idea of doing it herself.
That just wasn’t for her. Taylor wanted excitement, even danger. She wanted to live, to really experience life in reality, not never-never land. She needed something to allow her to be her normal, unpretentious self. Nashville wasn’t a huge town, and due to her rebellion against her mother’s well-born intentions for her, she knew people in all walks of life throughout the city. And cops. Lots of cops. She’d had a few run-ins with the law, and as a result not only charmed her way out of trouble but also established friendships with a number of officers, who strongly influenced her decision to join their ranks.
It was a perfect fit for Taylor. She could give back to her city and not sell herself out in the process. And there was a sense of power, lurking around town, dealing with shady characters and criminals, that she really got off on. She was living in a real world, not one based on spun-sugar bullshit and cutthroat social climbing. Of course, the idealistic view Taylor had, wanting to be a protector, to take care of the people in her community, became crowded by the comprehension that while the cops took care of everyone, no one was there to take care of them. It was a difficult realization, and explained why so many cops had such complicated personal lives, from multiple divorces to illegal drug use, alcoholism and psychological problems and serious control issues. But Taylor still held on to her utopian view of the purpose of the force. She never wanted to go down the broken and tortured path she had seen many of her fellow cops follow, and believed she had the strength to keep herself in check.
So against her mother’s wishes, she went to the University of Tennessee, received her B.A. in criminal justice and applied to the force as soon as she graduated. Accepted immediately, she went through the Police Academy, cementing relationships with the people she would make her career with. She was a popular student, though her training officer had a tendency to make things a little rough for her. She was young and pretty, and he was the type that didn’t see the need to have women on the force. The dinosaurs were out there, for better or for worse. It didn’t deter her, only made her stronger and more committed.
Her first dose of reality wasn’t long in coming. Driving her squad car through downtown, keeping an eye out for trouble on Second Avenue, she received a message on her endlessly ringing computer screen that a stabbing had been called in from the projects. Taking off with lights flashing and siren blaring, she arrived to see a young black man sprawled on the ground in a grungy doorway. He was surrounded by wailing family and friends who were trying to stop the copious amounts of blood pouring from a gaping wound in his stomach. In desperation, they were trying to shove his intestines back into the yawning hole. It made no difference. He bled out at her feet. The EMTs arrived moments later, but too late to stop Taylor from losing a large part of her innocence on a dark street deep in the worst projects in town. She finished processing the crime scene and headed back to the station, and once in the locker room she noticed that the man’s blood covered her boots. She could never describe the overwhelming emotion she felt then, but she quickly learned to put her feelings aside.
She nearly laughed at the memory of that young girl, shocked by a little blood on her shoes. She’d seen plenty since, enough to weaken the idealistic view she’d had as a rookie officer. Now, at thirty-five, she was the youngest female lieutenant on the force, headed a crack team of homicide detectives, and had seen more than enough blood, some of it from her own gun, some of it hers. Yes, the idealism was well and truly gone now.
She pulled up in front of the Forensic Medical Building on Gass Street, secure in the knowledge that she knew who she was, and was relatively happy with that person. Relatively.
Baldwin had suggested she apply to the Academy, go through the rigors to become an FBI agent, but she’d turned him down cold. She belonged to Nashville.
Dr. Sam Loughley, medical examiner and Taylor’s best friend, was sewing closed the Y incision on Jessica Porter’s limp chest as Taylor rolled into the autopsy suite.
“Wow, you were quick. Didn’t know you would be done already.”
Sam looked up and smiled through her plastic shield. “I’m not early, you’re late. It’s seven-thirty already. Tim, could you finish up here for me?”
“Sure, Doc, no problem.” Sam handed off the tools to her assistant and walked toward the decontamination room, pulling off her smock and gloves as she went. Taylor followed dutifully.
It was only after Sam was cleaned up, they both had a cup of tea and were ensconced in Sam’s office, that she would comment on the autopsy.
“She didn’t take a terrible amount of abuse.”
“I don’t know, Sam, being strangled and having her hands cut off seems a bit excessive, don’t you think?”
Sam nodded. “Well, of course it is. I just meant that she wasn’t horribly abused, beaten or anything. The hands were done postmortem. The strangulation was manual, there was no evidence of rape. It wasn’t as bad as some I’ve seen. She wasn’t torn up, just had the characteristic bruising and tearing I’d associate with rough consensual sex. He used a lubricated condom, and I didn’t retrieve anything that would qualify for DNA. I’ve taken all the samples and sent them to be run. Dr. John Baldwin, FBI agent extraordinaire, called early and told me to send all the trace and the blood work to the FBI lab. It’ll go quicker that way.”
Despite all efforts to the contrary, Nashville didn’t have their own forensics laboratory to process elements from their crime scenes. Baldwin had just saved them both a major headache.
“So do you have any other info for me?”
“Not really, Taylor. The results won’t be back for a couple of days. Cause of death was definitely manual strangulation. We’ll just have to wait for the rest. Baldwin mentioned this was an ongoing case?”
“He seems to think this is the work of a serial killer the FBI has christened the Southern Strangler. Based on the transportation MO, this is his third kill.” She drifted off for a moment. “I wonder what he does with their hands? Why he’s leaving one behind at every scene?”
Sam grinned. “Probably an acrotomophiliac. You know, less is more.”
Taylor wrinkled her brow. “What the hell does that mean? It doesn’t sound good.”
“Means he’s sexually attracted to amputees.”
“Aw, Sam, that’s really—”
“Relax, it was just a joke. The hand that was recovered yesterday didn’t have the level of decomposition I’d expect from one that had been excised a month ago, so I’m operating on the theory that it was frozen. Running all the tests on that one, too. C’mon, let’s get out of here and get something to eat. I’m starving.”
They went to breakfast, catching up, pointedly not talking about the case. Sam was pregnant, effusive with excitement and joy at the impending arrival of her first child. All of their conversations lately ultimately found their way back to the being inhabiting Sam’s belly. When they finished the umpteenth round of baby-name options, Taylor dropped Sam off back at the medical examiner’s office, then went to her own.
Lincoln had pulled together the information on the previous murders, trolling information that must have been supplemented by Baldwin at some point, since the crime scene photos were copies of originals with the FBI stamp in the