Field Of Graves. J.T. Ellison
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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.
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.
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 phone 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.
Taylor took a deep breath. She had a feeling this wasn’t going to go well. “She’s still at the medical examiner’s office, sir. We had to do an autopsy to see...”
Mrs. Kincaid lost it. “You cut our baby open? How could you do that?” She started crying. Her husband put a hand on her arm. She immediately quieted.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but her death was ruled a homicide by the medical examiner at the scene. We’re required by law to conduct an autopsy.” Taylor hated having to give that pat line to a child’s parents, but there was no way to cushion the blow. “There was no identification found with the body, so in order to obtain an identification we had to follow protocol. That’s how we found out who she was. I’m so sorry,” she repeated.
Mrs. Kincaid reached for a tissue and buried her face in it, dignified sobs leaking out. Again her husband squeezed her arm. Taylor didn’t think it was meant in a kindly way. She got the impression he was uncomfortable with open displays of emotion, which seemed interesting for a man of the cloth.
“Lieutenant, Detective Wade said Shelby was murdered. Who did it? I want to know who killed our baby.”