Judas Kiss. J.T. Ellison
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up. She entered the house, saw her sister, grabbed the kid, called 911 and skedaddled. She’s been questioned already, but I knew you’d want to talk to her. I’ve got to warn you, the victim’s parents are here. The sister called her mom after she finished with 911. Everyone is pretty shaken up.”
“Where’s the husband?” Taylor asked.
“On a business trip. Convenient, huh?”
“I’ll say. Can you find out where he is for me?”
“Already done. The mom called him, he was in Georgia and is on the road now, driving back. Should be in this afternoon.”
Taylor looked at Fitz, who was writing in his notebook. “Wouldn’t you fly home if it were you?”
“Yep,” Fitz said.
Parks gave her a wry grin. “I asked the same thing. No direct flights. It was quicker for him to drive. At least, that’s what the mom said.”
Parks handed over some of the items Taylor would need to enter the house—booties, latex gloves. He offered a blue paper mask, similar to one her dental hygienist wore, but she shook her head once, declining. No sense in that. No matter the precautions, the scent of death would sneak into her sinuses, settling for hours. She slipped her sunglasses into her front pocket; she wouldn’t need them inside.
“Is Father Ross here?”
The Metro police department’s chaplain was a kind, gentle man who Taylor had relied on more times than she could remember. It was hard enough to inform a family member that a loved one was dead. Having the minister along was not only helpful, it was mandated.
“He’s here. The whole group of them, parents, two sisters and the kid are in the next door neighbor’s house, huddled up, waiting for you.”
“Anyone know when the victim was seen last?” she asked.
“We’re working on nailing that down right now. The sister talked to her Friday. One of the neighbors might’ve seen her, or something.”
“Okay. When did the ME get called?”
“Same time as you, LT. Dr. Loughley is on duty this morning, she’s—”
“Right here,” a voice called out. Taylor turned to see her best friend, Samantha Loughley, walking up the drive, her kit slung over her right shoulder. Her dark brown hair was up in a ponytail, thick bangs swept across her forehead. The bangs were a new look, and Sam had been bemoaning the haircut for a week.
“Morning, sunshine,” she said as she reached Taylor. “What’s up, Parks? Fitz, you look well.”
Fitz grinned back in acknowledgement of the compliment. He’d been working hard on his weight and now had his formerly oversized belly down to a trim and manageable thirty-eight inches. The weight loss took ten years off his fifty-five-year-old frame, and Taylor knew he’d begun dating a woman he’d met at a barbeque cooking contest. Oh. Maybe that’s what the boat was all about. She shook the thought off. They needed to focus on the murder.
“Like the new look, Owens,” Fitz needled.
Sam rolled her eyes. “Are you ever going to start using my married name, Sergeant?”
“Naw. I like Owens. Loughley’s too hard to say.” He jostled her with his hip and smiled.
Sam dropped her bag on the folding card table that had been set up for the field command station. “Fine. Call me whatever you want. Just put that degree in. I spent too much money not to use the title.”
“Anyway,” Taylor said, getting their attention back from their game. “Sam, we were about to make entry on the scene. I haven’t been inside yet. Parks says the victim is a female Caucasian, pregnant and toasting. So let’s get this over with, okay?”
Fitz looked over to the neighbor’s house. “I think I’m gonna go next door and have a chat. Y’all have fun up there.”
Taylor watched him go. Good. Two birds, one stone. “We set, Parks?”
Parks nodded. “Tim’s here too, ready to go.” Tim Davis was the lead criminalist for Metro Nashville police. He’d started in the Medical Examiner’s office as a death investigator, then moved over to Metro in anticipation of their eventual establishment of a crime lab. Taylor always enjoyed working with the young man. He was very serious about his craft.
“No time like the present.” Taylor started for the door, Sam right behind her. The videographer was on the narrow porch, camera on the boards between her feet, ready to document their walk through. Taylor didn’t recognize her. Tim Davis was waiting patiently, kit in hand.
“Hey, Tim,” Taylor said.
“Morning, LT. Dr. Loughley. Have you met Keri McGee yet? She’s going to be doing the video feed for us this morning.”
A sunny blonde stuck out a pudgy hand. “Good to meet you, Lieutenant. I just moved up here, used to be with New Orleans Metro. Really glad to be here.”
Taylor held her hand up. “It’s good to have you. I’d shake, but I’m already gloved. Welcome to Nashville. You just stick to my six and we’ll be fine. If you need to boot, try to get back outside and don’t screw up the scene, okay?”
“Sure thing, ma’am.”
Taylor fought the urge to snap. Jesus, girl, don’t call me ma’am. I’m not old enough to be your mother. Instead, she smiled and stepped into the house.
Rotten chicken. That’s what the first olfactory note identified. Just as quickly, the coppery scent of blood, the stink of putrefaction and decomposing flesh, and a sweet, almost perfumelike scent. Not air freshener. Hmm. Taylor’s eyes adjusted as her subconscious mind worked its way through the instinct to flee. It wasn’t a natural smell, and her heart raced for a moment. A normal first reaction, borne of self-preservation, would be to get the hell out of there. A couple million years of evolution warned her—there’s danger here. She’d felt it before, knew it would pass in a second. She let herself adjust, breathing through her mouth. Sam was by her side, doing the same thing. They were trained to make it go away.
Taylor let her eyes wander the room in front of her. She was standing in a marble-floored foyer. There was a table against the closest wall with pictures in silver gilt frames—happy, smiling newlyweds against a summer-wooded backdrop. The stairs were directly to her right, hardwood covered in an ivory Berber runner. Just past the banister was the entrance into the dining room, loaded with heavy dark oak furniture, silver and crystal, an oversized china cabinet. To the left, a brief hallway that opened into a great room. The floors in the dining room were burnished oak, the great room was carpeted in the same light Berber wool.
Every few inches there were tiny crimson footprints. Little heels here, little toes there. They looked like mouse trails, in and out, back and forth, leading up and down the stairs, into the great room, and Taylor could see they trailed into the kitchen on the far side of the dining room. They were everywhere; some light, barely pink enough to mar the carpet, some outlines or edges. Closer to the stairs, a few were dark, almost seeming they would be wet to the touch. Sam drew in a deep, sharp breath.
Taylor forced her brain to shut off that emotional center which would allow her to acknowledge the desperation the child must have felt to be wandering around the house, her mother’s blood on her bare feet.
“This is Homicide Lieutenant Taylor Jackson,” she said aloud for the benefit of the video camera. “I am the lead investigative officer at this crime scene, 4589 Jocelyn Hollow Court. I’m going to do one pass through the lower part of the structure.” Nodding at Sam, she went to the right, into the dining room, avoiding the blood. Sam picked her way after Taylor. Tim and Keri followed, the group moving as one, silently assessing.
The footprints wended their way through the dining room, under the table, and back into the kitchen. There was no rhyme or reason to the pattern, just a nomadic line of passage, typical of a youngster moving aimlessly about her home. Some areas