The Immortals. J.T. Ellison
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We’re about to do a walk-through of each crime scene.”
Her call-waiting beeped. She looked and saw it was Lincoln. “Hey, I’ve got to go. Call me in the morning, okay? Love you.”
“Love you, too. Luck.”
She clicked over. “Hey, Linc. What’s up?”
“We have the entire neighborhood frozen, and we’ve got some very upset parents. They’ve got the pitchforks and stakes out.”
“That’s to be understood. But we need those scenes stationary for now. Tell them we’ll release the bodies and get them back in their homes as soon as we can.”
She hoped she was telling the truth.
Quantico
Garrett had sent a car for him. Baldwin climbed into the backseat and gave the yawning driver his address. He had a small apartment near the grounds of Quantico that he used when he was in town working.
He was tired, but getting to sleep was going to be near to impossible. He needed to be sharp and alert in the morning. Artificial means, then. He checked his watch and calculated, decided against half an Ambien, settled on a Benadryl. It would knock him out for at least six hours. That would have to be good enough. He dry-swallowed the capsule and stared out into the dark of the night.
It was always darkest just before the dawn. He could only hope that the light of day would bring good news.
Eight
Nashville
9:00 p.m.
The rain was letting up, the evening now bittered into teeth-chattering cold. Taylor ran the gauntlet down Estes, driving through a phalanx of Metro blue-and-whites and medical examiner’s vans. A patrol officer waved her through and she parked the Lumina in front of the Kings’ driveway.
Dan Franklin, the department’s spokesman, met her car. Dan was a big guy, light brown hair and blue eyes with a relatively nondescript, almost homely face, but six foot two and an easy two-thirty. He spent a lot of time in the gym, and the hard work showed. Physically, he was threatening at best, emotionally, he was the rock the department depended on. He was their first line of defense against the media. It was a precarious position to maintain—Metro needed the media and the media needed Metro, but sometimes they didn’t like to play nice. Franklin assured everyone on both sides that the road to the news would be as smooth as could be.
He opened her door and she climbed out. “What’s up?”
“I need to talk to you.”
Taylor stopped. “Shoot.”
“I think it would be a good idea to have you give the presser.” He tapped his hand on the hood of her car as he spoke, and the emphasis felt contrived. She was immediately suspicious.
“Oh, come on. The press conference is your job.”
“I know it is, and I’ll be up there with you.” He quit tapping, leaned against the car. He crossed his bulky arms and said, “We’ve been friends for a long time, right?”
“Going on ten years.”
“You trust me, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then do the presser. I promise it’s the right thing to do.”
“But—”
He cut her off. “Taylor, the city of Nashville wants to see you lead again. You’ve been fodder for the press for a couple of months now, and practically the moment you’re reinstated, a huge string of murders happens on your watch. They know about Fitz going missing, they know about the Snow White Killer’s apprentice. You need to regain their confidence. You need to let them know that you’re in control, that the old Taylor Jackson is back in business. Your close rate is still head and shoulders above any cop in the city—hell, most of the country. This is the perfect opportunity for you to get them back in your court.” He took a breath, then quickly said, “And we can put a camera behind you, film forward, see what the crowd shows us.”
“Ah, so that’s the plan. Bribery by B-roll. You’re just appealing to my need to find the creeps who did this.” But she smiled, and he smiled back.
“I honestly think it will do you some good. Quell the scuttlebutt.”
She blew out a breath and thought for a few minutes. Dan was right, she did need to get the city’s confidence back. Badges and honors were all well and good, but in the long run, the only thing that mattered was the close. Though the people of Nashville were a forgiving bunch, the escapades over the past year had tarnished her spotless reputation, and in turn the reputation of Metro. They needed to know that she was back, one hundred percent back, solid and able to solve this case. Because eight teenagers in one night was going to rock Nashville unlike any case it had previously faced.
Too bad Baldwin had to leave town. She’d worked with his team on other cases and knew that, despite their differences in the past, the chief of police liked having the FBI involved in major crimes. He felt it engendered confidence from the masses. No matter what, when people heard those magic letters, F-B-I, they felt safer. Well, most people.
She heard her mother’s voice in her head. Beggars can’t be choosers. No kidding, Mother.
She ran it through her head for a minute. They could use the extra footage of the scene. She had a feeling that their killer was watching, reveling.
“Okay, I’ll do it. When?”
“We’re live in fifteen minutes.”
She put her hand on his arm to stop him. “Hey, Dan? Thanks.”
He just nodded and left her.
She scooted inside and found Lincoln making notes on his netbook.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey back,” Lincoln replied. “Just talked to McKenzie. He’s got the party frozen. Says there’s some parents frothing at the mouth to get their kids home under their own roofs. When you’re done here he’s ready for you to go over there and chat with the kids.”
“You have the video covered?”
“Yes. I’m going to head back to the CJC, upload everything we have and start searching for squirrels.”
“Good. Dan wants me to do the presser, so wait for that footage. Did you two cook this little plan up?”
“Nope. It was his idea. But he did ask if you’d shoot him on the spot if he suggested it. I told him you weren’t quite that trigger-happy.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, and he gave her a small smile.
“I need to get prepped. Do we have next-of-kin notifications on all the victims?”
“All but one. Here’s your information.” Lincoln handed her a sheaf of papers. It was hard to believe that only four hours had passed since they’d arrived at the first scene. It felt like days.
“Got pics from the rest of the scenes?”
He handed her some Polaroids and his notebook, where he’d accurately sketched the layout of each tableau.
“This is perfect, thanks. Oh, a little something to tuck into the back of your mind—the crime scene I just came from, Brandon Scott? You’ll see the level of violence was ten times the rest of the victims. I think he may have been the target, and the rest of the victims were just to cover the killer’s tracks. You need to get as much information on this kid as humanly possible, and fast. He may be the best link we have to our killer.”
“Really? Then maybe the suspect is still close by.”
“I get that feeling, don’t you? This is all so damn…showy.”
“Yes, it is. And coordinated. Not a single person we’ve interviewed saw anything out of the