The Immortals. J.T. Ellison
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on the floor, on his back, naked. Amanda Vanderwood was also nude, her body faceup and partially on the bed, arms trailing onto the floor. Taylor noticed that Amanda’s forefinger was touching Xander’s palm. It looked like she’d managed to use the last of her strength to partially shift her body off the bed, and Xander had reached out to her, struggling to get their flesh together in the waning moments of their young lives. Love everlasting.
For the first time in many years of crime scenes, Taylor felt sick to her stomach.
Wouldn’t Baldwin’s caress be the last she’d ever want to feel? Wouldn’t his face be the last image she’d want to see, his lips the last to touch hers, his words to fill her ears? To die with the one you loved at hand, that was grace.
Taylor forced the romanticism away, became clinical and cool. Rigor was setting in. Their lips were tinged with blue, the bodies carved with the same pentacles as the others. Xander was partially wearing a condom, the wrapper was on the floor next to the night table. Were they in the act, getting ready to have sex or finishing when the killer struck? She supposed it didn’t matter, there were no defensive wounds, no real disturbance in the room. It was like they’d simply gone to sleep in permanently awkward positions, with a large, glowing star cut into their flesh.
Baldwin circled the bodies, then stepped to the girl’s messy desk.
“Have you photographed all of this?” he asked. The ’gator nodded. Baldwin poked through the girl’s gym bag, then moved to her purse. He withdrew a plastic bag from the inside pocket of the Coach hobo, four small pills riding in the bottom.
“Taylor,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“Look at this.”
The pills were blue, tiny as baby aspirin, with a heart stamped on one side.
“X,” Taylor said.
“Yep.” He handed them to the death investigator who was attending the body.
“Don’t lose these,” Baldwin admonished.
“Like that would happen,” the kid replied. He was new—Taylor didn’t recognize him. She felt like she’d seen him somewhere before, but couldn’t place him. Not surprising—with Metro’s influx of new people, there were plenty of faces she couldn’t put to names. His ID card was strung on a yellow-and-black lanyard around his neck, she saw his picture and the name B. Iles. He took the Baggie from Baldwin reverently, photographed it and labeled it into evidence.
“They were found like this?” Taylor asked the young man.
“Yes, ma’am. Nothing’s been moved. We’re waiting for the medical examiner to declare.”
“Can’t you do it?” She was surprised. Death investigators, fondly referred to as ’gators, had the power to run a scene without the presence of a medical examiner.
“I can, but word came down that each scene had to be cleared by one of the ME’s.”
“Who gave that word?”
“Commander Huston.”
Ah. Her new boss was by the book, too. Taylor had no problem with that, though she knew Sam would be frustrated as hell. They’d have to roust the entire staff of Forensic Medical, all six of the medical examiners, to handle this mess.
“That’s good enough for me. Anything else you saw that I should know about?”
“No, ma’am. I’ve documented everything, stills and video. Crime Scene’s been looking for the weapon, the knife that was used, but as far as I know, none have been found at any of the scenes. We’ve lifted fibers galore, trace, fingerprints. If the killer left anything of himself behind, we’ll find it.”
“Why do you say ‘himself’?” Taylor asked.
Iles blushed. “Well, I shouldn’t jump to conclusions, but we found a couple of black hairs that obviously didn’t belong to either of these two. One was lying right on top of the male decedent’s chest. It was short, I just assumed it was male.”
“That’s interesting. Does it have a tag?” They’d be able to get DNA off the hair if a follicle was attached.
“No. It was broken off.”
“Too bad. Keep looking, there might be more. If you see something that matches what he used to carve them up, let me know immediately. We need to make sure that every kid’s effects are accounted for, that their gym bags, backpacks and purses are all searched. Find their cell phones and planners, too. Okay? Pass that down the line to your other investigators for me, tell the crime-scene techs, too. And ask them to keep an eye out for more drugs.”
“I’ll take care of it right now.”
“Thank you. Hey, what’s your first name?”
“Barclay. Barclay Iles.”
“Okay, Barclay. I’m Taylor Jackson. This is Supervisory Special Agent John Baldwin.”
“I know,” he said, his voice tinged with the kind of awe that made her cringe. Ah, well. Better awe than derision.
“Get on it,” she said. The ’gator scooted from the room. Taylor heard him breathing deeply in the hall. This was bound to be rough on all of them, heck, half the investigative staff were fresh out of college themselves.
She stared into the room one more time, at the touching, the carving, the silent agony Xander and Amanda had experienced. She wished she could rewind their day and prevent this. It was a fruitless wish.
“What do you think happened here, Baldwin? Is there something I’m missing?”
He was stalking around the room carefully, taking everything in. She knew that look—he was there, but completely abstracted, thinking about the incidents that would have led to the murders.
“I’m just wondering about the timing.”
“Halloween?”
“No, the time of death. All of the victims died around the same time. If the killer was in every house…”
“We have to wait for Sam to determine time and cause of death, but I think you’re right. Too many dead for just one person—is that where you’re going?”
He looked at her with a smile of appreciation. “I am.”
“How many killers, do you think?”
“I don’t know.” He turned away from her, ran his gloved finger along the spine of a book. Taylor saw it was one of her favorites, Wuthering Heights, and felt a pang. Amanda Vanderwood would never read again.
She heard a commotion from downstairs, voices raised.
“Now what?” she asked, resisting the urge to pull her hair down and run her fingers through it to help her think. The gesture was so compulsive, so ingrained that she had to stick her hands in her pockets, the nitrile catching on the edge of her jeans. Baldwin leaned his head toward the open door, where the voices were growing louder.
“We better go find out what’s going on.”
“I know.” Taylor sighed. Please, God, not more bodies.
They made their way downstairs to see Lincoln arguing with an older couple. Taylor was surprised, she thought the Vanderwoods were out of town. When Lincoln made the introductions, she understood and immediately went on guard.
“Lieutenant, this is Laura and Aaron Norwood, Xander’s parents.”
Taylor took off her gloves and shook hands with them. The Norwoods were an older couple, the husband still dressed for work in a blue suit and light blue tie, his wife in a brown velour jogging suit that stretched tight across her ample chest. She’d been weeping and her eyes were swollen and red, but dry of tears at the moment.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Taylor said automatically, knowing the