She parked the Lumina in the back lot and headed inside, up the stairs to the landing that held a new industrial ashtray, dark gray and heavy plastic, with a slot at the top for the spent cigarettes to disappear into. Though she’d quit more than a year before, she still had cravings now and then. She had to admit it was nice not seeing used butts sticking up like matchstick men arrayed for battle from the depths of the reusable kitty litter that used to serve as sand.
She swiped her card and entered, wondering just how many times she’d followed this exact route in the past. Hundreds, thousands of times. Always hurrying into the office to work on the most pressing cases. She rather envied her old boss Mitchell Price his new late-night office hours.
The place was buzzing with activity, the hallways full of people moving between appointments. Nodding to faces she recognized, she stopped at the soda machine—she desperately needed a Diet Coke this morning. Cold can in hand, she entered the homicide offices.
Commander Huston was standing by Marcus Wade’s desk, flipping through a manila file folder.
“Morning, ma’am,” Taylor said.
Huston turned and nodded to her. The woman was no-nonsense, five foot six, a runner with muscled calves and a compact body, veins protruding in her forearms. She wore no makeup. Her hair was short and hand-styled over her ears, a light brown streaked with blond from excessive time in the sun. She’d been training for a marathon, and Taylor knew she ran fifteen miles after work every evening. She admired the dedication Huston put into her life—work and running took all of her focus and she was good at both.
And she let Taylor manage things in Homicide, which was even better.
Huston turned and gestured to Taylor’s office. The two women went inside and shut the door. Huston took the chair opposite the desk.
“Fill me in, Lieutenant. What’s happening?”
“We have some crazies, that’s what’s going on. The letter sent to the paper was marked at the end in blood with a grouping of symbols that look to be pagan. McKenzie is at the library right now, trying to make sense of them. There was a phrase under the bloody marks, ‘Blood is intensity, it is all I can give you.’ Tim Davis is running through everything now, getting what he can from it.”
“Prints? Delivery method?”
“I don’t know about the prints yet, and the letter was found on the floor in the ground-floor hallway—that’s the back entrance near the printing presses. Those doors are locked—only Tennessean employees can get inside that way. Their security guy figures someone shoved the letter through the doors, but he didn’t see it happen on film. We’ve got the tapes. I’ll have Lincoln look through them and see if he can spot anyone. What I’m worried about is the film.”
As she spoke, she tapped in the address of the video. She swiveled her monitor toward Huston, made sure the volume wasn’t overly loud. When the screaming started, she didn’t want the entire building to come running.
Huston watched for a few minutes, pale under her tan, then met Taylor’s gaze with worried brown eyes.
“What can we do?” she asked.
Taylor clicked the stop button. The screen froze, the wide-fanged mouth mocking her. “I’ve already asked Lincoln to get in touch with the company and get it pulled from the site. I can’t imagine they’ll fight us on this. I need to check in with him, see where we stand.”
“You’re meeting with the administration at Hillsboro this morning?”
“Yes, ma’am. Ten.”
“It’s nearly nine now, I’d best let you get to work. Keep me informed, especially about this movie. I’ve heard from the hospital. Young Brittany Carson is not doing well. She isn’t expected to make it, it’s just a matter of time. She never regained consciousness. Too much damage done by the drugs, I suppose. I’m sorry, I know you worked to save her.”
Taylor sighed deeply. “I work to save them all, ma’am. It seems to be a losing battle somedays.”
“Yes, it does, Lieutenant. Yes, it does. Make sure your detectives talk to the department psychiatrist by the end of business today. I’m sensing this case will be bothering everyone for quite some time. That goes for you, too.”
“I’ll pass the word along. Ma’am, I have a request. Forensic Medical is going to be overloaded on this case, and the multiple toxicology screens and DNA runs are going to take weeks if we send them to TBI.”
“Yes, they will. What do you propose?”
“In the past, we’ve used a company called Private Match to do time-sensitive work. I’d like to get permission to have the samples sent there for testing.”
Huston cocked her head to the side. “I think that’s a good idea. I’m already getting pressure from on high to get this case solved as quickly as possible. If you think that Private Match can help us attain that goal, then I’m all for it. I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”
“Thank you. That’s going to be a help.”
“Get some sleep, Lieutenant. That’s an order.”
Huston shook Taylor’s hand, then opened the door and disappeared. Taylor took her hair out of its ponytail and ran her fingers through it, combing it out. Huston was easy to work with, though much more formal than she was used to. Regardless, she was a woman who knew how to get things done, and that’s exactly what Taylor needed right now.
One problem solved. She didn’t have time to get meditative about Brittany Carson. She had to admit, she’d been hoping the girl would pull through. And she really didn’t feel like sitting down with the department shrink.
Marcus came to her door, knocked softly on the doorjamb.
“Yeah,” she said.
“We’ve got a name on the man who appeared in the crime-scene footage. We’ve sent a patrol to pick him up. With any luck we’ll have him here by 11:00 or so.”
“Why so long?”
“He lives north of town—it’s transport time.”
“What’s his name?”
“Keith Barent Johnson.”
“Okay. What’s so special about Mr. Johnson that we were able to identify him so quickly?”
“You don’t recognize the name?”
“No. Should I?”
Marcus smiled. “He was in the system, so I checked him out. He was arrested last year after making threats against the president. Ended up getting busted for tax evasion.”
“Oh, yeah. I remember him. He’s a kook.”
“Yep. A kook who’s all over the Internet calling himself the king of the vampires.”
That got her attention. “You’re kidding.”
“I kid you not. Lincoln needs to see you, if you have a minute.”
“I have just a minute. I need to get to Hillsboro. Will you look over the security tapes from The Tennessean for me, see if you can see anyone slipping a letter through the back doors?”
“The letter from the killer?”
“Yeah. Keep it quiet. I want to hold as much of it back as possible.” She briefed him, then said, “McKenzie’s researching all the symbols right now. Hey, listen. What happened to our kid from last night, the one Simari’s dog took a chunk out of?”
“He’s still in the hospital. The bite hit into the muscle in his leg. He’s going to have surgery this afternoon, then some recovery time.”
“Good. I want to talk to him again.”
Lincoln joined them, dreads standing on end. He looked rough. They all did—no one had gotten any sleep last night. They were all wearing yesterday’s clothes, running off of caffeine and adrenaline.
“The video company is working with us, but it doesn’t seem to matter,” he said simply, sinking into the chair closest to the door. He ran a weary hand across his dreadlocks, getting them into a bit of order.
“What do you mean? They won’t take the video down?”
“No, they complied immediately. It breaks their community guidelines. YouTube took the video down after it got flagged by several viewers as obscene. But it’s gone viral. People have downloaded it to their own computers and
are uploading it to other video-sharing sites. They all have a version running—Vimeo, Vuze, MSN, Yahoo!—and everyone’s trying to work with us, but it’s growing too quickly. At last count ten video sharing sites on the Internet have it. Some have cut the end, where Brandon Scott is murdered, some have it intact. We can’t keep up, though I’ve been doing my best. Word on the street is this is the work of an underground film crew. Some of the Hollywood wannabes apparently do high-quality independent work, especially in the horror genre. The message board and comments are lit up like Christmas trees, debating whether it’s real or just incredibly excellent editing. And people are e-mailing it around, too.”
“Son of a bitch. It’s like a bloody hydra. Get on the horn to Judge Botelli, and call A.D.A. Julia Page. See if there’s anything legal that can be done. And make sure YouTube releases the information about how and where the original upload is from. That’s evidence, and I’ll be damned if I let their free speech issues get in the way of an eventual conviction.”
“Not going to be a problem, they’re working on it. Whoever posted it was pretty sophisticated, was able to reroute through several servers to cover his tracks. They’ll get back to me as soon as they nail it down.”
“Has the news picked it up?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck!” she said, slamming her palm onto her desk.
Eyes blurred with fatigue, Lincoln managed a grimace. “That’s pretty much my sentiment, too.”
Taylor texted McKenzie as she left the CJC to let him know she could pick him up at the entrance to the library in five minutes. As she exited the building, Sam called.
“We swabbed the wounds of all the victims. I’m certain the cause of death was a drug overdose, so I’m sending the blood work in for more comprehensive toxicology. I talked to Vanderbilt. Brittany Carson’s blood showed high concentrations of methylphenidate, methylmorphine, paramethoxyamphetamine, methylenedioxymethamphetamine and diazepam. Lethal levels. I assume that’s what we’re dealing with here, too.”
“English, Sam?”
“Sorry. Just what the early tox screens indicated—Ritalin, codeine, PMA and MDMA, that’s the stuff in Ecstasy and Valium.”
“From the laced Ecstasy? Jesus. Someone took a great deal of time to get the right chemical compound together and disguise it in the tabs of X. When will the posts be done?”
“Not until this afternoon. I just wanted you to know that we’re on the possible DNA. It’s going to take time, though.”
“Reroute everything to Private Match. I’ve already gotten permission for them to run the extra toxicology screens and the DNA. Tell them to put a rush on it, okay?”
“Will do. Everything okay over there? I heard that there’s a video of the murders floating around.”
Taylor got in the car and snapped on her safety belt. “There is, though the Internet companies are working to get it taken down. It’s gone viral, and it’s everywhere. Thankfully, some people think it’s a horror movie, but the truth will be out soon enough.”
“I’ll keep working on everything. You hang in there.”
There was a note of kindness in Sam’s tone that had been missing for the past few weeks, and Taylor felt tears prick at the edges of her eyes. She missed Sam badly.
“I’ll do my best. Thanks for handling the posts so quickly. Is there anything else I need to know?” she asked.
“No. But if I get something new, I’ll call.”
“Good. Talk to you later.” She slid the phone into her front pocket and picked McKenzie up at the library steps. He got in the car with a wide grin on his face.
“Hey, before I forget, you need to see the shrink today at some point. Huston’s orders.”
“Oh, Victoria? I mean, Dr. Willig.”
“You know her?”
“Sure. She’s great. I’ve talked to her from time to time, about…things. You know.”
Taylor did know. McKenzie had lost his fiancée to suicide, and bore the weight of it on his shoulders. He would always feel responsible, because his sexual preference dictated that he had to break their engagement and the girl couldn’t handle the news. He’d come from Orlando to Nashville last year to get away from the trauma of it all. Taylor knew she was one of two people who knew the whole story—the other being McKenzie’s partner, Hugh Bangor. They’d met on a case and were quite close.
Make that three people. Dr. Victoria Willig was on the in with McKenzie too, it seemed. That was good. The more comfortable McKenzie became with his sexuality, the less it would matter at work. She had a tolerant bunch of cops around her—they’d have no problem with him being gay. But the department as a whole was a different matter. Metro Police was like the military and professional sports—don’t ask, don’t tell.
“We’re going to be late,” he said.
“I know that.” She pulled away from the curb, turned left on Sixth and headed across Broadway to Twenty-first. “You obviously found something.”
“I did. The symbols I didn’t recognize, the triangles and the circles with crosses in them? They represent the Watchers. They’re the guardian angels, invoked during circle spells for protection.” He shoved a sketch under her nose. She glanced down to see what looked like stick figures.
She looked back at the road. “The Watchers represent the points on the compass?”
“More than that. They correspond to the elements, the seasons, the stars, the planets. North, South, East, West—Earth, Air, Fire, Water. The Watchers are vital to just about every aspect of witchcraft. But most importantly, they’re called upon for protection. The symbols on the letter represent the protective elements. The killer, the letter writer, was looking to keep himself blessed, that’s for sure. Like a talisman. A good luck charm.”
Taylor glanced over at him. “I never knew it was good luck to write in blood.”
“Power comes from blood. That’s what it’s all about.”
“So what’s with the stick figures?”
“Those are the positions the Wiccan holds when calling to the Watchtowers. When you go back over the crime-scene photos, you’ll notice that the bodies of the victims were in these positions as well—either arms to their sides or outstretched, like the North, East and South Watchers.”
“Ah. Of course.”
McKenzie caught the note of sarcasm in her voice. “Some people take this very seriously, LT. They live in this world. They believe. It’s not so different from going to church, you know. Everyone needs something to believe in. Pagans just look to things that are a bit more tangible than what you and I are aware of.”
Taylor yawned widely, her ears cracking with the effort. The sun came out from behind a cloud, glinting off the metal of the cars around her. She slipped on her sunglasses.
“I’ll tell you this. Belief or not, I want to catch whoever did this and punish them. I subscribe to the higher power of handcuffs, you know?”
Eighteen
Quantico
November 1
8:50 a.m.
“So you admit that you were having an affair with Dr. Douglas?”
Tucker leered at him, and Baldwin wondered what exactly was going through his mind. Had Tucker been on the receiving end of Charlotte’s favors? He looked the man up and down—the bald pate, the pouchy stomach, the gray skin. Possible. Charlotte never looked at the package, only worried about what was in the box. She had a tendency to find contents that could be shifted to appease her every desire. He’d have to walk even more carefully now.
“I never denied that. We were colleagues in a pressure-cooker situation. We were working a gruesome case. You know how it gets, sir. It wasn’t the first time two teammates turned to each other for solace.” Baldwin refused to look away, met Tucker’s eyes squarely. Come on, you wanker. You’ve been boning your executive assistant for years, and we all know it. What are you really looking for?
Tucker had the good grace to blush. “I think we can fast-forward through the gory details now, Dr. Baldwin. Let’s begin
again, with Susan Travers. She was the fourth alleged victim of Harold Arlen, correct?”
“No, she was the fifth.”
Northern Virginia
June 15, 2004
Baldwin
The smell made him nauseous. No matter how many autopsies he participated in, which thankfully were few and far between, he could never get his stomach to cooperate properly. The drive up from Quantico, coupled with the wicked hangover and a slightly dirty feel from screwing around with Charlotte, had made him even more queasy than usual.
He let his mind drift away from the little body being examined on the autopsy table. Susan Travers was the fifth victim in as many weeks. Baldwin had been brought in after the third victim, eight-year-old Ellen Hughes, had disappeared on her way home from school. She’d been found dead three days later—legs broken, stabbed once in the chest—tied to a tree in Great Falls Park.
His team was still relatively new. Two months ago, they’d been fresh-faced agents recently acquired into the behavioral science unit. They still thought it was cool to be working there, hadn’t seen enough of the horrors the work held in store for them. They were normally only tasked for crimes against adults, but they’d been pulled in on this case to help out when the lead profiler for BAU One had suffered a heart attack.
This Great Falls case had tempered their enthusiasm pretty damn quick.
Baldwin had handpicked the team: Caleb Geroux was from New Orleans, a homicide detective with a nose for wheedling confessions out of suspects; Jessamine Sparrow, as fine-boned as her name foretold, his new computer genius and a former hacker; and Olen Butler, his forensics expert. Butler was an especially significant find—in the months before Baldwin brought him on the team, he’d developed a brand-new DNA program for their CODIS systems. The combined DNA index system was working hard to match DNA samples from crimes across the country, and Butler’s intuitive program utilized an aspect of ViCAP, the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, to make the CODIS matches quicker and deeper than ever before.
The Immortals Page 13