Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 2

by J. T. Ellison

  She turned away from the chaos, spoke quietly into the phone. “Whoever did this wanted our attention, and now they have it. We’ve already blocked off part of Estes Road. I’m going to push those roadblocks to Hobbs and Woodmont, move the perimeters back on all of these houses, start trying to sort this out. You’ll need to get out ahead of it. The media is going to have a field day.”

  She heard finger snapping in the background—Huston getting some unwary soul’s attention. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Go to it.”

  She closed the phone. Baldwin put a hand on her shoulder. Her team was already responding, people being gathered into manageable knots, patrol cars stationed at the corners of Estes and Woodmont, blocking access to the street. She could hear more sirens coming closer, the response almost immediate. She looked at Baldwin. His eyes were dark in the gloom.

  “Satanists murdering people is something for urban legends, not Nashville,” she said.

  “I agree. I find it hard to believe, but it is Halloween.”

  “Meaning?”

  “What better time to try and spook people with occult images?”

  Taylor shook her head. “Someone wanted to send a message. This was a coordinated plan of attack. It takes a level of sophistication to pull off multiple murders. Let’s just see what we can find out.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Controlling the bedlam only took half an hour, which was incredible, considering. Taylor had set up a temporary headquarters on the street in front of the King house. She’d assigned each of her team a role managing a group of patrols on their specific tasks. She had officers interviewing every person who tried to enter the area, getting addresses and finding out if they had children. Those who did were passed into a secondary control—do you know where your children are? If the child couldn’t be reached by phone, the address was marked and a team sent out. A fourth group of patrol officers were responding to the 911 calls and reporting in their findings.

  The body count was up to seven, in five separate houses. She could only pray that they’d discovered all the victims.

  Four females and three males, all between the ages of fourteen and eighteen, were dead. It quickly became apparent that all of the victims attended Hillsboro High School—so far no students from any of the multiple private schools or the robust homeschool network in the area had been reported missing or deceased.

  Two crime scenes held multiple victims—a couple involved in a sexual interlude, a condom still on the tip of the boy’s penis, and two girls hanging out for the afternoon, their physics books on the floor, the scene scattered with US Magazine, People and Cosmopolitan. Half studying, half gossiping.

  The neighborhood wasn’t pleased with her identification system, but she couldn’t figure out a more efficient way to determine the breadth and depth of the situation. She had to show a calm face, a force, a presence. She needed to be composed and reasonable. She’d been trained to handle major emergencies, and she was exercising her training to the fullest. They had the situation under control.

  A little voice in the back of her head kept screaming—you might be missing him, you might be letting the killer get away with more—but second-guessing herself wasn’t going to make things better. Once they’d determined that the primary event was over, they could start putting the pieces together.

  The first victim found, Jerrold King, had been dead for at least a couple of hours. Taylor was working on the premise that the murders had taken place sometime between 12:30 p.m. and 3:00 p.m. School had let out at noon, the first body was found at 3:00 p.m. Assuming the victims had attended the half day of school this morning, she had an initial framework to follow.

  She shuddered, thinking about the methodical staging, and wished she could fast-forward a day so she had an idea of what killed them. Drugs of some kind—the cyanosis and pinpoint pupils pointed to an overdose—something they had all ingested or injected. She was having dark thoughts about mass suicides. But that couldn’t explain the pentacles, could it? Could seven teenagers all coordinate a mass suicide and carve pentacles into their flesh as they were dying?

  No. These crimes were committed by an outside hand. One who’d struck quickly, mercilessly and efficiently.

  Taylor saw McKenzie putting Letha King into a patrol car. It pulled away, the child’s blank stare fixed forward. McKenzie stood next to Taylor, watching her go.

  “What’s up?” Taylor asked. “She give you anything?”

  “She hasn’t said much of anything. I thought it best to hold on to her until her aunt comes to get her, out of the house, at least. She called a few minutes ago, she’s on her way.”

  “Good. We’ll want to talk to her again, once things settle down.”

  They walked back to the Kings’ house. Despite the crowd, the kitchen was strangely quiet.

  Baldwin handed her a stack of photos. “Are you ready? Simari gave me her extra Polaroids so we can start recreating the scenes. Though I’ll be able to pull this from memory for a while.”

  “No kidding. Have all the victims been identified?”

  Lincoln nodded. “For the most part, yes. There’s going to be formal IDs done for a few of them tomorrow, once next of kin are notified. Two of the families are traveling.”

  “We can’t release names to the media until we have all the notifications done. I think it would be best to wait, make all the names public at once.”

  “We can try, but you know some of the names will leak. Nature of the beast.”

  “I know. Do your best, okay? Run me through the scenes, give me some names to put with the faces. After Jerrold King and Ashley Norton, who was found next?”

  She laid the pictures on the granite countertop. Lincoln shuffled them around until he had them in order.

  “We have Jerrold, then Ashley Norton. The two doubles after that, Xander Norwood and Amanda Vanderwood, then Chelsea Mott and Rachel Welch. Then we go back to a single we just found, Brandon Scott.” He tapped the last photograph. The picture showed the rictus-gripped face of a young man who’d not seen enough sunrises. Beautiful features ruined by death. Taylor wondered what they looked like alive, then pushed that thought away. No sense in it—she’d be haunted by their death masks forever.

  “Are you hearing of any links between the victims? Any enemies?”

  “No. No one knows a damn thing.”

  “Where was the first couple found?”

  “At the Vanderwood girl’s house.”

  “Then let’s go there.”

  The trek didn’t take them long—the Vanderwoods’ house was only a quarter mile up Estes. It was less showy than the previous two homes, smaller, with whitewashed clapboard and a red front door. All the lights were on, and crime-scene techs darted in and out. A small group of neighbors watched silently from the lawn, sadness etched on their faces.

  The stairs seemed endless, the now-familiar scent of jasmine clinging to the air in the hallway. Amanda’s room was the first at the top of the stairs. A death investigator took pictures, the shutter’s snap rang in Taylor’s ears. It was one of the most common sounds she heard at a crime scene, but it felt invasive and new tonight.

  Xander Norwood was 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. T
heir 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 words were hardly a comfort.

  Mr. Norwood nodded brusquely. “We came when we heard. We wanted to be close. We want to see our son. Who did this?”

  “We’re trying to figure that out, sir. Can you excuse us for a moment?”

  She stepped into the hallway with Lincoln and Baldwin, speaking to Lincoln in a low undertone.

  “We need Father Victor and some more chaplains. Can you get him over here?” The department chaplain was required to be a part of notifications to family members, and Taylor was so used to having a member of the clergy along that she was uncomfortable speaking to the Norwoods without him.

  Lincoln whispered, “He’s at another scene. We’ve asked for backup, and we’ll get it for tomorrow, but right now, we’re it. Just FYI, Norwood’s being awfully pushy. I had to restrain him when he first got here. He’s calm now, but I’m not sure how long that’s going to last.”

  Taylor indulged at last, took her hair down, rubbed her fingers across her scalp, then put her hair back in its bun. It wasn’t like she could go back to the Norwoods and say, sorry, I can’t talk, my favorite priest isn’t here to shelter me from your distress.

  Baldwin’s cell phone started to ring. He put up an apologetic hand, murmured, “I need to get this,” and disappeared outside.

  Taylor watched him go. “Can’t blame him. I hate this part, too. All right. Let’s do this.”

  She reentered the living room with Lincoln, met the pa
in in their eyes full on. They’d retreated into that helpless state, unbelieving, unresisting, the reality of their son’s death still trying to seep into their souls. She didn’t have much time—they’d either slip away entirely into a grief so profound nothing would rouse them, or fly off the handle, become belligerent and difficult. Better to keep them focused on the here and now, if at all possible.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Norwood, can you tell me more about Xander and Amanda?”

  Mr. Norwood shook his head, reiterated his request. “We want to see Xander. It’s only right. We deserve a chance to say goodbye to our son.”

  Just in case they decided to ignore her, Taylor crossed her arms on her chest and leaned against the doorjamb, effectively blocking their access to the stairs.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you do that. We have to work on the scene, and I’ll be completely honest with you, it’s not pretty. You don’t want this vision of Xander as the last you’ll ever have. You’re going to have to trust me. I give you my word that I’ll take good care of him.”

  Mr. Norwood stared into her eyes for a long moment. She took his gaze, unflinching. I will treat him with respect. I will see his killer punished. After a long minute, he dropped his eyes to the floor and nodded. She seized the opportunity to try again.

  “It would be a big help if you could answer some questions for me. Can you talk about Xander for a few minutes? Tell me about him? About Amanda?”

  Laura Norwood breathed out a ragged sigh, a small smile of remembrance playing on her lips.

  “What do you want to know? They were inseparable. Been going together for two years, were probably going to be together forever. You know how there’s always that couple, the ones who met early and that was it? That’s Xander and Amanda. The big joke was they were going to change their name to Woods, since our last names are so similar. That’s what their friends called them, the Woods. Amanda’s nickname was Woodie before she met Xander, so her friend’s teased her, called her Woodie Woodpecker. Xander and Amanda loved it. She was on the cheerleading squad, and it was just announced that she’d be captain next year. My God, I can’t believe this is happening.” Her hands started to shake and her husband took them, held them hard between his palms.