Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 1

by J. T. Ellison

  “It is. I hope this is a false alarm.”

  They set up shop in the basement, taking cover from the malicious winds tearing at the building. Taylor’s voice rang out clear and sharp.

  “Might as well have that status meeting now. Here’s where we stand. Jill Gates is a junior at Vanderbilt. She’s from Huntsville, Alabama; a blonde, like Shelby and Jordan. Her parents reported her missing this morning. They say they haven’t spoken with her in four days. Four days, people. He could have snatched her up before he killed Shelby.”

  “Shelby had been missing for how long before she was found?” Baldwin asked.

  Taylor flashed the light at him. “Three days, as far as we know. Her roommate Vicki last saw her Friday night. We found her body Monday morning. If MP had taken the report Saturday instead of assuming it was a college kid doing their thing over the weekend, we might have been able to save her.”

  The bitterness in Taylor’s voice broke his heart. He knew why she’d attacked him now. She was blaming herself for this whole mess. And he finally realized how he could help: Solve this damn case, and give her some peace of mind.

  “Let’s try to establish a time line here. When does Sam think Jordan was killed?”

  Taylor looked to her second. “Fitz?”

  “Let me see that flashlight.” He shuffled some papers and pulled out the autopsy report on Jordan Blake. “Sam estimates she wasn’t in the water more than five days or so.” He thought for a moment, counting on his fingers. “With that time frame, she could have been killed on Wednesday or Thursday, then dumped into the river.”

  Marcus reached over and flipped the page. “So he kills Jordan on Wednesday night or Thursday morning, then immediately grabs Shelby?”

  Baldwin started nodding. “Okay, if that’s how it went down, he killed Shelby sometime on Sunday night and dumped her at the Parthenon. Jill’s parents report her missing today and say they haven’t talked to her for four days. That means the last time they talked to her was Saturday?”

  “Yeah, that’s what the report says. That means he took Jill before he killed Shelby.” Taylor was getting upset. “We should have another body showing up here anytime, huh?”

  Baldwin was sitting close to Taylor in the dark room. He gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “Not necessarily. Don’t give up just yet. What else do we know about Jill?”

  “I got off the phone with Jill’s parents right before we got stuck in here,” Lincoln said. “They’re heading up from Huntsville. They’re just blown away by all of this.”

  “Did they give you any other information?”

  “They said she was seeing someone, but they don’t have any idea who it could be. She never confided in her parents about that kind of stuff, but they said she was being especially secretive lately. She didn’t go home over fall break and told them she was going to stay on campus to get ready for exams. They called her on Saturday, but she was in a rush and got off the phone real quick, said she had to meet a friend for dinner. That’s the last they talked to her.”

  “Good, that’s good. Taylor, didn’t you say you had the feeling Shelby had a boyfriend, but her roommate wouldn’t give you anything on him?”

  “Yeah, I got the sense she was keeping something from me. With Shelby’s background, I felt it might be a secret affair.”

  Price finally spoke. “And we know for a fact Jordan was involved with someone, willingly or unwillingly. Her pregnancy confirms it. If Jill Gates also had a mystery lover, we’re getting somewhere here.”

  Marcus and Fitz spoke at the same time. “Same boyfriend.”

  Baldwin gave them a big smile. “Same boyfriend. We find him, and maybe we’ll find the killer.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Mary Margaret struggled with her backpack and umbrella, her glasses sliding down her nose. She was trying to make it to St. Catherine’s to meet Father Xavier before the storm hit full force. The sky was a deep green; she’d seen tornado skies before and was certain that the fierce swirling winds were bearing down on her as she ran. The hairs stood up on the back of her neck, and deep chills ran down her spine. She shook off the unsettled feeling. The lightning was close. It was simply static electricity making her hair bush out and stand on end.

  A huge gust of wind caught the umbrella and tore it out of her hands. “Damn it!” she screamed, watching it fly away. It was the worst curse she allowed herself to say aloud, but the guilt of losing her temper hit her immediately. Another Hail Mary from Father Xavier. There was no way she was going to be on time for their scheduled meeting. She thought longingly of the warm fragrant tea he would be brewing in his cozy office. She never ran late for their sessions. She hoped he wasn’t worrying about her.

  Mary Margaret loved her theology classes at Aquinas College. It was a relief for her to be in the company of so many young students who shared her beliefs. When she found her way back to the Church, the doors swung wide and welcoming for a young woman in search of herself. There was no judgment, no dirty looks. Of course, no one knew her background. Mary Margaret had confided in only one person about her past.

  She’d met Father Francis Xavier a few months back. He was new to Nashville, too, a young, principled, and compassionate priest. She felt an immediate connection with him and started going to Mass at his home church, St. Catherine’s. He was a stranger in town, a little lonely, and always willing to discuss the mysteries of theology with his new friend. One night, she asked him to take her confession. It was the only way she could think of to share her pain and humiliation with another person without repercussion.

  She’d told him her whole story. Mary Margaret’s family lived in Atlanta and had left the Catholic Church before she hit her early teens. Her grandmother, a full-blown, off-the-boat Italian Catholic, had converted to Baptist for an unknown reason and harangued the family until they switched as well. The main force of her argument was her fear that if they were not saved, she would never see them in heaven.

  Mary Margaret had never been terribly religious. As she entered her teens she found many more exciting things to do than going to church four nights a week and spending weekends in revivals. She fell into a group of misfits who got her drinking, then using drugs. Ultimately, she began having sex with the boys in the group. Atlanta provided many excitements for a rebellious teenage girl, but she soon grew bored of her life and wanted to strike out on her own. With one hundred dollars in her pocket, she left town.

  She made her way across the country, hitching rides with strangers, working for cash in small-town cafés, trading herself if she got too low on cash to purchase drugs. She made calls home to her parents, but they were so upset with her that they wouldn’t talk to her. She wasn’t happy living on the edge. She was lonely, rundown, and a little sick of herself and her behavior. She began having thoughts of returning home. And then it had all caught up with her.

  Somewhere in the backwoods of Colorado, she’d hitched a ride with the wrong man. He’d beaten her and raped her, then dumped her in a campground. A church group on a day hike found her bloodied and bruised, but alive. They’d taken her to the nearest hospital, a small community endeavor run by the Catholic Church.

  It was the words of succor from the nuns that had brought her back to life a changed woman. One of the nuns told her of a college in Nashville, Aquinas College. It was a perfect place for her to start over. The nuns allowed her to live with them for a time, helped her study for and acquire her GED. They celebrated her triumph when she was offered a small scholarship to Aquinas. With their meager savings, they got her on a plane to Nashville and paid her first year’s rent on a small apartment across the street from the school. This setup made it simple for her to walk to class and placate her caffeine addiction at the local Starbucks. She took jobs on campus to pay the rent and worked as hard as she could to begin a new life. Her faith in her rediscovered religion had become the cornerstone to a whole new world.

  When she’d finished her confession, Father Xavier
found he had even more respect for his young friend. He convinced her it was time to let her parents know where she was. They didn’t welcome her back with open arms, but their relationship began to mend. She had been to Atlanta a few times to visit, and was calling dutifully once a week.

  She was healing.

  As the wind lashed her face and the rain plastered her hair to her skull, she ran across the parking lot and was almost hit when a car screeched around the corner and pulled up beside her. The passenger door swung open, and she was overcome with relief. She knew this car, and the man driving it. How had she gotten so lucky that he was driving by as she was struggling to get out of the storm? It must have been divine intervention. All she saw was shelter and, hopefully, a ride to St. Catherine’s. He was yelling at her to hurry up and get in, and with a quick prayer to Mary to keep her safe, she did.

  Fighting with the door, she finally managed to slam it behind her. She was soaked to the bone, shaking with fear and cold. For a brief moment, silhouetted against the storm, he was hidden in shadows, his hair standing on end, his eyes blank, ghastly holes in his face.

  Then the light went on in the car, he gave her a huge smile, and she saw he was just the ordinary, handsome man she knew. She laughed at herself; it was just the storm spooking her.

  “Thanks so much. I almost blew away there.”

  “I saw under the altar the souls of them that were slain for the Word of God, and for the testimony which they held.”

  “Pardon me?”

  Mary Margaret’s internal alarm bells went off, but before she could do anything, she heard the locks on the doors snap closed. The man said nothing more, just smiled and put the car into gear.

  CHAPTER 38

  The storm worsened, and conversation drifted off, the detectives lost in their own thoughts about the case or the storm or what to have for dinner. Taylor sat on the floor under a small stack of blankets, feeling incredibly foolish. She’d been through many storms before, but this one had a different feeling about it: a malevolent, evil oppression. She shook her head, trying to get the feeling of doom out of her mind. How silly was she? Thirty-four years old and afraid of a little storm.

  Thunder shook the building, and they heard a rushing noise like a freight train getting ready to ram through the walls. There were a few nervous laughs from the darkness, but everyone was listening to the rushing wind intently.

  Baldwin reached over and touched her shoulder to get her attention over the noise of the storm. “Were you here the last time the tornadoes came through downtown?”

  His voice gave her a little comfort. Strange, it seemed to be hours since their spat on the stairwell. But Taylor was used to that. She didn’t lose her temper often, but when she did, she did it thoroughly and without thought. Once it was over, it was over. She did feel a little embarrassed by her outburst, but she was too worried about the storm to deal with it at the moment. Besides, she thought, fear makes strange bedfellows. She blushed in the dark at the fleeting image that came with the thought, cleared her throat, and replied to Baldwin’s innocuous question.

  “No. I was on vacation and saw it on the news. I’m glad I wasn’t here. Sometimes I prefer to watch the wrath of God from afar.”

  “Wrath of God, huh? Think it’s that bad out there?”

  She gave him a sidelong glance, trying to decide if he was mocking her. She had the distinct impression he wasn’t talking about the storm.

  But Baldwin sat calmly, legs drawn up and hands dangling loosely in between.

  “You never know,” she said lightly. “How are we going to find the boyfriend?”

  “The moment we’re cleared to get out of here, we drive to Vanderbilt and take the place apart. Someone knows who these girls were seeing. From all you’ve told me, Shelby Kincaid didn’t necessarily confide in her parents. She could easily have been seeing someone as well. Three girls seeing the same man? If we’re right, now we have a suspect and a possible motive.”

  “You mentioned cults earlier when we talked about the aconite. Do you think the girls were aware of each other, that the relationship with this man was open, so to speak? Or done in a group? You know how kids love to experiment. If they had a charismatic leader pushing them into a group situation…”

  “It’s entirely possible. It all depends on our suspect. But I’m inclined to say no, simply because of the timing. It feels like he’s snatching and dumping, going through some sort of ritual sacrifice. But I’ve been wrong before.”

  “I want to talk to Shelby’s mother again. I did get the sense there were things left unsaid during the interview.”

  “You have good instincts. Follow them.”

  “So do you,” she said, surprised how pleased she was by the compliment. “The problem is, we’re three steps behind this creep. I have the worst feeling, like he’s out there on the storm’s winds, doing something right now. Silly, I know.”

  “It’s not silly at all. It’s how I always feel when I’m working a serial. Completely out of control, and every step I make could be the wrong one and cost a life. It’s the chance we take, working these cases, knowing no matter what we do, we might be too late.”

  He said it without artifice, and she realized, for all the seriousness of the conversation, she enjoyed talking to him. You’re out of your mind, Jackson.

  “Something else is bothering me,” she said. “They’re all so different. I mean, Jordan Blake was supposedly trouble on a stick, and her parents are quite absent. Shelby Kincaid was the extreme opposite, with overprotective parents and a reticent personality, super focused on her studies. Jill Gates is in between, and her parents certainly sound like they’re attentive, at the very least. Would one man be drawn to three wildly different personalities? I thought serials went for the same type.”

  “The different personalities are interesting to me as well, but they all have similar physical characteristics. I think what makes them alike in looks attracted this man, not what made them different. What’s bothering me is the mixed presentation. Leaving semen and fingerprints tells me this is a disorganized killer. Multiple victims in a short time frame, staged scenes, the herbs, all point to a very organized offender. In other words, these could be his first crimes and he doesn’t know any better, doesn’t know how to clean up after himself. Or he could be very much in control, is building up to something bigger and splashier, thinks he’s smarter than us and will get away with it, or doesn’t care if he’s caught. Because he’s exhibiting hallmarks of both, that tells me he’s decompensating. He’s making mistakes now. I’m inclined to think he’s a disorganized offender, and there’s something else going on.”

  “How do you do this? Profile, I mean. Quantico is on everyone’s radar right now. What y’all do up there is fascinating. Everything you just told me makes perfect sense, but how does it help us catch him?”

  He tensed, and she mentally kicked herself. When he answered, his voice wasn’t as easy. “There’s a science to it, no doubt, but for most of us, it’s the ability to trust our gut. We rely on experience and instinct. Years and years of instinct. If you’re a good investigator, it rarely leads you wrong, until…” The unspoken words hung in the air. Until it does.

  He was no longer relaxed, stood and started to pace. Taylor sighed to herself. And you were doing so well. Good job upsetting him. Another thought hit her, this one more immediate.

  “Hey, Price? Do you think the generators came on in the jail?”

  She could barely see the alarm on her boss’s face; the batteries were running down in their only flashlight, and the light was fading quickly.

  “We’d better hope so. All of those locks are electronic—the doors would have swung open if the power was off for more than five minutes. Last thing we need, a bunch of half-cocked prisoners wandering the streets. How long have we been in here anyway?”

  A small light glowed on Fitz’s wrist.

  “’Bout a half hour, Cap. Think it’s cool to get out of here yet? I’m getting a
little claustrophobic.”

  “I think we’re good. Let’s go see what’s happened.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Mary Margaret was sitting on her hands, which were tied low behind her back. She had managed to scoot around a little in the confines of the confessional, but only enough to wedge her fingers under her butt.

  The events of the past hours were all a blur. She remembered the man picking her up, their quick exodus to St. Catherine’s Church. She was so relieved to be indoors, away from the fury of the storm.

  Father Xavier had greeted them, obviously relieved to see she was okay and thankful that her friend had delivered her safely to his door. He guided them into his office. The man she was with asked for something to drink, and the priest poured them steaming cups of his aromatic tea. She could vaguely recall the taste of the tea: amazingly bitter, despite the three spoonfuls of sugar she had dumped in. Regardless, it was warm, and she was safe within the confines of her mother church.

  Almost immediately, her mouth had gone numb and her stomach felt violently upset. She vaguely heard Father Xavier remark that he wasn’t feeling well either, and then all was black.

  It seemed like hours later when she came to. She didn’t know immediately where she was. Her stomach felt as if it was filled with knives; her hands were going numb. She thought hard and realized she was still in the church. In fact, she could tell that she was inside the confessor’s side of the confessional.

  She had no idea how long she’d been stuck in here. The gag in her mouth was cutting off her breath, and she figured if she breathed slowly through her nose she didn’t feel she would suffocate immediately. Her stomach heaved violently. Her whole body was going numb; she couldn’t feel her limbs anymore.

  She heard footsteps and listened intently. They grew closer. She could tell there were two people coming toward her. One was shuffling; one was marching with purpose. She heard muted voices, muttering and moaning. She tried to scream, but the only sound she could manage was a tiny whimper. She felt ashamed. At the moment of her death she should be full of grace, praying to the mother Mary to give her strength and acceptance. She didn’t doubt for a minute she was dying; she felt as if she’d left her body already. Her mind was able to register what was happening, but her body was slipping away and wouldn’t respond. She couldn’t feel them, but the tears began to roll down her face.