Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 1

by J. T. Ellison

  Fitz disappeared and came back with one of the crime scene techs. Baldwin motioned the man over and pointed to the headboard on the wrought-iron bed. “You missed something,” he accused.

  The tech turned red, realizing he had missed something. A pale fiber was attached to the frame of the headboard. He quickly collected it, apologizing. As he left, Baldwin clapped him on the back.

  “Probably from a rope. We found it at the other scenes, as well. That’s why there isn’t much sign of a struggle. That he would tie them up fits. See, this kind of killer is excited by the helplessness. Anger, excitement, pleasure, they all come from the same place for this guy. He has a thing for their hands, which I haven’t figured out yet. The fetishistic elements are all there, I don’t think he’s doing it to hide their identities. He’s highly organized, plans in advance. The fact that he parts with any of his trophies is interesting. It’s a clue, a trail of bread crumbs that he’s leaving for us. He wants to sensationalize the killings. Taking the bodies over state lines, the mutilations, all were calculated efforts to make these crimes heinous and splashy. A surefire recipe to get the FBI involved. He wants us to know him. To be sure that it’s him. He won’t deviate from this pattern, it’s become his signature. Now we just have to figure out who he is. VICAP doesn’t have a match to this MO in their system. Other than the forensics, we don’t have any other information to go on. Witness statements are thin to nonexistent. He’s a real ghost, which is part of his plan.” The Violent Criminal Apprehension Program would guide them to corresponding murders if the system had a match. Baldwin had been watching for a hit, a fruitless endeavor thus far.

  He stopped pacing, a gleam in his eyes. “It’s a challenge. He enjoys the fact that he has us stumped. We can’t predict where he’s headed next, it assures that we’re on our toes. Mark my words. He’s begging for us to try and find him.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Whitney Connolly sat at her computer in her home office, tapping out e-mails to people around the country. It was her usual morning ritual. Regardless of the day, she got up from her lonely bed, ran to Starbucks for a latte, greeting people she knew and those she didn’t with a humbled smile, returned home and turned on the computer. She had a vast network that she communicated with, and the mails were sorted by priority. Friends came first, because that category had the fewest mails to go through. And since they were generally the kindest of the lot, she entered the next grouping with a sense of peace. The fans. They came in all colors, shapes and sizes. Female and male, young and old. Pleasant and not so pleasant. The messages were hard to escape; the network broadcasted all reporters’ e-mail addresses on the screen as they gave their reports and posted them next to their pictures on the station’s Web site so they’d be accessible to the viewing public.

  Whitney felt it was important to answer, thanking those who had enjoyed her work the night before, being courteous to those who hadn’t. Being the top reporter in the Nashville market had its upside, that was for sure. Inevitably she pissed some viewers off, and she felt a sense of responsibility to acknowledge their displeasure and attempt to set things straight. Community relations, and all that.

  Today was a good morning though. She had forty fan mails and only five weren’t happy with her performance. She read the comments carefully, disregarding the wackos with a simple “I’m sorry you weren’t happy with the broadcast. I’ll make every effort to correct the problem.” She effusively thanked those that sent generous, loving comments and seriously answered questions from those who thought they knew better than she did about the world they lived in. That done, she took a long drink from her cooling latte and set to work on the next group. The important group. The one that really mattered. The tipsters.

  Whitney had a vast network of people across the country who sent her information. She had been cultivating the group for years, adding legitimate and not-so-legitimate contacts as she went. She had aspirations, big ones. She knew she was one story away from making it. Being a ranking reporter in Nashville was a pretty good gig. Her station had the highest rating in the market, consistently achieving higher market share than the other network affiliates. She handled the beat during the week, sat in the anchor’s chair on the weekend 10:00 p.m. newscast. But deep down, she felt she was better than even a full-time local anchor job. She’d been paying her dues for a while now, and at thirty-four, it was time she got picked up by one of the big dogs. She wanted New York. Not Atlanta, where they all looked the same and weren’t allowed to express their own opinions. No, New York was the place to be, and she was one big story away from being there.

  She had the looks, that was a given. Tall, leggy and blond, she had a perfect nose that hadn’t been surgically altered, full lips that had only seen a little work and a pair of flawless breasts that had cost her a fortune. Finely drawn eyebrows two shades darker than her hair arched over what she had been told were spectacular blue eyes. Yes, she had the looks all right. And the brains to go with them. Not to mention the ambition to get the job done. She just needed that one story on her reel that would blow them away.

  As she scrolled through her mail, searching for the address that would make her a star, she allowed herself a brief respite by switching on the television to the very network she wanted to work for so badly.

  The News Alert flashed red across the screen, and Whitney felt her pulse quicken. She was a consummate newswoman after all. What would it be now? A bombing overseas? A trial decided? A politician caught with a dead girl or a live boy? Bad news makes good news for a reporter, regardless of the cost to the public. As the anchor’s concerned face filled the screen, she felt the warmth spread over her body. She leaned back in her supple leather chair and smiled. He had struck again.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Taylor woke early and flipped on the television. Despite Baldwin’s prediction that Shauna Davidson wouldn’t be found anywhere in the local area, a search had been organized. The early news was broadcasting the shot—a line of men and women in blue cargo pants and Tshirts, clutching long poles, moving purposefully through an open area adjacent to Shauna’s apartment complex. Comfortable that the investigation was proceeding appropriately, she showered, pulled on her jeans and boots, snapped on her holster and gun and set out for Jessica Porter’s autopsy.

  She rolled along the highway, darting between speeding eighteen-wheelers, absently noting the beauty of the day. Entranced by the blue skies, she opened her window only to be assaulted by the oily fumes of the highway. She wrinkled her nose and shut the window, thinking back to the conversation she’d had with Baldwin before they’d gone to bed. He was adamant that the Southern Strangler was escalating, positive that the evidence in Shauna Davidson’s apartment would trace back to the other three murders. Baldwin had a bit of a sixth sense when it came to his cases, a trait that was highly appreciated and necessary in his line of work. Profiling was a bit like being a criminal yourself. He had a knack for understanding what was within the mind of the killers he hunted. It frightened Taylor sometimes, his intensity and single-mindedness, but he got results. She was hopeful that having him full-time on the case would mean a happy outcome for Shauna Davidson, but didn’t really believe it. There was too much blood in the girl’s bedroom.

  His little debutante. She snorted. She hated it when he called her that, and he knew it. He just loved to stick that pin in a little bit every once in a while. Hell, she would give anything for that part of her past to go away. It wouldn’t, though, no matter how hard she might try to pretend. Taylor came from a wealthy family, and had grown up in an affluent area of Nashville known as Forest Hills. She’d had all the little luxuries of a well-bred girl, including the debutante ball she’d reluctantly attended in order to be properly presented to Nashville society, New Year’s Eve after her eighteenth birthday. She wondered briefly if Shauna Davidson had been privy to such pointless goings-ons, and quickly dismissed the thought.

  It still made her laugh to remember the outright fury she’d cause
d her parents when she told them she was going to be a cop. Her parents felt she had a few socially acceptable options to choose from as a career. It was generally expected that college was the first destination, where she would meet her future husband who was headed to medical school or law school. Once they were established within his residency program or a junior partnership and were back settled in Nashville, she could devote herself to raising the children, being a leader in Junior League, and maybe open a little specialty shop or form a small charitable organization, of course only after the children were in school full-time.

  A second but not as popular option was to aspire to a profession of her own—medicine, law, marketing—finding a husband during the course of these actions and immediately starting the marriage/baby track.

  But Taylor was Taylor, and dismissed both options out of hand. She’d watched her mother’s life: lunches, teas, commitments to charity work that allowed her group of wealthy friends to continue living in their sorority days, never aging, never losing the shallowness that permeated their lives. Taylor knew that they did good work, that their charities made a difference on some level, but couldn’t stand the idea of doing it herself.

  That just wasn’t for her. Taylor wanted excitement, even danger. She wanted to live, to really experience life in reality, not never-never land. She needed something to allow her to be her normal, unpretentious self. Nashville wasn’t a huge town, and due to her rebellion against her mother’s well-born intentions for her, she knew people in all walks of life throughout the city. And cops. Lots of cops. She’d had a few run-ins with the law, and as a result not only charmed her way out of trouble but also established friendships with a number of officers, who strongly influenced her decision to join their ranks.

  It was a perfect fit for Taylor. She could give back to her city and not sell herself out in the process. And there was a sense of power, lurking around town, dealing with shady characters and criminals, that she really got off on. She was living in a real world, not one based on spun-sugar bullshit and cutthroat social climbing. Of course, the idealistic view Taylor had, wanting to be a protector, to take care of the people in her community, became crowded by the comprehension that while the cops took care of everyone, no one was there to take care of them. It was a difficult realization, and explained why so many cops had such complicated personal lives, from multiple divorces to illegal drug use, alcoholism and psychological problems and serious control issues. But Taylor still held on to her utopian view of the purpose of the force. She never wanted to go down the broken and tortured path she had seen many of her fellow cops follow, and believed she had the strength to keep herself in check.

  So against her mother’s wishes, she went to the University of Tennessee, received her B.A. in criminal justice and applied to the force as soon as she graduated. Accepted immediately, she went through the Police Academy, cementing relationships with the people she would make her career with. She was a popular student, though her training officer had a tendency to make things a little rough for her. She was young and pretty, and he was the type that didn’t see the need to have women on the force. The dinosaurs were out there, for better or for worse. It didn’t deter her, only made her stronger and more committed.

  Her first dose of reality wasn’t long in coming. Driving her squad car through downtown, keeping an eye out for trouble on Second Avenue, she received a message on her endlessly ringing computer screen that a stabbing had been called in from the projects. Taking off with lights flashing and siren blaring, she arrived to see a young black man sprawled on the ground in a grungy doorway. He was surrounded by wailing family and friends who were trying to stop the copious amounts of blood pouring from a gaping wound in his stomach. In desperation, they were trying to shove his intestines back into the yawning hole. It made no difference. He bled out at her feet. The EMTs arrived moments later, but too late to stop Taylor from losing a large part of her innocence on a dark street deep in the worst projects in town. She finished processing the crime scene and headed back to the station, and once in the locker room she noticed that the man’s blood covered her boots. She could never describe the overwhelming emotion she felt then, but she quickly learned to put her feelings aside.

  She nearly laughed at the memory of that young girl, shocked by a little blood on her shoes. She’d seen plenty since, enough to weaken the idealistic view she’d had as a rookie officer. Now, at thirty-five, she was the youngest female lieutenant on the force, headed a crack team of homicide detectives, and had seen more than enough blood, some of it from her own gun, some of it hers. Yes, the idealism was well and truly gone now.

  She pulled up in front of the Forensic Medical Building on Gass Street, secure in the knowledge that she knew who she was, and was relatively happy with that person. Relatively.

  Baldwin had suggested she apply to the Academy, go through the rigors to become an FBI agent, but she’d turned him down cold. She belonged to Nashville.

  *

  Dr. Sam Loughley, medical examiner and Taylor’s best friend, was sewing closed the Y incision on Jessica Porter’s limp chest as Taylor rolled into the autopsy suite.

  “Wow, you were quick. Didn’t know you would be done already.”

  Sam looked up and smiled through her plastic shield. “I’m not early, you’re late. It’s seven-thirty already. Tim, could you finish up here for me?”

  “Sure, Doc, no problem.” Sam handed off the tools to her assistant and walked toward the decontamination room, pulling off her smock and gloves as she went. Taylor followed dutifully.

  It was only after Sam was cleaned up, they both had a cup of tea and were ensconced in Sam’s office, that she would comment on the autopsy.

  “She didn’t take a terrible amount of abuse.”

  “I don’t know, Sam, being strangled and having her hands cut off seems a bit excessive, don’t you think?”

  Sam nodded. “Well, of course it is. I just meant that she wasn’t horribly abused, beaten or anything. The hands were done postmortem. The strangulation was manual, there was no evidence of rape. It wasn’t as bad as some I’ve seen. She wasn’t torn up, just had the characteristic bruising and tearing I’d associate with rough consensual sex. He used a lubricated condom, and I didn’t retrieve anything that would qualify for DNA. I’ve taken all the samples and sent them to be run. Dr. John Baldwin, FBI agent extraordinaire, called early and told me to send all the trace and the blood work to the FBI lab. It’ll go quicker that way.”

  Despite all efforts to the contrary, Nashville didn’t have their own forensics laboratory to process elements from their crime scenes. Baldwin had just saved them both a major headache.

  “So do you have any other info for me?”

  “Not really, Taylor. The results won’t be back for a couple of days. Cause of death was definitely manual strangulation. We’ll just have to wait for the rest. Baldwin mentioned this was an ongoing case?”

  “He seems to think this is the work of a serial killer the FBI has christened the Southern Strangler. Based on the transportation MO, this is his third kill.” She drifted off for a moment. “I wonder what he does with their hands? Why he’s leaving one behind at every scene?”

  Sam grinned. “Probably an acrotomophiliac. You know, less is more.”

  Taylor wrinkled her brow. “What the hell does that mean? It doesn’t sound good.”

  “Means he’s sexually attracted to amputees.”

  “Aw, Sam, that’s really—”

  “Relax, it was just a joke. The hand that was recovered yesterday didn’t have the level of decomposition I’d expect from one that had been excised a month ago, so I’m operating on the theory that it was frozen. Running all the tests on that one, too. C’mon, let’s get out of here and get something to eat. I’m starving.”

  They went to breakfast, catching up, pointedly not talking about the case. Sam was pregnant, effusive with excitement and joy at the impending arrival of her first child. All of their conversatio
ns lately ultimately found their way back to the being inhabiting Sam’s belly. When they finished the umpteenth round of baby-name options, Taylor dropped Sam off back at the medical examiner’s office, then went to her own.

  Lincoln had pulled together the information on the previous murders, trolling information that must have been supplemented by Baldwin at some point, since the crime scene photos were copies of originals with the FBI stamp in the lower right-hand corner. The files were on her desk, and she delved into them.

  There was little more to be gleaned than what Baldwin had already shared with her. The first murder, Susan Palmer, had occurred April 27. She was reported missing, and when police went to her house, they found an almost exact replica of the scene Taylor had witnessed at Shauna Davidson’s apartment. There was no sign of forced entry, the bedroom was the source of interest. Taylor gazed at the bed, stripped of sheets, bloodstains on either side of the mattress. The blood was ultimately matched to Susan Palmer, and there were fibers adhered to both the bed frame and the blood that came from a national brand of industrial-grade rope. The photos from the area Susan Palmer’s body had been found were also eerily familiar. Long saw grass obscured her body in the first few shots. Close-up pictures of her handless arms had attendant blowups, detailing the wounds. She absently noted that the photographer was wasting his life working for the police, he was adept at making the scene come alive.

  There was one inconsistency in the photos that caught her eye. She pulled out a magnifying glass and examined it. Tracing back through the report, she matched the numbered card to the line in the report. Number 38, unidentified vomit. Hmm. She tucked that tidbit away and went on.