Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 1

by J. T. Ellison

  Quinn’s hand dropped and her eyes flew open. Comprehension dawned at last.

  “Jesus,” she muttered.

  They were running out of time. Taylor cleared her throat. “Jake hasn’t called home this week? No word from him at all?”

  “No, Lieutenant, not a peep.” She laughed shrilly. “Maybe I didn’t handle things well. I should have told him the truth from day one, when we first met.”

  Baldwin spoke softly. “Tell the truth about what, Mrs. Buckley?”

  She glanced at him for a moment, cool, appraising, then turned away. “The truth about what happened to Whitney and me when we were children. About what a farce our lives were. You remember,” she accused Taylor. “You probably know the whole story already, being a cop.”

  All three of them jumped when Taylor’s phone rang. She was tempted to let it ring but knew she had to answer. “I’m so sorry. Please, let me just take this call. I don’t know the whole story, Quinn. Police reports and court transcripts only tell half of it. I’d like to hear your side. Excuse me for a moment.”

  She glanced at the caller ID. It was Fitz. She picked up the phone and stepped out of the room. “Jackson here.” As he spoke, she couldn’t believe what she heard.

  Hanging up, she went back into the library. Baldwin and Quinn were quiet, subdued. Taylor took a deep breath before she spoke. This news was going to tear a rift through Quinn’s life so large that it would most likely be irreparable.

  “Quinn, please. I have some news about Jake.”

  Quinn didn’t look at her, just sank gracefully into a chair, hands clasped in her lap. She was holding on so tight her knuckles were white. “Go ahead. This day can’t get any worse.”

  “Quinn, Jake’s been arrested. His car was pulled over on I-65, heading south to Nashville from Kentucky. He had…” Her voice wavered for an instant, then gained strength. “He had a body in the trunk of his car. We believe that it’s Ivy Tanner Clark, the girl who went missing from Louisville yesterday.”

  Baldwin stood, ready to pepper her with questions, but she held up a hand. “Jake’s being transported to the Criminal Justice Center downtown. Special Agent Baldwin and I are needed down there right away. We have to interrogate him after he’s booked. Do you understand what I’m saying, Quinn?”

  Quinn’s lips were stretched taut, a bloodless line across her crestfallen face. She shook her head once. “Do I need to get him a lawyer?”

  “That’s his right. Or he can waive that right and talk to us. Why don’t we go on downtown, you can sort it out there.”

  “No.” Quinn’s voice was the strongest they’d heard all afternoon. “No, Goddammit. Let him rot. If he did this, I’m not helping him.” She fled the room and Taylor could hear her footsteps thudding up the stairs. She shrugged and turned to Baldwin.

  “We should go. I want to have a few moments alone with Mr. Buckley.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Taylor and Baldwin rolled into the CJC in high spirits. After a hellacious few days, the Strangler seemed to have fallen into their laps, a product of solid police work and a little bit of luck. Not to mention the possible resolution of the Rainman case. Taylor was giddy with achievement; her name was going to be linked with the capture of two nationally known criminals. Not that she needed a career boost, but her level of satisfaction with her job rose appreciably when things were going her way.

  They made their way down the hall to the Homicide office, chatting. Turning the corner, they found Fitz, Lincoln, Marcus and Captain Price waiting. They didn’t look happy.

  “What’s wrong with you guys? You look like the party’s over before it’s even begun. Where’s Buckley?” Taylor peered out of the office toward the interrogation rooms. The lights were on in one. Jake Buckley, the Southern Strangler, would be behind that door. A wave of excitement rolled through her.

  Price answered Taylor, looking glum. “He lawyered up. Won’t say a thing, just keeps repeating the word. Lawyer, lawyer, lawyer. He, uh, needs a phone to make the call, but we haven’t found a phone that works yet.”

  “Smart move, Cap. Why don’t you let Baldwin and I give it a go, see if he decides to play with us. We have some background on him from his wife. Let’s see if his guilt about her will let him open up.”

  “That’s what we were waiting on. Go for it. But if he asks again, we’ll have to let him call his lawyer. Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised to see one wander through the door any second. You were with the wife, right? Wouldn’t she be calling one for him right about now?”

  Baldwin shook his head. “I don’t think Quinn Buckley’s going to be doing much of anything in the way of helping her husband right now. She’s one very upset lady.”

  “Okay then, give it a whirl. The body was taken to the M.E.’s office. ‘Torn to shreds’ was the phrase the arresting officer used.”

  “Torn to shreds?” Taylor turned to look at Price.

  “Apparently she’d been stabbed, her throat cut, couple of visible broken bones. Torn up.”

  “And the hands?” Baldwin asked.

  “Intact. Looked like a frenzied killing, maybe he got interrupted before he could finish, decided to dump the body in the trunk and get out of Dodge. I don’t know. And there’s more good news. There was also a bag found in the wheel well under the trunk liner. A whole murder kit. Rope, tape, a military-type K-Bar knife, scalpels…crime scene techs are sorting it all right now. There’s forensic evidence galore in that bag. Oh, and look at this.”

  Price handed Taylor a green file folder. Baldwin looked over her shoulder while she flipped through it. The first photo was of Ivy Clark’s mutilated body, stowed in the trunk of the car. Leafing through the file, Taylor stopped at a photo of an overnight bag. An innocuous black leather bag, full to the brim with death.

  Price smiled grimly. “Found everything in here. But that’s not the best part. Look at the close-up.”

  She flipped to the next picture. There was a very distinct monogram embossed into the leather with the initials J-W-B in gold. Taylor shook her head in amazement.

  “His own personally monogrammed murder kit. How convenient. Okay, let me at him. See what I can shake out.” She looked at Baldwin. “Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  “Then let’s do it.”

  Price motioned toward the interrogation-room door. “We’ll be on the other side, watching. Good luck.”

  Taylor opened the door and strode into the room. It was relatively small, just enough space for a table and four chairs. The walls were an institutional shade of robin’s-egg blue, marred only by a mirror. She gave Price and the team a few moments to get themselves situated as Baldwin took one of the chairs opposite a haggard-looking man. Taylor eyed him, he was about her age, mid thirties, but his disheveled appearance added a decade to his rugged good looks. His beard was growing in, his hair was tousled. He had a small drop of blood at the corner of his mouth. Taylor figured that would be the best way to get him to open up. She glanced at Baldwin, who gave her a nod. She was the lead right now. He’d back her up if and when necessary.

  Jake Buckley watched her as she entered, pure hatred in his eyes. He didn’t look as defeated as he had just moments before. Taylor tsk-tsked, stepped out of the room, then came back in with a tissue box. She offered one to him, a conciliatory gesture. He took it and pressed it to his mouth.

  “Looks like you got roughed up a bit out there, Mr. Buckley. I’m so sorry about that. I’m hoping this is just a huge misunderstanding, that none of our men actually meant to hurt you. Regardless, that wasn’t very professional of them, and I’ll have a word with the arresting officer, make sure it’s noted in his file. Would that suit you, sir?”

  He met her eyes and a bit of arrogance crept into his gaze. The term sir had put him back in control. He had money and power, and by God he was going to be treated with respect. A subservient woman to interrogate him was just the ticket. Taylor was playing him perfectly.

  She leaned again
st the wall, arms crossed, smiling. “Now, Mr. Buckley, can I get you anything? Coffee, maybe? Soda? Maybe some ice to put on that cut? Looks like it might be swelling up just a little bit.”

  Buckley eyed her. “Coffee. Black, two sugars. The ice won’t be necessary. Looks like you could use some yourself.”

  Taylor ignored the jibe about her black eye. “No problem, Mr. Buckley. Let me go get that for you.” She smiled again, nonthreatening, a buddy, not a cop. Stepping out into the hallway, Lincoln met her, a mug of coffee in his hand. She winked at him, then stepped back into the room.

  She handed him the coffee, then sat in the chair opposite him, next to Baldwin but distancing herself by sliding the chair a few feet to the side, so the table wasn’t between her and Buckley. “Here you are, Mr. Buckley. I sure am sorry we had to put you out like this. I’d understand if you didn’t want to talk to me, but I’d love to hear your side of the story, how that lip got cut. Was it one of the patrol officers?”

  Buckley snarled at her. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re about there, little lady. You’re trying to get me to confess to something I don’t know anything about. All I know is I got pulled over, dragged from my car, assaulted by one of Metro’s finest and brought here. What the hell do you people think you’re doing? I swear I’m going to make sure every single one of you is fired.” He glowered at her, hostile and demanding. Taylor could see this man as a killer, and the thought made her blood run cold. She almost dropped the act, nearly spit out what she was actually thinking about the bastard, but she held her tongue and simply nodded and crossed her legs.

  “I understand completely, Mr. Buckley. I can’t apologize enough, for the whole department. We are truly sorry we inconvenienced you. I’m sure you understand, we have just one little problem to clear up and then we’ll do our best to get you out of here. Get you home to Mrs. Buckley. Quinn, isn’t it? I’m sure she’s worried sick about you right now, sir, what with you being on the news and everything tonight. She’s probably sitting at home right now, crying her eyes out because she doesn’t know what’s happening. Would you like to call her?”

  “I’m on the news? Why the hell is that?”

  Taylor chose to stall him. “Tell me, Mr. Buckley. Your wife mentioned that you like poetry.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Oh, I think you know. Love poems. She mentioned you used to send them to her, way back when. Are you still in that habit now, Mr. Buckley?”

  “What difference does that make? So I send my wife love notes. Doesn’t make me any different than the next guy.”

  “And when you send them to your wife’s sister? Does that make you any different?”

  “Send poems to Whitney? What exactly are you accusing me of, Detective?”

  “It’s Lieutenant. And I’m asking if you were having an affair with your wife’s sister. Identical-twin sister, at that, who happens to be very, very dead.”

  Jake Buckley opened and closed his mouth, took a breath and spoke, menace in his voice. “I don’t know anything about Whitney’s death. I’ll have your badge for this, Lieutenant. I may not be a lawyer, but I know slander when I see it. Is that what you’ve been telling my wife? That I cheated on her with her own sister? What do you think I am, some kind of monster?”

  “Perhaps you are.”

  “And perhaps I’d like to know what you meant by me being on the news.”

  It was time to get to it. Taylor raised her hands, palms up, entreating him for calm. “Well, Mr. Buckley. Sir, I’m sure you understand that we’ve been looking for you for a couple of days now. And there’s that little technicality we’ve been dealing with. Sir, how do you explain the girl in the trunk of your car?”

  Buckley’s eyes widened and his bullying veneer dropped for an instant. “What girl? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “How about the bag with the knives, rope and tape…your tool kit, full of bloody evidence?”

  Buckley shifted in his chair. “I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

  Taylor stood now, ready to hit her stride. She paced the room. “Let me guess, no one mentioned that you had a dead girl in the trunk of your BMW, Mr. Buckley? A girl named Ivy Tanner Clark? You met her in Louisville? It’s okay, Mr. Buckley. I understand how these things work.” She sidled up to him. “You meet a girl, maybe get a little friendly with her. Maybe things get a little rough, and suddenly, BAM! She’s dead, and you don’t know what to do. So you stash her in the trunk of your car and drive toward home, figuring you’d find a good place to dump her along the way. Is that how it happened, Mr. Buckley? Isn’t that what you’ve been doing here for the past couple of months? Meeting a girl here or there, sweet-talking her to go somewhere with you? Getting a little frisky, okay, maybe a lot frisky, and she somehow accidentally ends up dead?” Taylor stopped pacing and planted herself two feet from Buckley. He reared back in his chair as if he’d been hit.

  “No. No, no, no, that’s impossible, that’s not right. I never killed any girls. I have no idea—”

  Taylor interrupted him, all the sweetness and light gone from her voice. “Oh yes, yes, yes, Mr. Buckley, that’s just what you’ve been up to. Your happy little road trip throughout the Southeast? Picking up girls, murdering them, transporting their bodies. Or has that little tidbit slipped your mind? What about their hands, Mr. Buckley?” Taylor was two inches from Buckley’s face now, each word biting and cutting as well as a knife. He looked terrified.

  “What do you do with their hands, Jake? Do you mind if I call you Jake? Do you tell them your name before you kill them, Jake? Were you just trying to get yourself a little bit of ass and it went awry? You found out how much you liked it, didn’t you? You liked forcing them, liked choking the life out of them. And then you administered the coup de grâce, didn’t you, Jake? You cut off their hands, took one with you to throw down at the next dead body, the next mutilated girl. Isn’t that how it went, Jake?”

  Her voice was sharp, loud, and Buckley flinched away from her, shaking his head, a low keening sound escaping his throat. “No, no, no, no, NO! No, I didn’t do any of those things. I didn’t, I swear it! I may be a jerk, but I’m not a killer. I didn’t kill anyone. Christ, you have to listen to me. Lawyer. I want my lawyer. Right now!” he roared, eyes white with panic.

  Taylor turned tail and walked out of the room. Baldwin followed suit. They left Jake Buckley blubbering like a baby in the interrogation room and joined the rest of the homicide team.

  They met her in the hall, all four men grinning. “Nice performance, Lieutenant.” Price congratulated her. “You scared him so shitless he forgot to ask for a lawyer until the very end. Well done, girl.”

  “Thank you, thank you. But we have to get him to say something other than ‘No, I didn’t do it.’ Baldwin?”

  Baldwin was staring at the floor, lost in thought.

  “Baldwin?”

  He met her eyes. “Something’s not right about him.”

  “Well, we know that. Your average guy doesn’t like to kill his dates at the end of the evening,” she said.

  “No, it’s something more. He was really cocky with you when you let him think he was in control. But the second you turned on him, he cowered like a beaten dog. This killer wouldn’t do that. The notes he’s sending, the sensational nature of the crime—I think he’d be bragging about it. I don’t think he’d let you get under his skin like that.”

  “C’mon, Mr. Fed, give the girl some credit. She can waltz back in there and he’ll tell her anything she wants to hear.” Fitz wasn’t quite growling at Baldwin, but he definitely was pushing things.

  “He just might. But I don’t know if it’s him. We need to get some of the forensics together, get his DNA. We can compel a DNA sample from him now, right?”

  Taylor nodded.

  “Then let’s do that. We can try to match it against the semen taken from Christina Dale’s crime scene. I just can’t get my head around
him as the killer. Not the way he backed off when Taylor got in his face. An accomplice, maybe. Hell, I don’t know. Let’s get some proof.”

  Fitz stared at Baldwin as if he were an alien. “Baldwin, the man had Ivy Clark all laid out in the trunk of his car. He was speeding back to Nashville to get rid of the body. He had the bag of tools right there in the car with him, his own damn initials stamped on it. What the hell more do you need?” He raised a beefy paw. “Naw, don’t answer that. I’ll go get the sample, have it run over to be tested.” He disappeared into the hallway.

  Baldwin turned to Taylor, whose smile had faded. It had felt right. “Let Buckley stew for a little bit. I want to go over the file on Whitney and Quinn.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Baldwin set up shop in the conference room across the hall from Jake Buckley’s interrogation room. The files from Quinn and Whitney’s kidnapping were spread before him. He buzzed through them, absorbing all the information. The story was all too familiar.

  Whitney and Quinn were bright, bubbly twelve-year-olds when they went missing. They’d been playing that day, innocent and pure, two sisters enjoying an afternoon of free time after school, no responsibilities other than make-believe and fun. They were both towheaded, blue-eyed and happy. All this Baldwin gleaned from the photos of the girls that accompanied the files. Photos from before the kidnapping.

  The after shots, pictures taken when the girls were recovered and taken to police headquarters while their parents were notified, told a different story. Their eyes were troubled, no smiles, just blank stares. Both girls had been beaten, eyes blackened, and Quinn had a split lip. The only way he could tell them apart was the small white label affixed to the bottom of each photo designating each girl. There was a shot of Whitney staring into the camera as if she hadn’t realized her picture was being taken. There was no innocence in the gaze, she had the eyes of a woman twice her age that had seen a lifetime of abuse. What three days could do to a child was overwhelming.