The Cold Room

by J. T. Ellison

  The sheriff spoke. “We found a prescription for methadone at the scene. Seems she was trying to turn over a new leaf. She hadn’t entirely cleaned herself up, her tox screen showed opiates. It was consistent with what we knew about her lifestyle. It was just such a damn shame, seeing a sweet girl go down that road.”

  “Deputy Simmons, is there anything else you know about her? Who she was hanging around with? A boyfriend? Did she have a pimp, a dealer that you remember? Was she close to anyone? Have any enemies?”

  He thought for a minute. “There wasn’t anything like that. I can’t recall her having a boyfriend. There was one guy who hung around her, this skinny kid. Oh, what was his name? I can’t remember, I’ll have to go look through the yearbook. Otherwise, it was just on the sly. Her momma was strict, I do know that. But it broke her when LaTara died.”

  “Is her mother still around?”

  “Sure. Lives in the same house where LaTara passed. Bless her heart.” He looked at his brother. “Listen, I’ve got to go, I need to get back out on the road. Bubba’s covering for me, he’s ready for lunch.”

  The sheriff got to his feet, signaled to his brother. “Get on out of here. I’ll see you at dinner. Judy’s making pot roast. Thanks for coming in.” They slapped each other on the back briefly.

  The sheriff gestured to the files on his desk, caught Taylor’s eye. “Besides, we’re waxing poetic here. Y’all need to go through the files. We’re going to step out, let you get up to speed, then I’ll answer any more questions you might have. Got a good old boy in the drunk tank that needs springing. Just shout down to Debbie if you need me.”

  “I appreciate it, Sheriff. Deputy Simmons.” They all shook hands again, then the two men sauntered off down the hall, one of them whistling.

  Taylor settled into the chair, pulled the top file toward her, pushed the second in the stack at McKenzie. “Let’s get started.”

  It only took half an hour to get through the meager files. According to the reports, LaTara was discovered by her mother, Marie Bender, who allegedly dragged her daughter’s body out of the tub, then called 911. The scene had been disturbed, no doubt about it. A CD of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons was in the stereo, the repeat button pressed so “Winter” played over and over. No one knew what the significance was, so they’d printed it, gotten nothing off it, and placed it into evidence. Taylor wasn’t entirely sure what the significance was either, but the simple fact that it was there, so out of place in the Bender household, stood out starkly. That, and it matched the tentative M.O. they had from the Love Circle crime scene.

  McKenzie traded files with her silently.

  After a few moments, Taylor said, “There’s only one big thing that’s leaping out at me.”

  “What’s that? The head injury?”

  “No, that’s not it. LaTara had been bludgeoned, causing the skull fracture, then drowned in the bathtub. There were signs that she’d had sex recently, but no trace of semen had been found. Granted, she was lying in a tub of bathwater. I can’t imagine they did a rape kit and looked for DNA. Why would they? It didn’t look like a sexual assault, plus the victim was known to be engaged in illegal activities. This was a small town’s investigation—autopsy done in Nashville, evidence passed along to the TBI for analysis—for the most part, obvious answers fit the crime. Standard forensic work had been done. The case was handled just fine, only without a final resolution.”

  “So what’s jumping out at you?”

  “According to the crime-scene reports, there was a large area of damp carpet outside the bathroom door.”

  She gave McKenzie a moment to process. She saw the lightbulb go off a few moments later. She bit back a smile.

  “You think he killed her, then took her out of the tub and had sex with her.”

  “It’s a possibility. Assuming we’re dealing with the same killer, it fits. I don’t know if that’s the case. We need to find out if the mother dragged the girl’s body into the bedroom, or if that event was confined to the bath. If it was, we’ve got something to go on.”

  She made a note to ask the sheriff about it. All kinds of ideas were running through her head. Was it the mother, or an EMT, who splashed water on the carpet? Or was it something more nefarious? Because knowing the M.O. of her killer, the postmortem sex scenario made perfect sense.

  Simmons popped his head back into his office. “Need anything?” he asked.

  Taylor grabbed the sheet she’d been reading from. “Actually, yes. Perfect timing. Do you remember the wet carpet outside the bathroom door?”

  “Let me see.” She handed him the report. He looked it over, then got a faraway look in his eye and rubbed his meaty chin, like it would help him remember.

  “You know, I do. Seems her mama pulled her from the tub. That bathroom’s not so big, I’d assume it was splash from the tub’s water. At least, we did at the time. It was about two feet from the bathroom door, just to the right of LaTara’s bed. Why do you ask? It mean something to you?”

  “I hate to even be thinking it, but if this is the same killer, we need to look at all the possibilities. You never tested LaTara for semen, correct?”

  “Yeah. It wasn’t an assault, leastways it didn’t look like it at the time. You think we missed something?” His voice had taken on a wary tone, slightly defensive. Taylor needed to keep him on her side.

  “We suspect our killer is a necrosadist, someone who kills women to have sex with their bodies. If this is our same guy, it’s possible that he killed LaTara, took her wet body into the bedroom, had sex with her, then put her back in the tub. He washed one of his victims that we know of, and the one from this morning was set adrift in a creek.”

  “I’m starting to think he has a water fetish,” McKenzie added.

  Simmons was looking at them with pure disgust on his face. “He has sex with dead bodies? What’s this guy, like a Ted Bundy?”

  “It’s possible. Bundy used to dig up his girls and have sex with them for weeks. Right now, it looks like our guy discards them within a few days. The FBI is investigating a series of crimes overseas that match the M.O. We’re concerned that perhaps the same killer is working this territory. We need more to work with, though. We’re trying to trace him, to see if and when he started killing in Tennessee. There was another murder similar to this in Chattanooga, last year. Black girl, skinny, found in her bedroom, classical music playing. I’m waiting to hear back from their homicide office to see what matches.”

  Simmons still looked freaked out. She tried to get him back into the game.

  “Listen, your brother said LaTara’s mother still lives in the same house. Any chance we could go talk to her, see what she remembers? If she took the body into the bedroom, this is a dead end. If she didn’t, and there’s a chance our killer might have moved her around…”

  “You think you can find something now, three years later?”

  “It’s worth a shot,” McKenzie said.

  “Then let’s get you out there,” Simmons said. “Miss Marie’s place is a five-minute drive.”

  Twenty-One

  Taylor stood in the front yard of a run-down, ramshackle single-story house on the outskirts of Manchester proper. Another mile into town and all of this would have been under the Manchester Police’s purview; since it was outside the city limits, the Coffee County Sheriff had handled the investigation. It was getting late; they needed to wrap this up so she and McKenzie could get back to Nashville. Sam had called to say she’d be doing the post on the Radnor Lake victim last thing this afternoon. Taylor wanted to witness, had asked her to hold off for another hour or so. She’d really like to wrap Manchester in a tidy bow.

  Simmons knocked, and LaTara’s mother came to the door. She was tall and elegant, skin like the deepest espresso, eyes liquid and expressionless. She stared at the contingent of cops standing on her front porch, sighed, and stepped back to allow them entry. Taylor noticed that one of her arms was drastically shorter than the other.

 
; The inside of the house was better kept than the outside. Though the furnishings were worn, they were clean, kept with pride. A sewing machine and bolts of fabric stood unobtrusively in a corner of the wide living room. Drapes, Taylor thought. She spied a card on the sideboard that confirmed it; Marie Bender was a seamstress.

  The four of them settled in the kitchen, glasses of homemade lemonade in front of them. Taylor listened while the sheriff explained why they were there, saw the pain flit across the woman’s eyes.

  “You have a suspect in my girl’s murder?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am. Well, possibly. I don’t want to get your hopes up. I’m just trying to flesh out a few details. Is it okay if we talk about that day?”

  “Yes. I want the person who did this to LaTara to be brought to justice. There’s not much I can do for her ’cept fight for that. I watched her slip away from me, into drugs, whoring around. I would like to see some closure for her. She was so unhappy. Nothing I ever did could make up for the…incident.”

  “Her uncle?” McKenzie asked gently.

  Mrs. Bender’s eyes grew hard. “Yes, damn his soul to hell. He stole the light out of my little girl. She couldn’t ever put it behind her. But she was trying so hard to change. She’d started at a clinic, was trying to get off the heroin. It was just so easy for her to use it to forget. I can’t say I blamed her. It’s not right, and she had to pay too big a price. Her daddy was gone, Eddie was the male figure in her life. When he betrayed her, she was lost.”

  Taylor turned to the sheriff, who read her mind. “No chance Eddie Bender’s involved, he got himself killed in jail. They don’t take kindly to child rapists, you know.” Taylor nodded, then turned back to Mrs. Bender.

  “Ma’am, when you found LaTara, the report says you took her body out of the tub, held her while you waited for the paramedics to come.”

  Sadness crowded the woman’s eyes. “I did. She was gone, any fool could see that. I just wanted a few more minutes with my baby. I shouldn’t have touched her, the sheriff here done told me that, but I couldn’t help it.”

  “Where, exactly, did you take her?”

  “Where? What do you mean?”

  “When you had her in your arms, where were you in the room? Were you in the bedroom, or still in the bathroom?”

  “I was still in the bathroom.” She started to cry. “I only had her a few feet from the tub, on the tiles. I remember how cold she was, how cold the floor was.”

  “You’re sure you didn’t take her into the bedroom?”

  She gathered herself, dabbed the tears from her eyes. “Positive.”

  “Did you spill water in the bedroom, something that would get the carpet wet?”

  “No. No one knew how that water got there.”

  Taylor felt the excitement building. “Ma’am, have you had your carpets cleaned lately?”

  “Detective, I ain’t got no money for that kind of thing. It’s all I can do to keep the chores done around here and keep my business afloat.” She gestured to her deformed arm. “LaTara used to help with that. It’s just not as easy to keep things up with one arm, though I do my best.”

  Taylor smiled. “I completely understand. Ma’am, would you excuse us for a moment?”

  Mrs. Bender nodded and stood, leaving them at the table.

  Taylor spoke quietly. No sense upsetting the woman more than she had to. “Sheriff, would you mind if our crime-scene tech came down, took a sample of that carpet? It’s probably a long shot, especially after all this time, but if there’s a chance that we can lift some DNA, I’d sure like to take it.”

  “We’ve got a pretty sophisticated forensic setup. Why don’t you let us handle the evidence collection? We can get it done before your man drives down here, get you on your way sooner.”

  “That would be fine with me, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind if Miss Marie doesn’t. I’ll go talk to her.”

  He came back with Mrs. Bender. She had distrust smeared across her face.

  “You gonna replace it?” she asked.

  Bangor had said exactly the same thing about his post.

  Taylor nodded. “We’ll do our best to get things back to normal for you as quickly as possible. You have my word.”

  “Well, then, if it will help catch who did this to LaTara, do what you need to do.”

  Simmons flipped open his cell phone. “I’ll go call my crime-scene techs, see who’s free. Give us ten minutes or so, we’ll get things moving.”

  Mrs. Bender sat back down at the table. Taylor took a drink of her lemonade. It was exceptional. She told Mrs. Bender that, which brought a warm and rueful smile to the woman’s face.

  “LaTara used to go on and on about my lemonade. Damn that girl, I miss her so much.” She took a moment to gather herself. “Why now, Detective? Why, after all this time, are you looking into my girl’s death?”

  Taylor decided to tell the woman the truth. She looked like she could handle it. “Well, ma’am, I hope that I’m wrong, but I think she might be connected to a series of murders in Nashville this week. Do you remember the music that was playing in LaTara’s bedroom the day she died?”

  “Of course. I don’t have anything like that. It’s just not the kind of music I like. And LaTara, well, she was into all that rap. I know that wasn’t one of our CDs.”

  “Did LaTara have any girlfriends, people she might have confided in?”

  “When she was younger, yes. But as she got older, got deeper in the drugs, I’m afraid I don’t know who she was hanging around with. She stopped coming to services, stopped listening to me. I hate to say it, but I kicked her out. It wasn’t very Christian of me, and I regret it now. But I don’t truck with drugs, can’t abide that kind of behavior under my roof. When she got her head back on straight, tried to clean up, I welcomed her back with open arms. She was trying so hard.”

  “So no boyfriends?”

  “Not that I know of. None that I saw sniffing around. She was a pretty girl, my LaTara. Boys always noticed her. But once she got deep into the drugs, she din’t look too good. She was getting back to herself when she passed.”

  The sheriff walked back into the kitchen, followed by a young woman with a brunette pixie haircut and ridiculously high cheekbones. A no-nonsense kind of girl. Though she looked young, she oozed smarts. He introduced her as Deputy Ann Clift. The woman nodded and shook Taylor’s and McKenzie’s hands.

  “Let’s get started,” she said. “Show me the bedroom.”

  The five of them trooped dutifully down the hall. Taylor signaled to McKenzie to hang back. The sheriff and Deputy Clift walked into the room, Marie Bender followed reluctantly. Taylor couldn’t imagine how hard this must be for her.

  Though three years had passed, the room was still decorated as LaTara left it, in the style of a little girl, pink and floral and lace. Posters adorned the walls, a single bed with a flowered eyelet coverlet stood against the wall. Taylor was struck by the similarities and glaring differences between LaTara’s room—warm, inviting and safe—and the room that belonged to Allegra Johnson—dank and dark, with no frills or unnecessary items. These were two girls who were alike, but miles and miles apart. It wasn’t just their physical non-proximity that made them different. It was rather amazing that they’d ended up the same, into drugs and prostitution, dead much too young, possibly at the hands of the same killer. Was there something about Allegra Johnson that reminded the killer of LaTara Bender?

  The sheriff didn’t waste any time, had a diagram from the original crime scene out and was measuring the area to the right of the bathroom door. After a few minutes of consultation, Deputy Clift drew a wide rectangle with an orange marker, then got on her knees and carefully swabbed the entire area, working in quadrants. She sealed each individual swab, labeled it, and moved on to the next section. After she’d collected over fifty samples, she cut the area of the rug out. It measured about four feet by three feet, and rolled easily into a conveniently placed paper bag
. It was labeled and sealed, and they were done.

  They bid Mrs. Bender farewell; Taylor gave her a card and asked her to call if anything else came to mind. They left her standing in the doorway to the bedroom, lost in the nightmares and sorrow she had been living with since her only child’s death.

  Twenty-Two

  The basement was so empty.

  Gavin sat at his corner desk, staring unseeing at his computer screen. The vast black space behind him seemed to grow and breathe, the shadows lengthening ominously. He didn’t like to be alone in the basement.

  So lonely.

  He woke from his reverie when his IM chimed. He glanced at the screen. Morte had opened a private chat with him.

  Hey, Morte. Good timing. I was just sitting here by myself. I’m alone again. They’re both gone.

  The response came immediately.

  WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD DO YOU THINK YOU’RE PLAYING AT?

  Morte was furious, Gavin could read that clearly. But why? The last time Morte had gotten angry with him was about the car. No, it wasn’t smart of him, but he was still learning. What else could have set Morte off? Oh, the music. He shouldn’t have told him about the music. Morte had been very clear in his instructions, in how the scene should look. But Gavin was an artist, and the music was so lovely, so necessary. He needed to hear the flowing, building crescendos as he worked. He couldn’t help himself. He decided to play dumb.

  What are you talking about?

  You know exactly what I’m talking about. How dare you contact me in the real world?

  Gavin’s brow furrowed. Contact Morte in the real world? What?

  Morte, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t been in contact with anyone.

  As he typed the period, a moment of insanity passed through him. He had been in touch with someone. Someone very far away. Someone unattainable. A slow burn began in his chest. He started to type, stopped himself. No. That was crazy. There was no way.