All the Pretty Girls

by J. T. Ellison

  The missing hands bothered her. Death as a rule was never pretty. Taking the girl’s hands was an obvious attempt to conceal her identity. Dropping her in a lonely field in ninety-degree heat would do the rest. But why in the world would he deliver the hand of the previous victim to the new crime scene?

  Taylor was caught off guard when Baldwin explained the killer’s signature. She’d asked the obvious question. Where is the other hand?

  He’d given her a mirthless laugh. “That’s the question we all want to figure out.”

  They could have easily missed it. Hell, they’d gotten lucky. The Realtor who was listing the land for sale had dropped by to put a new number on his sign. He was overwhelmed by the smell of rotting flesh, and had called the police when he found the body. Fate had been on their side this day. If it weren’t for that they might have missed Jessica Porter for a few weeks, maybe more. Enough time for the heat and the bugs and the vermin to do their job, making it very difficult to identify the remains. The killer was no dummy.

  But they’d found Jessica, and now they had a line on the killer. Taylor was wondering about the connection between Jackson, Mississippi and Nashville when she heard the front door open.

  “How’s my favorite debutante?”

  She shot a nasty look toward the owner of the boisterously deep voice, which made him grin. Covering the few yards to her in three quick strides, he grabbed her and pulled her into a rough embrace. She nestled her nose in the hollow above his collarbone and sighed. He smelled good, fresh. There was no scent of lingering death, just soap and cedar. She nuzzled him once more, then pushed him away, hard. He stumbled back, putting up a hand like he could stop the torrent that was about to come.

  “Dammit, Baldwin, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “We’re having pasta, I presume? It smells great.”

  Her look was murderous and he gave her a sheepish shrug. “What did you want me to do, Taylor? How was I supposed to know he was going to come to Nashville? The Porter girl went missing three days ago, and I didn’t get the call right away. Next time I’ll be sure to roll over and casually mention that a girl has been kidnapped in Mississippi, you might want to be on the lookout for her body here in town. Hell, Taylor, give me a break. I didn’t have a clue where he’d be heading. I didn’t even know it was the Strangler until I looked at her body.”

  He reached out as if to stroke her cheek, but she turned away and went to the stove. She busied herself stirring the sauce.

  “C’mon, sweetie. If I thought I had a handle on this guy, I would have told you sooner. He hasn’t been active for a month. In the wind, totally. We have so little to go on, things are being held together with a wing and a prayer. He doesn’t give us a lot to work with. Missing hands and dead bodies.”

  Taylor turned back to face him. His green eyes were clouded with worry, the salt-and-pepper hair standing on end. She knew that he’d been running his hands through it, trying to make his mind work harder.

  “Missing hands and dead bodies seem like an awful lot to me.” She sounded peevish and felt idiotic. There was no reason to be mad at Baldwin, he was just doing his job. A job he wanted her to do with him. It looked as if they were going to have the chance to work together, just like he wanted.

  “Are you setting up a task force?”

  “It’s me at the moment. I knew I could work with you on it, so I’m freelancing. There’re two other guys working the old cases—Jerry Grimes and Thomas Petty, I’ll share information with them, they’ll share with me. You know how it is.”

  Baldwin had been acting in a consultant capacity, on loan from the FBI to Metro Nashville Homicide, for three months now. His help had proved invaluable to her cases. Of course, sharing a bed with him wasn’t such a bad perk.

  She gave him an appraising smile. “You work fast. Talked to Price, have you?”

  He sat at the table, nodding. “Garrett Woods made the call.” Woods was Baldwin’s boss at the FBI, and friends with Mitchell Price, the head of the Criminal Investigations Division for Metro. Homicide was his responsibility.

  Taylor turned back to the stove. “I’m hungry. We can talk about this later.”

  Baldwin smiled at her. “Who says we’re going to talk?”

  Taylor was in the shower when the call came. Baldwin knew better than to answer her phone. She was fiercely private and detested the idea of anyone confirming the fact that she and Baldwin were, well, involved would be the best way to put it. Very, very involved. It just wouldn’t do to have her detectives questioning her motives or intentions, and she preferred to let them wonder at the nature of their personal relationship. If they knew she was sleeping full-time with a fed, they’d look at her differently. At least, that’s what she told herself.

  Her best friend was the only one she’d confided in. Sam Loughley thought she was crazy for trying to keep it hush-hush, tried to convince Taylor time and again that her team wouldn’t be harassed in the least by Taylor’s relationship with Baldwin, but Taylor liked to keep her work life and her private life separate.

  She stepped out of the shower, toweled off and made her way to the answering machine. The message was brief. “Call in,” the voice said, immediately recognizable as Fitz. It was late, and she was tired, but she dialed Fitz’s cell and waited for him to answer.

  “’Lo?”

  “Fitz, it’s Taylor. What’s up?”

  “Just thought you’d want a heads-up. We got a missing persons report about half an hour ago. Girl named Shauna Davidson, from Antioch. Don’t know if it’s anything, but she’s been missing since yesterday. Never came home last night, so her mother says. She has been trying to reach her, but Shauna isn’t answering her home or cell phone. The mother saw the news, heard the report about a dead girl in the field and thought it might be her girl. She completely freaked out. Problem is, the girl in the field isn’t Shauna Davidson, and Shauna doesn’t seem readily available.”

  Taylor felt her stomach sinking. “Is she brunette?”

  She heard Fitz flipping pages. “Yep. Brown on brown, five-six, hundred forty pounds. Eighteen.”

  “Any more information on her? Where does she work? Maybe she showed up there?”

  Fitz flipped another page. “Doesn’t say. Kid like that, I’d bet some clothing store or waitress job. She’s in Antioch, probably works at Hickory Hollow or something. I’ll chase it down. I’m headed to her place now. Shouldn’t be too hard to figure it out. There are officers on the scene, word over the radio is possible foul play. Could be the lock’s busted on her door, could be more.”

  “Well, get out there and see what it looks like. Hopefully, she’s just out of pocket.”

  “I’m on it. I’ll call you if we need you.”

  “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll see you in the morning unless something happens tonight.”

  She hung up the phone. The media would have a field day with this. It was one thing to keep murders and kidnappings from other states out of the news cycle. A murder and kidnapping in their own backyard, however, would be impossible to keep quiet. She checked her watch. Five to ten.

  She grabbed a Diet Coke and went to the living room. Baldwin had fallen asleep on the couch, a thick case file clutched in his hands. She recognized the lettering—FBI Eyes Only. She stood looking at him for a moment, not wanting to wake him but knowing she should. He’d want to hear this. She shook his shoulder gently and he started.

  “What’s the matter?” He sat up abruptly, the folder falling from his hand. It spilled onto the carpet. Taylor saw crime scene photos, horrific images of death. Helping him gather the photos, she wondered what the hell they were doing. Dealing in death day after day. It was a thought she’d been having more and more often lately.

  “Fitz just called, there’s been a missing persons report filed on an eighteen-year-old girl named Shauna Davidson. He’s headed to her place right now, he’ll call if he needs me. I wanted to see if the newsies are carrying it.”

  The look of
dread on Baldwin’s face was enough to confirm her fears. It was likely that Shauna Davidson wouldn’t be coming home tonight.

  Taylor turned on the television and curled her legs under her on the couch. The lead story was the body found in Bellevue. They had full-blown coverage of the day’s events in the field where they had discovered Jessica Porter’s body. Nashville did so love its crime.

  Taylor flipped through the other local channels, all of which were tackling the story.

  “Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.”

  Baldwin gave her a weak smile. “Looks like the cat’s out of the bag.”

  Taylor flipped back to Channel Five. Whitney Connolly, their lead reporter, was at the scene. It looked like a three-ring circus—what were they hoping to find? Metro had cleared the scene, there was nothing left for them to see. But the b-roll from earlier was gold. The cameras were angled perfectly to catch the landscape of the field, the highway full of flashing blue lights and metro cruisers. Taylor flinched when she realized Channel Five had captured the crime scene techs losing their grip on the body bag as they placed it on the stretcher, the body being jolted—the photographer had gotten a close-up of the bottlenose flies scattering like a cloud of dust. Lovely.

  Taylor’s cell rang again—Fitz was requesting her presence at Shauna Davidson’s apartment. So much for a quiet night. She hung up and pulled on her cowboy boots. Whitney Connolly, who had no more dirt to dish, was asking for anyone who had information regarding the body that had been found in Bellevue to call Metro Police. Her report had been more thorough than the other channels’, her words lingering with delight. Taylor sometimes thought that Connolly enjoyed her job a little too much. Reporting on death and disaster suited her well.

  “Whitney Connolly is as tenacious as a pit bull. She’s one of the few reporters that seem to enjoy taking on some of the local crime stories, wants to see them through.” Baldwin spoke absently, giving credence to Taylor’s silent opinion. She glanced at him, he was lost in thought, staring at the television screen.

  “I went to school with her.”

  That caught his attention, and he turned to her. “A fellow debutante from Father Ryan?” he teased.

  “Jesus, Baldwin. Yes, I suppose she must have been, she and her twin sister, Quinn. They were a year behind Sam and me. They would have been freshmen when you were a senior. I know you came into school late your senior year, but don’t you remember them? That whole story…” She trailed off when Baldwin’s phone rang.

  He answered it brusquely. “Yes…? Yes, I’ve heard…No, I don’t…I will…I agree…Okay…Tomorrow then.” He hung up, then started pacing the living room.

  “That was Garrett, making sure I’d heard about the missing girl. I’m officially being tasked full-time on this now, not just as a consultant. Figured that was going to happen.”

  Taylor gave him her sweetest smile as her own phone rang. She was already up, gun strapped to her side, ready to go. “Welcome to my nightmare. Let’s go.”

  Taylor pulled up to the yellow tape that was strung across the parking lot to the Davidson girl’s apartment building. She smiled as a young officer lifted the tape so she could drive through. Leaning out the window, she pointed to the car behind her.

  “Let him through. He’s with me.” The officer nodded, and she watched in her rearview mirror as Baldwin maneuvered his car under the tape. She pulled up to the bevy of vehicles, turned the engine off and stepped into the night. Baldwin followed suit. She waited for him to join her, then they made their way through the maze of blue-and-white vehicles toward the building.

  Fitz met them halfway up the stairs. He looked to be on his way down. Instead, he let them pass, then turned and followed them up, divulging information as they climbed.

  “First officer on the scene knocked on the door, didn’t hear or see any movement from inside. No signs of forced entry. The landlord gave him a copy of the key, so he proceeded to open the door. It was locked from the inside, but only the push button, not the dead bolt. The officer went in, looked around. Things didn’t look out of place until he hit the bedroom. The bed’s unmade, biologicals all over it. Crime scene kids are about finished with it. We’ve done a canvas, too, no one remembers seeing her last night or today. Doesn’t look too good.”

  They’d reached the door to the apartment and ducked under more crime scene tape. There were only a few people left in the room. Taylor nodded to them as she assessed the scene.

  Shauna Davidson lived well. The apartment was tastefully decorated with a modern flair. A flat-panel television took up one wall, surrounded by high-end stereo equipment. A tan leather sofa dominated the room, buttery soft fawn suede cushions piled high. A good place to relax. There were adjacent chairs in dark brown suede, and a slate coffee table that drew all the colors together. Not a thing was out of place, as far as Taylor could tell. Magazines were lined up with precision on the corner of the coffee table. There were no errant drinking glasses or cans, no used newspapers. Good taste and a neat freak. Interesting for a young girl.

  To the right, Taylor could see a small kitchen and a short hallway that led off the living room. She followed the hall, seeing an unused guest room, an office and, finally, the master bedroom. Here, things were not so neat.

  The bed’s comforter was lying on the floor, the sheets a tangle at the foot of the bed. Blood soaked the mattress. Taylor looked to the crime scene tech standing deferentially to the left side of the bed, waiting for her.

  “Do you have any Polaroids that show exactly how you found it?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We tried to take the samples without disturbing the scene too much.”

  “You’ve put things back in order then? Matches the Polaroids?”

  “Yes, ma’am, this is pretty close to how we found it. We came in, saw the blood, backed out and started taking pictures. Then we took all the samples. It’s not as much as it looks, and the biologicals were desiccated. Been there for at least a day. Dusted the bed and side table for prints, came up with a few. We’ll get it all into the system, let you know. Soon as you’re ready we’ll finish bagging and cart it out.”

  Taylor nodded her thanks and the young man left the room. She turned to Baldwin and Fitz. “Well?” she asked.

  Baldwin took in the room, the blood. Taylor could see the signs of recognition on his face. She waited him out. He crept around the room, making notes, taking a few of his own pictures.

  Taylor watched Fitz out of the corner of her eye, he was getting impatient. She was, too. “Baldwin, talk to us. What’s up here?”

  He closed his notebook, slung his camera over his shoulder. “It all looks familiar. This is similar to what I’ve seen in the other girls’ apartments. The unmade bed, the blood. I think he charms them, gets them to invite him home and into their beds, then strangles them and cuts off their hands. Transports the body to wherever he’s picked next.” He shook his head. “Shauna Davidson. I don’t know where we’ll find her, but she makes number four. He’s speeding things up.”

  Baldwin paced around the room. “See, there’s no sign of forced entry. That’s consistent with the other three girls. I think he picks them up somewhere, a bar, a library, who knows. They invite him back to their place. Maybe things get out of hand, maybe the sex starts out consensual, but just as quickly, they’re dead. There’s no real signs of a struggle. We haven’t found any drugs in their system. I think he must tie them up.” He circled to the head of the bed. “Hey, get your crime scene guys back in here.”

  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 s
ign 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.”

  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.