All the Pretty Girls

by J. T. Ellison

  “Yeah. And this guy uses the interstates. So he could be anywhere by now.”

  Baldwin looked at the file in his lap. Marni Marie Fischer, age twenty-eight. A beautiful face stared at him with laughing eyes. He perused her features, noting the differences between this new missing girl and the ones before. She was older, he saw that immediately. The first three girls had been in their late teens. And Marni had dark blond hair. All of the previous victims were brunette. He found himself saying a quick prayer that maybe Marni Fischer was simply missing, not the latest victim of the Southern Strangler.

  Grimes’s phone rang, and he picked it up, listening intently to the person on the other line. He hung up and shook his head as if trying to clear the cobwebs, then dragged his eyes back to Baldwin. “Okay then, let me fill you in on what they’ve got. A whole bunch of nothing, to be succinct. Sheriff wants us to meet him over at the hospital now. They want to tow Marni’s car to the impound lot, but they kindly agreed to wait for us. I know you like to look at your scenes in situ.”

  Baldwin nodded at him. “Great, that will be a big help.”

  “He’s also bringing photos of the scene so you can see exactly how they found it.”

  “Then let’s hope there’s something that will give us an idea of where he’s taken her.” Baldwin slid lower in the seat, chewing his bottom lip. He had a bad feeling that they weren’t going to find anything that would let them save Marni Fischer.

  Thirteen

  Taylor and Fitz pulled up to Baptist Hospital’s emergency entrance and parked. Making their way through the emergency-room throng was an adventure. Taylor counted six patients that had blood streaming from various places along their bodies. The fluorescent lights made the blood look orange. She swallowed back a moment of distaste. The last time she had come through these doors was on a stretcher, her own blood threatening to spill onto the linoleum floor.

  Her last major case popped into her mind—it was always there, just below the surface.

  She and Baldwin had met on that case four months prior. He’d been in town on a sabbatical, Metro had needed the help of a profiler. A mutually beneficial relationship ensued, one that pushed Taylor and Baldwin into long hours and tense situations. Being thrown together, two strong personalities in conflict, there had been an inevitable attraction. They had been on the trail of an armed suspect. In the end, cornered, the desperate suspect had gotten into a face-off with Taylor, and lost.

  But it wasn’t without a price.

  Even all these months later she could see the knife swinging at her, feel it bite into her flesh. She’d killed the man, but not before he left her a permanent souvenir, a wicked slash across her jugular.

  Her hand went to her throat. She wouldn’t have it any other way—she and Baldwin made a good team. When she nearly died, he’d been right at her side, and hadn’t left. Still, being back in this emergency room gave her the chills. She tossed the thoughts away.

  “Fitz, where would she be?”

  “Probably up in surgery. Chief asked the E.R. doc to put her down as Jane Doe so the media wouldn’t get their hands on the story. Let’s see if it worked.” He went over to the information desk, badged the receptionist and asked for Jane Doe’s whereabouts. He turned to Taylor with a smile and pointed toward the elevator, then lumbered away before the receptionist could get too interested. The subterfuge was working so far.

  Taylor joined him, and they rode up to the surgical floor in silence. The antiseptic smell leaked into the elevator before the doors opened. Taylor was assaulted with a memory of time served in the hospital. She was sorry that Betsy would have to experience the other side of policing—recovering from assault. It happened, not to everyone, but often enough. The elevator doors opened before she could fully relive her pain, and they went to the nurses’ station.

  “You have a Jane Doe up here?” Taylor asked, trying to look noncommittal. The woman looked right back at her and Taylor immediately saw that everyone knew Betsy Garrison was Jane Doe. But the nurse played along.

  “She’s just back from recovery. The doctor is with her now. Down the left hall, she’s in 320.”

  They thanked her and walked toward the room. Taking a look inside, they could see two men, one the doctor in his green scrubs, the other Brian Post, Betsy’s partner. He looked stricken, but after a moment he laughed and sat down next to the hospital bed. Taylor knocked softly on the door. They looked up and beckoned her and Fitz in.

  Betsy Garrison, the tough, feisty head of the Nashville Metro Sex Crimes Unit, was sitting up in the hospital bed, a huge white bandage covering the left side of her head. She looked beaten up and tired but gave as genuine a smile as she could muster.

  “Taylor, Fitz, c’mon in. Join the party.”

  Taylor took up residence on the opposite side of the bed from Post, who was scowling possessively at Betsy. That’s interesting, she noted. Looks like Post has more than professional concern for his partner.

  She leaned over and gingerly gave Betsy a hug. Fitz leaned against the door to the bathroom, looking distinctly uncomfortable. He was an old-fashioned kind of guy, didn’t like to see ladies in distress. Betsy picked up on it immediately. Her voice croaked as she spoke, still rough from the anesthesia.

  “Fitz, I see that your chivalrous sense of justice is piqued. Why don’t you take Brian here and get him a cup of coffee. He’s been mothering the hell out of me.”

  Fitz didn’t have to be told twice. He crooked a finger at Post, who reluctantly rose. With a brief kiss on the one unbandaged piece of Betsy’s forehead that was still visible, Post followed Fitz out of the room.

  Taylor settled in and gave Betsy an expectant look. They’d known each other for several years, had actually been on patrol together. They were as good friends as two female cops could be, and had a great deal of respect for each other.

  Betsy jumped in first. “It looks worse than it is. Broke my nose and the cheekbone. But they got everything fixed up, and I’ll look better than before. That sweet doctor did my nose while I was under. No more bump!”

  Taylor gave her a small smile. “You’re keeping up a brave face. How are you really?”

  Betsy deflated slightly, trying for a smile and grimacing instead. “I hurt like hell. I’m embarrassed as hell. I feel like an idiot. My own suspect rapes me? I mean really, if that got out on the force, I’d have to resign. None of the guys could ever look at me the same again. As it is, Brian’s just about to die having to see me like this.”

  “But Brian’s got more than a professional duty to you, am I right?”

  Betsy shifted uncomfortably, the starchy sheets crackling at the movement.

  “Caught me. We’ve been dating for six months or so. He’s a great guy. I know they always say not to date anyone you work with…” She trailed off, eyes sliding away.

  Before the horrible case that nearly cost Taylor her life, she had been caught up in the shooting of one of their homicide detectives. The fact that she had slept with him wasn’t well known. Taylor looked into Betsy’s eyes, wondering if the female in her had picked up on the long-dead affair. Deciding there was nothing to her statement, she brushed the comment aside.

  “Now, tell me what happened last night.”

  A little light died in Betsy’s eyes, but she answered. “I had fallen asleep on the couch. I woke up when I heard a noise outside. Went into the kitchen to see what it was, and there he was. The Rainman, in his black ski mask, dripping all over my kitchen floor. I tried to handle it, you know?”

  “Where was your weapon?”

  “Oh, of course, it was upstairs in my safe. I’m really careful with it—my sister brings her kids over unannounced all the time. Don’t want there to be any accidents.

  “So I tried to talk to him. Ask him what he was doing in my house. He didn’t say a word, just flew across the kitchen like he was shot out of a cannon. Punched me in the face hard enough to knock me out. When I came to, he was finished and leaving. I wasn’t even awak
e when he raped me. I don’t know if that’s good or bad, but I’m glad I don’t remember it, at least for now. Add insult to injury, you know?”

  Taylor did know. And thanked her lucky stars.

  “So what was weird to me was that he was in and out in like twenty minutes. I noticed it was three-fifteen when I heard the noise. When I woke up, it was, like, three-forty, and he was long gone. That didn’t give him a lot of time to enjoy himself, you know?”

  Taylor got up and walked to the window. “But he never lingers at a scene, right? The other women he’s raped say he’s rather dispassionate. Did you get that sense?”

  “Before or after he punched me?”

  “Ah. Point taken.”

  “Taylor, you and I know this guy isn’t about sex. He’s just some strange little man that feels he needs to make a point. There’s never been any violence before now.”

  “Do you think he’s going to keep at it?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “Let me ask you this. How do you know it’s the Rainman?”

  “Oh, they didn’t tell you? Rape kit came away with DNA.”

  “You’ve never gotten DNA before, have you? That’s great news.”

  Betsy shook her head gingerly, grimacing at the pain. “We have gotten DNA in the other rapes. He uses a condom, but he’s sloppy—when he takes it off, he always leaves a drop or two behind. We’ve been keeping that tidbit quiet because we can’t get the damn Tennessee Bureau of Investigation to run any of the newer samples through CODIS in a timely manner. At least not anytime soon.”

  The TBI’s CODIS database was backlogged for a year or more at a time. The Combined DNA Index database was so popular that their lab was overwhelmed with the number of samples to get into the system. Maybe this would bump the cases up the ladder.

  Betsy continued. “They ran it a couple of years ago, after the 2002 rapes. There wasn’t a match, but the database was in its infancy around here then. The samples from 2004 are up there, they just haven’t been processed. If he’s in the system, we’ll find him. It’s just a matter of doing it before we all die of old age.”

  Taylor shook her head. “We’ve got to get our own lab. Maybe because it’s you, they’ll give it a push.”

  “Jesus, God no, we can’t let them know. Taylor, please, you have to find another way.”

  “I know. I’m going to do everything that I can to keep you insulated from this.” She rolled her neck to stretch the kinks out. She was tired all of a sudden. That was never a good sign. As much as her mind knew she was a hundred percent, her body liked to think otherwise.

  Betsy continued her analysis. “The Rainman takes the condom with him, right? But we do have the spermicide. The lab has the chemical signature and we have a brand. Matched it to each rape.” Betsy gave her a little smile that said, “See, we haven’t fallen down on the job completely in Sex Crimes.”

  Taylor noticed Betsy’s eyes starting to droop, and decided to ask what was on her mind. “You think he knows who you are?”

  “Oh, yeah. We gave a press conference a couple of weeks ago, after the last rape. So he knows I’m on the case. What he doesn’t know is we’re getting close.”

  “Or maybe he does, and he wanted you to back off. Why do you think you’re getting close?”

  The spark came back to her eyes. Betsy leaned back into the pillows, looking smug. “The last victim thinks she recognizes him.”

  Fourteen

  When Baldwin and Grimes arrived in the community-hospital parking lot, Baldwin could see a passel of men standing in the northeast corner. Waves of heat shimmered off the black asphalt. Grimes pulled up a few slots away and got out, went immediately to a large dark-skinned man with commanding shoulders and a shaved head. He held himself ramrod straight, and Baldwin pegged him as military from twenty feet away. He followed in Grimes’s path and stuck out his hand for the requisite introductions and posturing. To his surprise, the sheriff flashed him a big smile. He was younger than he initially looked, and Baldwin breathed a sigh of relief. Sometimes the locals just weren’t thrilled to have the FBI involved in their cases, and sometimes they were.

  “Sheriff Terrence Pascoe,” the man rumbled. “You must be John Baldwin. I read your white paper on anger-excitation killers in the Law Enforcement Bulletin last year. Great stuff. It’s good to have you. Sorry about the heat.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff. Not much better in Nashville this time of year. Agent Grimes told me you wanted to tow the car. I appreciate you holding off for me.”

  “Not a problem. The locks are popped.” He handed a manila folder to Baldwin. “Here’re the crime scene photos. Nothing much different, ’cept we pulled the keys out from under the car to process. We’ve been holding her cell phone in case any calls come into it.” He held up a bag with the phone. “Already dusted it, so I’ve just kept it on my person until I turn it in to Evidence. We didn’t get anything off it but her prints. Same for the car. No prints other than her and the fiancé, which isn’t surprising. We’ve talked to him and let him go back home. He’s praying she makes a call to him. Straight shooter, I highly doubt he was involved in this.”

  Noble may have been a small, poor town, but they had a first-class sheriff. Baldwin gave him a nod of gratitude, took the file and glanced at the high-resolution crime scene photos inside. The sheriff was right; other than the keys being under the car, the tableau was identical.

  Baldwin pulled gloves out of his pocket and eased himself into the small BMW. He was thankful they’d left the door open, it must have been well past 120 degrees in the car. He felt around the seats, noting the lack of typical accumulation usually present when a woman spends a lot of time in her car. It was very clean, perfectly organized and told a clear story about Marni Fischer.

  She kept herself in shape. There was a gym bag on the back seat. Baldwin rifled through it—Lycra shorts, wicking T-shirt, socks and high-end running shoes. A brush, hair dryer, small soap-and-shampoo containers completed the bag. There were medical textbooks stacked in the seat next to the gym bag. The console held lipstick, hair bands and classic Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses. Typical stuff.

  Baldwin worked his way through the car, not finding anything out of place. When he opened the glove box, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. He picked it up carefully by the edges and gave the sheriff a questioning look. “You guys see this?”

  “Hasn’t been printed, if that’s what you’re asking. I read it, it’s just a poem. Figured her boyfriend gave it to her.”

  Baldwin stepped out of the car and looked carefully at the note. It was a poem. A love poem. Typed on a piece of white paper with nothing else on it. He wasn’t surprised the sheriff hadn’t thought twice about it; in normal circumstances, no one would. But Baldwin was a profiler, and his sirens went off as he read the lines.

  Being so caught up,

  So mastered by the brute blood of the air,

  Did she put on his knowledge with his power

  Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

  “Yeats,” he murmured. Grimes and the sheriff looked at him closely.

  “You really think a poem could make any difference in this case?” Grimes was shifting from foot to foot, anxious, realizing they may have their first break and it wasn’t because of him.

  “Grimes, did you find any poems at any of the other scenes?”

  “Not where we found the bodies. I don’t know if anyone checked the victim’s effects. Shit!”

  He pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number. “Thomas, it’s Grimes.” Baldwin recognized whom Grimes had called. Thomas Petty was Grimes’s partner and had handled the start of the investigation. He had been on-site for two of the murders, present at the death scenes.

  Grimes was pacing in circles. “You’re still in Alabama, working that missing-boy case, right? Do you have some sharp contacts that can do something for us? Good, here’s what we need. You need to get in touch with the police in Alabama, Louisiana and
Mississippi. Have them go back through all the girls’ effects. If they need to call the families, go out and visit the houses, do it. Have them look for a piece of paper with a poem on it. That’s right, poetry. Make sure they look in the girls’ cars, too.” He cleared his throat, his voice sounded jumpy and anxious. Baldwin could read his face—had he missed the most important clue in their case? “Especially the glove boxes. Call me back as soon as you can.”

  He hung up and shook his head. “You really think this is from the killer?”

  Baldwin nodded. “This guy’s playing games. Surely he wouldn’t leave us hanging with nothing to go on. The hand exchange is one clue. Let’s see if this is another.” He took out his notebook and copied the verses, though he knew the poem by heart. It was one of the most intriguing he knew. He handed the paper off to the sheriff. “Could you get this printed for me, please?”

  “Absolutely. I’m sorry we missed it.”

  “I may be wrong. But it just seems too out of place to be Marni’s.”

  “Why?” asked Grimes, looking uncharacteristically perplexed.

  “A girl that structured…A stray piece of paper may not be unusual in your typical car, but I can’t imagine she’d leave this lying around loose in her glove box. All of her information is separated into envelopes, there’re no stray receipts or mess.” He glanced at Grimes. Granted, the man wasn’t a profiler, but it didn’t take a genius to see that Marni Fischer was a control freak. “Nothing else was out of place.”

  The sheriff retrieved a sleeve of plastic from the crime scene kit in his trunk and slid the note into it, then handed it off to one of his deputies. The man fairly ran to his car and took off.

  “We’ll know quick. I’ve got a good guy in my lab who can find anything if it’s there to find.”

  “I appreciate it.” Baldwin shielded his eyes and gazed at the hospital. So far the only thing linking most of these girls was their chosen or intended profession. If there were other notes, then they might have something.