“Herbs? What kind of herbs? What the hell is that about?”
“I have no idea, but we’ll have to keep a tight rein on that little tidbit. It could be a signature, and we really don’t want it getting out.”
“This place is leaking like a sieve, Taylor. You keep that deep, okay? Nobody hears about it outside of your detectives.” He leaned back in his chair. “So how do you want to run this? You’ve got a few open cases on your plate right now, but this should take priority.”
“Yeah, we have several that are on the burner, and two very active. I can offload them on Fitz, let him run them, and if this pops, we can pull him back in. He can manage things out of here for me if anything happens. Plus, I think it would be good to bring Marcus Wade in to back me up on this. He needs the experience.”
“Works for me. Which cases do you want to give Fitz?”
“The Lischey Avenue murder from last week. The one the paper picked up and ran with? Little Man Graft murdered Lashon Hall, Terrence Norton saw the whole thing, but he’s not talking. That one.”
Price groaned and Taylor grinned. Anytime the news got involved in their cases, something was bound to go wrong.
“Mayfield didn’t do us any favors, did she?”
“No.”
“Little Man and Norton are getting to be frequent fliers with Metro.” He shook his head, frowning. “Think you can nail them for this one? I’m getting tired of their antics.”
Taylor barked a laugh. “It’s not me, Price. Blame it on their peers. I made a solid case two months ago on an assault charge against Terrence, and the jury acquitted him in forty-five minutes. Anyway, I haven’t been able to shake anyone loose on Lischey Avenue. There is a fourteen-year-old kid who witnessed the murder, but his mom has him in hiding and won’t let him make a statement. I begged and pleaded, but she said no way. I don’t blame her—these guys are absolutely ruthless. There’s a better than even chance he’ll get himself killed if he talks.”
“So what do you want to do?”
“I want Fitz to work his magic on Terrence. See if he can scare anything out of him. Lashon was supposedly his best friend, so maybe Fitz can appeal to the kid’s conscience. If not, we don’t have enough to charge Little Man with this murder, but he is on probation. If Terrence will give it up, we can get him on a weapons charge at the very least. And then charge Terrence as an accessory. Like I said, it’s a mess.”
“Let Fitz go to town. He’ll nail one of them on something, and the rest will topple like dominoes.”
“That’s what I’m hoping. I was gonna pull him in on this anyway.” She got quiet for a minute. “There is one that I wanted to handle myself, but I can turn it over if you want. Suicide last week, seventeen-year-old boy. There’s something way hinky about this one. Rescue got the call that a kid committed suicide. They responded and found the boy shot in the bathroom, but he’d been dead for a few hours. The father made the 911 call. When the officers arrived, he told them he and the boy were sitting side by side on the bed in the father’s bedroom, having an argument. He claims the boy reached over him to the bedside table, pulled the father’s .44 out of the drawer, stood up, walked three feet to the bathroom door, put the gun to his right temple, and pulled the trigger. Sort of an I’ll show you gesture.
“When I got on scene, the father had hidden the gun in a basket across the hall from his room. His kid was lying there in a mess of blood and brains, and the dude asked me if he could step out for a bite to eat. I almost shot him myself. I think the father shot the kid, set the whole scene up.”
“Anything to back up your theory?”
“Instinct. Plus the wound didn’t have any contact burns, but it was such a mess that we’re waiting for the autopsy to come back to get the trajectory. The father has a record of domestic assault—the mother disappeared three months ago. I can’t shake the feeling that he’s lying to us. I’d like to find the mother. May be more than one murder there.”
“Are you comfortable handing it over to Fitz?”
“Yeah, he can handle it fine. I just want the bastard nailed.” She stood, swiping her hands down her thighs to smooth out the invisible wrinkles in her jeans. “I’ll pull the files and brief Fitz. He’s already familiar with both of these cases.” She started for the door, but Price held up a hand.
“Hey, sit back down for a minute.”
She did, wary. “What’s up?”
He swiped back another rather invisible strand of hair. “Julia Page called from the DA’s office. The Special Investigative Grand Jury has scheduled your testimony on the remaining charges of the Martin case. You’re on call to appear sometime Wednesday or Thursday, depending on how things are progressing. Julia is pleased with the state of things so far. She wanted me to let you know.”
Taylor was astounded that Price could call it “the Martin case” with such nonchalance. Four CID detectives, three in Vice and one in Homicide, had been complicit in one of the largest and most professionally run methamphetamine labs the state of Tennessee had ever seen, and in the death of a twelve-year-old girl. Not to mention Taylor’s own involvement in the case. She had uncovered the scheme. And ended it with a finality that was unmatched.
Testifying in front of the special grand jury was no big deal, especially now that she’d been cleared. She’d be asked detailed questions, and she’d give detailed answers. It was David Martin who would haunt Taylor for the rest of her life. Detective David Martin. He wouldn’t be arrested, indicted, or even charged with running the scheme. Because he was dead, and Taylor had killed him. But that had been self-defense. The grand jury said so.
She smiled at Price. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
“Taylor, I think—”
“Price, it’s all good. Really. I’m all set to testify against Martin’s partners. I have everything laid out. As for the rest of it—” she sighed “—I’m doing my best to put it all behind me. The shrinks cleared me. Internal Affairs cleared me. The DA’s office and the GJ cleared me. It is past, gone, forgotten.” That’s it, girl, she thought to herself. Keep up a brave front. He doesn’t need to know about the whispers from the other officers, the panic attacks, that you can’t sleep without horrific nightmares.
Price stared at her for a split second longer, and she wondered if he knew everything she’d been thinking without her saying a word. But the moment passed and he nodded.
“Then go find me a name for our Parthenon girl.”
6
Taylor closed the door quietly behind her. She took two steps and tripped over a ream of paper. She fell into her desk, banging her leg on the corner of a half-opened drawer. She bit back a curse, rubbed at the bruise. Surveyed her kingdom.
The Homicide squad was crammed cheek to jowl into a crappy forty-by-forty-foot bull pen. The close quarters meant no privacy and constant distractions. At least there were fewer bodies to deal with. Six months earlier, the decentralization of Violent Crimes had created several distinct Homicide Units. Each city sector now housed a grouping of general detectives who handled everything from fistfights in bars to aggravated assaults to murders in the projects. In Nashville, Homicide covered the full gamut of physical crimes.
Taylor’s group was unique. She ran an elite squad of detectives nicknamed “The Murder Squad.” They were the most successful shift in the CID. What made Taylor’s team different from Nashville’s other homicide detectives was the element of mystery in their jobs. If a violent crime occurred that resulted in a death, and there was no suspect, they caught the case. If the trail went cold after twenty-four hours, it was theirs. If another shift didn’t want to deal with a case, it fell into their laps.
Taylor was proud of her team of detectives. They had an incredibly high close rate, nearly 86 percent, which had its good and bad points. It got them excellent press and made the department look good, which meant p
erks all around like interesting cases, less scrutiny, and more freedom for outside work.
But success was always tempered with a desire to see failure. There were the detectives who dumped their loads simply because they wanted to see her fail. She hadn’t made a lot of friends when she’d killed David Martin, even though he was as dirty as they came. There were grudges aplenty among the detectives who’d worked with him. In some minds, if she’d just come forward with what she suspected, Detective Martin could have been charged and tried with his partners instead of killed. No one wanted to see a cop dead, even if he was a bad guy.
Which would have been fine by her, if Martin hadn’t tried to kill her first.
She was on shaky footing. Her once-carefree demeanor had changed. Her actions were tempered with caution. Her words more measured and thought out. She was on edge all the time, though she thought she was doing a pretty good job of hanging in there. At least in public.
The news that she would testify again this week was actually welcome. She just wanted to get it over with so she could put it all behind her. Though she knew as soon as the grand jury handed down the indictments, the plea bargaining would start, then the trials. It wasn’t going to end, not really, for a very long time. And there was nothing she could do to erase the memory of David Martin, dead on her billiards room floor.
None of it mattered. She had a job to do, and she was going to do it.
Fitz came into the squad room, whistling.
“Ahh, Mr. Fitz. Thank you for joining our little party.”
“Don’t mention it. I strive to achieve perfect timing.”
“And so you have.” She sat on the edge of her desk. “Okay guys, let’s get started.”
Marcus Wade, her wet-behind-the-ears rookie, and Lincoln Ross, her seasoned computer expert, faced her expectantly. Fitz took a seat across from her. He was her veteran; they’d been together for years now. Between the four of them, Taylor was pretty certain they could crack any case that came their way.
“What’s happening at Centennial?”
“There’s nothing turning up on the grid search,” Fitz said. “And we haven’t found any witnesses. Even Adidas claims to have been asleep on his personal bus bench, like a good little boy.”
Adidas, so named for his labeled gym bag from the sporting goods company, was one of Nashville’s many homeless citizens and a well-known fixture around the park, but not a threat to anyone but the pigeons. “Was he sober?” Taylor smiled to herself. Fat chance of that.
“Naw, he was reeking like a distillery. He must have lit it up last night. Didn’t even hear the sirens this morning.”
“Too much to ask to have a witness, I guess. Okay, boys. Here’s what’s going to happen. Price and I decided Fitz is going to take over some of my cases so I can focus on our murder this morning. Is that cool with you, Fitz? I’m going to keep you in the loop on everything that happens, and if we need to pull you back in full-time, we’ll do it. I’m hoping we can wrap this up quickly, but if not...”
“Fine by me. You gonna let the kid here run with you?” He pointed at Marcus Wade, who sat up straighter in his chair. This was the highest-profile case he’d ever been tapped to work.
“Yep, that’s the plan. If you would be so kind as to wrap up the park and file your report, I’d appreciate it. Then you can start messing around with my stuff.”
“Sure thing.” He gave her a smile, and Taylor thanked whatever being had sent Fitz her way. Any other detective would have gotten snotty or hurt by the request to stand down, but Fitz knew enough about the politics not to worry. Taylor knew he would never suspect her of cutting him out of a case to take the glory for herself. He had told her from the beginning that her move to lieutenant would cut back some of his responsibilities and allow him the space to prepare for a graceful retirement from the force in a few years. Taylor returned the smile with gratitude.
She turned to Marcus. The kid was handsome, with long brown hair and puppy-dog brown eyes. He made a good impression to the outside. Taylor knew under his happy-go-lucky exterior, he was smart, and despite his lack of experience, she was happy to have him. Eagerness was sometimes a better quality in a detective than years on the job; people got staid and used to their own methods. Taylor liked Marcus’s fresh perspective in her investigations.
“Marcus, you work with the Metro spokesman, Dan Franklin. He needs to be briefed so he can give a statement. I want to be in complete control of all the info before we talk to anyone. So no leaks about anything, okay? Hopefully we’ll have an ID on this girl and can inform her next of kin, maybe even a cause of death, and we can release it in the statement. The mayor’s pressing for something official ASAP.” Taylor snorted through her nose. “She’s pretty fired up. The big arts and crafts fair starts Friday, and she’s pushing to get the scene cleared and the park open.”
“Got it.”
“And, Marcus? I know you and Lee Mayfield have been seeing each other. No preferential treatment, and no pillow talk. Okay?”
Marcus turned three shades past eggplant and looked at his desk. It wasn’t a huge secret that he had been dating the crime reporter for The Tennessean.
“Umm, actually, I broke it off. She’s not very cool. I’ll talk to Franklin.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. Well, maybe I’m not. Forget about her. You’re right, she isn’t cool at all.”
She felt badly that Marcus had been forced to air that tidbit in front of everyone, but such was life. Lee Mayfield was a bitch, and Taylor was happy Marcus had gotten her out of his system. She would sink her claws into any man she thought would give her some scoop. At least the kid learned his lesson early.
She focused on Lincoln. He was wearing a beautiful blue suit, white shirt, and purple tie today.
“Linc, I want AFIS set and ready. Number one priority is putting a name on this girl.”
AFIS, the Automated Fingerprint Identification System, would run the dead girl’s prints through the local fingerprint database. If there wasn’t a match, the prints would go into the huge national AFIS database.
“Will do.”
“If we get a hit, I want you to track down where she’s from so we can go check it out. Go through the whole drill. I want you to run everything through the computers. Go up to the Intelligence Unit, log into the ViCAP database. Upload our details, and check for any similar MOs.” ViCAP, the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program database maintained by the FBI, would look for any similar crimes that matched the description of their murder. “Cover the gamut. Look for killings with and without rapes, and unsolved violent rapes. And we have something unique to run through ViCAP. Check for herbs or dried flowers found at murder scenes.”
Eyebrows rose all around.
“Sam noticed a sweet smell coming off the body. She bagged a whole bunch of leaves and stems, though we don’t know what kind of herbs they are yet. We need to keep this real quiet until we know what’s going on, so Marcus, keep Franklin out of the loop, too. It may end up being nothing.”
“Or everything,” Lincoln chimed in.
“Or everything. So no leaks. No one outside this office knows about this but Sam. Keep it that way. There’s also DNA to plug in. I want you to search through the sexual offender database, too, see if someone’s done anything similar in any of the nearby jurisdictions. Check on the guys convicted of sexual crimes before, only on a smaller scale. Peeping Toms, our friendly flashers. Remember we had a rash of those last year in Bellevue? Pull any of the files that look good. Also, monitor the missing persons listings. If he’s snatched anyone else, we need to be ahead of the game. Any calls with young women missing, I want to hear immediately. Drag me out of whatever I’m doing.”
“Gotcha, boss. I already started running the missing persons list to see if anyone matching her description has popped up. So far, nothing, but I’ll keep looking.”
Lincoln’s deep, velvety smooth voice made Taylor take a deep breath and blow it out slowly. She gave him an appraising glance. He had the most beautiful skin she had ever seen, a shade somewhere between caramel and mocha latte. His straight nose led to sensually full lips. He was sensitive about the gap between his front two teeth. Taylor thought it only added to his charm.
“Lincoln, are you wearing another new suit? You’re going to go broke here soon.” Taylor loved to tease him about his obsession with clothes. He was always dressed impeccably, favoring Italian suits and couture ties. He bought his shoes from New York, beautifully worked leather that seemed to mold to his feet. He was single and spent all his money on his wardrobe.
“Well, I may have had a purchase arrive yesterday. Gotta keep looking sharp for the ladies.” He gave her a huge smile, and Taylor smiled back fondly. She privately thought he looked like Lenny Kravitz sans nose rings, and could easily understand his appeal to women of all ages and races. Maybe in another life...
“So if you’re done raggin’ on me... I’ve got ViCAP running already, but I’ll go plug the herb thing in. I’ve also pulled our open case files that have a sexual component, in case one looks remotely like this. I just want to see if this guy may have been working before. When Sam has a DNA sample, I’ll get together with the TBI and take a run through CODIS, see if there are any matches to the semen.”
All of the acronyms the Feds came up with amounted to alphabet soup as far as Taylor was concerned. It seemed every day the FBI or the law enforcement community came out with a new acronym for the tools they used. A new database, neoteric scientific tests, flowchart, and task forces—none were immune to the alphabet game. The standard joke was that the acronyms were formed before the official names so the higher-ups could make sure the nicknames “worked.” They got so busy digging through the bowl trying to see what they could put together they often fell in and drowned.
Field of Graves Page 4