Field of Graves

by J. T. Ellison

  It was getting redundant, and some of the profilers he knew had been sloppy lately, often throwing the same categories at all the killers, lumping them together. Granted, killers weren’t terribly original, but the complacency that came with dealing with these men was beginning to show. There were “former” profilers all over the cable news networks anytime a series of killings started, and even when there was only one violent crime to go on. They needed to be a little more careful. The word was out that they hadn’t been completely accurate in a few cases. He’d heard a former cop bluster his way through a television interview a few weeks before, saying, “Profilers don’t put cuffs on the criminals.” That could start some trouble.

  Baldwin came back from his thoughts to hear Garrett yelling at him. “Sorry. What?”

  “God, man, where’d you go?”

  “Just watching a little TV.”

  “I have something else I need you to know. It’s about Arlen.”

  Baldwin tensed. “I don’t want to talk about him, Garrett. All bets are off if you bring him up again.”

  “But, Baldwin, there’s new—”

  “That’s my deal, Garrett. No Arlen, and I’ll think about talking to your friend. Are we clear?”

  “You’re not exactly in a position to make demands on me, Baldwin. Just let me tell you what’s happening.”

  “No.”

  Garrett was silent for a moment. “Fine, have it your way. Will you call Price?”

  Baldwin gave a last longing look at the gun. “Yeah.”

  He clicked off the phone and gently set it down on the table beside him. Went into the kitchen, fetched another Guinness. Poured it into an ice-cold mug from the freezer. He’d always preferred it cold, rather than the correct British lukewarm.

  The gun wasn’t calling as loudly now. He’d felt a small adrenaline rush at the news reports. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to talk to the captain. He could pull out at any time and come back to his miserable little existence. Maybe fate was dealing him a new hand. He guzzled half the beer, called Price at home, and set an appointment for eight in the morning.

  He sat back in the chair, took a smaller sip of the beer, picked up an empty notepad from the coffee table. Began writing out the thoughts in his head. Time to trade the mind of one madman for another.

  21

  Taylor was wide-awake. She had gone home after the press conference and hit the bed completely exhausted, hoping a good night’s sleep would help her think clearly in the morning. Instead, she kept reviewing the facts of the case. The whiteboard from the squad room shone brightly in her mind’s eye, the faces of the dead girls running over and over through her head.

  After an hour of tossing and turning, she finally accepted sleep wasn’t going to come anytime soon. She got out of the bed and made her way to her pool table, flipped on the TV as she walked by for noise.

  Racked the balls. Took the break. Smoothly cracked the balls into their respective pockets. She felt the tension go out of her shoulders as she finally started to relax. The rain was still coming down. The local weather station had broken into the late-night feed to give radar warnings for the severe thunderstorms moving through the area. Tomorrow’s storms were supposed to be even worse.

  Taylor kept a small refrigerator in the back corner of the room. She made her way there and grabbed a bottle of ice-cold Miller Lite. She sipped and mused, expertly sinking ball after ball, reracking, breaking, playing eight ball against herself.

  With a delicate meow, her cat jumped up on the table and began batting at the balls. Taylor couldn’t help but laugh. The kitten adopted from the local shelter and named Jade for her green eyes was at the very least Taylor’s best confidante. She had adopted her on a whim. She’d gone into the animal shelter to serve a warrant, saw the scruffy kitten sneeze, and fell in love. She was surprised to realize that she never felt alone when the cat was around.

  She racked the balls again, shifting her thoughts to the weird aspects of the case at hand. She hadn’t given the drug angle too much thought. These were college kids, who did stupid things like drink and do drugs to excess. Was it possible straitlaced Shelby had decided to lighten up a little bit, and fell in with the wrong crowd? According to Gladys, Jordan was a habitual user, but no one from her crowd knew Shelby.

  The limited connections bothered her. The beer and fatigue were dragging her mind into Park.

  Getting more in depth with Shelby’s background had been hard; there was little new information to be gained. Calls around campus had given them a few answers, but left more questions in Taylor’s mind.

  She was sure the girl was seeing someone. They hadn’t found any kind of birth control in her things; the campus clinic had no record of her being a gynecological patient with them; they only had a single record on her—she’d received antibiotics for a bout with bronchitis earlier in the semester. No one else had been able to confirm or deny her out-of-class activities—apparently even the students in Shelby’s program didn’t know her well. Her advisor had lauded her with praise. Taylor sensed it was heartfelt, not just laurels for the dead. Her parents obviously cared for her. She was a hardworking scholarship student who seemingly kept her nose clean. So why would someone want to rape her, leave her body at the Parthenon, and cover her with herbs?

  The herbs told Taylor that whoever had killed Shelby cared about her, in some sick, twisted way. Even though her body had been abused, she had been given some kind of tender send-off, a show of reverence.

  She racked up the balls again.

  Jordan Blake was a different story. Her file made much of the tale self-evident. Jordan was out of control. She’d been on academic probation since she arrived freshman year. She’d been booted out of her sorority pledge class, was in and out of the health clinic for three pregnancy scares. Nobody they talked to could give them any definitive ideas on where she had been in the days before her death. It seemed Jordan Blake was friends with everyone and no one.

  Irrefutable fact—the girl was pregnant when she was killed. She’d been stabbed and thrown in the river. Even if the detritus on her body comprised the same herbs they’d recovered from Shelby, this wasn’t a crime of love. It was a crime of hate. Or passion.

  Sam’s comment about the killer being the baby’s father rolled through her head.

  Good girl, bad girl. Angel, devil. How could the same man have so much love for one and so much hatred for the other?

  Taylor put up her cue and perched on the edge of the table. There was a thought niggling in the back of her mind, but she was too tired to gain access to it. She gave up for now, hoping it would rear its head in the morning. Maybe she could sleep her way to an answer.

  Tossing the empty beer bottle away, she made her way back to her bed, hoping she was foggy enough to escape the nightmares about dead girls begging for her help to find them justice.

  She wasn’t.

  Bullets were flying in the darkened sky. She heard them whizzing by her head, felt the heat as they ripped through her hair. She saw him go down. She was screaming, clawing at him, trying to get away from the hand that reached up and grabbed her by the throat. She fell beside him. He was dead. She could see the entrance wound, glistening silver in the moonlight. Her hands were slick with blood: It covered all of her, drowning her in its viscous blanket, dragging her down into the weeds as they curled and spread over her body. There was no hope. There was no pain. She gave up her struggle and lay serenely next to the empty soul beside her, waiting for the strangling vines to drag her into the earth to decompose along with him. She heard a voice, turned to hear better. Jordan Blake’s empty eyes stared back at her. She jumped, and tried to roll away, but the vines held her tight. Only her head could move, and she turned away, not wanting to see. When she opened her eyes again, Shelby Kincaid lay beside her, wearing a crown of thorns, hands reaching for
Taylor’s face, silently mouthing, “Please...”

  Taylor rolled out of bed, heart kettledrumming in her chest. Her Glock was in her hand; she was panting in fear.

  She tried to control her breathing. Put the gun back under the pillow.

  The dreams were getting out of control. She had lost her edge completely; the ghosts of her failures were dragging her down, haunting her every moment.

  A thought—indistinct, clouded with fatigue. She needed to find a way to help the girls, but it was too late. They were all dead.

  She lay back down, head against the pillow, eyes wide, too tired to even cry anymore.

  THE

  THIRD

  DAY

  22

  Taylor was knee-deep in the squad’s squalor and on her third Diet Coke. She’d come in before five, unable to stay alone anymore. At least there was activity at all hours at the CJC.

  She was skimming the ViCAP files Lincoln had pulled when she noticed a tall, good-looking man walking toward Price’s door. She didn’t recognize him as department material, figured he was a politico, maybe from the mayor’s office. Dismissed him with a distracted nod. She’d learned long ago when to keep her head down.

  Half an hour later, she was combing the autopsy reports when Price opened his door and said, “Taylor, could you come here for a minute?”

  Taylor grabbed her piles of information, assuming he wanted to see where she stood, though she didn’t have anything new. She realized she hadn’t noticed the handsome guy leave, and sort of laughed at herself. Oh well. There were plenty of decent men out there, should she want to take the time to find them. Who was she kidding? She’d learned her lesson. She was married to the job now.

  She was surprised to see the man sitting in front of the captain’s desk, went on guard immediately. What the hell was this? Was he a lawyer? A new Internal Affairs transfer?

  The man didn’t make a move to greet her. He was staring at the floor with his shoulders slumped. His hair was standing on end, as if he had been running a comb soaked in egg whites through it to stiffen it into a modified Mohawk. He reached up with his right hand and scrubbed at his hair, leaving it even more disheveled. That explains that, she thought.

  “Price?” She turned to her boss, the question lying heavily between them.

  “Dr. John Baldwin, meet Lieutenant Taylor Jackson.” He nodded toward the man, who gave her a brief, surprised glance and a grim smile. Taylor caught a glimpse of green eyes surrounded by impressively deep-set smudges, as if he hadn’t slept in a week.

  “Nice to meet you, Dr. John Baldwin. No offense, but who exactly are you?”

  A deep baritone startled her. “A washed-up drunk who has no business being here.” He stood, nodding at them both. “Thank you, Captain. I do appreciate the offer, but I think your case is in capable hands.” He inclined slightly at the waist, and Taylor was taken aback yet again. Baldwin was at least six foot four, but so thin his clothes drooped from his shoulders as if on broken hangers. When he walked through the door she’d seen vestiges of what would have been, with a little TLC, a very good-looking man. Up close, he looked as if he’d been on a weeklong bender. She made his age as late forties.

  “Whoa, Baldwin, sit back down.” Price had come around from behind his desk and was ushering the man back into his seat. Baldwin didn’t resist, but sat heavily, expelling a long sigh. He resumed his mournful glare at the linoleum.

  “Taylor, Baldwin is with the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit. He...”

  “Was,” said the skeleton in the chair. “Was with the BSU. Get the details straight, Captain.”

  Price took a long look at Baldwin, then continued. “Dr. Baldwin worked with the BSU for many years, and has taken a leave of absence to pursue a few personal matters. I would like to see him act as a journeyman to your case, Taylor, in a consulting role. He has...”

  “Had,” came the flat voice.

  “Has immeasurable experience in sexual murders. I believe he can be of help.”

  Taylor was swinging her head between the two men, confused. This Dr. Baldwin certainly didn’t want to be here. What was Price up to, assigning her a babysitting job for some suit from the FBI? She opened her mouth to protest, but the captain interrupted.

  “Dr. Baldwin, would you mind stepping out for a moment? I’d like to speak to Lieutenant Jackson privately. And don’t leave. Please.”

  Baldwin sighed noisily. “I need caffeine. Soda machine in the hall? I’ll help myself.” Without waiting for an answer, he saw himself out of the office, shutting the door quietly behind him. He was quite sure Captain Price was going to fill Taylor in on all his dirty little secrets. Good. The details should seal the deal. She wouldn’t want him on the case, and he could go back to his dank chair in the darkened living room and get on with, well, whatever.

  He didn’t know why he’d even bothered. Price’s eyes weren’t exactly accusing, more appraising, almost compassionate, but he’d felt them bore into him. That’s how they would all be. Humoring him, but watching closely to see he didn’t botch anything. Screw it, he thought. He’d rather have the judgment.

  But his feet didn’t follow his brain. He didn’t leave. He got his soda, and for reasons he would never be able to understand, he went back into the squad room, sat at the nearest desk, and waited for Judgment Day.

  23

  Taylor sat in the newly vacant chair, fidgeting with her hair. “Price, who the hell was that?”

  “That, my dear, was one of the most talented profilers the FBI has ever seen. The man’s a legend, or was. MD from Johns Hopkins, double doctorates in psychology and criminology, a law degree, the best close rate in the business. There are rumors that he’s psychic, if you like to believe that crap. But our good doctor has fallen on some hard times.”

  “That’s an understatement. He looks like he’s been out trolling Dickerson Road.”

  Price raised his eyebrows and sighed. “Yeah, well, as far as I know, he has been.”

  “Then what in the world is he doing here? He doesn’t look like he could read a full file without landing face-first in it.”

  “He had a bad experience a few months ago. Pulled himself out of the field, then out of the Bureau altogether. He’s been hermiting down here in Nashville for months. His boss was giving him some space, but thinks it’s time for him to get his feet wet again.”

  Taylor was already shaking her head. “Not on my case. I don’t need some middle-aged drunkard trailing around with us, getting in the way or stopping off for a drink while we do the work.”

  Price steepled his hands in front of him, elbows on the desk. “I understand your reservations, I do. But this is a special favor for an old friend. Baldwin’s a good cop, and despite his current appearance, I can assure you he won’t be a hindrance.”

  “You can assure me, huh? I’m not sure this is such a great idea, boss. Why doesn’t he just go on back to Quantico and bury himself there?”

  “He won’t. They’ve been begging him for a while. He’s done nothing but shut them out. Garrett Woods—my friend, his boss—thinks it’s imperative he gets back on the horse, and he thinks doing it here as a consultant would be the best way to get him out of his funk.”

  “Funk? I’d be more inclined to label it clinical depression.”

  “You may be right. And if that’s the case, working can only do him good. We’re throwing him a lifeline here, Taylor. Don’t think he doesn’t know it. He may be a wreck, but he still has a bit of pride left. Give him the files and let him look them over. Encourage his ideas. I don’t want you babysitting. We can toss him the life preserver, but if he won’t hold on, it’s not our fault. Got it?”

  She huffed out a sigh in silent protest. “Got it.” She grew quiet for a moment. “This doesn’t have anything to do with the Martin case, does it? Oversight un
til the rest of them are on trial?”

  Price looked at her in surprise. “No. Why would you think that?”

  “I just didn’t want there to be any confusion. In the squad, I mean.”

  Price gave her a gentle smile. “I understand. No, we can’t have it look like you’re being undermined in any way. Don’t worry about it. I’ll make sure everyone knows that this is a deal for me. No one will think he’s being brought on to watch your back.”

  She waved the comments away, embarrassed to have even brought it up. One day, she’d stop thinking everyone, even those who’d been her biggest supporters, like Price, was holding the shooting against her.

  “I was just asking. Forget I mentioned it.”

  “Taylor, I know things aren’t easy for you right now. Just be secure in the knowledge you did the right thing. I wouldn’t have you on my team if I didn’t think you had.”

  Taylor blushed. It was amazing how Price could read her mind.

  “Back to Baldwin—what is the problem that’s driven him into this state?” she asked.

  Price looked around the tiny office, trying to make a decision. Finally, he said, “Look, Taylor, I think that’s going to be his story to tell you. He may or he may not, so I wouldn’t push it.”

  “What about the boys? What am I supposed to tell them about this?”

  “That we are honored to have one of the FBI’s best on our side.”

  “Oh, come on, Price. You really want me to pretend in front of them? They’ll pick it up quick enough that the guy’s on the edge. They’re cops—they’ve seen it before.”

  “Yeah, well, give them some credit. They’ve got softer hearts than you.”