Field of Graves

by J. T. Ellison

  36

  The thunder and lightning were moving in, the rain pouring in sheets against the windows of the squad room. The storm was unsettling; the squad room was filled with the smell of anxiety.

  Price stuck his head out of his office. “Strategy meeting, conference room, fifteen minutes. And be aware, we’re under a tornado watch. Have your stuff ready in case we need to hit the basement.”

  There were groans and shuffling. Marcus stopped typing and logged off his computer. Lincoln made a slow circuit around the room while Fitz flicked his lighter ever closer to his emergency cigarette. Taylor shifted her boots off her desk but didn’t get up. She stiffened as she saw Baldwin step back in, windblown and remorseful.

  Price had seen Taylor slam back into the squad room, noticed her body language change when Baldwin came in. He gave her a surreptitious glance, thinking she might have had time to cool down from whatever had pissed her off so badly. No, she was still simmering, nearly giving off smoke from the fires lit inside her. He sighed. He needed his best detective back, all the way. He didn’t have time for a turf war.

  He walked to her desk, eyebrows raised.

  “Everything okay there, sugar?”

  She gave him a small smile. “Right as rain.”

  “Ha-ha.” He looked at her closely, started to speak, then decided to leave it alone. She was a big girl. He didn’t need to fight any battles for her.

  Taylor watched Price’s receding back. He was hollow eyed, tired, and obviously just as shocked as his detectives that another Vandy student had disappeared. She felt a pang of remorse. He was a good man; she admired him. She resolved to pull it together, yet again. Mitchell Price was one person she never wanted to disappoint.

  Price called, “Okay, everyone, screw fifteen. Let’s go ahead and chat about our next moves now. We can do it right here. We have a case to solve. Let’s try to get it in before the storm really hits.”

  As if to answer him, the lights went out, plunging them into darkness.

  “The generators are going to come on, right?” Marcus’s voice had a little waver in it, the perfect tension releaser. The group fell back on the tried and true: Take it out on someone else.

  Fitz called, “Hey, Marcus, you afraid of the dark?”

  “No, you big, old, fat fool, I’m just asking if we have generators for this shithole.”

  Price started to laugh but covered it with a cough. But Taylor didn’t hold back. Her giggling was infectious. They were all roaring with laughter when the tornado sirens went off.

  Taylor grabbed a Maglite from her desk drawer. Suddenly sober, she instructed, “Everyone to the basement.” They all got up to follow her out.

  * * *

  Baldwin felt bad. He hadn’t meant to fight with Taylor, just to help somehow. She’d reached out to him when he was at his lowest point. He wanted to give something back. He’d rushed in without taking the time to figure out if Taylor would accept any overtures from him. He was a complete stranger, shoving his way into her case and into her life. No wonder she didn’t want to have anything to do with him. He felt the despair creeping up his spine but shoved it away. He couldn’t fold this easily, not yet. He needed—well, he didn’t know what he needed, but it was something he knew only Taylor Jackson could give him.

  He caught up to her on the steps. “Are those the new tornado sirens going off?”

  “Yep. After that one hit downtown a few years ago, they put ’em in. This is the first time I’ve heard them go off downtown, though. Kinda wild, you know?”

  Her voice had lost its earlier edge. She had extended the olive branch. He accepted it with open arms.

  “It is. I hope this is a false alarm.”

  They set up shop in the basement, taking cover from the malicious winds tearing at the building. Taylor’s voice rang out clear and sharp.

  “Might as well have that status meeting now. Here’s where we stand. Jill Gates is a junior at Vanderbilt. She’s from Huntsville, Alabama; a blonde, like Shelby and Jordan. Her parents reported her missing this morning. They say they haven’t spoken with her in four days. Four days, people. He could have snatched her up before he killed Shelby.”

  “Shelby had been missing for how long before she was found?” Baldwin asked.

  Taylor flashed the light at him. “Three days, as far as we know. Her roommate Vicki last saw her Friday night. We found her body Monday morning. If MP had taken the report Saturday instead of assuming it was a college kid doing their thing over the weekend, we might have been able to save her.”

  The bitterness in Taylor’s voice broke his heart. He knew why she’d attacked him now. She was blaming herself for this whole mess. And he finally realized how he could help: Solve this damn case, and give her some peace of mind.

  “Let’s try to establish a time line here. When does Sam think Jordan was killed?”

  Taylor looked to her second. “Fitz?”

  “Let me see that flashlight.” He shuffled some papers and pulled out the autopsy report on Jordan Blake. “Sam estimates she wasn’t in the water more than five days or so.” He thought for a moment, counting on his fingers. “With that time frame, she could have been killed on Wednesday or Thursday, then dumped into the river.”

  Marcus reached over and flipped the page. “So he kills Jordan on Wednesday night or Thursday morning, then immediately grabs Shelby?”

  Baldwin started nodding. “Okay, if that’s how it went down, he killed Shelby sometime on Sunday night and dumped her at the Parthenon. Jill’s parents report her missing today and say they haven’t talked to her for four days. That means the last time they talked to her was Saturday?”

  “Yeah, that’s what the report says. That means he took Jill before he killed Shelby.” Taylor was getting upset. “We should have another body showing up here anytime, huh?”

  Baldwin was sitting close to Taylor in the dark room. He gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “Not necessarily. Don’t give up just yet. What else do we know about Jill?”

  “I got off the phone with Jill’s parents right before we got stuck in here,” Lincoln said. “They’re heading up from Huntsville. They’re just blown away by all of this.”

  “Did they give you any other information?”

  “They said she was seeing someone, but they don’t have any idea who it could be. She never confided in her parents about that kind of stuff, but they said she was being especially secretive lately. She didn’t go home over fall break and told them she was going to stay on campus to get ready for exams. They called her on Saturday, but she was in a rush and got off the phone real quick, said she had to meet a friend for dinner. That’s the last they talked to her.”

  “Good, that’s good. Taylor, didn’t you say you had the feeling Shelby had a boyfriend, but her roommate wouldn’t give you anything on him?”

  “Yeah, I got the sense she was keeping something from me. With Shelby’s background, I felt it might be a secret affair.”

  Price finally spoke. “And we know for a fact Jordan was involved with someone, willingly or unwillingly. Her pregnancy confirms it. If Jill Gates also had a mystery lover, we’re getting somewhere here.”

  Marcus and Fitz spoke at the same time. “Same boyfriend.”

  Baldwin gave them a big smile. “Same boyfriend. We find him, and maybe we’ll find the killer.”

  37

  Mary Margaret struggled with her backpack and umbrella, her glasses sliding down her nose. She was trying to make it to St. Catherine’s to meet Father Xavier before the storm hit full force. The sky was a deep green; she’d seen tornado skies before and was certain that the fierce swirling winds were bearing down on her as she ran. The hairs stood up on the back of her neck, and deep chills ran down her spine. She shook off the unsettled feeling. The lightning was close.
It was simply static electricity making her hair bush out and stand on end.

  A huge gust of wind caught the umbrella and tore it out of her hands. “Damn it!” she screamed, watching it fly away. It was the worst curse she allowed herself to say aloud, but the guilt of losing her temper hit her immediately. Another Hail Mary from Father Xavier. There was no way she was going to be on time for their scheduled meeting. She thought longingly of the warm fragrant tea he would be brewing in his cozy office. She never ran late for their sessions. She hoped he wasn’t worrying about her.

  Mary Margaret loved her theology classes at Aquinas College. It was a relief for her to be in the company of so many young students who shared her beliefs. When she found her way back to the Church, the doors swung wide and welcoming for a young woman in search of herself. There was no judgment, no dirty looks. Of course, no one knew her background. Mary Margaret had confided in only one person about her past.

  She’d met Father Francis Xavier a few months back. He was new to Nashville, too, a young, principled, and compassionate priest. She felt an immediate connection with him and started going to Mass at his home church, St. Catherine’s. He was a stranger in town, a little lonely, and always willing to discuss the mysteries of theology with his new friend. One night, she asked him to take her confession. It was the only way she could think of to share her pain and humiliation with another person without repercussion.

  She’d told him her whole story. Mary Margaret’s family lived in Atlanta and had left the Catholic Church before she hit her early teens. Her grandmother, a full-blown, off-the-boat Italian Catholic, had converted to Baptist for an unknown reason and harangued the family until they switched as well. The main force of her argument was her fear that if they were not saved, she would never see them in heaven.

  Mary Margaret had never been terribly religious. As she entered her teens she found many more exciting things to do than going to church four nights a week and spending weekends in revivals. She fell into a group of misfits who got her drinking, then using drugs. Ultimately, she began having sex with the boys in the group. Atlanta provided many excitements for a rebellious teenage girl, but she soon grew bored of her life and wanted to strike out on her own. With one hundred dollars in her pocket, she left town.

  She made her way across the country, hitching rides with strangers, working for cash in small-town cafés, trading herself if she got too low on cash to purchase drugs. She made calls home to her parents, but they were so upset with her that they wouldn’t talk to her. She wasn’t happy living on the edge. She was lonely, run-down, and a little sick of herself and her behavior. She began having thoughts of returning home. And then it had all caught up with her.

  Somewhere in the backwoods of Colorado, she’d hitched a ride with the wrong man. He’d beaten her and raped her, then dumped her in a campground. A church group on a day hike found her bloodied and bruised, but alive. They’d taken her to the nearest hospital, a small community endeavor run by the Catholic Church.

  It was the words of succor from the nuns that had brought her back to life a changed woman. One of the nuns told her of a college in Nashville, Aquinas College. It was a perfect place for her to start over. The nuns allowed her to live with them for a time, helped her study for and acquire her GED. They celebrated her triumph when she was offered a small scholarship to Aquinas. With their meager savings, they got her on a plane to Nashville and paid her first year’s rent on a small apartment across the street from the school. This setup made it simple for her to walk to class and placate her caffeine addiction at the local Starbucks. She took jobs on campus to pay the rent and worked as hard as she could to begin a new life. Her faith in her rediscovered religion had become the cornerstone to a whole new world.

  When she’d finished her confession, Father Xavier found he had even more respect for his young friend. He convinced her it was time to let her parents know where she was. They didn’t welcome her back with open arms, but their relationship began to mend. She had been to Atlanta a few times to visit, and was calling dutifully once a week.

  She was healing.

  As the wind lashed her face and the rain plastered her hair to her skull, she ran across the parking lot and was almost hit when a car screeched around the corner and pulled up beside her. The passenger door swung open, and she was overcome with relief. She knew this car, and the man driving it. How had she gotten so lucky that he was driving by as she was struggling to get out of the storm? It must have been divine intervention. All she saw was shelter and, hopefully, a ride to St. Catherine’s. He was yelling at her to hurry up and get in, and with a quick prayer to Mary to keep her safe, she did.

  Fighting with the door, she finally managed to slam it behind her. She was soaked to the bone, shaking with fear and cold. For a brief moment, silhouetted against the storm, he was hidden in shadows, his hair standing on end, his eyes blank, ghastly holes in his face.

  Then the light went on in the car, he gave her a huge smile, and she saw he was just the ordinary, handsome man she knew. She laughed at herself; it was just the storm spooking her.

  “Thanks so much. I almost blew away there.”

  “I saw under the altar the souls of them that were slain for the Word of God, and for the testimony which they held.”

  “Pardon me?”

  Mary Margaret’s internal alarm bells went off, but before she could do anything, she heard the locks on the doors snap closed. The man said nothing more, just smiled and put the car into gear.

  38

  The storm worsened, and conversation drifted off, the detectives lost in their own thoughts about the case or the storm or what to have for dinner. Taylor sat on the floor under a small stack of blankets, feeling incredibly foolish. She’d been through many storms before, but this one had a different feeling about it: a malevolent, evil oppression. She shook her head, trying to get the feeling of doom out of her mind. How silly was she? Thirty-four years old and afraid of a little storm.

  Thunder shook the building, and they heard a rushing noise like a freight train getting ready to ram through the walls. There were a few nervous laughs from the darkness, but everyone was listening to the rushing wind intently.

  Baldwin reached over and touched her shoulder to get her attention over the noise of the storm. “Were you here the last time the tornadoes came through downtown?”

  His voice gave her a little comfort. Strange, it seemed to be hours since their spat on the stairwell. But Taylor was used to that. She didn’t lose her temper often, but when she did, she did it thoroughly and without thought. Once it was over, it was over. She did feel a little embarrassed by her outburst, but she was too worried about the storm to deal with it at the moment. Besides, she thought, fear makes strange bedfellows. She blushed in the dark at the fleeting image that came with the thought, cleared her throat, and replied to Baldwin’s innocuous question.

  “No. I was on vacation and saw it on the news. I’m glad I wasn’t here. Sometimes I prefer to watch the wrath of God from afar.”

  “Wrath of God, huh? Think it’s that bad out there?”

  She gave him a sidelong glance, trying to decide if he was mocking her. She had the distinct impression he wasn’t talking about the storm.

  But Baldwin sat calmly, legs drawn up and hands dangling loosely in between.

  “You never know,” she said lightly. “How are we going to find the boyfriend?”

  “The moment we’re cleared to get out of here, we drive to Vanderbilt and take the place apart. Someone knows who these girls were seeing. From all you’ve told me, Shelby Kincaid didn’t necessarily confide in her parents. She could easily have been seeing someone as well. Three girls seeing the same man? If we’re right, now we have a suspect and a possible motive.”

  “You mentioned cults earlier when we talked about the aconite. Do you think the girls were aware of each oth
er, that the relationship with this man was open, so to speak? Or done in a group? You know how kids love to experiment. If they had a charismatic leader pushing them into a group situation...”

  “It’s entirely possible. It all depends on our suspect. But I’m inclined to say no, simply because of the timing. It feels like he’s snatching and dumping, going through some sort of ritual sacrifice. But I’ve been wrong before.”

  “I want to talk to Shelby’s mother again. I did get the sense there were things left unsaid during the interview.”

  “You have good instincts. Follow them.”

  “So do you,” she said, surprised how pleased she was by the compliment. “The problem is, we’re three steps behind this creep. I have the worst feeling, like he’s out there on the storm’s winds, doing something right now. Silly, I know.”

  “It’s not silly at all. It’s how I always feel when I’m working a serial. Completely out of control, and every step I make could be the wrong one and cost a life. It’s the chance we take, working these cases, knowing no matter what we do, we might be too late.”

  He said it without artifice, and she realized, for all the seriousness of the conversation, she enjoyed talking to him. You’re out of your mind, Jackson.

  “Something else is bothering me,” she said. “They’re all so different. I mean, Jordan Blake was supposedly trouble on a stick, and her parents are quite absent. Shelby Kincaid was the extreme opposite, with overprotective parents and a reticent personality, super focused on her studies. Jill Gates is in between, and her parents certainly sound like they’re attentive, at the very least. Would one man be drawn to three wildly different personalities? I thought serials went for the same type.”

  “The different personalities are interesting to me as well, but they all have similar physical characteristics. I think what makes them alike in looks attracted this man, not what made them different. What’s bothering me is the mixed presentation. Leaving semen and fingerprints tells me this is a disorganized killer. Multiple victims in a short time frame, staged scenes, the herbs, all point to a very organized offender. In other words, these could be his first crimes and he doesn’t know any better, doesn’t know how to clean up after himself. Or he could be very much in control, is building up to something bigger and splashier, thinks he’s smarter than us and will get away with it, or doesn’t care if he’s caught. Because he’s exhibiting hallmarks of both, that tells me he’s decompensating. He’s making mistakes now. I’m inclined to think he’s a disorganized offender, and there’s something else going on.”