Field of Graves

by J. T. Ellison

  Digging into their meals, they were silent for a moment. Price took a long drink of his soda and eyed Baldwin, finally giving the younger man a smile.

  “So how are you finding our little operation? Anyone giving you any trouble? Taylor keeping you in the loop on everything?”

  It wasn’t the beginning Baldwin expected, but he rolled with it. “Actually, everyone has been very gracious and helpful. Taylor especially.”

  They stared each other down. Aha, Baldwin thought. Maybe this wasn’t about him after all.

  “Son, I was a little dubious about letting you in on this case. But your boss and I go way back. Way back. And when he asks me a favor, I’m quite likely to comply. That’s why I agreed to let you come on board and gave you the option of whether you could handle yourself enough to participate. You seem to be doing fine. But I’m wondering just how committed you are to this case. You know what I mean?”

  Baldwin suppressed a grin. He felt sure Price was going to ask his intentions toward his lieutenant, like an overprotective father. It hit him that everyone was a little overprotective of Taylor, though he couldn’t see any reason for them to be so concerned. Her anxiety attacks aside, the woman seemed to have steel fused in her backbone. He was debating how exactly to answer when Price continued, almost reflectively.

  “The stuff that’s been happening around here is unusual, to say the least. We don’t have a lot of high-profile cases, at least not this many in so short a period of time. I’ve been doing this for a long time, since before you were running around in short pants. I’m inclined to agree with you—my gut’s telling me these murders are related and that we’re dealing with one killer. You said you think he’s trying to send us a message. You’re the profiler on this case. Time to earn your pay.”

  Exam time. Baldwin decided to go for it. He felt Price was sincerely asking for his opinion. Perhaps it was time to trust him and show his worth to the man.

  “I’m not 100 percent perfect yet, so I’m going to think aloud here, okay? We aren’t dealing with a serial killer, not in the accepted sense of the word. This guy is on a spree—a very calculated, very organized spree. Each death has a meaning to him; each placement of the body is intentional. He hasn’t left many physical clues besides the semen from Shelby Kincaid. And I think that was deliberate. It’s part of the message. Shelby had been raped, but placed at the Parthenon and shrouded in herbs, which strikes me as a loving gesture. Jordan Blake was pregnant. Now we find out Jill Gates is pregnant as well. There is a fatherhood theme going on here. One interpretation—he feels protective toward them, he wants to be a father figure. Or, he desperately wants to be a father. The father. Look at the church fire. He kills a ‘Father.’” He made air quotes with his fingers. “He places the bodies in a house of God, the Father of Christ. There are so many interpretations out of that alone that we could be puzzling it through for months.”

  Price was staring at him openmouthed, then laughed. “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. But you’re the profiler—you guys are paid to think differently than the rest of us. So profile this guy for me. The University Killer, I guess he’s being called. Creative name, huh? Lee Mayfield at her best. Not the brightest woman, that one, thinking she can take on Taylor Jackson and win. She hates Taylor’s guts.”

  “I heard about their issues. Mayfield may not be too bright, but she hit on something I doubt she realizes. We are dealing with someone who’s smarter than average.”

  “Which holds true for most organized serial and spree killers.”

  “Yes, but this one keeps breaking his profile. Three girls and one man are dead, with three separate and distinct methods of killing. Another girl is missing. He’s not leaving them in a secret dumping ground—he’s placing them where we’ll find them quickly. Even finding Jordan on the banks of the river was calculated. She could have easily been washed downstream, but I think he weighted her down right there in the area she was found, came back to her body after Shelby’s was discovered, and released her, knowing with the slow current she wouldn’t go far. A coincidence, finding them both in such a short period of time? There are no coincidences, not in this world.” He sat back and steepled his fingers under his chin. “You know what they say, ‘Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.’ So unless God ordained that Jordan was going to be found within twenty-four hours of Shelby, it was planned.”

  He broke off, taking a sip of his soda. “I think we need to be looking for someone a little older than the standard profiled age. Middle-aged even. And where do you find middle-aged men on a college campus?”

  Price smiled. “Professors.”

  “Exactly. I think Shelby, Jordan, Jill, and our unidentified burn victim have all had contact with him in a controlled environment on campus. How the priest fits in, I don’t know yet. There are no indications the girls were religious or attended St. Catherine’s.”

  “Let’s leave Father Xavier aside for the moment. He might have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Focus on the girls. You think they’ve all had contact with the suspect one way or another. Are they taking classes from him?”

  “That’s the most obvious explanation. He could be a counselor, or a doctor, or a janitor for all I know. But he definitely has access to them, and I’m inclined to think he’s in a position of authority over them. We’ve surmised they were all dating someone, Jill and Shelby perhaps on the sly. If they were all seeing the same man, and that man is the one who is killing them, it makes it simpler to understand their connection. He’s having affairs with his students, which is a major no-no.”

  “So why kill them? They found out about each other? Might talk and turn him in?”

  “I don’t think so. One explanation for Jordan’s death is her pregnancy. We’ve learned that the DNA of the fetus didn’t match the DNA left at Shelby’s crime scene. It’s possible he was furious that she had gotten pregnant by another man. And Shelby...well, she was raped, repeatedly. Maybe he was trying to get her pregnant. With Jill’s pregnancy... I can’t be certain, but the father angle is the best thought I have for right now. The guy has a God complex.”

  Price gave him a long look and wadded up his taco wrappers. “You are scaring the hell out of me. Let’s get back to the squad. It’s time to kick this into high gear.” He stood and took their trays to the trash can. His excitement was palpable; cases broke on less cogent theories. They started back to the office, walking quickly. Just before they reached the door, Price turned to Baldwin.

  “And, son? You hurt Taylor, and I’ll rip your balls off. Got me?”

  Baldwin didn’t miss a beat. Apparently their body language had been enough to give them away. He wasn’t sure how she felt, or where it was going, but he did know he wanted to get to know Taylor much, much better. But he didn’t hesitate or play around. He looked Price in the eye, unflinching.

  “Yes, sir.” And he meant it.

  51

  Taylor pulled up in front of the Washington Square building on Second Avenue. She looped into the parking lot and took the first open space. She locked her car, walked the twenty yards to the door, and entered the building.

  She was prepared for this meeting of the grand jury. She wasn’t thinking about guns. Or the coppery scent of blood. Or the slight sense of satisfaction she had felt when she realized who she had killed. None of those things were going through her mind at the moment. She was totally focused on an image of twelve-year-old Tamika Jones, lying in a puddle of blood on her grandmother’s kitchen floor.

  Taylor was so intent on her purpose, she walked right past Julia Page.

  “Hey, Lieutenant. Over here.” Page trotted after Taylor, an engaging grin on her rotund face. Taylor stopped dead and looked over her shoulder, realizing she had missed seeing the Assistant District Attorney. Granted, ADA Page was maybe five feet tall on a good day, so she wasn’t automatically
in Taylor’s line of vision, but she shouldn’t have missed her totally.

  She started back up the hall. “Sorry, Julia. Lost in thought. We all set?”

  Page tried to keep pace with Taylor’s strides, her brown curls bobbing with the effort. “Yes, we’re all set. Are you ready?”

  Taylor stopped, realizing the shorter woman was practically running to keep up. “Ready as I’ll ever be. I want to get this over with.”

  ADA Page pursed her lips and looked her over, as if to gauge whether Taylor was telling the truth. “I don’t blame you. The grand jury is in room 502. They’re waiting for you. You know I can’t go in there with you.” Her pug nose twitched, and her demeanor became all business. “And you know how important this is.”

  “That almost sounds like coaching, Julia. I’ve got it covered. I’ll see you after, okay?”

  With that, Taylor strode away, catching the elevator at the last moment. She shoved her hand in between the closing doors, and they slid back open. There was only one other passenger. He sighed loudly in annoyance. She gave him her brightest smile and fingered her Glock. He blushed and looked at the floor.

  The ride was quick. The elevator stopped at the second floor. Taylor watched the man’s pudgy ass waddle off the elevator. Should have taken the stairs, buddy.

  She got off at the fifth floor. Following a black-and-white diamond-patterned corridor, she stopped in front of room 502. She didn’t hesitate. She rapped three times, almost amused that it seemed like a secret knock. The door was opened immediately by the foreman of the jury, and she was ushered into the room.

  Twelve members of the grand jury were already seated at the table. Taylor recognized the faces. She’d sat in front of them just a few weeks before. She had testified on her own behalf, explaining the shooting of Detective David Martin as self-defense. Thankfully, the grand jury had agreed with her assessment and did not indict her. Now they had to decide the rest of the case, the one Taylor had blown wide-open.

  She took her seat at the head of the table. The thirteenth juror, the foreman, a sweet gentleman with a thick southern accent and black glasses, held the chair for her. She thought he looked a bit like the colonel from the fried chicken chain. When she was seated, he took the chair to her left and cleared his throat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, you all know Lieutenant Jackson. Lieutenant, could you state your name and occupation for the record, please?”

  Her voice cracked when she answered. “Certainly. My name is Taylor Jackson, lieutenant, Criminal Investigations Division, Homicide Unit. Badge number 4746. Let me apologize up front for my voice. I’ve caught the Tennessee Crud. I’ll try not to sneeze on you.” That drew a few smiles and laughs from the room. Taylor relaxed. It was better to work with an audience that was at ease.

  “Thank you, honey,” the colonel replied, his courtly southern demeanor overshadowing his professionalism. He addressed the room. “We’re here today to gather information relating to the alleged criminal activity of Ray Alvarez, Tom Westin, and Nelson Sanders, all employed by the Nashville Metro Police Department, working in the Vice squad, and David Martin, of the Homicide Unit.” The contempt in his voice was apparent. Handing down indictments of officers of the law was not taken lightly.

  He continued. “Now, we’ve read a summary of the case. Lieutenant Jackson, we understand that you were called in to investigate a suspicious death, a young girl named Tamika Jones. And the investigation led you to uncover information that implicated four fellow members of the Metro Police—David Martin, now deceased, Ray Alvarez, Tom Westin, and Nelson Sanders. These men were complicit in a black-market scheme that was ultimately profitable for them. Am I correct in this summary?”

  Taylor nodded.

  The colonel smiled and leaned back in his chair. The business end was over. It was time to hear Taylor’s version of events. “Now then, let’s discuss Tamika Jones. Could you go over it for us, please?”

  Taylor surveyed the room. Here were thirteen very powerful people. They had the mission of deciding who and what got prosecuted in Nashville’s criminal courts. They met in secret, were basically a self-governing body. No lawyers or district attorneys were allowed. It was just the person who had been subpoenaed to appear, and the thirteen jurors, like a lopsided cabal. Yet for all the seriousness of their job, the spirit in the room was congenial, friendly even. This particular meeting held the futures of three men in the balance, but the atmosphere was reminiscent of a book club gathering.

  Taylor cleared her throat and took her notebook out of her pocket. She didn’t need to open it. “Of course, Mr. Foreman. On October second of this year, I was called to the home of Clementine Hamilton, 453-A Moore Street, Nashville, Tennessee. It was coming on ten o’clock in the evening. When I entered the premises, I found the woman’s twelve-year-old granddaughter, Tamika Jones, on the kitchen floor. She was lying on her right side, curled in the fetal position. There was a pool of blood under her body.”

  Taylor quickly lost herself in her narrative. She couldn’t have imagined how investigating Tamika Jones’s death would change her life forever.

  * * *

  Moore Street was one of Nashville’s nastiest projects. Many of the city’s homicides happened there. Some were fueled by drugs, most others by desperation. Whatever the cause, the effect was tangible—the Moore Street projects accounted for nearly 30 percent of all the murders in Nashville in a given year.

  In the gloaming dusk, Taylor exited her vehicle to the usual catcalls. In these projects, men and women of varied ages roamed the streets aimlessly at all hours of the day and night, talking, watching, being. The typical crowd had gathered when they heard the news. She ignored the rude gestures, the propositions, and threats. She walked through the manufactured similitude of the run-down buildings to the complainant’s front door. The screen was cut. The wooden door stood open. Taylor could hear the sound of crying and smell the blood. Though there were other police around as well as EMTs, she instinctively put her hand on her gun.

  A pale-faced EMT saw her looking through the screen and came over to the door. He opened it silently. His motions were sluggish. He looked as though he might be sick. She gave him a look of concern, then continued into the cramped house. The walls were paneled with dark walnut, lending the depressed air of the room a morose tone. Attempts had been made to keep the walls clean, but it seemed halfhearted. Lace curtains, yellowed with cigarette smoke, hung limply over the window. Taylor could see a bullet hole in one pane. The carpet was orange shag, about a million years old, and it didn’t quite reach the four corners of the room. The home was squalid. The fetid stink of despair hung from every corner like a blanket.

  She stepped through to the kitchen. She immediately realized why the home was such a mess—the woman sitting at the tiny, unstable kitchen table was blind. Her eyes were milky white, made more opaque by the contrast with her blue-black skin. She was old, very, very old. Taylor bit back a curse. The woman should be in a home with people to take care of her, not living on her own.

  There were tears leaking ever so slowly from the woman’s blind eyes. For a moment, it seemed she and Taylor were alone, just the two of them in the putrid little kitchen, and she looked right into Taylor’s soul. Taylor got a chill down her spine. Then the old woman’s head turned and Taylor spotted the body of the girl. All other thoughts left her. She stepped carefully, avoiding the pooling blood.

  The girl’s skin was lighter than her grandmother’s, and unmarred by the ravages of age. Her hair was braided into tiny rows, each held in place with alternating blue and white beads. Though dispatch had said the girl was twelve, she looked older. Taylor guessed that came from living hard.

  She threw off all the cloaking of compassion and became a cop. She turned to the EMT leaning against the counter.

  “What’s the story here?”

  “Tamika Jones, twelve years o
ld. Seems she had an abortion today. Came by to check on her grandmother, collapsed on the floor. I’m assuming something went wrong with the procedure, and she bled out.”

  Taylor gave him a sharp look. Assuming wasn’t allowed.

  “You know for a fact she had an abortion?”

  A voice, deep and rich, drifted toward Taylor’s ears.

  “She told me she was. That’s how I know. Honeychile told me she was riddin’ herself of the child. I told her it was a sin. She didn’t care. Never listened to old me anyways.”

  Taylor turned and saw Tamika’s grandmother looking her straight in the eye. Taylor shuddered, and the woman laughed. “Don’t take sight to see, girl. I know you’re right there in front of me. Honeychile’s been acting stupid for a while now, whoring around, taking drugs. I told her it would come to no good. She don’t listen to her gran, though. I told her that man would kill her, one way or the other.” The woman turned away, and Taylor stood, frozen, as if Medusa had glared out of the woman’s sightless eyes.

  “Ma’am, what man are you talking about? Does she have a boyfriend?”

  “Haw,” the woman spit out. “Boyfriend. Girl, child like that, she got herself a pimp. A sugar daddy. He whores her out, gives her the drugs.”

  “Do you have his name, ma’am? Any way I can contact him?”

  The woman made the guttural noise again. Taylor understood it was a mirthless laugh. She got quiet, then seemed to shrink in on herself, drawing into the collar of her stained dressing gown like a turtle. The interview was obviously over.

  Taylor took a deep breath and stared down at the little girl. The story was all too familiar.

  52

  “The medical examiner’s autopsy report found the girl had in fact procured an abortion within the past twelve hours. You were able to contact the doctor who performed the abortion, one Carl Murray?” asked the foreman.