Field of Graves (11 page)

“Well.” She directed her scandal-laden voice at Marcus. “Jordan’s been trouble since day one. Always getting herself in scrapes. Drunk driving, wild parties, missing classes. She’s on academic probation again this semester. If I were the dean, I would have kicked her out long ago.”

“Why hasn’t he?”

“Why, because she’s a Blake, dear. Jordan is Gregory Blake’s daughter.”

Marcus looked blank, but Taylor suddenly understood. She mentally kicked herself for not putting it together sooner. The Blake family was one of the largest benefactors to Vanderbilt. Gregory Blake was an incredibly successful oilman from Texas who had attended Vanderbilt for undergrad and law. He’d made a lot of money and wanted to give it back. He’d done his best to get his name on Vanderbilt’s new library, but the honor had gone to Alexander Heard and his wife, Jean. Heard was the ex-chancellor of the university and had much more clout than the oilman from Texas.

But it all made sense now. Out of the country, no contact with their wild child, just throwing money at the situation rather than dealing with it. It was going to take some tightrope walking to keep this from becoming a huge mess.

Taylor grabbed Marcus’s hand to keep him from talking any further. Gladys had led them into the records room and was riffling through the cabinet marked
B–2006
. Graduates scheduled to receive their wings in 2006. Girls and boys ready to take on the world, unknowing and untried. Innocent. Taylor felt the old familiar worthlessness creeping up, but shut it away firmly.

Gladys was still talking. “So did that girl get into trouble again? I can see her getting involved with the wrong crowd, one that could hurt the Kincaid girl. I swear, one of these times she’s going to get herself in some real trouble. Such a shame, too, because she’s a smart girl. If she just applied herself... Here’s the file.” She looked at her watch. “Oh my, I really do have to lock up and get to my book club. The rain makes the traffic so awful. Why don’t you just take it with you? You can bring it back in the morning. Leave the subpoena on my desk. I’ll deal with it tomorrow, too.”

As she spoke, she ushered them out the door, locking it behind them. “See you in the morning.” She gave Marcus another smile and hurried off, humming quietly to herself.

Marcus was still speechless. Taylor started laughing, then found she couldn’t stop. The fit of hysteria was catching, and they ended up sitting on the steps of the building, trying to catch their breath. The rain had calmed to a heavy mist, and the overhang of the ornate edifice gave them enough shelter. Taking advantage of the dry spot, Taylor groped in her pocket and came up with a wrinkled pack of Camel Lights. She offered one to Marcus, who accepted sheepishly. “You’re a bad influence.”

“If the whole squad hadn’t decided to quit smoking at once, it would be a lot easier to cheat.”

They lit up, sat companionably for a few moments, smoking, not speaking, lost in their own theories about Jordan Blake. Without warning Taylor burst out laughing again. She stood and started to the car, giggling as Marcus walked slowly after her, impervious to the rain.

“All right, puppy. Let’s go talk to some of Jordan’s classmates. Give me a second, I’ve got to grab my phone—I left it in the car.”

Dan Franklin had left a message on her cell while they were in with Gladys. The press conference was in an hour.

All the humor fled. Just what she wanted—to face the cameras again.

18

Captain Price was getting ready to walk out the door when his phone rang. He hesitated; it was late, and he was caught between the desire to just clear the hell out and the knowledge that he had to take the call. He let out a huge sigh and walked back to his desk.

“Price.”

“Hey, man. How goes it in the land of make-believe?”

“Garrett Woods. How the hell are ya? It’s been a while. You in town?”

“Don’t I wish? No, I’m sitting here underground at Quantico, as usual. I think I’m becoming a vampire. The light hurts my eyes when I get outside.”

“Sorry to hear that. You still running the BSU up there?”

“Behavioral Science... Investigative Support. They can’t decide what they want to call us. Yeah, I’m still running it. Isn’t all it’s cracked up to be these days. Too many crazies and too little time. Speaking of which, I hear you guys are having a little fun down there yourselves.”

Price caught the note in his friend’s voice.
Uh-oh.
He really liked the man, but he didn’t relish the thought of the FBI trailing around his cases. He’d had many good experiences with them, but he’d also found when profilers get on the case, things could go a little astray.

“Fun times, always,” he said cautiously. “It’s been a while, Garrett. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Can’t a friend call and say hi?”

“Not when that friend is with the FBI and I’ve got a popping case.”

Garrett started to laugh. “Okay, okay. I’d like to ask a favor.”

“Shoot.”

“Word on the street is you may have a serial on your hands.”

“We have two dead girls in a short time span, both of whom attended the same college, but we have nothing tying them together outside of proximity. It’s probably too early to start bantering around the serial theory, you know?”

“Yeah, I do. This isn’t an entirely official inquiry. But you know the drill. If you do have a serial, I’ll have to pull a field profiler in who has too damn many things going on with his own stuff to be a huge help, yada, yada, yada. I was thinking perhaps we could approach things a little differently.”

Price sat back in his chair. This was going to be interesting. He’d known Garrett for years, and trusted him. His instincts caught a little note of desperation in his old friend’s voice, which intrigued him. Garrett wasn’t a man who flustered easily.

“Go on.”

“I have an agent there in Nashville who’s not working right now. He’s been on a temporary sabbatical. I was wondering if you’d be willing to let him come in and consult, on my dime.”

“Why do I get the feeling there’s more to this?”

He heard Garrett heave a sigh. “Can’t put anything past you, huh? It is a special situation. His name is Dr. John Baldwin. He’s one of our best and brightest. He got himself in a little trouble here a few months ago, and it kinda screwed him up. He headed home to Nashville to sort out his head, so to speak.”

“What kind of trouble, Garrett?” Price’s tone was obvious.

“Nothing illegal or improper. He was involved in a shooting. Three of his teammates were shot and killed, and he’s been putting the blame on himself, big-time. I’m not sure I’ll ever get him to come back to the FBI. But I want him back, Price. He’s a damn good cop. One of the freakiest profilers I’ve ever had. He’s got this sixth sense that’s busted open a ton of cases when no one else had a clue. Really intuitive, on the ball...”

“So why’s he so torn up? He knows the risks.”

“It’s a long story, but not a new one. He feels he got them killed. One was a junior agent on his first case. He hasn’t been able to shake the guilt. I’m hoping a taste of the real world will bring him back to life, so to speak.”

“Why don’t you just pull him back in on one of your cases?”

“Because he refuses to leave Nashville. He claims he’s planning to quit the FBI for good. He may refuse to talk with you, I don’t know. But I need to try, Mitch. I don’t want to lose him, in any sense of the word.”

“Do you really think he’s going to be any good for us if he’s not any good for you?”

“Point taken. I think if he feels useful but isn’t in charge, it may shake something loose. Maybe we can even convince him it’s his civic duty to help out in his hometown. I’d consider this a personal favor, man. Nobody up here knows I’m doing this, so I may get my own ass in a sling.”

“I suppose you already know about my LT and her shooting?”

“Jackson? Yeah, I heard about it. Sounds like she got jammed up good. I did hear she was back on the job. She doing okay?”

“Far as I can tell. Shrinks cleared her, department cleared her, and she’s back and rolling. Like your guy, she’s a damn good cop. I would have hated to lose her.”

Garrett was quiet while Price thought it over. Finally, he asked, “You think Baldwin will do it?”

“I haven’t talked to him about it. I wanted to clear it with you first. If you give the word, I’ll call him right now and run it by him. He may tell me to go to hell. He’s already done that a few times. But I have some new information pertaining to his case. It might help pull him back in.”

“Loose cannons aren’t always the best people to have around a delicate situation, Garrett. I’d need your personal assurance that you’ll keep up with him, make sure he’s not going yahoo on me.”

“You have my word. I wouldn’t even think about asking for this if I thought it would backfire. He’ll either say yes or no. If he says no, well...”

“All right, man, if he’ll talk to me, I’ll talk to him. Though if I get any indications he’s not working out, I’ll be the first to cut the strings.”

Woods heaved out a sigh of relief. “I owe you one. If I can talk him into it, I’ll have him call you tonight to set things up. I’ll make it clear it’s only a consulting role. If there’s a problem, you let me know.”

“Will do, Garrett. You owe me more than a beer this time.”

After a few pleasantries and promises to keep in close touch, Price hung up the phone. He didn’t want to mention the call to Taylor just yet. He thought he’d see if the man called in first, then deal with the fallout. He shut off his office light and went home.

19

Dr. John Baldwin sat on the easy chair in his living room. The room was devoid of light except the flickering of the television, tuned to the local CBS affiliate, but muted. On the table next to the chair was a half-empty pint glass of Guinness and a Smith and Wesson .38 Special snub-nosed revolver.

Baldwin stared at the television, eyes unfocused. He was very drunk. Drunk enough to play the game. He was ready. With any luck, he’d have a little accident and there would be no more guilt.

Baldwin had been a handsome man once. He stood six foot four, had jet-black hair graying slightly at the temples, lively green eyes that could look into the very soul. But now he looked ten years older than his thirty-seven years. He had a week-old beard shot through with dense silver the color of moonlight that barely filled in the gaunt lines of his face. His eyes were shrouded with guilt.

He had been forced out of his job at the FBI six months earlier. Not by his bosses. By his own conscience. Six months to relive the shame, the embarrassment, the knowledge that he had caused three deaths. Six months of replaying the case. Reliving his actions. He had been the head of the Investigative Support Unit, thriving in the shadowy world of psychological profiling. Was the darling of the BSU. He had the book smarts, of course: PhDs and a law degree, and the years of field experience. He was a good cop. Used to be a good cop.

Then Harold Arlen had rocked his world.

Arlen, an inconspicuous mechanic in Great Falls, Virginia, had killed his career, definitely, but he’d also taken a chunk of Baldwin’s soul. Baldwin had seen so much in his years at the FBI, but Arlen went to new heights of hideousness. Once a week for six weeks, like clockwork, a young girl had been found in the woods near Great Falls, Virginia.

Every law enforcement officer, every neighbor, every member of the media, everyone thought Arlen was responsible. But they had no proof. Not a single hair, a minuscule fiber, a shred of mitochondria. Nothing.

Baldwin knew in his soul that Arlen was guilty. It was the way he acted in his interviews, playing, laughing. How he only truly came alive when they showed him the crime scene photos. It was all there. But there was no evidence.

Their last-ditch attempt to pin the murders on Arlen proved fatal. The evidence they’d been searching for finally appeared, stuffed into the back of an underwear drawer. Arlen had come home and found them rooting through his house, and had gone wild, whipped out a gun and started shooting. All the agents were caught by surprise. Baldwin’s bullets were the only ones that found their mark. He’d killed Arlen, but Arlen had gotten enough shots off before he was hit to kill the other three agents.

The guilt Baldwin felt was overwhelming. He’d lost three good men for no reason other than his own desperation to solve an unsolvable case. Arlen was dead, the case was done. Then another little girl turned up dead. They’d found hairs on her body, and a DNA comparison didn’t link them to Arlen.

There was an inquiry. Baldwin could see the judgment in the eyes of the agents around him. Getting scum off the street was one thing, and Arlen had been scum: a purveyor and seller of child pornography. Losing, no, sacrificing three good men, though, in the guise of taking down a killer? No one accused him directly, but he felt the eyes on the back of his neck. He sat with the ghosts of his friends every night. It was too much, and he left.

By the time he’d arrived at his boyhood home in Tennessee, Baldwin was already too far gone to save. A life sentence for murder would have been easier than a death sentence of freedom. He’d had no contact with his old life for six months, except the occasional phone call from his old boss, which never went well. He’d wallowed in guilt, drank to excess, popped every pill he could find. Anything that would make him numb.

He soon realized that there was only one way out. He didn’t have the balls to get it over with himself, didn’t quite have the nerve to meet his maker straight out. So for the past few weeks, every night, he sat in his chair, playing the game according to his own set of rules.

Baldwin pulled himself back to consciousness. He’d given himself permission to relive the fateful mea culpa, to flog himself for his stupidity, just as he did every night he was sober enough to think. He’d asked forgiveness of his dead friends once more. He wanted to put an end to his overwhelming guilt, to serve his time in hell. He figured it couldn’t be much worse than what he dealt with every minute of every day. That’s where the game came in.