The Cold Room (16 page)

Taylor remembered this stretch of the path. She'd been a part of the search for Perry March's wife, Janet, the frantic days looking for her body stretching into weeks, months and eventually years. As a cadet, she'd been a lead on one of the search teams, had been on foot for days on end looking under brush and in the woods.

Janet's body had never been found, but Perry March, after several years in Mexico claiming his innocence, had been extradited and stood trial. He'd been convicted after his father gave a confession that he helped get rid of Janet's body. Taylor hoped he would rot in jail—he'd been the cause of heartache for half of Nashville for years. She'd always known he'd done it, too; his smug arrogance in thinking he'd gotten away with it was his downfall. It usually was for men like that.

The sun slipped behind a passel of clouds. A storm was
brewing. Taylor started worrying about preserving evidence. They rounded a curve in the trail and the lake spilled out in front of them, rippling in the soft breeze. It was a stunning sight, beauty and horror commingled. Twenty feet to her right, Taylor could see Tim Davis picking his way down the opposite side of the path, a camera in his hand.

“The body isn't in the lake?”

The ranger's voice quivered. “No. She's in Otter Creek itself.”

Taylor looked into the flowing creek. She could clearly see the object of Tim's attentions—a body floated in the shallow water. A few people stood around watching, taking notes.

Ranger Kilkowski made a small mewling noise, handed them off to a handsome man with silver hair, a great tan, and crinkly blue eyes.

He scrambled up the bank, hand outstretched. Where Kilkowski was shy, this guy was a bundle of energy.

“Hey, I'm Dick Harkins. Park manager. Glad to meet you, though I'm sorry about the circumstances.” He waved to the scene below them.

Taylor did the introductions. “You found her?”

“I did. I was taking a walk around, just checking on things. Saw something out of place, a flash of color. I thought it might have been a piece of cloth, something someone discarded. Instead…”

A weeping willow hung over the water, and a fallen branch was sticking up out of the rocky shoal. The combination created a tunnel of shade. Taylor could see easily despite the shadows. She sucked in her breath, started down the bank.

A small woman bobbed gently, moving with the creek's slight ebb and flow. She was on her back, mouth
and eyes open, arms stretched out by her side. In her right hand, she clutched a bouquet of flowers, some red, some blue, some yellow. Her neck was ringed with purple flowers, violets, by the look of them. She was dressed in a long, flowing gown which stuck to her legs, outlining them in white cotton. The skirt had gotten snagged on the dead branch. That must be how she ended up here. Taylor instinctively felt the girl was supposed to be adrift.

“Tim, tell me you've documented the hell out of this.”

Tim carefully joined her. “I have.”

“I need to get Baldwin out here. Immediately.”

“What's up with this? It looks so staged.”

“It is staged. Completely. This time I know what he's trying to say. This has to be the same killer.”

B
aldwin was in the lobby of the Loews Vanderbilt, finishing a call with Quantico and waiting for Memphis to get himself situated, when his other line rang. He saw it was Taylor but sent the call to voice mail—he needed to finish this meeting. He wrapped it up in five minutes and saw the message light blinking. He checked his voice mail, played the message. Felt the disbelief and excitement rise in his chest.

II Macellaio had struck again.

“Son of a bitch,” he said. Highsmythe, who'd appeared wearing jeans and a well-cut brown blazer, looked at him strangely.

“Sorry, not you,” Baldwin said.

“Bad news?” Highsmythe asked.

“In a way. In a way, good news. It looks like our boy has left us another victim. Hang on while I get the details. Have a seat, get a drink. I'll be right with you.”

Highsmythe nodded and walked over to the restaurant, where he took a chair at the table and busied himself with his briefcase. Baldwin dialed Taylor's number; she answered on the first ring.

“I'm at Radnor Lake. I've got another body,” she said. He could hear the exhilaration in her voice, knew something major had happened. “You need to get out here. Bring the Brit, he may be a help. I think I know what he's doing this time, but I want you to see it. Tell me what you think.”

“Same guy?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay. We'll be right there.”

He ended the call and put the BlackBerry back in his pocket. He ran his fingers through his hair, scrubbing it to make his mind work better. Why had II Macellaio come to the United States? Why had his victims suddenly switched races? To throw them off the trail? Maybe he thought that no one in Nashville, Tennessee, would be bright enough to piece his earlier killings together with the new one. Well, he had another think coming. Baldwin was onto him.

 

Memphis was just about to go looking for the FBI agent when he spotted him on the way back to the table with a worried frown.

“Highsmythe, we have a conundrum. II Macellaio may have struck again. Why does this killer move from Italy to England and on to the United States? And why does he switch races when he crosses the pond?”

“Good questions, all.”

The waiter appeared, apologizing for the wait.

“Coffee, tea, water, soda, gents. What's your poison?”

“I'm sorry, but we have to leave.” Baldwin tossed a five on the table.

“Certainly, sir,” the waiter said, pocketing the money.

Memphis stood and yawned widely, felt his ears crack. That was better. He hated to fly. He followed Baldwin's swift steps out of the restaurant. “We're going to the crime scene?”

“Yes. I'm sorry, but Taylor felt we both needed to see this.”

“It's not a problem.”

They walked through the lobby and retrieved the Suburban from the valet. Memphis didn't know where they were headed. West, it seemed. He flipped the Suburban's sun visor down and glanced in the mirror. Despite having a couple of hours of sleep and a chance to clean up, he was still looking rough. His blue eyes were bloodshot, his blond hair mussed, his cheeks and jaw covered in two days of golden stubble. He looked hard-ridden and put away wet. International travel did it to him every time. He slapped the visor back into place.

“Tired?” Baldwin asked.

“A bit. This case, you know. Been keeping me up all hours for weeks. Your bit of skirt is quite the woman, isn't she?” Memphis asked.

Baldwin looked up in surprise, then smiled.

“Oh, Taylor? Yes, my
fiancée
, not my bit of skirt.”

“Must be awfully hard to work so far away. Woman like that, I'd want to keep my eye on. So tell me, is she a wine-and-roses kind of a girl, or is she a bit of a tigress between the sheets?”

“I live in Nashville full-time,” Baldwin said flatly. “And my personal life is none of your business.”

“Oh. Just so. My wife was the wine-and-roses type.” He took the hint. Mr. FBI didn't like to talk about his private life. That was fine.

“Back to the case. Let's talk about this development,” Baldwin was saying.

“Why do you live in Nashville and work in Virginia?” Memphis asked. He was needling, he knew it, but he couldn't help himself. He'd known plenty of men like this. Reserved to the point of being standoffish, but
Memphis could pry them open like an oyster with a few well-placed questions. The woman was off topic, but he'd yet to meet a man who didn't like to talk about himself.

Baldwin looked over at him. “Why do you care?”

Hmm. That was a good question. Why was he fishing for information?
Because you want to hear more about his woman, you fool. Get yourself together, get back in the case.

“Just getting to know you,” Memphis said. “Tell me about the developments.”

“I'm putting the finishing touches on the profile, but if this murder is connected we need to rethink a few things. The victim's race has changed, which is an anomaly. And I didn't expect him to strike again so soon.”

“Anomaly. Excellent. Something like that will help us run him to ground, right?”

“Perhaps.”

Memphis thought about it for a few minutes. “You said his new victims are Afro-Caribbean. Why would he change midstream?”

“That's the question. A stressor, an event that's driven him over the edge. Maybe a girlfriend broke up with him and now he's transferring, which isn't something he's done in the past. I don't know. He's altered his methods as well, the murders in the States are much more like Florence. Showy. Planned. London feels more opportunistic. Couple that with the fact that he's been killing black girls in the States for possibly four years, and we've found two kills that match his M.O. so far…there's more to be understood. Remember, my profile won't tell you
who
he is. It is just a guide for the type of person you need to be looking for.”

Ah, that was the way to get in with Dr. Baldwin. Shoptalk. He didn't feel comfortable with the man. Not enough to share that he'd been offered a position with the
FBI. Pen was going to kill him when she found out. And Memphis got the distinct impression that news wouldn't go over so well here, either. He stuck to the case at hand.

“Maybe he's a bit of both,” he said.

Baldwin's forehead creased. “A bit of both. You mean organized and disorganized?”

“No. He's killed black women and white women. He likes them both. Perhaps he's a bit of white and a bit of black himself.”

That captured the tall man's attention. He glanced over in appreciation, then said, “Nicely deduced. That's one of the adjustments I've included in the new profile. I'm assuming he's biracial. It explains how he could fit in with both types of women. We have no record of their disappearances being against their will. I think he charms them.”

“Or hires them. Some of the street girls we know will take money for just about anything. They allow themselves to be hurt.”

“Yes. That, too.”

“Glad to be of assistance,” Memphis said.

“We'll have a look at this crime scene, see if we think it's another II Macellaio victim. I'm planning on presenting the entire profile tomorrow in Quantico. Listen, we've got another ten minutes before we'll be at the lake. Why don't you fill me in on your side of things, and I can include my impressions. We can talk this through, see if you think it could be the same man. If your schedule permits, we'll head up to Quantico first thing tomorrow morning instead of this afternoon—I'd like to stick around for a bit and see more about Taylor's new case. Are you okay with that?”

Hmm. More chances to tête-a-tête with the blond goddess?

“Sounds lovely.”

He launched into a breakdown of the cases he'd been working.

He forced Evan's doppelganger from his mind. Most of the way.

T
he sun disappeared, replaced by inky gray fog. The forest muffled the sounds of the storm; the drizzle created an insulating barrier cutting them off from the rest of the world. Taylor stuffed her hands into the front pockets of her jeans and sighed. Outdoor crime scenes were a complete pain in the ass. You never knew what would be relevant, had to document and collect even the tiniest shred of disturbed grass. Tim had a massive pile of brown paper bags in the back of his van. The crime lab had a long evening ahead of them.

There was activity on the trail. Good, Baldwin was here.

He and the Brit came around the curve and hurried to her side.

She introduced Highsmythe around. She hurried; she could tell Baldwin was fidgety, anxious to get moving.

“Where's the body?” Baldwin asked.

She pointed to the creek. “Down there. We're about ready to get her out of here. Come on, I'll take you.”

They scrambled down the bank, Taylor in the lead. She stopped five feet from the body.

Both men spoke at the same time. “Ophelia.”

Taylor nodded at them.

Memphis bent down, edged a bit closer. “‘There is a willow grows askant the brook, that shows the hoar leaves in the glassy stream, therewith fantastic garlands did she make, of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies and long purples that liberal shepherds give a grosser name, but our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them.'”

He looked back over his shoulder at Taylor.

“You're quoting
Hamlet?
” she asked.

He blushed. “I wasn't good enough to play Hamlet. I was quoting the queen, actually. It's Gertrude's soliloquy to Laertes upon finding Ophelia drowned.” He smiled at her, and she couldn't help but smile back.

“You know your Shakespeare,” she said.

“Oh, it's nothing. I played Laertes a few times, dramatic society and what not. Those were my cast-about years.”

“Still, I'm impressed that you remember. I can't ever recall like that. You and Baldwin must be having a blast together.”

His eyes shot over to Baldwin, who stepped closer and put a hand lightly on Taylor's back.

“Not to interrupt, but back to the victim?”

“Oh, of course. I told you this looked like the drowning of Ophelia. There must be a hundred versions of this out there.”

“It is many renaissance painter's favorite subject, no doubt. I thought you were going to Manchester.”

“We were. We got called back around Murfreesboro.”

Baldwin was tapping his fingers against the small of her back.

“I was wrong. I didn't think he'd strike again so soon. Damn it.”

“It happens,” Memphis said. “We've gone off on many a wild-goose chase with II Macellaio.”

Baldwin shot him a look. “Still, two women in two days. He's escalating. We need to stop him now.”

They made their way back up the bank. Highsmythe excused himself to wander for a bit. When he was twenty feet away, he stopped and stared off into the lake. She and Baldwin watched him for a moment.

“I recognize that look,” Taylor said, gesturing to him. “He's going to come up with something brilliant.”

“Recognize his looks already, do you darling?”

“Baldwin, don't tease.”

He cupped her chin in his hand and looked deep into her eyes.

“Just remember something.”

“What's that?”

“In the school play? I was Hamlet.”

 

They had the body out of the water, ready for transport to Forensic Medical and Sam when the rain started to fall in earnest. The only noise was the spatter of raindrops on the leaves, the wet slap against the water's edge and discreet cursing as the doors to the medical examiner's van slammed shut.

Baldwin and Highsmythe had taken photos, then scattered back to Baldwin's office to get the profile adjusted.

Taylor and McKenzie stood with the anxious rangers, who were worried for their safety. Kilkowski was still shuddering. Harkins was trying, and failing, to comfort her.

“Should we keep the park closed?” he asked.

“I think it will be fine to reopen, but block off this part of the trail so you don't have any lookiloos disturbing the crime scene.”

“Okay. Robin, let's get you something warm to drink. A nice cup of tea should help,” the park manager said. He
shook Taylor and McKenzie's hands. She could tell that wasn't enough reassuring, but it would have to do.

McKenzie watched them go. “They'll have the security tapes ready in a minute. Hopefully we can get a timeline on the intruder. Harkins explained their security measures, but they're more designed to discourage poaching than something like this.”

“Did they give you an idea of the currents? Where she might have gone in the water?”

“I think he put her in that exact spot. You said it's just like a painting you'd seen, right? I bet he wouldn't have chanced it.”

Taylor did a three-sixty. McKenzie was right. They were close enough to the west parking lot that the killer could have walked in with the body slung over his shoulder. The tapes would help, if he'd been stupid enough to be caught on them. Taylor somehow doubted this guy would be that careless.

Two bodies in three days. Their boy was getting antsy. She tried doing the calculations—Allegra Johnson had been missing for three weeks. She had no idea who this new victim was, or how long she'd been gone. But with the bodies being dropped in such close proximity, she wondered if he'd had them both, at the same time. Jesus.

No way to tell until Sam got a look at her.

As they walked back to the car, a Newschannel Five van pulled into the parking lot.

“Shit. Stall them,” she said to McKenzie. She slipped into the car and called Rowena to check on the fax from New York. Nothing yet. She asked if Elm was in the office. Rowena just snorted and said hold on. A click later, the phone rang. Elm answered.

“Lieutenant, this is Jackson. I'm at Radnor Lake, attending—”

“Where are you?”

“Radnor Lake. It's—”

“Not what I meant, Detective. Why haven't you checked in yet today?”

“Um, sir, Detective McKenzie and I were heading to Manchester to look at an open murder case down there when we got called to this crime scene.”

“It is simply not appropriate for you to start your day anywhere but in this office. Do you understand?”

Taylor swallowed the reply telling Elm where to go. She said, “Yes,” instead.

“That is all,” Elm said, then hung up.

Taylor looked at her phone as if it could give her the answers she sought, then closed it and shoved it in her pocket. She needed to do something about Elm, and fast. This administrative bullshit was going to end up getting someone killed. Probably Elm. By her.

Channel Four had joined Channel Five, and the Channel Seventeen van was pulling in now too. The respective reporters tumbled out of their vans like puppies, pulling on rain gear and opening golf umbrellas. She needed to nip this in the bud, fast. Taylor knew how the Nashville press could work a story. She decided to get ahead of it.

She got out of the car. McKenzie leaned against the trunk ignoring the rain streaming down, stone-faced, not answering the multitude of questions being asked him. Good. The kid was learning. She opened an umbrella and went to him. He nodded in appreciation. The news teams were still setting up shop. The cameras weren't rolling yet. Perfect.

The reporters saw that she was going to talk to them and started scrambling. She really shouldn't enjoy that, but she did. Oh, well. She was probably going to hell anyway.

“Hi, Scott, Cindy. Hey, Cynthia. Listen, I don't have a prepared statement. Here's what I can give you. An unidentified black female, no apparent wounds, found floating in Otter Creek, just off the lake. We have no determination of homicide or suicide. We don't know who she is, and we don't have a cause of death. I'll make sure Dan Franklin gets with you as soon as we have more. Okay?”

The three reporters started peppering her with questions. The one that mattered came from Fox's Cindy Carter. “Is this related to the Love Circle crime scene? We've got two dead girls in two days, both black. Is there a serial killer on the loose?”

“No comment. Seriously, I have absolutely nothing to indicate that the crimes are related.”

“What's your gut say? Is this the work of the Conductor?” Scott asked.

“I learned not to discuss my gut with you long ago, my friend. Nice try, though.” She spied Cynthia Williams edging away; her cameraman had one of the park rangers in his sights. She'd given them enough. They could conjecture the rest.

She ignored the rest of the questions and left them. They wouldn't be allowed inside the crime-scene tape while Tim was still collecting evidence, and the angle they had wouldn't give them anything concrete. It was time to move on.

She and McKenzie shook themselves off and got in the car. They needed to get to Manchester. She really wanted to see those files now.

By the time they reached I-24, the rain had stopped.

They started south again and she asked McKenzie a question.

“Talk to me about the differences in the two scenes, so we're fresh and clear when we look at the Manchester case.”

“Okay. There was no music playing at Radnor Lake, for one. The victim was clothed, not naked like Allegra. No obvious signs of trauma on the lake girl, but who knows what's under that dress.”

“And the similarities?”

“Black, bone-thin, staged scenes. Cause of death would be helpful, if she
was
starved we have something to go on. She's holding those flowers…with the ring of violets around her neck, too, there's something about the flowers that have meaning for him. It seems gentler than the Love Circle murder, more serene. But this definitely feels like the same killer, don't you think?”

“Yes, I do. Why do you think he's changed his M.O.?”

“Thinks he's smarter than us, maybe? Wants to be seen as a criminal mastermind.” He was quiet for a moment. “So you think he's talking to us?”

“Absolutely. He wants the glory, wants to be seen as clever and important. He's playing with us. The first crime scene he posed Allegra like the Picasso painting. This one looks like a variation on the drowning of Ophelia, but narrowing it down to one artist will be difficult. Many, many painters interpreted Shakespeare.”

They continued comparing notes until the Manchester exit. Taylor turned right and entered the small town. Maybe there would be a solid clue here.

 

Coffee County was named after a confederate general named John Coffee, a good friend of Andrew Jackson's and a hero of the War of 1812. Down here, there was still pride about the role Tennessee played in the forming of the nation. They called the Civil War the “Late Unpleasantness,” and confederate flags flew high. Most were just country folk; honest, hardworking people who recognized their heritage for what it
was. History can't be undone, regardless of who it might have hurt.

The Coffee County Sheriff's office was on Hillsboro, only about five minutes from the highway. Taylor hadn't been down here in years, not since a school field trip to see an air show in neighboring Tullahoma. Now, Manchester was world famous for hosting the hippie jam Bonnaroo, a yearly pseudo-Woodstock.

It wasn't a rich area, by any means. But it was clean, and safe. For the most part.

The sheriff's office was quiet and cool. A receptionist called back to Sheriff Simmons, who came out to the front with a big smile and a heavy handshake. He nearly broke Taylor's arm from her shoulder. He was a bear of a man, wide through the shoulders and gut. A former defensive lineman, she guessed. He was built like a house. And young, too, no more than her age. Probably a little less.

“Detective Jackson, Detective McKenzie! Thanks so much for coming down. I've got us all set up in my office. You had another murder in Nashville this morning?”

“Yes,” Taylor said, following him back a short hallway. “Another black female, very thin and posed. I'm doubly anxious to go through your records now.”

He got them seated, asked if they needed a drink. They both declined. Simmons went around to his side of the desk, sat heavily in a gargantuan leather chair. The springs squeaked in protest.

“So here's the deal. I've got the files for you.” He waved his hand at the desk, where three file folders were stacked on each other. “But there's not a lot there. I read through them all again. I don't know what help it's going to be.”

“We appreciate you putting this together for us.” She picked up the first file. “Were you involved in the investigation?”

“I sure was. It was my last case as a deputy, I got promoted right after. But I'll never forget it. The victim, LaTara Bender, was a girl in my younger brother's class at Central. I knew she'd gotten into some bad stuff, but you never think things are going to go that far south. The scene was straightforward. The girl was found in the bathtub by her mother. Her death looked like it could have been a suicide or an accidental drowning. You know, maybe the girl got high, passed out, slipped below the water. Her mother kept insisting that LaTara was clean, that she'd been murdered. Once we got the autopsy done, seems like she was right. Medical examiner, right nice lady who I'm sure you know, Dr. Loughley up there at Forensic Medical, found a skull fracture. We investigated her death as a homicide, and it's still unsolved.”

“So was she drowned?”

“Looks like. Knocked on the head first, right on top of the noggin, too. Not an injury she could have easily given herself.”

“Did your brother know her well enough to talk to us?”

“I'm sure he did. It's not a huge school, you know. Want me to give him a ring? He's a deputy now, too, and he's on shift.”

“Please. That would be great.”