Field of Graves (13 page)

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 until 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.”

She forced out a smile. “Gee, thanks. Nicest compliment I’ll get all week. Cold, heartless bitch, that’s me.”

“I can’t imagine anything further from the truth.”

“All right, I’ll give this a shot. But I’m not promising anything.”

“Good girl. I appreciate it.”

“Sexist.” She grinned at her boss, then left the office, wondering what had driven John Baldwin to her doorstep.

And what, exactly, he had been told about her.

24

Retrieving a Diet Coke, Taylor came back into the squad room to find the man in question sitting on the edge of her desk, his own soda in hand, looking slightly more awake than fifteen minutes prior. The rest of the detectives were giving him a wide berth, neither threatening nor welcoming. They looked at her with ill-concealed curiosity on their faces.

“Okay, pals, Fingerprints-R-Us is on the case.” Her attempt at levity made Baldwin cringe, but she ignored it. He’d have to get used to it; they rolled hard on her team.

“This is Dr. John Baldwin, late of the BSU in grand ol’ Quantico. He’ll be joining us as a consultant to work the murders of Shelby Kincaid and Jordan Blake. Let’s make him some room, get him briefed, and let him look over the files. Cool with you, Doctor?”

He shot her a look she couldn’t quite define but didn’t take as kindly. He took a deep breath and half smiled. “Please, everyone calls me Baldwin.”

“Baldwin, then. Let’s get you acquainted with the rest of the team. Lincoln Ross, our resident computer geek. AFIS, ViCAP, CODIS, any database you want, he’s your man.” Lincoln nodded graciously.

“Pete Fitzgerald, forensics. He only answers to Fitz, isn’t that right?”

“You got it. Welcome aboard.” He stuck out a hand, smiled genially, but Taylor could see him coolly appraising their newest member.

“Marcus Wade, our rookie. He’s only been with the team for a few months—he’s still getting his feet wet.”

Marcus smiled hugely. He was a good-looking kid, innocence and sensuality rolled into one. He could probably get information out of people no one else could. Charm and good looks could be disarming.

“I’m wet behind the ears, too. It’s nice to meet you.”

Baldwin felt odd being the center of attention. It had been a long time since so many people were staring at him as if he held the Rosetta stone in his hands. “It’s good to meet you all. I promise not to be in the way.”

Marcus suddenly lit up like a streetlamp at dusk. “Wait a sec. Are you
the
Dr. John Baldwin? The atypical sexual sadism guru? You worked the case in Virginia last year, the child killer who kidnapped and murdered six little girls, right?”