The Cold Room (18 page)

T
he basement was so empty.

Gavin sat at his corner desk, staring unseeing at his computer screen. The vast black space behind him seemed to grow and breathe, the shadows lengthening ominously. He didn't like to be alone in the basement.

So lonely.

He woke from his reverie when his IM chimed. He glanced at the screen. Morte had opened a private chat with him.

 

Hey, Morte. Good timing. I was just sitting here by myself. I'm alone again. They're both gone.

 

The response came immediately.

 

WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD DO YOU THINK YOU'RE PLAYING AT?

 

Morte was furious, Gavin could read that clearly. But why? The last time Morte had gotten angry with him was
about the car. No, it wasn't smart of him, but he was still learning. What else could have set Morte off? Oh, the music. He shouldn't have told him about the music. Morte had been very clear in his instructions, in how the scene should look. But Gavin was an artist, and the music was so lovely, so necessary. He needed to hear the flowing, building crescendos as he worked. He couldn't help himself. He decided to play dumb.

 

What are you talking about?

 

You know exactly what I'm talking about. How dare you contact me in the real world?

 

Gavin's brow furrowed. Contact Morte in the real world? What?

 

Morte, I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't been in contact with anyone.

 

As he typed the period, a moment of insanity passed through him. He had been in touch with someone. Someone very far away. Someone unattainable. A slow burn began in his chest. He started to type, stopped himself. No. That was crazy. There was no way.

Another message flashed into the chat room.

 

Listen to me, little Gavin. You have absolutely no right to cross the line. NO RIGHT! Haven't I given you everything you've always dreamed of? Friends, a home for your basest desires, a family, the benefit of my vast knowledge?

 

Oh, my God. He couldn't lose Morte. He just couldn't. He typed frantically.

 

Of course you have. I appreciate everything that you've done for me, Morte. But I don't understand. What have I done?

 

There was nothing for a moment. The online equivalent of dead silence. It took Gavin a second to realize Morte had called him by his real name, not his screen name. How would Morte know his real name? Then the words came, flowing onto the screen in quick succession.

 

You really don't know who I am? You're saying the e-mail was a coincidence? I don't believe in coincidences, Gavin. I'm afraid our relationship has come to an end.

 

NO!

 

Gavin felt the despair showering through his system. He couldn't give Morte up. He was one of the only people in the world who understood him. Who cared for him. But it was too late. Morte had left the chat room. Gavin was alone again. He began to cry, typing desperately through his tears.

 

Please, Morte, please don't go. I swear I didn't know. I still don't know.

 

Gavin stayed logged in for an hour, waiting, but there was no answer. Morte was gone. He sat there crying, feeling a loss so deep that he could barely breathe, like half of his soul had been sheared away. He was again incomplete.

T
aylor and McKenzie bid the Manchester contingent goodbye. They declined the invitation for a late lunch at the Jiffy Burger, the best burger in the South, because they needed to get back to Nashville for the post of their Radnor Lake victim.

Sheriff Simmons wasn't going to take no for an answer. He convinced them to stop and take a bag of food to go, his treat. He called ahead, had an order of burgers and fries ready to be picked up as they drove out of town. The Jiffy Burger was right next to the library, and obviously packed; the only open parking spaces were in the library lot. Taylor double parked behind a Ford F-350 and let McKenzie run in for their order. He returned in three minutes with their food and an open invitation from the mayor's daughter to come back anytime.

On the highway north, Taylor drove with one hand and bit into the juicy, cheesy burger. It was heaven.

“Simmons was right, this burger is pretty good,” McKenzie said through a wad of bun.

“That's an understatement.” Her cell rang. “Hey, get that for me, wouldja? Put it on speaker.”

McKenzie answered her phone in a mock Scottish accent. “Detective Taylor Jackson's phone. Please hold for Detective Jackson.”

She laughed. Who knew McKenzie had a sense of humor? It was getting easier to be around him—she had the feeling he might just make a good detective one of these days.

She swallowed her mouthful of burger and answered. “This is Detective Jackson.”

“This is Clyde Stone, from Chattanooga homicide. Got your message about an open murder case you're requesting information on. What can I do to help?”

“Fabulous, thanks. I had a ViCAP match from your jurisdiction, a victim named Sharonda Guilmet. Remember the case? What can you tell me about the investigation?”

“Ah, Sharonda. That was a weird one. She was killed a year ago. She was a pro, turning tricks for crack. You know how that goes. She disappeared for a while, then showed up dead back in her apartment, skin and bones, with some kind of classical music playing on her stereo.”

Too much of a coincidence, Taylor thought. “What was the music?” She could hear him shuffling papers, looking for the information.

“Here it is. Something called
Requiem Mass
, by Mozart. Creepy-ass shit, lots of chanting and stuff.”

Taylor bit back a laugh. Chanting wasn't exactly the term she'd use to describe it.

“Fitting that he'd choose a requiem mass. Was her cause of death starvation?”

“Yeah. She'd been gone for a couple of weeks, no one knew an exact date. She shows up back in her own bed, bones sticking out everywhere. It was weird.”

“No staging, no arrangement of the body?”

“Nope. She was in the bed with the covers drawn up. You got a suspect for me?”

“No, not yet. But I think we're getting close. This is the third murder that I've found that has the music, the second confirmed COD of starvation. I've got another victim that we found today floating in a lake being autopsied this evening. That could make four in Tennessee alone. Did you collect any physical evidence?”

“Sure, the usual. Rape kit was positive for semen, we've got it in CODIS, but never had a match. She was a whore, remember. Lots of Johns could have left it.”

“Whoa! You've got DNA?”

“Sure do.”

“Clyde, you just made my day. Can you fax me the results, and send me the CODIS information? I'll get it to Quantico, they're investigating a string of similar murders in Italy and the UK. Seems our boy has been kind of busy. And is there any way you could courier the case files to me? I'd love to come down, but I won't be able to get there until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest. If you'd be willing to share what you have, I might be able to help you clear the case.”

“Sure. Why not. I'll have them to you in a few hours.”

“You are my new best friend. Thank you so much.”

She gave him the information he needed, then clicked off.

“Well, McKenzie, things are looking up. Let's go see how our lady of the lake is faring with the M.E.”

Getting close. Getting very close.

B
aldwin and Memphis had been hammering away at the details of the profile for two hours when Baldwin's phone rang. He saw it was Taylor calling and excused himself.

“Hi, babe. What's up?”

“I've got great news for you. I've been connecting the dots, looking at possible earlier crimes. I think we have two more definite kills, and we may have DNA for you.”

“Seriously? That's excellent.”

“Yes, it is. And I just got a call from Taschen Books in New York. They've tracked down the copyright pages from the Picasso monographs, I'm still waiting for their fax. We're getting close, I can just feel it. How are things with you?”

“Highsmythe and I have been running through our cases in Italy and England. I'm making alterations to my profile based on some of his theories. When will you have the DNA?”

“It's already in CODIS. Your forensics analyst can access it. Victim's name is Sharonda Guilmet. I'm heading to the autopsy of my Radnor Lake victim right now, I'll get you what I have as soon as I get it. I'm
waiting on a courier to bring me the case files and relevant information from Chattanooga.”

“Babe, this is incredibly great news. Keep me posted, okay? You remember Pietra Dunmore, right?”

“Of course. She's the one who came down to Nashville on the Snow White case, with Charlotte.”

“She's working this for me. She'll run the forensics as soon as we have all the pieces. If there's a match to be found, Pietra will find it.”

“Okay. I'll call you after the autopsy. I should have everything ready for you then.”

“Would you mind if we joined you?”

“At the post? Not at all.”

“Good. I appreciate it.”

He hung up and gave Memphis the thumbs-up sign. “We're in. Let's go.”

F
orensic Medical's parking lot was nearly empty—only Sam's BMW 330ci convertible was parked in its arranged spot. The sun was setting, the post-storm sky fired with billowing pink-and-red clouds. Taylor and McKenzie made their way to the front doors.

McKenzie was riffing. “Our second autopsy in two days. I was hoping that homicide had a few less homicides in it and more assaults.”

“McKenzie, I think there might be hope for you yet.” She swiped her passcard and the door unlocked. “It's not always like this. Homicide is usually quiet, boring and staid, loads of paperwork and trial follow-ups. These kinds of spree killings are rare.”

They entered the lobby, dark and quiet. It was rather sinister with the lights off, the ghosts of sentient beings flowing around in the gloom.

“When you were lieutenant, didn't you handle some of that? Didn't the murder rates drop while you were running things?”

That was the first time he'd openly alluded to her demotion.

“Yes, I did. Before we were decentralized, when we had the Murder Squad, our close rate was eighty-three, eighty-four percent. Now, with all this infighting and backstabbing, the chief not being at all in touch with the troops, things are deteriorating. I think the bad guys know we aren't as stable as we used to be. They can get away with more, and the chief calling on the communities to police themselves is a joke. Ah, well. What can you do, McKenzie?”

“I heard a rumor that you're fighting to be reinstated as lieutenant.”

They were at the doors to the autopsy suite. She stopped, turned to him. She weighed her answer carefully. She didn't trust McKenzie, not completely. Even after today's revelations. She wasn't entirely sure that he wasn't a plant, someone Delores Norris, Elm and the chief hadn't assigned to keep tabs on her, looking for more ammunition. He seemed like a regular guy, another young homicide detective eager to learn, to move up in the ranks. But she'd been burned before. Hell, look at the David Martin situation. And she'd
slept
with him.

“McKenzie, I can't discuss the situation with you. No offense, but my lawyer and my union rep want me to keep my mouth shut.”

“You think I'm just a tool for the chief, don't you?”

His face fell, a sad, puppy-dog look crowding his features. She felt bad for him, but she couldn't take the chance. The kid could be a damn good actor. She made a mental note to check when she'd gotten so cynical, then said, “McKenzie, seriously, I don't know what to make of you. You seem like a decent, willing cop. I'd like to think that you and I can foster a solid working relationship. But right now, all I can afford to do is cover my ass. Surely you understand that.”

He straightened, his lips thinning more as he appraised
her. “I do. But know this. I've learned more from you in two days than I have in five years on the force. I think you're amazing. You know I don't mean that in a sexual way. I mean that as the highest compliment I can give. You are being railroaded, and I'd like to do everything I can to help you get your command back. Because I tell you, Jackson, I'd work for you any day.”

The speech floored her. She took the compliment gracefully, nodded her thanks. She didn't trust her voice. She was overwhelmed with emotion, but tried her best to turn it off. She wanted her command back, too, damn it. The sheer unfairness of how her superiors were treating her could easily boil into a black rage if she wasn't careful.

Sam was wrong. McKenzie didn't have the hots for her. He respected her. She liked that much better.

They split up, went to the separate locker rooms to put scrubs over their street clothes, then met in the antechamber to the autopsy suite.

“Ready?” she asked.

McKenzie nodded. She swung open the door to Forensic Medical's inner sanctum.

 

Sam stood over the body of an incredibly skinny black girl, a scalpel in hand. She was well into the autopsy. She looked up, saw Taylor and McKenzie and spoke quickly, with no preamble.

“Finally. I'm almost done here. Sorry I couldn't wait, but you didn't need to see the preliminaries anyway.”

“Sorry. We've had a long day. Baldwin and the inspector from the Met are on their way.”

“The more the merrier. You think you've had a long day? Tell me about it. Do I have to wait?”

“No, go ahead,” Baldwin said. He and Memphis entered the room, and Taylor felt odd. Seeing them together,
so intent on the case, and on her—both men were smiling at her. She ignored Memphis, went to Baldwin. Grazed his lips with hers. He squeezed her arm, glanced at Memphis. Mine, it said. She's mine, mate. Lay off. Taylor couldn't help but smile. She liked the jealous side of him. It was cute.

Sam was tapping her scalpel against her palm. “Ready? Okay, cause of death was starvation, she was dead before she went into the lake. No signs of water in her lungs. She's got those funky spots on her back, too. One big difference. Her eyes were glued open, probably with some sort of cyanoacrylate adhesive. I'm running exactly what kind through the LCMS, could be Super Glue, or Vetbond. I've documented everything we've done so far, it's on the table over there.”

“So she couldn't look away,” Taylor said softly.

“And he could watch her die,” Memphis added.

Taylor let the horror of that sink in for a minute, then let the emotion turn itself to anger. Man, she wanted to catch this bastard.

“How long was she in the water?” Baldwin asked.

“Not too long. Less than five hours. She was never submerged, I think she got caught on a branch or something and it kept her afloat. She does have track marks, mostly up her left arm.”

Taylor thought about that for a minute. “Is she a habitual user?”

“The injection sites are relatively new. She doesn't have any scarring between her toes, the webbing of her fingers, inside her thighs, all places I'd expect to see them if she'd been at it for a while. And the trajectory of the needle is off, too. She's new to it.”

“Was she injecting herself?” Memphis asked. Sam gave him a harried look. Four investigators crowding the
autopsy suite, peppering her with questions was starting to get on her nerves.

“Possibly. Probably. But let me finish this rundown, because I have good news for you. We might be able to get DNA. I found skin under her nails. Just a tiny bit, but it might be enough to run a DNA profile. I can nail the bastard if he's in the system or you have another sample to compare it to.”

“We've got samples to compare galore. Speaking of which…” Taylor filled her in on the story from Manchester and Chattanooga.

McKenzie held up the evidence bags from Marie Bender's house. “We've got more DNA for you guys. Will you handle this, or should we call Tim?”

Sam shook her head. “Better call Tim. I'm the only one left here today and I have to go get the twins. I'm getting ready to slide her in the fridge, then skedaddle. Tim's got some stuff for you anyway. I think he was trying to run everything down before he touched base.”

McKenzie nodded, and Taylor forced her focus back to the body. “Sam, I also need to get into the records for an autopsy you did three years ago.”

“That would be archived. Kris can pull it tomorrow. Why, did I do something wrong?”

“As if. No, the case relates to ours here. Manchester, a drowning. Young black girl, music playing at the scene. It's eerily familiar, and we've got samples to run now.”

“You say I did the post?”

“That's what the sheriff said. Simmons, Coffee County. Nice guy. Seems like he knows what he's doing.”

“I don't remember it offhand, but if I read the report it would probably come back to me. You know how many of these I do in a year.”

“Too many.”

“You said it, sister. Back to our lake girl. We identified the flowers she was holding—”

“Daisies, poppies and pansies.” Memphis was a few feet away, fingering the posy in its stainless-steel resting place.

“Yes, that's right. She had a necklace of violets, too, just like the painting.”

“What painting?” Taylor asked.

“It's Millais,” Memphis said. He turned to Taylor with a big grin on his face.

Sam smiled through her face shield. “That's right. It's John Everett Millais's
Ophelia.
I had one of my techs do a little research.”

“How did you know that?” Taylor asked Memphis.

“Oh, the Tate Britain in London has the original. I live not far away, in Chelsea.”

“That's convenient,” Baldwin said. Taylor heard the note of surprise in his voice. She started to wonder exactly what the rivalry was between the two men—was it desire for her, or an intellectual duel to solve the cases? Now that was an interesting thought. She was definitely getting a vibe from Memphis. And she had to admit he was growing on her. He wasn't at all what she expected after their awkward meeting this morning. He seemed quite competent, and no doubt he was charming.

She realized she'd been watching him and abruptly turned away.

Sam started straightening her tray. “You haven't talked to Tim this afternoon at all, have you?”

Taylor shook her head. “No. We've been in Manchester digging up old dirt all afternoon.”

“He found a postcard of the painting in the grass near the bank of the lake. It was a dead ringer for the scene.”

“A postcard of the painting? Oh, wow.” She looked at Baldwin.

“That's II Macellaio's signature. Well, at least we have that out of the way. Looks like this
is
the same guy. Jesus. A trans-Atlantic serial killer.” He shook his head, then excused himself. Taylor saw him flip open his cell phone. She assumed he was calling his team at Quantico to warn them.

Taylor turned to McKenzie. “Would you mind calling Tim and setting up a meeting? See if he's available now? And make a note to follow up with Kris tomorrow to pull the autopsy record for LaTara Bender.”

“Sure. I'll be right back.”

Sam had abandoned her scalpel and was suturing the Y-incision on the victim's chest.

“Show us her back,” Taylor said.

Baldwin and Memphis stepped closer. Sam clipped the thread on a knot, then rolled the girl's body toward her, exposing the naked skin of the victim's back. There it was, evenly spaced circles, all along her shoulders, the lower part of her back, her buttocks and her legs. There was one spot just above her tailbone that didn't have the marks. Taylor looked at it for a moment, thought about the physics of someone lying on their back.

“Someone this thin, there would be a gap above her butt, below her lower back, where the body wouldn't come in contact with whatever she'd been lying on. That's why there's a space in the circles.”

“Look at her arm,” Sam said.

A long dark seam ran up the length of her right arm. The left was clear.

“Just the opposite of Allegra. That is too bizarre,” Taylor said. She looked at it closer, mentally conjuring Allegra's similar lividity. “Same storage area, perhaps?”

Sam shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Makes sense,” Memphis said. “But none of my victims had anything like this.”

“Nor mine,” Baldwin added. “This is unique to the American crimes. Taylor, was there anything in the previous two murders that had a description of these marks?”

“No. It's only been the two most recent murders.”

“So he's changed up how he's storing them,” Memphis said.

“You're pretty good at this, aren't you?” Taylor said, smiling at him in admiration.

“I've had some…practice,” he replied.

McKenzie joined them at the table, pointed at the victim. “Good news. We have an identification at least. Leslie Horne. Twenty-two. Tim found prints in the system, she's been busted for prostitution. He said to meet him back at the CJC, he'll take the evidence from Manchester into custody and enter everything into the system.”

The five of them stood silently, bearing witness to the girl who now had an identity, a name, a life lost.

“I think she knew Allegra Johnson,” McKenzie said.

“Why do you say that?” Taylor asked.

“Because her address in the system? It's the same as Allegra's.”

 

As they were filing out, Sam stopped Taylor.

“Hey, stick around for a minute.”

Taylor stopped, said, “Y'all go on. I'll catch up with you in a second.”

When the room was empty, Taylor asked, “What's up?”

Sam was fiddling with a scalpel. Taylor saw something unexpected in her eyes. Anger.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sam asked, her tone heated.

“What do you mean? I'm working the case. We've had a lot of new information today and I—”

“I meant with the Brit. What are you doing?”

Taylor frowned. “What are you talking about, Sam?”

“You were flirting with him.”

Taylor glared at her best friend. “I was not.”

Sam tossed her scalpel onto the tray with a clatter.

“You most certainly were. In front of your fiancé and your newest detective, I might add.”

“Oh, please. That's not true, and you know it.”

Sam came around the autopsy table, stood eye to eye with Taylor.

“Do I? I've seen that look on your face before, Taylor. You're interested in him.”

Her chest felt tight, and she measured her words carefully. “See, that's where you're wrong. He's
interesting
, but I'm not
interested.
See the difference?”

Sam shook her head.

“You need to be careful, Taylor. He's obviously interested in
you
. He can barely take his eyes off of you. And you were practically preening.”

“Watch yourself, Sam. You don't know what you're talking about.”