The Cold Room (25 page)

She looked around the room, now brightly lit with Tim's scene lights. She imagined the darkness, the fire in the stove casting shadows on the wall, the sounds of the girls' muffled screams as they lay dying in the Plexiglas coffin.

The computer was booted up. The screen asked for a password. Shit. Where was Lincoln when she needed him?

She made a few desultory tries, Gavin, Adler, GAdler. All failed. She had a birth date from the ticket Armstrong gave the man; she tried that, forward, backward. Nothing. Then she remembered the word Kendra had whispered. Dolls. It was such an innocuous word. Why not give that a try?

She typed in the word. Nothing. She tried it in all lowercase. Nope. She typed in DOLLS and the computer ran
for a fraction of a second. She leaned closer. The desktop screen filled the monitor. Now that was just dumb luck.

“Open sesame,” she whispered.

She saw an icon blinking—iChat. She clicked on it. She was vaguely familiar with instant messaging; it wasn't something she had a lot of time for nor an inclination to play with, but she knew enough. There was an ongoing chat, and Adler hadn't erased the history.

As she read, faster and faster, scanning the page, she felt the dread build in the pit of her stomach. They'd missed him. But that wasn't all.

“Oh, Jesus,” she said. She pulled out her cell phone, called Dispatch. “We need to amend the BOLO on the Prius. Please include the state of Georgia.”

She hung up, then speed-dialed Baldwin. He answered on the first ring.

She could hear the tremor in her voice. “I'm in Gavin Adler's basement. We were wrong. Oh, my God, we were so wrong. Gavin Adler isn't II Macellaio.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Baldwin, there's two of them.”

“What do you mean, there's two of them?”

“Are you still in Quantico?” Taylor asked.

“Yes, I am. I was going to catch a plane in about an hour.”

“Maybe you should sit tight. I'll come to you. We can catch a flight to Florence out of D.C. a helluva lot easier than from Nashville.”

“Whoa. You need to back up, and tell me everything.”

The words spilled out in a torrent. “All our leads ended up here, pointing to Gavin Adler. I'm at his house now, out in western Davidson County. We just recovered a victim, a young woman named Kendra Kelley, who was being held in a Plexiglas coffin. This is his house, Baldwin, this is the house of the man who killed Allegra
Johnson and Leslie Horne. But it's not Il Macellaio. We were completely wrong. Il Macellaio is still overseas. He's in Italy, in Florence. We have to go after them. This guy, Gavin Adler, is Il Macellaio's brother.”

“His brother? Are you speaking figuratively, or do you mean a flesh-and-blood brother?”

“A real brother. And they've been working together. I've only gotten a glimpse into their world, and I'm telling you, it's horrific. By the way, I have a name for you to start working on for Il Macellaio. Tommaso. That's all I've got. I'm waiting for a specialist to come and go through the computer system.”

“Christ. There's two of them. Okay, okay, give me a second.”

She could hear him rustling papers, could imagine that he was running his hands through his hair, trying to get his mind to work harder.

“Is the computer a desktop?” he asked finally.

“No, it's a laptop.”

“Okay. Take it. Get to the airport, get up here. I'll clear it with your bosses. We'll analyze the system, glean as much information as possible. Did Adler flee to Italy?”

“Yes. It's all right here. Tommaso tells Gavin to come to him. To drop everything, dispose of the ‘doll,' as he calls the victim we found here, Kendra Kelley, and come to him. He sent instructions for him to drive to Hartsfield International in Atlanta, I guess to throw us off the trail if we thought he might have tried to flee, to pick up a ticket at Alitalia and fly to Rome. And he calls him brother.”

“So he may not be physically related?”

“Baldwin, think about it. The DNA from Chattanooga matches the DNA from London and from Florence. The DNA
matches.
”

“Holy shit,” he murmured. “Of course. I was so blind. There's only one way the DNA could match two people.”

“Exactly. They aren't just brothers. They're identical twins.”

T
aylor hung up the phone with Baldwin. She closed the laptop, looked for a case. She didn't find one, but did find a power cord. She bundled that together. Tim was wrapping things up with the coffin; the basement had been combed over. Samples of DNA had been taken, fingerprints, everything they'd need to nail Adler to the wall. If they could catch him.

Keri McGee was watching all this with a trained eye, waited until Julia Page had gone upstairs for some air before approaching Taylor.

“Is this something I need to erase from the tapes?”

Taylor gave the girl a smile. “No. This is an instance of me taking the initiative. If I get busted, so be it. But Quantico is better equipped to handle this than we are. I just have to go downtown and plead my case to whoever I can find who'll let me go. Baldwin said he'd fix it, but I can't exactly run up there with evidence without authorization.”

“Okay. I heard what you said. Identical-twin killers, huh?”

“It looks that way.”

Keri brushed her bangs out of her eyes. “You know, I
had a Cajun granddaddy, his name was Welton Keif. I remember one time we'd gone out to the bayou to visit him, in this flat-bottomed skiff, water moccasins slipping through the murk, mosquitoes as big as your hand flitting around. We'd been visiting with a cousin of mine who'd had identical twins, and we brought pictures so he could see. We showed him the babies, told him they were identicals. He looked at us funny, said, ‘What the hell is an identical twin?' We were taken aback, surely everyone knew what that was. But my mom explained anyway, that they were two little boys who were exactly alike who'd been born at the same time. He got this look of recognition on his face. Said, ‘Oh. Them's born partners, that's what they are. Born partners.' Sounds like that's what you have here, Detective Jackson. Born partners who are driven to kill. I wonder what made them that way?”

“Born partners, huh? Well, they're certainly partners in murder. I wonder what made them this way, too, Keri. If I can find out more about them, I might be able to answer that. Thanks for the input. Sounds like your granddaddy was a perceptive man.”

“That he was, Detective. Too perceptive. He also said I'd come across another pair, far away from him. Looks like that was rather prophetic, don't you think?”

The hair rose on Taylor's arms. “Yes, Keri, that's a little strange.”

“I'll just get back to work now, Detective. You travel safe. Good luck catching these guys.”

McKenzie met her at the top of the stairs. He had the gray cat in his arms, and the cat was snuggled into his shoulder, purring loudly. He looked settled in and happy.

“His name is Art,” McKenzie said. “It's on his tag.”

“Art the cat. Well, that fits. These killers are imitating famous paintings, why not have a cat named Art? Hey,
kiddo.” She scratched the gray behind his ears again, and she swore he smiled.

“He's really friendly. He seemed lonely, so I thought I'd give him a little love. Now I'm afraid to put him down.”

“McKenzie, we've got work to do. Have you found any pictures of this guy, anything that might help us identify him? We only have the photograph from his license to go on, and it was issued in 1998. You know how deceiving those pictures can be. He could have changed his look four times since then.”

“No. This place is clean. Except for all those CDs and the basement, this place is sadly devoid of personality, actually. Um, Jackson? I kind of promised Art I'd take care of him.”

Taylor ran her hand across her forehead. “Well, we need to call animal services and let them come take him.”

“No. They'll, they'll—” He looked at her frantically, mouthed the words
put him down.

“Not necessarily. What do you propose?”

“Can I keep him?”

McKenzie sounded so much like an eight-year-old who'd found a stray that Taylor had to laugh.

“McKenzie, this is going to be our little secret. You may foster the cat until we figure out what needs to happen with him. Is that fair?”

He just nodded, a wide grin plastered across his face.

“Okay then. That's settled. I need to go back to the CJC and secure permission to go to Quantico. Though I have no idea who I'm going to do that with. Can you stay here, continue running the scene? Tim has oodles of evidence that needs to be logged, and I want your eyes on it. Then I want you to take the license photo of Adler, put it in a six-pack, and see if Hugh Bangor can identify him. What's the word on Kendra Kelley?”

“She's being pumped full of Narcan and she's responded well. Looks like she'll be okay.”

“That's great news,” Taylor said. “Is she awake enough to talk?”

“Not yet. Why are you going to Quantico?”

“The Macellaio task force is all there already. They need this piece of the puzzle.” She tapped the laptop. “Baldwin's working it with our superiors. I'll fight for you to come, too, you've been instrumental in this case from day one.”

“Well, don't worry if they say no. I've got enough here to keep me busy.”

Gracious of him. He walked into the kitchen, singing softly under his breath to the cat. Sheesh. Big man gone soft over a fuzzball. Though she had to admit, Art was kind of cute.

She had bigger problems to worry about than one of her detectives fostering a criminal's pet.

She caught herself. McKenzie wasn't one of her detectives, he was her partner. She didn't have her command back. Yet.

Taylor stopped at home to pack a bag and grab her passport, just in case. By the time she made it to the CJC, the orders had been secured for her trip to Quantico. A commander she'd worked with in the past, Joan Huston, was in the Homicide offices when she arrived.

“Commander,” Taylor said.

Huston patted her sun-streaked brown hair and smiled, then handed her a file folder. “Detective. I'm overseeing Homicide until we get things straightened out with Lieutenant Elm. I've got your clearance for Quantico. I appreciate the request to take Detective McKenzie, but we've decided that he doesn't need to travel at this time. He can be your conduit to the investigation in Nashville.
You've been authorized on a TPSPA both for Quantico and for any overseas travel that may be necessary. A temporary special assignment to the FBI's behavioral unit was the best we could do on this short notice. It's on the FBI's dime, which made it easier for the chief to swallow. You need to hurry, you don't want to miss your flight. I do hope you'll keep me informed of your progress.”

Wow. That was easy. Baldwin must have made some interesting phone calls. “I will. Thanks so much for helping.”

“You got it. Do us proud. We'll have all this—” she waved her hand around in a circle, meaning Homicide “—figured out upon your return.”

She smiled again and shook Taylor's hand. She'd always gotten along with Huston. It was nice to have someone of rank actually smile at her again. Maybe things were getting ready to turn around.

It was early enough that the drive to the airport wasn't too bad. She dumped the car at Executive Travel and had them shuttle her over to the terminal. Her flight to D.C. was in forty minutes, and she still needed to get her weapon checked and registered. Flying armed wasn't an easy proposition, but once she got to the airport, all the provisions she needed had been arranged for. With her weapon surrendered and secured, she was escorted through security, her bag x-rayed, and fifteen minutes later she was on the plane.

That had to be a record run through an airport. She liked working with the FBI. They knew how to make things happen.

The flight was going to take two hours. She did the only rational thing. She put her head against the window, and fell asleep.

T
aylor woke when the plane began its skidding run down the Potomac. She reset her watch for Eastern time, brushed her hair, and swiped on some ChapStick. Baldwin was meeting her at the gate. Another perk for the FBI.

She deplaned, was met in the jetway by an airline official who handed her both her overnight bag and her gun case. She'd carried on the killer's laptop, in her own case, so she attached that to her bag and strolled up the jetway. As she exited, she saw Baldwin waiting. He had on a white Brooks Brothers button-down and chinos, looked endearingly preppy and handsome, his green eyes flashing in welcome. And weary. Too many long nights, too many murders. It was starting to take a toll. But his face lit up when he saw her, and he enveloped her in a hug that took her breath away.

God, just being near him made her feel more settled.

Reagan National Airport had changed since she was last here. Of course, that was ages ago, everything in this town but the monuments would have changed, and they'd added a few new ones to the city, too. D.C. could never be accused of being a static entity.

They chatted about nothing until they exited the terminal, the humidity smacking her in the face like a wet washcloth. Funny, she knew Nashville was just as humid, but it felt wetter here.

Dodging a multitude of people going in every direction but theirs, they reached the curb, where a driver sat with a big black sedan that fairly screamed government. Baldwin held the door for her. The air was on full blast and gave her a chill. Baldwin slid in beside her, and the driver wormed his way through the mass of taxis and cars to the exit. Within ten minutes, they were heading south, toward Quantico, on I–95.

“Ready?” Baldwin asked.

“As I'll ever be. Tell me what you know.”

“We're heading to Italy in the morning. The carabinieri are looking for Adler. He landed in Rome early this afternoon, made it through customs before the alert went out. Well, I shouldn't say that. The alert had gone out, but they didn't pay it enough attention. He was smart, drove to Atlanta, took the first flight out. Georgia Bureau of Investigation has already impounded the Prius. Oh, and we have his passport photo.” He handed her a black-and-white glossy eight-by-ten photograph.

It was a much more recent shot than Adler's driver's license. The man who looked back at her didn't send waves of fear crashing through her system. He was…boring. Nondescript. Not terribly handsome, not ugly. Where so many mixed-race children took on the most glorious aspects of their parents' blood, nothing elegant leapt out about Gavin Adler. He had curly black hair and a round face, with skin so light that if his full lips didn't have a slightly ethnic bent to them, she would have assumed he was white. Wide brown eyes. His nose wasn't big, nor was it small, but a bit thick
through the nostrils. He looked…more scared than scary. How had this benign little man killed four women? How had he had sex with their corpses? How did he manage to have an elaborate chamber in his basement solely for the purpose of hastening his victims' deaths?

Taylor was used to evil, saw it every day. But she had a hard time seeing much of anything in Gavin Adler's face.

“This is him? This is the man who's created such havoc?”

“Half of him, anyway. We have the Italians, the Brits and Interpol using facial recognition software to look for another man like this in their passport rolls, people who've traveled in and out of the country. But we don't know what country issued II Macellaio's passport, or what name he's traveling under, so that makes it difficult. We don't know travel dates. We have very little to go on over there. Tommaso isn't exactly an uncommon name over there. It's like us pulling all the records of people named Tom.”

Taylor tapped her laptop bag.

“Hopefully, this will change everything. I assume you'll be able to trace the IP address he was using and narrow a location down pretty damn quick. I doubt Tommaso is his real name.”

“Maybe, maybe not. We have been trying to track it down, and we do have a possible on the Tommaso front. There's a famous art photographer named Tommaso. It's a long shot, but it just might be him.”

“An art photographer?”

“Yeah. And catch this. He takes photographs of paintings for the art catalogs for the museums.”

“Well, that fits. How'd you find him?”

“One of my profilers, Charlaine Shultz, is a big art fan. When we said the name she mentioned this guy. We searched on Google for him and he showed up every
where. We even know where he lives.” He paused for a moment. “Care to guess?”

Taylor raised an eyebrow. “Florence?”

“Exactly. He warranted checking out, under the circumstances. He's well-known. Sought after. He goes simply by Tommaso, if that tells you anything.”

“That's as good a start as any I've heard. Man, your team has been busy.”

“Do you know what Tommaso means in Italian?”

Taylor shook her head. “No, what?”

“Twin. Tommaso means twin.”

She spit out a laugh. “That's precious.”

“You better believe it. Taylor, I don't want to lose these guys. I want to nail them, and then I want to study them. Identical-twin serial killers. Identical twin necrosadists. Can you imagine?”

Baldwin's voice had taken on that dreamy quality it always did when he was confronted by true evil. It was his calling, his purpose, to find out what made these men and women tick.

“No, I can't. What in the world would drive this type of pathology?”

“That's the fascinating thing about this. With identical twins, it's like they are the same person, just in two bodies. It makes sense that if one has the pathological desire to commune with the dead, the other would as well. Of course, that drives a massive stake in the nature versus nurture theory.”

Taylor looked at him. “Are you assuming they were brought up in some sort of environment that made them this way?”

“I can't assume anything, not until we find out who they really are. The background on Gavin Adler shows he was adopted. We're trying to track down by whom.
Hopefully, that will give us the name of the other brother. It's going to be fascinating to see what their young lives were like. I'm telling you, Taylor, no matter what kind of environment a child is brought up in, there is a reasonable expectation that they'll understand what's right and what's wrong, that they will receive the tools to form a positive moral compass. Serial killers aren't made. They choose to be killers, they choose to take lives. A hidden desire for necrophilia is something that's probably not learned. Of course, that's another completely misunderstood pathology. Did you know that necrophilia is really just the desire to have sex with an unresisting partner, and the vast majority of necrophiliacs are stunted in the fantasy stage? Very few actually act on their desires, and when they do, they seek out role-playing partners who are willing to pretend with them. They're looking for compliant sex, completely submissive. Some of the more disturbed ones will drug their prey—like roofies. Classic necro behavior.”

“You're saying that men who give roofies to women and rape them are actually necrophiliacs?”

“That's exactly what I'm saying. They want power and control, and they don't want to be told no. You should see the Web sites out there dedicated to this. They have what they call ‘Sleepy Sex,' arranged for partners who are willing to be photographed during the role play, then share them.”

“That's…disturbing. The thought of an undercurrent of men and women who are into this…well, everyone has their kink. From the instant messages it seems Adler didn't know Tommaso was his brother until yesterday. Do you think Tommaso and Gavin met through one of these sites?”

“I don't know. Here's the problem, though. Our boys
have moved on to something much more sinister. They are actually killing to have sex with the dead bodies. They are a highly evolved version of the classic necrophiliac. I wouldn't be surprised to see a background that includes working at or near a morgue, or in the funeral business. As it is, they're well beyond anything I've seen before. And the art, the painting? Leaving the postcards at the scenes? Think about it.”

She did. “Oh…Static women, posed and at the ready.”

“Exactly.”

He settled back in the seat, took her hand. “I'll tell you one thing, Adler is panicked. You know when a suspect goes off his beaten path, does something that isn't in his normal routine, he messes up. Our boy has messed up, royally. We're going to catch him now, and we're going to catch his brother, too. There are a lot of people in Italy who will sleep easier once we have II Macellaio off the streets.”

“Should we be calling them I Macellai now, instead?” she asked.

“The Butchers. Plural. Yes, I guess we should.”

“He left his cat behind.”

“Adler?”

“Yes. McKenzie is going to foster it. I didn't have the heart to tell him no, animal control might have destroyed the poor thing. But guess what the cat's name is.”

“What?”

“Art.”

Baldwin just shook his head. “That's just too much. Adler's an artist of sorts. He's listed as the designer on the Picasso monograph. We're looking into anything that's got a copyright with his name near it. Any idea where he worked?”

“No. McKenzie is handling that part back in Nashville. But now that I know all of this, I can have McKenzie look
deeper. It didn't seem like he worked out of the house. Granted, once we get into his computer all the way, we can find out all of this.”

“It's like Son of Sam.”

“Huh?”

“Remember, he got caught because of a parking ticket. Adler got caught because one of your patrol officers was sharp enough to spot that he was acting weird.”

“He wasn't wearing his safety belt. Such a stupid little mistake. But we'd have found him anyway. I think that's what made him run, getting pulled over. I think he would have stuck it out with Kendra Kelley otherwise, and we might have actually gotten our hands on him in the act.”

“How is the Kelley girl?”

“She'll live. She'd been drugged, they had to pump her full of Narcan to stop the overdose. I don't know what kind of emotional scars she might have. He glued the eyes of his last victim open. Imagine, being locked in a Plexiglas box, able to see your killer, feeling your life draining away inch by inch. You can imagine where he may go next. We saved her from a nasty fate.”

“We're here,” Baldwin said.

Taylor looked out the window. They were parked in front of a restaurant called the Globe and Laurel. It was nearly 10:00 p.m. Taylor was starving, her mouth watering at the mere thought of sustenance. Baldwin heard her stomach growl, looked sheepishly at her. “Everyone's already here. Thought we might eat before we worked.”

“That, my dear, sounds wonderful.”