All the Pretty Girls. J.T. Ellison

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СКАЧАТЬ to shove his intestines back into the yawning hole. It made no difference. He bled out at her feet. The EMTs arrived moments later, but too late to stop Taylor from losing a large part of her innocence on a dark street deep in the worst projects in town. She finished processing the crime scene and headed back to the station, and once in the locker room she noticed that the man’s blood covered her boots. She could never describe the overwhelming emotion she felt then, but she quickly learned to put her feelings aside.

      She nearly laughed at the memory of that young girl, shocked by a little blood on her shoes. She’d seen plenty since, enough to weaken the idealistic view she’d had as a rookie officer. Now, at thirty-five, she was the youngest female lieutenant on the force, headed a crack team of homicide detectives, and had seen more than enough blood, some of it from her own gun, some of it hers. Yes, the idealism was well and truly gone now.

      She pulled up in front of the Forensic Medical Building on Gass Street, secure in the knowledge that she knew who she was, and was relatively happy with that person. Relatively.

      Baldwin had suggested she apply to the Academy, go through the rigors to become an FBI agent, but she’d turned him down cold. She belonged to Nashville.

      Dr. Sam Loughley, medical examiner and Taylor’s best friend, was sewing closed the Y incision on Jessica Porter’s limp chest as Taylor rolled into the autopsy suite.

      “Wow, you were quick. Didn’t know you would be done already.”

      Sam looked up and smiled through her plastic shield. “I’m not early, you’re late. It’s seven-thirty already. Tim, could you finish up here for me?”

      “Sure, Doc, no problem.” Sam handed off the tools to her assistant and walked toward the decontamination room, pulling off her smock and gloves as she went. Taylor followed dutifully.

      It was only after Sam was cleaned up, they both had a cup of tea and were ensconced in Sam’s office, that she would comment on the autopsy.

      “She didn’t take a terrible amount of abuse.”

      “I don’t know, Sam, being strangled and having her hands cut off seems a bit excessive, don’t you think?”

      Sam nodded. “Well, of course it is. I just meant that she wasn’t horribly abused, beaten or anything. The hands were done postmortem. The strangulation was manual, there was no evidence of rape. It wasn’t as bad as some I’ve seen. She wasn’t torn up, just had the characteristic bruising and tearing I’d associate with rough consensual sex. He used a lubricated condom, and I didn’t retrieve anything that would qualify for DNA. I’ve taken all the samples and sent them to be run. Dr. John Baldwin, FBI agent extraordinaire, called early and told me to send all the trace and the blood work to the FBI lab. It’ll go quicker that way.”

      Despite all efforts to the contrary, Nashville didn’t have their own forensics laboratory to process elements from their crime scenes. Baldwin had just saved them both a major headache.

      “So do you have any other info for me?”

      “Not really, Taylor. The results won’t be back for a couple of days. Cause of death was definitely manual strangulation. We’ll just have to wait for the rest. Baldwin mentioned this was an ongoing case?”

      “He seems to think this is the work of a serial killer the FBI has christened the Southern Strangler. Based on the transportation MO, this is his third kill.” She drifted off for a moment. “I wonder what he does with their hands? Why he’s leaving one behind at every scene?”

      Sam grinned. “Probably an acrotomophiliac. You know, less is more.”

      Taylor wrinkled her brow. “What the hell does that mean? It doesn’t sound good.”

      “Means he’s sexually attracted to amputees.”

      “Aw, Sam, that’s really—”

      “Relax, it was just a joke. The hand that was recovered yesterday didn’t have the level of decomposition I’d expect from one that had been excised a month ago, so I’m operating on the theory that it was frozen. Running all the tests on that one, too. C’mon, let’s get out of here and get something to eat. I’m starving.”

      They went to breakfast, catching up, pointedly not talking about the case. Sam was pregnant, effusive with excitement and joy at the impending arrival of her first child. All of their conversations lately ultimately found their way back to the being inhabiting Sam’s belly. When they finished the umpteenth round of baby-name options, Taylor dropped Sam off back at the medical examiner’s office, then went to her own.

      Lincoln had pulled together the information on the previous murders, trolling information that must have been supplemented by Baldwin at some point, since the crime scene photos were copies of originals with the FBI stamp in the lower right-hand corner. The files were on her desk, and she delved into them.

      There was little more to be gleaned than what Baldwin had already shared with her. The first murder, Susan Palmer, had occurred April 27. She was reported missing, and when police went to her house, they found an almost exact replica of the scene Taylor had witnessed at Shauna Davidson’s apartment. There was no sign of forced entry, the bedroom was the source of interest. Taylor gazed at the bed, stripped of sheets, bloodstains on either side of the mattress. The blood was ultimately matched to Susan Palmer, and there were fibers adhered to both the bed frame and the blood that came from a national brand of industrial-grade rope. The photos from the area Susan Palmer’s body had been found were also eerily familiar. Long saw grass obscured her body in the first few shots. Close-up pictures of her handless arms had attendant blowups, detailing the wounds. She absently noted that the photographer was wasting his life working for the police, he was adept at making the scene come alive.

      There was one inconsistency in the photos that caught her eye. She pulled out a magnifying glass and examined it. Tracing back through the report, she matched the numbered card to the line in the report. Number 38, unidentified vomit. Hmm. She tucked that tidbit away and went on.

      She opened the next file, immediately drawn to a picture of the victim. Jeanette Lernier had a wide smile and laughing eyes. She looked like someone Taylor would have enjoyed sharing an off-color joke with. Her animation bled through the photograph. Finally breaking the trance, she read through the rest of the report. Mind-numbingly similar, down to the close-up shots of the bloody stumps.

      She read through the witness statements. Jeanette’s family and friends adored the girl, that much was certain. People not so close to the family made a few disparaging remarks, accusing the girl of fast living. One mentioned she thought Jeanette was having an affair with a coworker, but supplemental reports didn’t address the issue. She made a mental note to ask Baldwin why.

      Finished with her perusal, she set to work doing the paperwork detailing the case of Jessica Ann Porter. She compiled a comprehensive murder book, pulling together all the reports from the various officers attendant to the crime scene. It was boring work, tedious but necessary. Even if the FBI swooped in and completely wrestled the case away from her, she wanted her diligence noted.

      She worked most of the day by herself. Lincoln and Marcus were both off, and Fitz was running the search for Shauna Davidson and gathering more information on the missing girl. At five o’clock, she decided to call it a day. She hadn’t heard from Baldwin but assumed he’d show up sometime in the evening or during the night. She didn’t need to be in his way right now, he’d have enough on his plate getting his own investigation under way. She brought the murder book with her, just in case.

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