Judas Kiss (8 page)

After spending the past year in Nashville, he'd found himself dreading the thought of the BSU walls closing in around him. He'd always hated being stuck inside, much preferred working in the field. He loved the work, just didn't like having to share his workspace with forty other people.

Garrett's reach had been dragging him back to Quantico more and more often. After hearing this news, he was going to have to stick around for a while. Quantico was the last place he wanted to be right now.

“I could give her a generic warning. Anything funny happens, let me know. Something so she wouldn't be blindsided.”

Garrett shook his head, a fine sheen of sweat shimmering along his closely clipped hairline. “No. Not yet. Let's get some confirmation first. This may not happen. We don't need to blow your cover over a maybe. Langley would not like that at all.”

W
hen Taylor was deep in a case, every workday lasted just a bit longer than the last.

She left the office a little after eleven o'clock, planning to forage in her kitchen for wine and cheese, maybe a hunk of bread. It was too late for a real dinner, and after five months living with Baldwin, she'd come to realize she didn't like to eat alone anymore. She dragged into the house at eleven-thirty, yawned and decided to hell with it. She'd just head upstairs and have a decent breakfast instead.

Baldwin had called, leaving a message on the machine for her, one designed to incite a lustful longing for his warmth. She'd smiled at the attempt to solicit dirty thoughts, but was too tired to think of much except getting into the bed and sleeping forever.

There was a bill on the counter from the plumber. God, she'd forgotten all about the leak. It seemed impossible that she'd started her day with such a banal issue. It felt like a week had passed.

Just a cracked cock and ball assembly, allowing the water to the toilet to steadily overflow. He'd replaced it, and the charge was $150 for parts and labor, but with their new home warranty, their cost was only $42.50. That was a relief. She checked the ceiling in the living room, it had already dried without leaving a stain. Good. Replacing a ceiling wasn't high on her list of things she wanted to deal with. Though they'd had a million little issues with the house, so far they were just that, little. She rapped her knuckles on the cabinet—knock wood they'd stay annoyances rather than something major.

She called Baldwin back and they chatted for a few minutes. She told him about her day and he assured her that Garrett was just fine. After her fourth jaw-cracking yawn, Baldwin suggested she get some sleep. They hung up with promises to talk in the morning.

A dog barked once, sharp and deep, then howled. The sound gave her a chill, and she set the alarm before moving upstairs.

She washed her face, brushed her teeth, and was climbing in the bed when she heard the tape for the first time. Channel Five kindly replayed their ten o'clock newscast at midnight on their sister cable station. The anchor was intoning with horror, preparing the viewers with a warning that was sure to keep them riveted to their seats and the channel tuned in.

“We're going to play the 911 tapes from the Corinne Wolff murder scene. We must warn you, the tape is disturbing, and not appropriate for young viewers.”

The screen went blank, then a blue background with a graphic of a white rotary telephone popped up, the headline reading 911 Call. The tape started rolling, static whispering at first, then clearer. The station provided a written transcript on the screen to accompany Michelle Harris's words.

Taylor turned off the television. That pretty much guaranteed she wasn't going to be able to sleep for a while. She got out of the bed and went to the bonus room, knowing that a few games of eight ball would help settle her mind.

She snapped on the lamp, took the cover off the table and retrieved a Miller Lite from the small dorm refrigerator that stood unobtrusively in the alcove. She twisted off the top, sent the metal cap arcing toward the trashcan with a nice overhead, then cursed. She'd forgotten to bring home the brackets for the basketball pool. Oh well, she could manage that tomorrow.

She racked up the balls and started shooting, the rhythm of her game helping a quiet calm steal into her limbs. Bend, sight, the clicking smack of the cue hitting the ball, drop. Over and over again, until the table was clear. She racked the balls back up, did it again. The beer was empty now, so she got another, pausing to sip at intervals, focused on the task at hand. Trying to empty her mind.

Taylor got tired of being a stranger to deep, uninterrupted sleep, but at least it helped hone her skills on the felt. She could probably make some cash as a pool shark if she ever needed a career change.

Three-thirty now, and she finally started to feel the slight tug at her eyelids that presaged some REM time. She covered up the table, tossed the beer bottles in the trash, shut off the light and went back to her bedroom.

The sense that something wasn't right struck her, and she went to the windows, lifted the edge of the blind and looked out onto the darkened street. The home-owners association had bylaws forbidding street lamps, which was one of the dumbest things Taylor had ever heard of. As a consequence, some of the homes on the street burned the front lights all night, the yellow pools of safety a warning to any who thought to enter, knowing that light was their best deterrent to crime. Not all the home owners felt the same.

With only three houses' porch lights on tonight, and those farther up the street, the darkness was deep and penetrating. Taylor took in the shadowy brick structures, the trees waving long-boned fingers in the air. In a day or two, they'd be in full bud. Spring generally appeared overnight in Nashville. Taylor wondered if she stood and watched, would she see the coming of the equinox? Instead, there was nothing to observe, no one on the street lurking, staring up at the windows.

“Silly goose,” she said, her voice's typical no nonsense tone a comfort.

She got into the bed and stared at the grotesque shadows cast about the room by the night-light's reflection on the ceiling fan. Thought about Corinne Wolff, beaten, alone, unable to fend off her attacker. Rolling onto her side, she caressed the pillow facing her, where Baldwin's chiseled features usually gave her a respite. The emptiness was palpable. Stretching her right arm out, she slid it under the pillow. Her fingers closed around the grip of her Glock. A shiver went through her, and she was finally dragged under.

 

The lights were doused at last. He wondered how she slept. On her side, or her back? On her stomach, vulnerable and unable to defend herself if surprised? Oh, if that were only the case. But no. He'd watched her walk, the long stride never hesitating, never compromising, and knew she slept on her side, a leg thrown over the man next to her. Confidence. She had that in spades. Oh, what he wouldn't give to teach her humility. Bliss.

A nosy dog scented him and began baying. He moved deeper into the woods, away from the house, away from civilization. The time would come. He must simply be patient.

D
espite the alarm going off in her ear for a full twenty minutes, Taylor couldn't rouse herself. She finally reached a hand over and stifled the music, glancing with one eye at the clock face. Nearly seven-thirty. Damn it. She needed to be at Forensic Medical by eight to witness Corinne Wolff's autopsy.

She threw back the tangle of covers and went into the bath, started the shower running and brushed her teeth. Fifteen minutes later she rolled out of the garage barefoot, Diet Coke clutched in her lap, jeans and T-shirt on, wet hair smoothed into a coiled bun. She had an awkward crick in her neck from sleeping at an odd angle that the shower hadn't relieved. She could put her boots on when she got to Gass Street, slip into a sweater, too. It was chilly as hell this morning.

She'd made this trek too many times to count in her years as a detective. She felt a strange kind of kinship with her victims—the need to see what was inside, what made them tick. And Corinne Wolff was no exception. Taylor was interested to see the particulars of how she'd died, at the very least.

Interstate 40 was packed with early morning commuters, and an accident at the Charlotte Pike exit meant they were crawling slower than normal. The west side of town was blessed with less congestion, less traffic, and an easier commute than those people driving into Nashville from the east, south and north of town. But an accident could derail that immediately, bringing all the cars to a snail's pace. Taylor sipped her Diet Coke, trying for patience. It didn't look like traffic was going to get moving anytime soon, and she wasn't in the mood to sit. Damn it, she was going to be late. Another ten minutes passed before the cars inched forward enough for her to hop off at Charlotte westbound. Feeling free, she made an illegal U-turn in front of the Cracker Barrel, sailed up to White Bridge and got on Briley Parkway.

The new section of road quickly gave way to the old four-lane highway, and she started making up time as she cruised past the defunct Tennessee State Prison, the site of Robert Redford's film
The Last Castle
and an architectural dead ringer for Johnny Cash's infamous Folsom State Prison. It had fallen into disrepair and was abandoned, left to the ghosts and rats. She tried not to think of her father, once a brief inmate of those twenty-foot-high, three-foot-thick crenellated walls.

Now the prisoners were housed at Riverbend, a maximum-security prison equipped to end the lives of those fated to die at the hands of the state. She'd been inside Riverbend's death row cells, with their blue doors and creamy concrete walls. She never wanted to return. The overwhelming sense of malevolence coupled with dread was too much to take. She'd sent more than one of the men housed in that unit to death row and hadn't lost a moment's sleep over them, but she didn't want to experience their last moments firsthand.

Her dad, well, his prison environs were a damn sight cushier than a state penitentiary. The feds were kind to their white-collar criminals.

The Interstate 24 split came, and she passed the exit, driving a few more miles to the Dickerson Road access ramp. Off the highway now, into the run-down streets. This was a sad part of town. A crack whore strolled by, arms swinging wildly as she walked, a timid black man in his forties following some fifty feet behind. Had they made the deal already? They must have, the hooker had the bright, insistent glow in her eyes of a junkie who knows she's about to get a fix.

Taylor shook her head. There seemed to be no legal measures that could stop the pervasive sex trades on the back streets of Nashville. For the pros, a night in jail meant either safety or withdrawal, neither an inducement to break free from the life. For the johns, it was just an embarrassment.

She turned on Gass and passed the Tennessee Bureau of Investigations offices on the right. The TBI task force would be furious if they knew Lincoln had broken the rules. Even though he had done something that was life-preserving, they would still punish him. He'd be kicked off the task force at the very least. She wondered if she could keep the situation quiet, then forced the thought from her mind. She was a master at keeping each aspect separate, tackling one thorny issue at a time. It was the only way she could get through the day.

Forensic Medical appeared on her left, shiny as a new penny in the morning sun. Taylor parked in a visitor slot. She jammed her feet into her boots, tucked her sunglasses into their hard leather case, grabbed the sweater and stepped into the bracing morning air. Dogwood winter, that's what her mother had called these chilly spring days. As soon as the trees began to bud, Nashville was nearly guaranteed a late frost, shriveling up the fresh, tender blossoms. Only the most hale of trees and shrubs would stand it; the rest would be shocked back into dormancy for at least another few weeks.

The front of Forensic Medical was lined in clusters of forsythia bushes intertwined with azaleas. The forsythia didn't seem to mind the snap, were rioting in their fervor to spread their rich yellow blooms toward the cool sunlight. The sight made her smile. The mutinous nature of the bushes always lightened her heart. She hated when people trimmed them into balls or squares, felt it killed their wild personality. It was a shame they'd be gone so soon, too. She wished they'd bloom all summer.

Taylor swiped her card and entered the cool offices of Forensic Medical. Someone, probably Kris, the receptionist, was burning a lavender scented candle. Slightly less oppressive than the patchouli incense that sometimes smoked up the foyer, but lavender always made Taylor sneeze. The cacophony of scents that made up Forensic Medical wreaked havoc with her sinuses anyway. Beneath the thick flowering smell was an antiseptic undernote,
profumo della morte.
The scent of death was pervasive and ugly, no matter what Renaissance language she translated it into.

She crossed the lobby, boot heels clomping on the hard floor. The door to the hallway was locked. Taylor swiped the key card again, was rewarded with a resounding click. Making her way toward the autopsy suite, knowing what lay ahead, she resigned herself to the case at hand. All thoughts of spring and happiness left her.

In the locker room, she traded her boots for soft rubber clogs and gowned up. She glanced at her watch. Ten past eight. Not so bad, considering. She pushed open the door of the autopsy suite with an elbow. The aroma of formaldehyde wafted to her nose, mingled with old blood and feces.

“It's about time. I was about to start without you.” Sam was ready to go, wired for sound with her headset, standing over the body of Corinne Wolff. She had a scalpel in her right hand, was tapping it impatiently against the table in a staccato rhythm. Skylights set high in the ceilings showered sunlight down on the medical examiner, creating copper highlights in her dark hair.

“Sorry. I had a late night.”

“That's okay. I'm just ready to get this one over with.”

Taylor glanced around the room. Usually well-staffed and attended, the four additional autopsy tables were empty this morning, a silent tribute to the difficult case that lay ahead. Corinne Wolff lay on the plastic table liner, already prepped and x-rayed, ready for the postmortem. She looked smaller than at the crime scene, more delicate. Fine-boned. Taylor could tell the girl had been beautiful before the beating. The telltale bump on her stomach made the gorge rise in the back of Taylor's throat. Autopsies with fetuses past the twenty-week gestation period always threw her. Oh, who was she kidding? She didn't ever like to see dead women who were pregnant.

“Stuart Charisse will be attending me this morning.” Sam had turned on her headset and was beginning her assessment. On cue, a lanky young man with wildly curly hair appeared at her side. He smiled politely at Taylor, started his duties with professional dispassion.

Sam spoke into the headset as she began the external examination.

“Autopsy number T-08-8768, case number T-2008-5389. The decedent is Corinne Elizabeth Wolff, a female Caucasian twenty-six years old, in good physical condition, presenting with multiple injuries. The body is intact, sixty-five inches with a weight of one hundred thirty-four pounds. Body heat is cold, rigor is not detectable, livor is dark, limited to anterior legs, stomach and chest. Hair is dark brown, shoulder-length, eyes are brown, teeth are natural. There is no facial hair. The decedent is clothed in a sports bra and panties. Paper bags are present on the hands. The head, neck and bra are bloody.

“The jawbone is crushed and shows evidence of severe trauma. Accompanying the body there is a small envelope labeled ‘teeth found near victim's body.' It contains two bloody molars that belong to the victim as is evidenced by systematic placements in the corresponding sockets. There are fragments that appear to match the additional empty sockets. The teeth are photographed.”

Stuart took pictures of the teeth and labeled the jar that held them. The teeth would be released with Corinne's body for burial.

“The bags are removed from the decedent's hands. Examination of hands shows a large plastic Band-Aid partially attached to the anterior of the right wrist. The fingernails are clipped and preserved as evidence.”

Stuart and Sam worked well together. Once the nails were clipped and bagged, they began the laborious progression of stripping the body and washing it. Twenty minutes later, Sam was ready to proceed. Corinne now lay naked, even more vulnerable in appearance than before. Taylor felt sorry for the girl. Who did she piss off? Sam's voice dragged her back.

“The body is that of an adequately nourished Caucasian female who appears to be her recorded age.”

Sam moved on to a detailed examination of the wound pattern across Corinne's skull and upper body. Blunt force injury number one. Blunt force injury number two. Blunt force injury number three. Avulsed teeth, abrasions, lacerations, bruises, mandible fractures. Because the wounds were so plentiful, Sam began grouping the smaller gashes together. At number eight, Taylor tuned out the recitation.

Rage. Pure, unadulterated rage. Whoever was responsible for murdering Corinne Wolff had been viciously upset with her. Todd Wolff's face rose unbidden, his eyes red and brimming with soon-to-be-shed tears. He had made awfully good time back from Savannah. The trip should have taken at least eight hours; he'd made it in six. Perhaps he was lying after all. But could he have been callous enough to leave his daughter hungry and dirty, crawling through her mother's blood? To murder his unborn son? He'd have to be a pretty cold bastard to do that.

Sam was efficient. While Taylor daydreamed about suspects and motives, she'd moved on to the internal examination, had weighed and categorized all of the internal organs, removed the fetus, and had taken the saw to Corinne's skull. The high-pitched whine made a shiver flow through Taylor's spinal cord, akin to the feeling she got when someone scratched fingernails on a blackboard, or tinfoil made contact with a filling. And then it was over, and Sam was calmly saying, “The skull is open to reveal extensive subarachnoid hemorrhage of the brain, bilateral and most prominent at the base of the brain. The brain—” A pause here, a squelching noise, then she continued. “The brain is removed to reveal a linear skull fracture occupying most of the posterior aspect….”

Well, Corinne's skull had been cracked, no doubt about that. Taylor's cell phone rang, and she happily excused herself from the rest of the proceedings. She didn't particularly want to dwell on the fetus in situ anyway.

As she turned away, she heard Sam say, “Oh, hoy.”

Clicking the button that would send the call directly to her voice mail, she came back to the table.

“What is it?”

“She was strangled.”

“Are you telling me the skull fracture wasn't the cause of death?”

Sam caught Taylor's eye. “No, I'm pretty comfortable that the beating was the ultimate finisher. But there is some very subtle bruising around the neck. If I had to guess, I'd say that the killer tried strangling her first and it wasn't working quickly enough. It's harder to strangle someone to death with your bare hands than you might think. If Corinne struggled or fought back, which it certainly seems she did, it would be easy to lose your grip. She was in good shape, pregnancy aside. She put up a fight.”

“So the killer loses control of the situation and resorts to beating?”

“Sure. Grabs the most convenient item and starts whaling away. The tennis racquet made a distinctive bruising pattern where the knots of the strings are tied on the outside of the racquet head. The edges could easily create those open gashes. Think about the killer standing over the body, thrusting downward, over and over.” Sam was wrapping things up now, tidying as she went, snapping lids on containers, folding closed the flaps of envelopes, handing dissected slivers of organs to Stuart for analysis. “We'll send off the scrapings from under her nails and all the blood work, get you a tox screen as soon as possible. But it's evident what happened.”

“There's nothing sexual about this?”

Sam shook her head. “No sign of bruising or tearing, no lubricants. I swabbed for semen just in case, though there was none visible in the vagina or anus, and certainly nothing to indicate sexual assault. This was just a murder, plain and simple.”

Plain and simple.

“Were there prints on the tennis racquet, or the body?”