Sweet Dreams Boxed Set (55 page)

“All right, puppy. Let’s go talk to some of Jordan’s classmates. Let me grab my phone, I left it in the car.”

Dan Franklin had left message on her cell while they were in with Gladys. The press conference was in an hour.

All the humor fled. Just what she wanted—to face the cameras again.

Eighteen

Captain Price was getting ready to walk out the door when his phone rang. He hesitated; it was late, and he was caught between the desire to just clear the hell out and the knowledge that he had to take the call. He let out a huge sigh and walked back to his desk.

“Price.”

“Hey, man. How goes it in the land of make-believe?”

“Garrett Woods. How the hell are ya? It’s been a while. You in town?”

“Don’t I wish? No, I’m sitting here underground at Quantico, as usual. I think I’m becoming a vampire. The light hurts my eyes when I get outside.”

“Sorry to hear that. You still running the BSU up there?”

“Behavioral Science, Investigative Support. They can’t decide what they want to call us. Yeah, I’m still running it. Isn’t all it’s cracked up to be these days. Too many crazies and too little time. Speaking of which, I hear you guys are having a little fun down there yourselves.”

Price caught the note in his friend’s voice.
Uh-oh.
He really liked the man, but he didn’t relish the thought of the FBI trailing around his cases. He’d had many good experiences with them, but he’d also found when profilers get on the case, things could go a little astray.

“Fun times, always,” he said cautiously. “It’s been a while, Garrett. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Can’t a friend call and say hi?”

“Not when that friend is with the FBI and I’ve got a popping case.”

Garrett started to laugh. “Okay, okay. I’d like to ask a favor.”

“Shoot.”

“Word on the street is you may have a serial on your hands.”

“We have two dead girls in a short time span, both of whom attended the same college, but we have nothing tying them together outside of proximity. It’s probably too early to start bantering around the boogeyman theory, you know?”

“Yeah, I do. This isn’t an entirely official inquiry. But you know the drill. If you do, I’ll have to pull a field profiler in who has too damn many things going on with his own stuff to be a huge help, yada, yada, yada. I was thinking perhaps we could approach things a little differently.”

Price sat back in his chair. This was going to be interesting. He’d known Garrett for years, and trusted him. His instincts caught a little note of desperation in his voice, which intrigued him. Garrett wasn’t a man who flustered easily.

“Go on.”

“I have an agent there in Nashville who’s not working right now. He’s been on a temporary sabbatical. I was wondering if you’d be willing to let him come in and consult, on my dime.”

“Why do I get the feeling there’s more to this?”

He heard Garrett heave a sigh. “Can’t put anything past you, huh. It is a special situation. His name is Dr. John Baldwin. He’s one of our best and brightest. He got himself in a little trouble here a few months ago, and it kinda screwed him up. He headed home to Nashville to sort out his head, so to speak.”

“What kind of trouble, Garrett?” Price’s tone was obvious.

“Nothing illegal or improper. He was involved in a shooting. Three of his teammates were shot and killed, and he’s been putting the blame on himself. Big time. I’m not sure I’ll even get him to come back to the FBI. But I want him back, Price. He’s a damn good cop. One of the freakiest profilers I’ve ever had. He’s got this sixth sense that’s busted open a ton of cases when no one else had a clue. Really intuitive, on the ball…”

“So why’s he so torn up? He knows the risks.”

“It’s a long story, but not a new one. He feels he got them killed. One was a junior agent on his first case. He hasn’t been unable to shake it the guilt. I’m hoping a taste of the real world will bring him back to life, so to speak.”

“Why don’t you just pull him back in on one of your cases?”

“Because he refuses to leave Nashville. He claims he’s planning to quit the FBI for good. He may refuse to talk with you, I don’t know. But I need to try, Mitch. I don’t want to lose him, in any sense of the word.”

“Do you really think he’s going to be any good for us if he’s not any good for you?”

“Point taken. I think if he feels useful but isn’t in charge, it may shake something loose. Maybe we can even convince him it’s his civic duty to help out in his hometown. I’d consider this a personal favor, man. Nobody up here knows I’m doing this, so I may get my own ass in a sling.”

“I suppose you already know about my LT and her shooting?”

Garrett chuckled. “Jackson? Yeah, I heard about it. Sounds like she got jammed up good. I did hear she was back on the job. She doing okay?”

“Far as I can tell. Shrinks cleared her, department cleared her, and she’s back and rolling. She’s a damn good cop, too. I’d hate to lose her, either.”

Garrett was quiet while Price thought it over.

“You think Baldwin will do it?”

“I haven’t talked to him about it. I wanted to clear it with you first. If you give the word, I’ll call him right now and run it by him. He may tell me to go to hell. He’s already done that a few times. But I have some new information pertaining to his case. It might help pull him back in.”

“Loose cannons aren’t always the best people to have around a delicate situation, Garrett. I’d need your personal assurance that you’ll keep up with him, make sure he’s not going yahoo on me.”

“You have my word. I wouldn’t even think about asking for this if I thought it would backfire. He’ll either say yes or no. If he says no, well…”

“All right, man, if he’ll talk to me, I’ll talk to him. Though if I get any indications he’s not working out, I’ll be the first to cut the strings.”

Woods heaved out a sighed of relief. “I owe you big time. I’ll have him call you tonight to set it up. Just a consulting role. If there’s a problem, you let me know.”

“Will do, Garrett. You owe me more than a beer this time.”

After a few pleasantries and promises to keep in close touch, Price hung up the phone. He didn’t want to mention the call to Taylor just yet. He thought he’d see if the man got in touch first, then deal with the fallout. He shut off his office light and went home.

Nineteen

Dr. John Baldwin sat on the easy chair in his living room. The room was devoid of light except the flickering of the television, tuned to the local CBS affiliate, but muted. On the table next to the chair was a half empty pint glass of Guinness and a Smith and Wesson .38 Special snub nose revolver.

Baldwin stared at the television, eyes unfocused. He was very drunk. Drunk enough to play the game. He was ready. With any luck, he’d have a little accident and there would be no more guilt.

Baldwin had been a handsome man once. He stood 6’4”, had jet-black hair graying slightly at the temples, lively green eyes that could look into the very soul. But now he looked ten years older than his thirty-seven years. He had a week-old beard shot through with dense silver the color of moonlight that barely filled in the gaunt lines of his face. His eyes were shrouded with guilt.

He had been forced out of his job at the FBI six months earlier. Not by his bosses. By his own conscience. Six months to relive the shame, the embarrassment, the knowledge that he had caused three deaths. Six months of replaying the case. Reliving his actions. He had been the head of the Investigative Support Unit, thriving in the shadowy world of psychological profiling. Was the darling of the BSU. He had the book smarts, of course: PhDs and a law degree, and the years of field experience. He was a good cop. Used to be a good cop.

Then Arlen had rocked his world.

Harold Arlen, an inconspicuous mechanic in Great Falls, Virginia, had killed his career and his soul. Baldwin had seen so much, but Arlen went to new heights of hideousness. Once a week for six weeks, like clockwork, a young girl had been found in the woods near Great Falls, Virginia.

Every law enforcement officer, every neighbor, every member of the media, everyone thought Arlen was responsible. But they had no proof. Not a single hair, a minuscule fiber, a shred of mitochondria. Nothing.

Baldwin knew in his soul that Arlen was guilty. It was the way he acted in his interviews, playing, laughing. How he only truly came alive when they showed him the crime scene photos. It was all there. But there was no evidence.

Their last-ditch attempt to pin the murders on Arlen proved fatal. The evidence they’d been searching for finally appeared, stuffed into the back of an underwear drawer. Arlen had come home and found them rooting through his house, and had gone wild, whipped out a gun and started shooting. All the agents were caught by surprise. Baldwin’s bullets were the only ones that found their mark. He’d killed Arlen, but Arlen had gotten enough shots off before he was hit to kill the other three agents.

The guilt Baldwin felt was overwhelming. He’d lost three good men for no reason other than his own desperation to solve an unsolvable case. Arlen was dead, the case was solved. Then another little girl turned up dead. They’d found hairs on her body, and a DNA comparison didn’t link them to Arlen.

There was an inquiry. Baldwin could see the judgment in the eyes of the agents around him. Getting scum off the street was one thing, and Arlen had been scum: a purveyor and seller of child pornography. Losing, no, sacrificing three good men, though, in the guise of taking down a killer? No one accused him directly, but he felt the eyes on the back of his neck. He sat with the ghosts of his friends every night. It was too much, and he left.

By the time he’d arrived at his boyhood home in Tennessee, he was already too far gone to save. A life sentence for murder would have been easier than a death sentence of freedom. He’d had no contact with his old life for six months, except the occasional phone call from his old boss, which never went well. He’d wallowed in guilt, drank to excess, popped every pill he could find. Anything that would make him numb.

He soon realized that there was only one way out. He didn’t have the balls to get it over with himself. He didn’t quite have the nerve to meet his maker straight out. So for the past few weeks, every night, he sat in his chair, playing the game according to his own set of rules.

Baldwin pulled himself back to consciousness. He’d given himself permission to relive the fateful mea culpa, just like he did every night he was sober enough to think, to flog himself for his stupidity. He’d asked forgiveness of his dead friends once more. He wanted to put an end to his overwhelming guilt, to serve his time in hell. He figured it couldn’t be much worse that what he dealt with every minute of every day. That’s where the game came in.

He forced the thoughts away. Took a last gulp of his beer. Palmed the small gun, his throw-down weapon from the old days when he was a decent cop. It was ready to go, like a roommate begging to leave on the ultimate road trip.

He lifted the revolver to eye level. Read the words
Made in the USA
engraved on the side. It gave him a sense of pride—wouldn’t do to play with anything foreign, despite the supposed origins of the game. He leaned back in the chair and gave the cylinder a spin. One spin, one try. If it didn’t happen, he’d put the gun away until the next night. The ratcheting noise comforted him, and as it stopped he took a deep breath. Put eight pounds of pressure on the trigger pull and pointed it at his temple.

The staccato tones of Wagner’s “Flight of the Valkyries” filled the silent room, startling the gun from his hand. Baldwin grabbed for it and got a grip on it, then groaned and set the weapon in his lap. His fucking cell phone was ringing. Loudly. Insistently. He choked back a laugh. He’d forgotten to turn it off.

Ignore it
! He raised the weapon again.
Just do it. You won’t be able to sleep if you don’t play the game
. But a thought niggled in the back of his mind. Who the hell would be calling? No one had called in weeks. They’d tried at first. “Take a leave of absence, Baldwin. We’ll be in touch.” And after the first month, they had been. But the calls inviting him back hadn’t been returned. When the case ultimately resolved, they’d sent him a letter giving him a year’s leave, left him alone to battle his demons.

Shaking his head, the curiosity got the better of him. He had all night to kill himself. Hell, he had the rest of his life to do it. He picked up the phone.

“What?” he barked.

“It’s Garrett.”

Baldwin sighed and gently set the gun back on the side table. Maybe it wasn’t his night to die after all.

Twenty

Baldwin didn’t know exactly how to respond to the man on the other end of the phone. He opted for the truth.

“I’m kinda in the middle of something, Garrett.”

“Baldwin, I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t important. I’m sorry it’s been so long. After our last conversation, I thought you’d rather not hear from me.”

Baldwin listened with half an ear to the platitudes from his former boss. His thoughts kept drifting to the gun next to him. Hopefully, this was a last-ditch mercy call and he could get back to the game. His attention gradually drifted back to the phone when he heard the word
killing
.

“Huh? What was that again?”

“The Nashville police are working two murders. Coeds from Vanderbilt. There are some bizarre aspects to the deaths. I think they may have a serial on their hands. I just talked to the Captain down there. He’s an old friend of mine. Your name came up. Do you feel up to doing a little consulting? Or are you still messing around with your gun?”

Baldwin gave a little laugh. How nice to be so predictable.

“’Fraid I’m a little tied up at the moment, Garrett. With my stellar reputation and all, why the hell would they want me? Let me guess: you didn’t tell him the whole story?”

“Like I said, Mitchell Price is a friend. He knows what went down. He’s a big believer in second chances. So am I. I’m not asking you back to the Bureau. I’m asking you to talk to a friend of mine. Maybe give him a little advice. Maybe sign on for a while to see if they can get this guy who’s hunting young women in your backyard. That’s all.”