Judas Kiss (4 page)

“Fitz said there was a little girl. Did the transfer come from her or the killer?”

Parks nodded. “Looks like the kid. You'll see when you get in there. I talked to the sister, got her story. Apparently they had a date to play tennis and she dropped by to pick the victim up. She entered the house, saw her sister, grabbed the kid, called 911 and skedaddled. She's been questioned already, but I knew you'd want to talk to her. I've got to warn you, the victim's parents are here. The sister called her mom after she finished with 911. Everyone is pretty shaken up.”

“Where's the husband?” Taylor asked.

“On a business trip. Convenient, huh?”

“I'll say. Can you find out where he is for me?”

“Already done. The mom called him, he was in Georgia and is on the road now, driving back. Should be in this afternoon.”

Taylor looked at Fitz, who was writing in his notebook. “Wouldn't you fly home if it were you?”

“Yep,” Fitz said.

Parks gave her a wry grin. “I asked the same thing. No direct flights. It was quicker for him to drive. At least, that's what the mom said.”

Parks handed over some of the items Taylor would need to enter the house—booties, latex gloves. He offered a blue paper mask, similar to one her dental hygienist wore, but she shook her head once, declining. No sense in that. No matter the precautions, the scent of death would sneak into her sinuses, settling for hours. She slipped her sunglasses into her front pocket; she wouldn't need them inside.

“Is Father Ross here?”

The Metro police department's chaplain was a kind, gentle man who Taylor had relied on more times than she could remember. It was hard enough to inform a family member that a loved one was dead. Having the minister along was not only helpful, it was mandated.

“He's here. The whole group of them, parents, two sisters and the kid are in the next door neighbor's house, huddled up, waiting for you.”

“Anyone know when the victim was seen last?” she asked.

“We're working on nailing that down right now. The sister talked to her Friday. One of the neighbors might've seen her, or something.”

“Okay. When did the ME get called?”

“Same time as you, LT. Dr. Loughley is on duty this morning, she's—”

“Right here,” a voice called out. Taylor turned to see her best friend, Samantha Loughley, walking up the drive, her kit slung over her right shoulder. Her dark brown hair was up in a ponytail, thick bangs swept across her forehead. The bangs were a new look, and Sam had been bemoaning the haircut for a week.

“Morning, sunshine,” she said as she reached Taylor. “What's up, Parks? Fitz, you look well.”

Fitz grinned back in acknowledgement of the compliment. He'd been working hard on his weight and now had his formerly oversized belly down to a trim and manageable thirty-eight inches. The weight loss took ten years off his fifty-five-year-old frame, and Taylor knew he'd begun dating a woman he'd met at a barbeque cooking contest. Oh. Maybe that's what the boat was all about. She shook the thought off. They needed to focus on the murder.

“Like the new look, Owens,” Fitz needled.

Sam rolled her eyes. “Are you ever going to start using my married name,
Sergeant?
”

“Naw. I like Owens. Loughley's too hard to say.” He jostled her with his hip and smiled.

Sam dropped her bag on the folding card table that had been set up for the field command station. “Fine. Call me whatever you want. Just put that degree in. I spent too much money not to use the title.”

“
Anyway,
” Taylor said, getting their attention back from their game. “Sam, we were about to make entry on the scene. I haven't been inside yet. Parks says the victim is a female Caucasian, pregnant and toasting. So let's get this over with, okay?”

Fitz looked over to the neighbor's house. “I think I'm gonna go next door and have a chat. Y'all have fun up there.”

Taylor watched him go. Good. Two birds, one stone. “We set, Parks?”

Parks nodded. “Tim's here too, ready to go.” Tim Davis was the lead criminalist for Metro Nashville police. He'd started in the Medical Examiner's office as a death investigator, then moved over to Metro in anticipation of their eventual establishment of a crime lab. Taylor always enjoyed working with the young man. He was very serious about his craft.

“No time like the present.” Taylor started for the door, Sam right behind her. The videographer was on the narrow porch, camera on the boards between her feet, ready to document their walk through. Taylor didn't recognize her. Tim Davis was waiting patiently, kit in hand.

“Hey, Tim,” Taylor said.

“Morning, LT. Dr. Loughley. Have you met Keri McGee yet? She's going to be doing the video feed for us this morning.”

A sunny blonde stuck out a pudgy hand. “Good to meet you, Lieutenant. I just moved up here, used to be with New Orleans Metro. Really glad to be here.”

Taylor held her hand up. “It's good to have you. I'd shake, but I'm already gloved. Welcome to Nashville. You just stick to my six and we'll be fine. If you need to boot, try to get back outside and don't screw up the scene, okay?”

“Sure thing, ma'am.”

Taylor fought the urge to snap.
Jesus, girl, don't call me ma'am. I'm not old enough to be your mother.
Instead, she smiled and stepped into the house.

Rotten chicken. That's what the first olfactory note identified. Just as quickly, the coppery scent of blood, the stink of putrefaction and decomposing flesh, and a sweet, almost perfumelike scent. Not air freshener. Hmm. Taylor's eyes adjusted as her subconscious mind worked its way through the instinct to flee. It wasn't a natural smell, and her heart raced for a moment. A normal first reaction, borne of self-preservation, would be to get the hell out of there. A couple million years of evolution warned her—there's danger here. She'd felt it before, knew it would pass in a second. She let herself adjust, breathing through her mouth. Sam was by her side, doing the same thing. They were trained to make it go away.

Taylor let her eyes wander the room in front of her. She was standing in a marble-floored foyer. There was a table against the closest wall with pictures in silver gilt frames—happy, smiling newlyweds against a summer-wooded backdrop. The stairs were directly to her right, hardwood covered in an ivory Berber runner. Just past the banister was the entrance into the dining room, loaded with heavy dark oak furniture, silver and crystal, an oversized china cabinet. To the left, a brief hallway that opened into a great room. The floors in the dining room were burnished oak, the great room was carpeted in the same light Berber wool.

Every few inches there were tiny crimson footprints. Little heels here, little toes there. They looked like mouse trails, in and out, back and forth, leading up and down the stairs, into the great room, and Taylor could see they trailed into the kitchen on the far side of the dining room. They were everywhere; some light, barely pink enough to mar the carpet, some outlines or edges. Closer to the stairs, a few were dark, almost seeming they would be wet to the touch. Sam drew in a deep, sharp breath.

Taylor forced her brain to shut off that emotional center which would allow her to acknowledge the desperation the child must have felt to be wandering around the house, her mother's blood on her bare feet.

“This is Homicide Lieutenant Taylor Jackson,” she said aloud for the benefit of the video camera. “I am the lead investigative officer at this crime scene, 4589 Jocelyn Hollow Court. I'm going to do one pass through the lower part of the structure.” Nodding at Sam, she went to the right, into the dining room, avoiding the blood. Sam picked her way after Taylor. Tim and Keri followed, the group moving as one, silently assessing.

The footprints wended their way through the dining room, under the table, and back into the kitchen. There was no rhyme or reason to the pattern, just a nomadic line of passage, typical of a youngster moving aimlessly about her home. Some areas were just faint impressions, blotches, and some were well formed. That made sense to Taylor. The blood would wear off after enough steps. With a child, her uneven toddling tread would account for the inconsistencies.

The dining room had a door that separated it from the kitchen, but it was propped open with a stuffed cat doorstop. The door was white, a six-paneled French style, covered with what looked like cherry juice finger-paints. Taylor knew what they really were; the little girl had swept her bloody hand along the door as she walked from room to room.

The kitchen was baby-proofed, with locking mechanisms on all the below counter cabinets. The smell of rot was more prevalent, and Taylor spied a Wild Oats bag with a package of chicken in the deep stainless steel sink. Well, that accounted for the stink downstairs. If the victim hadn't talked to her sister for two days, and the chicken was coming back to life, then there was a good chance she'd been dead at least a day. Taylor only put chicken in the sink if she needed to defrost it and had the time to do so. That would give a convenient timeline—a day to thaw and a day to start smelling. Though it just as easily could be the victim came home from grocery shopping and didn't get all the packages stored before her assailant appeared. They'd need a liver temp or a potassium level from the vitreous fluid for something more accurate, but it was a start. Never assume, that was her mantra.

Fruit in a basket on the granite countertop, an empty carton of organic fat-free milk, an empty yogurt container…if Taylor
was
going to guess, it looked like the victim had just finished eating breakfast before she vacated the room and got herself killed.

An answering machine hung on the wall, the red light indicating new messages blinking.

“Be sure someone gets those messages,” Taylor said to Tim.

Sam made a noise in the back of her throat. “I was planning on shish kebabs for dinner. Guess I'll make a salad instead.”

The videographer didn't comment, and Taylor shot her a glance. Keri wasn't fazed, was simply documenting. Excellent. Taylor caught Sam's eye and smiled. Always the jokester.

“Let's head up.” Taylor walked slowly from the kitchen through the great room, back to the foyer, the group in her wake. The stair had a landing halfway up and turned to the left. There was blood smudged up and down the stair runner, not the same kind of hit and miss footprints they'd been seeing. Taylor asked Sam what she thought it was from.

“Baby that small can't get up and down with a normal stepping motion. She'd have to drag herself up step by step, on her hands and knees, slide down on her bottom. If she was covered in blood…”

“Oh.” The image was vivid in Taylor's mind.

Placing their feet in between the splashes of color, they made their way to the second floor.

“Baby gate isn't up,” Sam noticed. “Get a shot of that, would you, Keri?”

“That explains how she was able to wander the house.” Taylor took in the setup.

To their right were three doors, all leading to bedrooms. To the left, the hall led away from the stairs. The scene was similar to below, but more intense. Distinctive tiny red footprints, defined smears along the walls. Macabre artistic skills from a young child surely affected more by confusion than anything else.

The rooms each glowed with a different palate, and the hall bath was decorated in a nautical style, reminiscent of a beach hotel. It struck Taylor. The obvious effort that had gone into decorating was apparent. And the trimmings weren't bought at Target or Pottery Barn. The décor was top of the line, custom designed.

A quick perusal showed a guest room, an office and a nursery. Blood smears and light footprints wound in and out. Taylor followed the path. The nursery was painted in various tones of pink and lilac, with a mural of a forest on the western wall. The furniture was bleached oak; there was a mobile hanging above the oversized crib. Sunlight poured through the windows, barely checked by a light pink sheer. There was a small half bath off the nursery. Taylor glanced into the space. The smell of feces and urine was strong—a miniature plastic toilet sat on the floor next to its life-sized companion. It was full of waste. The child was toilet-trained, but without her mother to empty the basin, the little potty was full to the brim.

Nose wrinkled, Taylor walked the length of the hallway to the master bedroom. The door to the room was open wide, wedged against the wall with a small bronze mouse. Corinne Wolff liked her doors open, no question about that. The walls were painted a creamy sage, the furniture dark rattan and rosewood. Island style, a retreat for the owners. Taylor remembered seeing an ad for the same style of room in an upscale design catalogue.

The interior of the room was awash in incongruous colors. The blood had molted into a dark brown stain, except where it cast against the walls and a white shaded lamp in a deep burgundy.

They saw the feet first. The body was half hidden by the king-sized bed. They crossed the room with care. No one wanted to be responsible for mucking up any evidence they might find. The room was at least forty feet in width, the bed in the center of the back wall. There was approximately fifteen feet of space on each side. The body was in the south quadrant of the room. Taylor heard Tim scratching notes as they moved to the far side of the bedroom.