Don't Cry (5 page)

“I'll run that by Sergeant Hudson.” Tam glanced at her partner, who was talking to one of the uniformed officers. “I don't think he'll object. As long as both the TBI and the FBI keep in mind that this is a CPD case and we're in charge—”

“Enough said.” J.D. knew the drill.

Local law enforcement could be territorial, even if they wanted and needed assistance. When he'd been assigned to the Memphis field office, he'd had a bad run-in with a local county sheriff. The sheriff, a good old boy with a lot of influential friends, had come out of the confrontation smelling like a rose. J.D. had come out of it smelling like shit. He had learned his lesson the hard way, one of many. Not the first, of course, and God help him, probably not the last either.

“Unofficially, the three of us just talking among ourselves, do you have any gut feelings about this guy—a man who abducts pretty, young, dark-haired women, holds them hostage for a couple of weeks, smothers them, and then poses them in a rocking chair with the skeletal remains of a toddler?” Tam's gaze connected with J.D.'s.

“Just the three of us talking among ourselves, I'd say this guy's got some kind of mommy problem.” J.D. looked at the body in the rocking chair. “Maybe some sort of mommy and baby thing. Think about it—a rocking chair, a blue baby blanket, a dead child…”

“Makes sense,” Tam said. “But what you just said is pretty much a given, don't you think?”

“Yeah, sure, but why put a dead child in her arms?” Pete asked. “What does that mean?”

J.D. shrugged. “Beats me. Unless, in his mind, he's mimicking something.”

“What I want to know is where he got the two little skeletons,” Tam said. “There are no reports in Tennessee or any of the surrounding states about the graves of any children being dug up, no bodies reported being stolen.”

“Which leaves us with what?” J.D. asked.

Tam and Pete stared questioningly at J.D.

“The bodies probably belong to missing children.”

“Are you saying you think our killer murdered these little boys years ago and kept their bodies hidden away?” Tam asked.

“Possibly,” J.D. said. “Either that or he knew where whoever killed them had buried the bodies.”

After Audrey's arrival at his home that morning, Mayor Don Hardy had left his wife in Audrey's capable hands—his assessment, not hers—and gone to the Forensics Center on Amnicola Highway to ID Debra's body. Although understandably distraught over her cousin's murder, Janice Hardy had managed to hold it together and not fall apart completely. What she had needed was to talk about Debra, about their close sisterlike relationship and how very much she would miss her cousin. Naturally, Janice had questioned how something so horrible could have happened. Why would anyone want to kill Debra? Or Jill Scott? Two lovely young women apparently killed without rhyme or reason, simply because they fit a certain profile. Young, slender, attractive, brown-eyed brunettes.

An hour ago, shortly before leaving the mayor's home, Audrey had received a call from Tam. She had told Audrey that their lunch plans were unfortunately canceled, and then she had asked her to stop by headquarters that afternoon.

“Dad's here with us,” Tam had said. “We're putting our heads together and trying to make sense of things. Dad wants to talk to you, so would you mind dropping by as soon as you can?”

Audrey was supposed to have Sunday dinner with Tam and Marcus and Tam's parents, but the discovery of Debra Gregory's body that morning had changed everyone's plans. Assuming that no one else had eaten lunch either, Audrey had stopped by the River Street Deli downtown and bought lunch for four. She figured the “we” Tam had referred to were Tam and Garth and Willie.

Audrey parked her cocoa brown Buick Enclave in the civilian parking lot adjacent to the Police Service Center, across the highway on Wisdom Street. She hoisted her em-bossed black leather Coach bag over her shoulder and picked up the large sack from the passenger seat. Using the crosswalk between Amnicola Highway and Wisdom Street, she approached the 911 Center and the CPD headquarters housed in the two-story gray buildings.

Everyone at the police department knew Audrey. The old pros had known her all her life and there actually were a few of those still around, men like her uncle Garth and Willie Mullins. Some of the young guns were her friends and a few of them were childhood buddies, as Tam was. Others were acquaintances. She had worked, in an advisory capacity, with the CPD in the past, so no one raised an eyebrow when she showed up at headquarters on a Sunday afternoon. Normally, visitors had to be accompanied by police personnel beyond the front information center desk lobby area.

Audrey went up to the second floor of the PSC, where the patrol squad rooms were located. The door to the office that Garth now shared with Tam stood wide open. Just as Audrey approached, Garth must have sensed her presence. He turned and glared at her, not looking all that happy to see her. She held up the sack and waved it slowly back and forth to let him know that she came bearing gifts. Shaking his head as if reluctantly agreeing for her to join him, he motioned to her. Tam, who stood in the corner of the office, was on the phone. She glanced at Audrey and forced a weak smile.

Willie—Police Chief Mullins—sat behind Garth's desk, his attention focused on the papers and photographs lying on the desktop in front of him. As a general rule, the chief didn't come to headquarters on a Sunday afternoon. But there was a good chance the CPD was dealing with a serial killer and not your regular run-of-the-mill murderer. Both the mayor and the DA were probably breathing down Willie's neck.

She often wondered if Willie missed being an investigator, if he missed working with his old partner, her dad. Of course, no one had forced him to take the police chief position. He could have taken the route her uncle Garth had and turned down chances for promotion just so he could stay in the field.

“I don't want a desk job,” Garth had said more than once. “And I sure as hell don't want to play politics.”

But Willie excelled in his new position. He had an even temper, an easygoing manner, and a keen intelligence that made him an excellent diplomat and a great leader. Garth was smart—street smart and book smart—but he was also temperamental, moody, not easy to get along with, and known for his hard drinking and womanizing.

“Thanks,” Tam said to the person on the other end of the line just before she ended their conversation. “Pete Tipton said that if or when another similar murder occurs, the TBI will send in a crime scene vehicle, either from Nashville or Knoxville. A third murder would erase all doubts about our having a serial killer on our hands.”

“Is there any doubt now?” Garth grumbled.

“He's killed twice that we know of,” Willie said. “He'll kill again. It's only a matter of time before he kidnaps another woman.”

“And we don't have a clue who he is or when and where he'll strike again.” Tam looked from her father to Audrey. “What's in that sack?”

Audrey placed the sack on Tam's desk. “Sandwiches from the River Street Deli. One for each of us.”

“You're not part of this investigative team,” Garth told her. “We've got a job to do. So thank you for the sandwiches. Leave them with us and go.”

“No,” Willie said. “Stay. We can take a break, long enough to eat together.” He looked right at Garth. “I want to talk to Audrey. I had Tam ask her to stop by. There are things she needs to know.”

Garth mumbled under his breath, but didn't contradict his boss. Instead he said something about getting coffee and disappeared around the corner.

“He's frustrated,” Willie told Audrey. “We all are. You know how Garth is.”

“Yes, I know only too well,” Audrey replied.

Tam opened the sack and removed the four sandwiches, but before handing them out, she looked to Audrey for information.

“Here, let me do that.” Audrey handed Willie a sandwich. “Roast beef, rare.” Then she placed a sandwich in front of Tam and laid another aside for herself. “A couple of their Elana Ruz sandwiches for us—turkey, cream cheese, and strawberry preserves.”

Tam sighed deeply. “If you weren't already my best friend, you would be now.”

Audrey and Tam exchanged smiles.

Garth returned with two cups of coffee, gave one to Willie, and kept the second cup. “I figure you girls will want to doctor up your coffee to suit yourselves. I've got no idea how either of you want it.”

“I'll get us both a Coke,” Tam said. “Does that suit you?”

“A Coke's fine,” Audrey replied

“I'll make yours regular and mine diet.”

Audrey nodded. She and Tam had different body types and different metabolisms. Tam was always dieting. Audrey had never dieted. But she suspected that eventually, probably in her fifties, that would change.

When Tam walked off, Audrey noticed that Willie was once again engrossed with some of the papers and photos spread out on Garth's desk.

“Would I be out of order to ask what you're looking at?” she asked.

“You know better than to ask,” Garth told her.

“Sorry.” Audrey eased away from the desk.

“It's something we chose not to share with the media.” Willie glanced from Garth to Audrey. “But Audrey isn't the media.”

“She's not one of us, either,” Garth reminded the chief.

Choosing to ignore Garth's comment, Willie said, “It's something that we all find odd about how both bodies were staged.”

“Everything's odd,” Garth said. “There's nothing normal about it either.”

Willie glowered at Garth before turning back to Audrey. “It's about what the two women held in their laps.”

“Jill Scott was holding a doll, right? Or at least that's what everyone assumes. That's what the reporters said. So, what was Debra Gregory holding?”

“The media present at the scene where Jill Scott's body was discovered were kept at a distance and assumed they saw a doll lying in her lap.” Willie shuffled through the photos in front of him, chose two, and held them up to show Audrey. “It wasn't a doll.”

Audrey stared at the crime scene photograph of Jill Scott. It took her brain several seconds to grasp the reality of what she saw. Her mouth parted to release a soft, startled gasp.

“It's a…a skeleton.” Audrey took the photo from Willie and studied it more closely. “Oh my God! The killer laid the skeleton of a small child in Jill's lap.”

“It's horrible, isn't it?” Tam said as she came back into the office.

“Then it's real,” Audrey said, barely believing her own eyes. “It's the actual skeletal remains of a human child?”

Tam set two colas on the desk, one by her sandwich and the other by Audrey's. “All too real. We're waiting on DNA results in the hopes we can identify the child, but the UT Body Farm has identified the remains of the child found with Jill Scott as a white male, probably between the ages of twenty and thirty-six months.”

“What about Debra Gregory? Was there a…?” Audrey couldn't bring herself to say the words.

“Yes, there was another child found in her lap,” Tam said. “About the same size.”

Willie stood and placed his big hand on Audrey's shoulder. “Pete Tipton will examine the remains, take DNA samples from bone and teeth, and forward them to the lab.”

Audrey suddenly felt as if someone had dealt her a body blow hard enough to knock the wind out of her. For a few seconds, she couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't allow herself to accept the impossible possibility.
Not now. Not after twenty-five years.

“Is there any chance that one of those little bodies could be…” She swallowed hard. “Could be…” She couldn't get the words out, couldn't say the unthinkable.

“It's possible,” Tam said. “We'll know as soon as the DNA testing is completed.”

“Oh, God, does my father know?” Audrey asked.

 

Whitney Poole hated her job, especially when she drew the Sunday lunch shift at Callie's Café. Crowds of churchgoers descended on the restaurant in droves, and many of those good Christian people treated the waitresses as if they were unemotional robots. As if being yelled at, ordered around, and occasionally cursed wasn't bad enough, the cheapskates who ate at Callie's because they could buy a meat and three vegetables for $5.99 were definitely not big tippers.

Whitney glanced at her wristwatch—4:15 P.M.—and smiled when she realized her shift would end in fifteen minutes. Her feet ached, her head hurt, and she probably had a bruise on her butt from where a customer had pinched her. The son of a bitch had actually pinched her ass. When she'd given him a nasty look and told him to keep his hands to himself, he and his two buddies had whooped loudly in her face.

After going from table to table and refilling coffee cups and tea glasses, she hurried to print out the bills for her two remaining tables. One was a blond guy sitting all alone. He seemed quiet and shy and hadn't said another word to her after placing his order. He had simply answered when asked if he wanted more tea or a dessert. He had declined both. He'd been pleasant enough, although he hadn't smiled at her or anyone else, but she had caught him staring at her a couple of times, and the way he'd looked at her had sent chills up her spine. She couldn't pinpoint what it was about him that spooked her; she just knew that he did, despite the fact that he was young and good-looking.

She laid his check on the table, asked if he wanted anything else, and turned to go to the next table.

“Wait,” he called to her.

She hesitated, feeling a sense of dread spreading quickly through her; but she turned, smiled, and said, “Yes, sir?”

He held up a five-dollar bill. “I just wanted to make sure you got your tip.”

She stared at the money in his hand for a couple of seconds, then snatched it away from him and said, “Thank you.”

He rose to his feet so quickly that before she had time to move, he was facing her, only a couple of inches separating their bodies. Instinctively, she moved backward, forced another smile, and rushed to the next table. By the time she laid down the check and glanced back, the man was walking out the door. She released a heavy breath, glad to see him leaving.

But suddenly he stopped, glanced over his shoulder, and smiled at her.

The only thought that came to mind was something her grandmother had said whenever she got a peculiar feeling.
I feel as if somebody just walked over my grave.

Get real, Whit. Just because that guy was sort of creepy doesn't mean you should freak out or anything.

By the time 4:30 rolled around, she had all but forgotten her weird customer. The only thing on her mind was her Sunday night date with Travis. He was bringing over pizza and a DVD. They'd eat, watch the movie, and then do the nasty. They'd been dating a couple of months. Nothing serious. At least not yet. But neither of them was seeing other people. That meant something, didn't it? He hadn't said the L-word and neither had she, but she already knew she loved him. And she knew better than to push him. She'd done that before, with disastrous results. Danny had walked away and never looked back, leaving her with a broken heart. That had been nearly two years ago. She wouldn't make the same mistake with Travis. She'd wait for him to make the first move, to say “I love you,” and take their relationship to the next level.

Whitney dug the car keys out of her Wal-Mart red purse and slung it over her shoulder as she exited Callie's Café through the back entrance. When she reached her Honda Civic, a reliable used car she'd bought last year, she paused when the hair on the back of her neck stood up. Someone was watching her. She could feel it.

Play it cool. Don't panic. It's broad daylight. You aren't alone. There are people inside the restaurant and probably out here, too.

She glanced around casually, doing her best not to draw attention to herself. Besides the other employees' vehicles, she counted three other cars, all three empty. And she didn't see another soul anywhere in the parking lot. No one was following her. No one was watching her.