Field of Graves(29)

“The press has it.”

“Hard to keep it away from them.”

He stared up at the ceiling, willing the report to go away. He heard a woman’s voice fending off detailed questions nicely. Quelling the panic, Baldwin thought to himself. Shaking his head, he turned the TV up to listen.

“... Shelby Kincaid, of Bowling Green, Kentucky. She was a sophomore at Vanderbilt, and was reported missing several days ago by her roommate.” The woman cut off a question: “No, John, we’re not releasing the name of the roommate. Get real.” There was a ripple of laughter throughout the room. “The second victim is Jordan Blake, of Houston, Texas. She was a junior at Vanderbilt. Yes, she is the daughter of Gregory Blake. We don’t have any indication this crime is in any way related to her father’s business.” There was a flurry of sound, voices, papers, phones. The woman ignored it and pressed on.

“We want to pass a message to all students in town. Don’t go out alone. Stay with friends if possible. Keep your doors and windows locked at all times. Go to class in groups. Don’t put yourselves in any compromising situations, especially with alcohol and drugs. We’re doing our best to find the suspect. Thank you.” The shouting started again, but she turned and walked out of the room. A man the TV screen named as Dan Franklin approached the podium. Baldwin wasn’t paying attention anymore.

Man, the chick was pretty. He thought he knew her from somewhere, though she looked a little older and worn a little thin. They’d picked the right woman as their PR spokesman. Spokeswoman. She obviously knew everyone there, had kept them under control.

As he came back from his thoughts, the female anchor threw it to her co-anchor. The story was over. Then it hit him. Taylor Jackson. That’s who she was—they’d gone to Father Ryan together. He’d always thought she was hot as hell, but she was more into the popular crew’s scene than he had ever been. He’d never pursued the matter, and he’d bet a million dollars she’d never remember who he was. Besides, she was a couple of years younger, and he hadn’t been on the A-list on the private school circuit. Nashville really was a small town.

Baldwin switched stations and watched as another distraught female anchor gave the details of the rape and murder of the two girls. He was able to get a little more information before they cut away to the footage of the press conference. The rest of the story was a simple reprise. There was no new information coming out tonight.

He knew the cops had much more detail, but there was only so much the public could handle, much less understand. Without realizing he was doing so, Baldwin mentally began forming a profile of the murderer, murmuring to himself.

“Guy’s white, around thirty, complete sociopath. He’s killing in a private place, probably has some menial night job that gives him free movement during the day. Lives with someone who can support him, had a crappy childhood, domineering mother, distant father, yada, yada, yada. Killing girls with similar characteristics of someone close to him, probably has a record, these aren’t his first crimes. Has kept souvenirs, is keeping clippings from the paper and watching the media coverage. Doesn’t date, very organized, stalking the girls. Wants the police to see what he’s done, so he’s dumping in a public place. Lives in the area, has means of transport...” He trailed off. The typical profile of a serial killer.

It was getting redundant, and some of the profilers he knew had been sloppy lately, often throwing the same categories at all the killers, lumping them together. Granted, killers weren’t terribly original, but the complacency that came with dealing with these men was beginning to show. There were “former” profilers all over the cable news networks anytime a series of killings started, and even when there was only one violent crime to go on. They needed to be a little more careful. The word was out that they hadn’t been completely accurate in a few cases. He’d heard a former cop bluster his way through a television interview a few weeks before, saying, “Profilers don’t put cuffs on the criminals.” That could start some trouble.

Baldwin came back from his thoughts to hear Garrett yelling at him. “Sorry. What?”

“God, man, where’d you go?”

“Just watching a little TV.”

“I have something else I need you to know. It’s about Arlen.”

Baldwin tensed. “I don’t want to talk about him, Garrett. All bets are off if you bring him up again.”

“But, Baldwin, there’s new—”

“That’s my deal, Garrett. No Arlen, and I’ll think about talking to your friend. Are we clear?”

“You’re not exactly in a position to make demands on me, Baldwin. Just let me tell you what’s happening.”

“No.”

Garrett was silent for a moment. “Fine, have it your way. Will you call Price?”

Baldwin gave a last longing look at the gun. “Yeah.”

He clicked off the phone and gently set it down on the table beside him. Went into the kitchen, fetched another Guinness. Poured it into an ice-cold mug from the freezer. He’d always preferred it cold, rather than the correct British lukewarm.

The gun wasn’t calling as loudly now. He’d felt a small adrenaline rush at the news reports. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to talk to the captain. He could pull out at any time and come back to his miserable little existence. Maybe fate was dealing him a new hand. He guzzled half the beer, called Price at home, and set an appointment for eight in the morning.