Field of Graves(31)

Taylor rolled out of bed, heart kettledrumming in her chest. Her Glock was in her hand; she was panting in fear.

She tried to control her breathing. Put the gun back under the pillow.

The dreams were getting out of control. She had lost her edge completely; the ghosts of her failures were dragging her down, haunting her every moment.

A thought—indistinct, clouded with fatigue. She needed to find a way to help the girls, but it was too late. They were all dead.

She lay back down, head against the pillow, eyes wide, too tired to even cry anymore.





THE

THIRD

DAY





22



Taylor was knee-deep in the squad’s squalor and on her third Diet Coke. She’d come in before five, unable to stay alone anymore. At least there was activity at all hours at the CJC.

She was skimming the ViCAP files Lincoln had pulled when she noticed a tall, good-looking man walking toward Price’s door. She didn’t recognize him as department material, figured he was a politico, maybe from the mayor’s office. Dismissed him with a distracted nod. She’d learned long ago when to keep her head down.

Half an hour later, she was combing the autopsy reports when Price opened his door and said, “Taylor, could you come here for a minute?”

Taylor grabbed her piles of information, assuming he wanted to see where she stood, though she didn’t have anything new. She realized she hadn’t noticed the handsome guy leave, and sort of laughed at herself. Oh well. There were plenty of decent men out there, should she want to take the time to find them. Who was she kidding? She’d learned her lesson. She was married to the job now.

She was surprised to see the man sitting in front of the captain’s desk, went on guard immediately. What the hell was this? Was he a lawyer? A new Internal Affairs transfer?

The man didn’t make a move to greet her. He was staring at the floor with his shoulders slumped. His hair was standing on end, as if he had been running a comb soaked in egg whites through it to stiffen it into a modified Mohawk. He reached up with his right hand and scrubbed at his hair, leaving it even more disheveled. That explains that, she thought.

“Price?” She turned to her boss, the question lying heavily between them.

“Dr. John Baldwin, meet Lieutenant Taylor Jackson.” He nodded toward the man, who gave her a brief, surprised glance and a grim smile. Taylor caught a glimpse of green eyes surrounded by impressively deep-set smudges, as if he hadn’t slept in a week.

“Nice to meet you, Dr. John Baldwin. No offense, but who exactly are you?”

A deep baritone startled her. “A washed-up drunk who has no business being here.” He stood, nodding at them both. “Thank you, Captain. I do appreciate the offer, but I think your case is in capable hands.” He inclined slightly at the waist, and Taylor was taken aback yet again. Baldwin was at least six foot four, but so thin his clothes drooped from his shoulders as if on broken hangers. When he walked through the door she’d seen vestiges of what would have been, with a little TLC, a very good-looking man. Up close, he looked as if he’d been on a weeklong bender. She made his age as late forties.

“Whoa, Baldwin, sit back down.” Price had come around from behind his desk and was ushering the man back into his seat. Baldwin didn’t resist, but sat heavily, expelling a long sigh. He resumed his mournful glare at the linoleum.

“Taylor, Baldwin is with the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit. He...”

“Was,” said the skeleton in the chair. “Was with the BSU. Get the details straight, Captain.”

Price took a long look at Baldwin, then continued. “Dr. Baldwin worked with the BSU for many years, and has taken a leave of absence to pursue a few personal matters. I would like to see him act as a journeyman to your case, Taylor, in a consulting role. He has...”

“Had,” came the flat voice.

“Has immeasurable experience in sexual murders. I believe he can be of help.”

Taylor was swinging her head between the two men, confused. This Dr. Baldwin certainly didn’t want to be here. What was Price up to, assigning her a babysitting job for some suit from the FBI? She opened her mouth to protest, but the captain interrupted.

“Dr. Baldwin, would you mind stepping out for a moment? I’d like to speak to Lieutenant Jackson privately. And don’t leave. Please.”

Baldwin sighed noisily. “I need caffeine. Soda machine in the hall? I’ll help myself.” Without waiting for an answer, he saw himself out of the office, shutting the door quietly behind him. He was quite sure Captain Price was going to fill Taylor in on all his dirty little secrets. Good. The details should seal the deal. She wouldn’t want him on the case, and he could go back to his dank chair in the darkened living room and get on with, well, whatever.

He didn’t know why he’d even bothered. Price’s eyes weren’t exactly accusing, more appraising, almost compassionate, but he’d felt them bore into him. That’s how they would all be. Humoring him, but watching closely to see he didn’t botch anything. Screw it, he thought. He’d rather have the judgment.

But his feet didn’t follow his brain. He didn’t leave. He got his soda, and for reasons he would never be able to understand, he went back into the squad room, sat at the nearest desk, and waited for Judgment Day.