The Mother. BEVERLY BARTON
a band of investigators milled around a fifteen-by-fifteen-foot pile of discarded items. An old refrigerator. A ratty, seen-better-days love seat. A twin-size mattress. Empty paint cans. Several overflowing plastic garbage bags. And one old, broken rocking chair, the floral cushions faded with age and stained from exposure to the weather.
Tam Lovelady turned just as J.D. flashed his badge to the officer guarding the entrance to the cordoned-off area. She threw up her hand and motioned to him. As he approached Officer Lovelady and Sergeant Hudson, his gaze focused on the woman in the rocking chair. Her body sat upright, rigid, as if made of stone. Her pretty face was unblemished, her long, dark hair had been draped about her shoulders, and a small skeleton, wrapped in a blue baby blanket, lay nestled in her lap.
“Looks familiar, doesn’t it?” Tam said.
“Yeah,” J.D. replied. “This is too similar to the scene at the Lookout Valley Cracker Barrel to be a coincidence.”
“You think?” Garth Hudson said sarcastically.
J.D. grunted. “So, are you sure she’s Debra Gregory?”
“Ninety-nine percent sure,” Garth replied. “Mayor Hardy will ID the body. But for now, we’re working under the assumption that whoever killed Jill Scott killed Debra Gregory. Two abductions. Two murders. The skeletal remains of two babies left with the murder victims. It’s the same MO.”
J.D. took a step closer to the body and paused beside ME Peter Tipton. Pete watched while the photographer, working under his supervision, snapped shot after shot of the body and the skeleton.
“Asphyxiation,” Pete said.
“Huh?”
“Cause of death. She was probably smothered. Just like Jill Scott.”
J.D. pointed to the bundle in the victim’s lap. “Not a doll this time, either.”
“No, not a doll. Another child. About the same size. Probably about the same age.”
“So far, we don’t have any idea who the first child was, only that it was a male about two years old,” J.D. said. “Once we get the DNA results back … Hell, we haven’t identified the first child, and now we have another one.”
Pete glanced away from the body in the rocking chair and looked at J.D. “I hate to say it, but it appears we may have a really bizarre serial killer on our hands. A little profiling hoodoo”—Pete gestured with his hands—“might be in order about now.”
“Are you suggesting we involve the Feds?”
“Not unless you state boys can’t handle it,” Pete said. “I heard you’ve got some experience in that department.”
“Where’d you hear something like that?”
“Word gets around.”
“I’m just an amateur compared to the real thing.”
Only when Tam cleared her throat was J.D aware that she was standing nearby. “Sorry to interrupt, but I overheard the tail end of what y’all were saying, something about Special Agent Cass being familiar with profiling.”
“I know a little something,” J.D. admitted. “But if the CPD wants a profile of the killer, then I can put in a call to a buddy of mine at the Bureau or either of you can call the BSU.”
“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.”
Chapter 5
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