So Close the Hand of Death. J.T. Ellison
Eight
Taylor and Baldwin went over the details with SSA Hall for another forty minutes, but nothing else shook loose.
Taylor had to admit, Hall was a good cop. He ticked off his checklist just like she would, methodical and thorough, not rushing, moving ahead to another point only once every available detail had been squeezed out of the moment. They’d all been bamboozled by the imposters, and no one wanted to make any more mistakes. She respected that, and tried to keep her impatience to a minimum. She was worried about Fitz, just wanted to get back on her own turf. Someplace she knew she could defend herself properly.
All those agents. She didn’t envy Hall the job of informing the families, something that couldn’t happen until they had all the details of the crime scene down pat.
She had a crazy thought, one that tore through her mind like a storm. Could Sansom’s imposter be the Pretender? Could it have been a woman all along?
That would be almost too far-fetched. They had DNA from several of the crime scenes, but that was easily planted. She thought about how the woman leaned in to hear the details, her eyes shining at the descriptions of the kills.
No, that didn’t feel right. It was possible, but so unlikely that Taylor forced it from her head. This maniac was a man who used women, then disposed of them like dirty Kleenex, tossed to the floor without a second thought.
When the SBI lead was finished with them and started working the scene, she called in to her boss, Commander Joan Huston, and filled her in on the situation. Talking to Huston helped settle Taylor’s mind—her boss was as pragmatic as she was capable. Huston assured Taylor that Fitz had arrived and was scheduled for surgery with Vanderbilt’s ophthalmologic team later in the day. Lincoln Ross was with him.
Taylor finally felt as if she could breathe again. Fitz was safe.
Now she could focus on the problem at hand.
The Nags Head Police Station resembled a kicked-over anthill. Crime scene techs swarmed the scene. The bodies had yet to be moved, there was too much evidence to collect first. Despite the chill, a lone lazy fly bumbled through the hallway, drunk on blood. She swatted at it and missed, cursing as it darted into a heating vent. It would be back, and it would bring friends. She hoped they could get out of here quickly.
She and Baldwin were taken to separate rooms to do an Identi-Kit on the three suspects. She missed the days of actual artists working on sketches; while the Identi-Kits were quick and convenient, they lacked a certain level of perfection, a way of layering in the slight details that a human could seize upon with a flick of a pencil. While the officer plugged her description of the suspects’ features into the program, Taylor had a bizarre sense of déjà vu, of sitting with another artist, in another police station, giving a detailed description of the man she thought might be the Pretender.
This case. This goddamn case, with its maybes and theoreticals. She had to stop him. Nothing else existed for her now.
When they were finished with the artists, Hall debriefed them again, in the same room where they’d spent the morning talking to a killer.
“So I just got a call. A body was found out on Highway 64, out by Plymouth. Fits the description of the goon who impersonated Wally Polakis.”
“How was he killed?” Taylor asked.
“Shot in the head, tossed out of the car. He was found sprawled on the side of the road, you know how bodies do when they’re shoved out of moving cars.”
“So the car will have blood in it.”
“If we find it. There’s so many back roads in this area, bridges and trails—they could dump the car, catch another ride and it will take us a week to find it.”
“But they’re turning on each other. That’s good. Maybe they’ll eliminate themselves and do us all a favor,” Baldwin said.
Taylor gave him an unpleasant smile. “One can only hope. But it was probably prearranged. Too many cooks spoil the broth, especially when you’re taking orders from a killer who likes to be top dog.”
Hall rubbed his hands over his head wearily. “Girl, you’re starting to scare me. Are y’all ready to go over it all again?”
Baldwin went first, describing what had been discussed and the shift in personality when the fake Sansom started to show her hand.
“They were good. Very good. All three of them must have had experience in law enforcement at some point,” Baldwin finished.
“Lieutenant Jackson, break it down for me. What was your impression of the imposters?” Hall asked.
She’d had all morning to think about that. “They were completely above board. She made me uncomfortable, but only because she was implying Fitz was responsible for Susie’s death. That got my back up, and I missed everything else.” The apology was implicit, and Hall declined his head slightly, accepting.
Taylor toyed with her ponytail while she did one more mental run-through. “In hindsight, I can say she seemed a little too eager. Too excited by things she shouldn’t have been. Her body language was all wrong. She leaned in when she should have pulled back. Licked her lips when she should have flinched.”
A fine shiver ran through her body. “I’ve been up against this monster before. He scares the hell out of me. She wasn’t fazed in the least by the presentation. That should have been enough to warn us right there. I should have noticed something was wrong. My sergeant was trying to tell me something, but I wasn’t listening hard enough.”
“I think it’s safe to say they pulled a fast one on everyone, Lieutenant. Don’t beat yourself up over it.” He was trying to be kind, but Taylor didn’t have time for it.
“I hate to point this out, Agent Hall, but if I had paid more attention, four people might not be dead. We need to go. Sitting around talking about him isn’t going to fix things. We need to get back to Nashville. That’s where the Pretender will head next, I’m sure of it.”
“Why? Why are you so sure?”
She avoided looking at Baldwin, despite feeling her voice thicken. “Because everything I hold dear is in this room or in that city. I have to go home. Now.”
Hall sat back in his chair and gave her a long look. He glanced at Baldwin, who merely nodded his head in agreement.
“Okay, then. Be prepared to come back at any time, but you can get out of here for now. Thanks for your help.” He stood and shook their hands, lingering for a moment over Taylor’s, all irritation gone. “I have to go let four agents’ families know they’re never going to see them again. You be safe, ya hear?”
Taylor and Baldwin climbed into the backseat of a Nags Head patrol car. The officer was young, and openly stared at them through red-rimmed eyes. Taylor shook her head slightly to discourage any questions. She wasn’t ready to have a casual conversation about the morning’s events, especially with someone who knew the victims. Seven dead, eight including Susie, nine if you counted one of the imposters. The North Carolina soil was running red with the blood of innocents, and each murder weighed on her mind. This shouldn’t be happening. She should have been paying attention, should have felt that things were wrong. She had been so wrapped up in her own grief over shooting the teenager that she’d missed all of the warning signs. The Pretender knew her better than she knew herself, apparently.
The officer pulled out of the drive and headed back toward the airstrip. Baldwin worked his phone all the way there, allowing her a few moments with her dark thoughts.
Within fifteen minutes, she and Baldwin were safely ensconced back on the Gulfstream, under the watchful gaze of Cici the flight attendant, and the pilot was getting clearance to take off. Baldwin waved Cici away, then leaned over to Taylor.
“Pietra just sent me a text. You’re not going to believe this. All of the forensics were compromised,” he said.