The Immortals

The boy went whiter than the Maglite’s beam. He thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. “My last name is Edvin. My first name is Juri.”

“Like a jury of your peers?”

“No,” he said.

“Spell it.”

“J-U-R-I. It’s Finnish.”

“Where do you live?”

He squinted at her, she didn’t know if it was from pain or the Maglites pointed at him. “On Granny White Pike, near Lipscomb University,” he said at last.

“We need to inform your parents.”

The whites of his eyes flashed and he started to struggle again. Taylor pressed her arm across his chest, applied enough pressure that he couldn’t move without a real fight.

“Stop that. Give me your telephone number so I can contact them, right now.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, then mumbled seven numbers. Taylor memorized them, then let up the pressure. She signaled for the EMTs to come in. They worked quickly, cutting away the torn jeans to show an impressive row of deep punctures, placing a compression pad against the seeping wound, efficiently tying the boy to the stretcher.

“Did you struggle when the dog bit you?” one of the EMTs asked.

“Yeah,” Edvin mumbled. “I tried to get away. Did I hurt the dog? I punched it in the mouth when it bit me.”

Taylor hid a smile. Max was tough, and in the throes of a kill probably hadn’t noticed an ineffectual punch thrown by a scared kid.

“He’ll be fine,” she said. “Why did you run from us?”

The boy was chatty now that his big scare had passed.

“You’re cops. What else would I do?”

“Stop when I said stop, for starters. What were you doing at the Carson house?”

“Whose house?” But his eyes slid away, down and to the left, and Taylor knew he was lying.

“Let’s try that again. You were at the Carson house. What can you tell us about what happened there this afternoon?”

“Don’t know anyone named Carson. I was walking home. Been trick-or-treating.”

“Without a costume? All the way to Granny White? That’s going to take you a while.”

“I’m too old to play dress-up. And I like to walk. You scared me, I ran. Simple as dat.”

In a fraction of a second, the boy had gone from scared and hurt to snarly and mature, talking gangster to her. She’d hit a nerve, no question about it.

One of the paramedics made a twirly motion with his finger. She looked at him and stepped a few feet away. He joined her and whispered, “We need to transport him now. He’s bleeding pretty heavily. Dog might’ve nicked an artery.”

She glanced back at the kid, who did look to be fading. “Okay. I’ll send Marcus with you guys. The kid’s full of crap, and I want to make sure any excited utterances are transcribed exactly. Keep an eye on him, and if he says anything, you write it down, okay?”

“Will do, boss.”

She motioned to Marcus, repeated the same thing and asked him to call Juri Edvin’s parents. She recited the number, waited while he wrote it in his notebook. He promised to check on Brittany Carson for her. She watched him follow the stretcher to the ambulance, the metal legs wobbly on the uneven ground. They nearly pitched the kid headfirst off the thing once.

Shaking her head, she called Lincoln and retasked him to the crime-scene videos, then touched base with McKenzie. He was at the party, had the place on lockdown. Good God, this was a logistical nightmare. She had officers and detectives spread over half of Davidson County.

It took less than five minutes to trek her way out of the woods and back to her car. Sam had left a note on the windshield. Needed to go. Call when you’re done.

Taylor flipped open her cell phone. Sam answered on the first ring.

“You catch him?” she asked.

“Yeah. Just a kid, but he lied to me about being near the house. I’m going to drag a crime-scene tech up here and have them comb the perimeter. Something was fishy there.”

“I’m at the fifth crime scene. I found some interesting stuff. You should come over here.”

“Which one?”

Sam gave her the address, and Taylor hung up. She climbed in her unmarked and drove the few streets over to 5567 Foxhall Close, the home of victim number five, Brandon Scott.

It was all becoming numbingly familiar: the beautifully appointed home, the incongruity of yellow crime-scene tape and people milling about, roaming in and out of the house in a coordinated plan. It looked like moving day, with forensics and blood-spatter experts.

She made her way inside. The focus of attention was again on the second floor. She took the stairs two at a time and went to the beehive.

Sam was standing against the wall, making notes, leaving a clear view of the body. Taylor sucked in her breath, edged closer.

The body presented like the others, on his back, arms down by his side this time, but the carving in the boy’s chest was much more intense. There was pure fury in the slashes. They penetrated much deeper than the other bodies, so far that bone was visible. The sheets were caked with blood, the odd scent of jasmine and viscera combining in a gorge-rising miasma.

He was partially dressed, gray sweatpants with a tie at the waist that had been disturbed—one side hung down over his right buttock. The edge of his pants was black with blood.

Taylor swallowed, hard. “He’s been flayed,” she said. “Our killer really didn’t like Mr. Scott here.”

Sam kicked off from the wall, stowed her notebook in her pocket, walked over to Taylor.

“That’s an understatement. Roll him,” she instructed the death investigator who had joined them.

The boy’s back was covered in strips of bloody channels, long and unevenly spaced.

“What caused this?” Taylor asked.

“Honestly?” Sam pursed her lips, a piece of her too-long bangs caught in her lip gloss. She brushed her hair away impatiently. “I think he was whipped.”

“Whipped?”

“Yeah. Remember Todd Wolff’s basement? He had all that sex paraphernalia down there?”

Did she remember? That wasn’t a case she’d soon forget. She nodded, eyes veiled.

“There’s an S&M tool called a cat-o’-nine-tails. Most are made of leather and not intended to inflict more than pain, but some have sharp, barbed tips on the ends of the separate whips. I’ve seen this before, in another case several years ago. Guy in East Nashville took one to his boyfriend. Got carried away, the guy ended up on my table. He was covered head to toe in slashes like this.”

“Jesus.”

The ’gator laid Scott back, gently. Taylor took in the fury, the anger, the sheer rage. She could feel the intense hatred.

“He’s got defensive wounds, Sam. Look at his hands. They’re all scratched up. That’s different from our other victims too, isn’t it?”

“Yes. The other bodies look like the carvings were done postmortem, and they were stripped completely. Two of them I assume were already naked—the couple. But the rest were probably undressed after they died, before the cutting began.”

“Were there signs of sexual assault on any of the victims?”

Sam shook her head. “Nothing that jumped out and bit me, but I won’t know for sure until I take swabs.”

“It’s not the easiest thing to get the clothes off a dead body. If there wasn’t a sexual assault, why do you think the killer removed the victims’ clothes? Maybe they were already naked.”

“Faulty logic. Think about it, Taylor. How many kids do you know sit around naked in their rooms? Other than the couple, who were obviously interrupted. Plus, if you’re pressed for time and you need your victim to ingest something against their will, are you going to make them take off their clothes first?”

“If you want to humiliate them, yes. I don’t think we can rule it out just yet.”

“But was there time for humiliation? These killings were sandwiched into a pretty tight window. I’m betting the killer removed their clothing after they were dead. But this is different.” She waved her hand toward the victim. “These wounds were infected while the victim was alive, still dressed, and he fought hard. See the bruise on his right shoulder?”

Taylor looked closer. There was the slightest discoloration from the boy’s collarbone to the top of his shoulder, an elongated oval mark.

“A knee?”

“I’d say so. He was held down.”

“Would it take someone very big to leave that kind of mark? He looks like he’s in pretty good shape.”

“Not necessarily. There was a violent struggle, but anyone can be overcome under the right circumstances. There are also marks around his neck—maybe an attempt at strangulation.”

“Hopefully our killer left something of himself behind. Your new ’gator, Barclay Iles, collected a few black hairs off the body of Xander Norwood. Maybe there’s more to be had here.”

“Maybe. You know I’ll look carefully.”

“Thanks, Sam. I know you will. What I’d like to know is why this one wasn’t drugged, since all the others were. Especially if he needed to be subdued.”

“I won’t be able to answer that until I do the post. He’s a big boy, bigger than all the rest. There may be something interesting in his tox screen, I just don’t know. Speaking of which, I need to get back to Gass Street, supervise all of these bodies coming in.” Sam was retreating into medical examiner mode, the cool facade closing in again.

Taylor let her. She needed some distance herself.

Seven

Taylor drove back to the command post on Estes in silence. She tried Baldwin on his cell, he answered on the first ring.

“I just landed. What’s happening there?”

“We found one alive, kid named Brittany Carson. She was pretty far gone. I’ll be surprised if she makes it. Then we got in a foot chase with another kid who was lurking outside her house. Simari had to unleash Max on him. Anything more from Garrett?”

“No. Just this emergency thing in the morning.”

“Well, get it over with and get back down here. I think we’re going to need your expertise. We’re starting to have breaks in the original pattern. One crime scene was different from the others—the victim was flayed, probably with some kind of whip. I’m telling you, Baldwin, I thought this was done. I’m afraid there may still be more. I need to get my hands on whoever did this.”

“What does Sam think?”

“She feels they ingested a narcotic of some kind, though this last one I attended, Brandon Scott? No signs of cyanosis. It looks like he was either strangled or exsanguinated. We’re about to do a walk-through of each crime scene.”

Her call-waiting beeped. She looked and saw it was Lincoln. “Hey, I’ve got to go. Call me in the morning, okay? Love you.”

“Love you, too. Luck.”

She clicked over. “Hey, Linc. What’s up?”

“We have the entire neighborhood frozen, and we’ve got some very upset parents. They’ve got the pitchforks and stakes out.”

“That’s to be understood. But we need those scenes stationary for now. Tell them we’ll release the bodies and get them back in their homes as soon as we can.”

She hoped she was telling the truth.

Quantico

Garrett had sent a car for him. Baldwin climbed into the backseat and gave the yawning driver his address. He had a small apartment near the grounds of Quantico that he used when he was in town working.

He was tired, but getting to sleep was going to be near to impossible. He needed to be sharp and alert in the morning. Artificial means, then. He checked his watch and calculated, decided against half an Ambien, settled on a Benadryl. It would knock him out for at least six hours. That would have to be good enough. He dry-swallowed the capsule and stared out into the dark of the night.

It was always darkest just before the dawn. He could only hope that the light of day would bring good news.

Eight

Nashville

9:00 p.m.

The rain was letting up, the evening now bittered into teeth-chattering cold. Taylor ran the gauntlet down Estes, driving through a phalanx of Metro blue-and-whites and medical examiner’s vans. A patrol officer waved her through and she parked the Lumina in front of the Kings’ driveway.

Dan Franklin, the department’s spokesman, met her car. Dan was a big guy, light brown hair and blue eyes with a relatively nondescript, almost homely face, but six foot two and an easy two-thirty. He spent a lot of time in the gym, and the hard work showed. Physically, he was threatening at best, emotionally, he was the rock the department depended on. He was their first line of defense against the media. It was a precarious position to maintain—Metro needed the media and the media needed Metro, but sometimes they didn’t like to play nice. Franklin assured everyone on both sides that the road to the news would be as smooth as could be.

He opened her door and she climbed out. “What’s up?”

“I need to talk to you.”

Taylor stopped. “Shoot.”

“I think it would be a good idea to have you give the presser.” He tapped his hand on the hood of her car as he spoke, and the emphasis felt contrived. She was immediately suspicious.

“Oh, come on. The press conference is your job.”

“I know it is, and I’ll be up there with you.” He quit tapping, leaned against the car. He crossed his bulky arms and said, “We’ve been friends for a long time, right?”

“Going on ten years.”

“You trust me, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then do the presser. I promise it’s the right thing to do.”

“But—”

He cut her off. “Taylor, the city of Nashville wants to see you lead again. You’ve been fodder for the press for a couple of months now, and practically the moment you’re reinstated, a huge string of murders happens on your watch. They know about Fitz going missing, they know about the Snow White Killer’s apprentice. You need to regain their confidence. You need to let them know that you’re in control, that the old Taylor Jackson is back in business. Your close rate is still head and shoulders above any cop in the city—hell, most of the country. This is the perfect opportunity for you to get them back in your court.” He took a breath, then quickly said, “And we can put a camera behind you, film forward, see what the crowd shows us.”

“Ah, so that’s the plan. Bribery by B-roll. You’re just appealing to my need to find the creeps who did this.” But she smiled, and he smiled back.

“I honestly think it will do you some good. Quell the scuttlebutt.”

She blew out a breath and thought for a few minutes. Dan was right, she did need to get the city’s confidence back. Badges and honors were all well and good, but in the long run, the only thing that mattered was the close. Though the people of Nashville were a forgiving bunch, the escapades over the past year had tarnished her spotless reputation, and in turn the reputation of Metro. They needed to know that she was back, one hundred percent back, solid and able to solve this case. Because eight teenagers in one night was going to rock Nashville unlike any case it had previously faced.

Too bad Baldwin had to leave town. She’d worked with his team on other cases and knew that, despite their differences in the past, the chief of police liked having the FBI involved in major crimes. He felt it engendered confidence from the masses. No matter what, when people heard those magic letters, F-B-I, they felt safer. Well, most people.

She heard her mother’s voice in her head. Beggars can’t be choosers. No kidding, Mother.

She ran it through her head for a minute. They could use the extra footage of the scene. She had a feeling that their killer was watching, reveling.

“Okay, I’ll do it. When?”

“We’re live in fifteen minutes.”

She put her hand on his arm to stop him. “Hey, Dan? Thanks.”

He just nodded and left her.

She scooted inside and found Lincoln making notes on his netbook.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey back,” Lincoln replied. “Just talked to McKenzie. He’s got the party frozen. Says there’s some parents frothing at the mouth to get their kids home under their own roofs. When you’re done here he’s ready for you to go over there and chat with the kids.”

“You have the video covered?”

“Yes. I’m going to head back to the CJC, upload everything we have and start searching for squirrels.”

“Good. Dan wants me to do the presser, so wait for that footage. Did you two cook this little plan up?”

“Nope. It was his idea. But he did ask if you’d shoot him on the spot if he suggested it. I told him you weren’t quite that trigger-happy.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, and he gave her a small smile.

“I need to get prepped. Do we have next-of-kin notifications on all the victims?”

“All but one. Here’s your information.” Lincoln handed her a sheaf of papers. It was hard to believe that only four hours had passed since they’d arrived at the first scene. It felt like days.

“Got pics from the rest of the scenes?”

He handed her some Polaroids and his notebook, where he’d accurately sketched the layout of each tableau.

“This is perfect, thanks. Oh, a little something to tuck into the back of your mind—the crime scene I just came from, Brandon Scott? You’ll see the level of violence was ten times the rest of the victims. I think he may have been the target, and the rest of the victims were just to cover the killer’s tracks. You need to get as much information on this kid as humanly possible, and fast. He may be the best link we have to our killer.”

“Really? Then maybe the suspect is still close by.”

“I get that feeling, don’t you? This is all so damn…showy.”

“Yes, it is. And coordinated. Not a single person we’ve interviewed saw anything out of the ordinary. No bogeymen creeping in the backyards, nothing. The killer fits into the neighborhood.”

Taylor flipped the page on Lincoln’s notes. He was so thorough, she felt like she’d just relived the last few hours.

“On our suspect? I’m going to hazard a guess that we’re looking for a Caucasian male between fifteen and twenty-five.”

“Fifteen…you think a kid could be responsible for this level of destruction?”

“Anything’s possible. The victimology is the first clue—you know that. But I wouldn’t recommend saying that out loud. I think we need to roust some of the school administrators and see if anyone has been making threats first.”

“I’ll keep all options on the table.”

“Okay, then.” She took Lincoln’s notes and stepped into the Kings’ kitchen to gather her thoughts. Her mind was abuzz with possibilities.

Was Brandon Scott the intended victim and the rest of the murders collateral damage? That was a horrid thought, but something that she certainly needed to be aware of. It was entirely possible that this wasn’t the work of an adult. She knew they had a monster on their hands, but if that monster turned out to be a kid himself, they had bigger problems.

Nine

Nashville

10:00 p.m.

Taylor stood in front of the whirring cameras, Dan Franklin next to her. She was speaking into forced light, and couldn’t see much, just the outlines of bodies, a journalistic nightmare of the living dead. She’d been hoping that she’d be able to look into the crowd, recognize the killer and end this charade, but that wasn’t going to happen.

She held up a hand to silence them and began.

“I’m sorry to see you under these circumstances. Tonight we’ve been struck by a tragedy, the magnitude of which we’re only just beginning to understand. We’ve lost seven of our children. An eighth is fighting for her life at Vanderbilt Children’s Hospital. We have the very best men and women at Metro, and they are working around the clock to assure two things—one, that we catch the suspect who committed these crimes, and two, that you and your children are safe.

“I won’t be releasing the names of the victims at this moment because not all next of kin have been notified. We’re doing all we can to make that happen, and as soon as we do Dan Franklin will have the list for you. I’d anticipate that happening overnight. I can confirm that three males and five females were targeted in this attack.

“We are confident we will be able to bring this suspect to justice very soon. We ask that anyone who has information about these crimes come forward. A tip line is available at 888-555-9880 and will be manned twenty-four hours a day. You can remain anonymous if you wish. We do ask that you call the tip line instead of Crime Stoppers so we can keep all information relevant to these cases in one place.”

She steeled herself, then said, “I’ll take questions now.”

There was a cacophony of voices. She picked one she recognized, Cindy Carter from FOX, and focused on it. Cindy asked, “Are there any leads?”

The crowd quieted down.

“The question was, do we have any leads. Rest assured that we are doing everything possible to capture the suspect, and are working these crimes as a single event. We believe the same person is responsible for all of the murders this afternoon. But, as I’m sure you’re aware, I’m not in a position to discuss anything that relates to the ongoing investigation.”

There were groans, then the typical repositioning of questions, all of which Taylor was forced to deflect. That was how the game was played—feed a little bit of information to the reporters, let them ask their questions with the knowledge that they wouldn’t be getting an answer on the air. Off camera, each would sidle up to Taylor, or Dan, or any of the other officers and get the inside scoop. Most of Nashville’s reporters had a great tradition of being told the truth, because the police trusted that they wouldn’t put that truth directly onto the air and ruin their cases.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work. I’m going to turn this over to Dan Franklin now. He’ll do his level best to answer as many of your questions as he can. Thank you for your time, and for being patient with us.” She paused for a moment, looked right into the cameras. “You have my word. We are doing everything in our power to solve these heinous crimes.”

She stepped away from the makeshift podium, and Dan caught her eye, nodded imperceptibly. He took her place, faced the group and was immediately barraged with questions. She avoided smirking and backed away until she was out of camera range. Lincoln came up beside her.

“I was watching the crowd. I can’t tell who’s a part of the neighborhood and who isn’t. Feels like half of Nashville is out here watching the show. We’ve got a long-ass night ahead of us.”

“You’re telling me. Okay, I’m heading to the party. You start on these tapes. Lincoln? Find me something.”

“Will do.”

“Okay. I’m outta here.”

Taylor opened her cell and called Marcus. He answered with a morose, “Hey.”

“Hey yourself. Any word on the vic?”

“She’s in a coma. They’ve loaded her full of Narcan. They think it was some kind of drug overdose. But they don’t know if she’s going to make it—you know how quickly Narcan works. She didn’t come to, just slipped into the coma.”

“A drug overdose makes sense. That’s what Sam thought, too. The presentation screams drugs—I instructed the ’gators and crime-scene techs to look for anything that might be the culprit. I need you to join us at this address—8900 Sneed Terrace. It’s the home of Theo Howell, best friend of victim number three, Xander Norwood. He’s supposed to be having a Halloween party. I sent McKenzie over there a while ago to get everyone corralled, and apparently some of the kids’ parents have shown up there, as well. I’m going to need your help taking all of the statements. I’m sure word has spread, and a few kids may have scattered by now, but McKenzie’s got at least thirty people waiting around.

“The victims are being described as the perfect kids, and I want to find out what the real story is. Sam’s gone to Gass Street, and Lincoln’s doing the video footage. So that leaves us. You up for it?” She wanted to get him away from Brittany Carson, away from the guilt, get him preoccupied with something else. Interviewing thirty teenagers should do the trick.