“And the hands?” Baldwin asked.
“Intact. Looked like a frenzied killing, maybe he got interrupted before he could finish, decided to dump the body in the trunk and get out of Dodge. I don’t know. And there’s more good news. There was also a bag found in the wheel well under the trunk liner. A whole murder kit. Rope, tape, a military-type K-Bar knife, scalpels…crime scene techs are sorting it all right now. There’s forensic evidence galore in that bag. Oh, and look at this.”
Price handed Taylor a green file folder. Baldwin looked over her shoulder while she flipped through it. The first photo was of Ivy Clark’s mutilated body, stowed in the trunk of the car. Leafing through the file, Taylor stopped at a photo of an overnight bag. An innocuous black leather bag, full to the brim with death.
Price smiled grimly. “Found everything in here. But that’s not the best part. Look at the close-up.”
She flipped to the next picture. There was a very distinct monogram embossed into the leather with the initials J-W-B in gold. Taylor shook her head in amazement.
“His own personally monogrammed murder kit. How convenient. Okay, let me at him. See what I can shake out.” She looked at Baldwin. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
“Then let’s do it.”
Price motioned toward the interrogation-room door. “We’ll be on the other side, watching. Good luck.”
Taylor opened the door and strode into the room. It was relatively small, just enough space for a table and four chairs. The walls were an institutional shade of robin’s-egg blue, marred only by a mirror. She gave Price and the team a few moments to get themselves situated as Baldwin took one of the chairs opposite a haggard-looking man. Taylor eyed him, he was about her age, mid thirties, but his disheveled appearance added a decade to his rugged good looks. His beard was growing in, his hair was tousled. He had a small drop of blood at the corner of his mouth. Taylor figured that would be the best way to get him to open up. She glanced at Baldwin, who gave her a nod. She was the lead right now. He’d back her up if and when necessary.
Jake Buckley watched her as she entered, pure hatred in his eyes. He didn’t look as defeated as he had just moments before. Taylor tsk-tsked, stepped out of the room, then came back in with a tissue box. She offered one to him, a conciliatory gesture. He took it and pressed it to his mouth.
“Looks like you got roughed up a bit out there, Mr. Buckley. I’m so sorry about that. I’m hoping this is just a huge misunderstanding, that none of our men actually meant to hurt you. Regardless, that wasn’t very professional of them, and I’ll have a word with the arresting officer, make sure it’s noted in his file. Would that suit you, sir?”
He met her eyes and a bit of arrogance crept into his gaze. The term sir had put him back in control. He had money and power, and by God he was going to be treated with respect. A subservient woman to interrogate him was just the ticket. Taylor was playing him perfectly.
She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, smiling. “Now, Mr. Buckley, can I get you anything? Coffee, maybe? Soda? Maybe some ice to put on that cut? Looks like it might be swelling up just a little bit.”
Buckley eyed her. “Coffee. Black, two sugars. The ice won’t be necessary. Looks like you could use some yourself.”
Taylor ignored the jibe about her black eye. “No problem, Mr. Buckley. Let me go get that for you.” She smiled again, nonthreatening, a buddy, not a cop. Stepping out into the hallway, Lincoln met her, a mug of coffee in his hand. She winked at him, then stepped back into the room.
She handed him the coffee, then sat in the chair opposite him, next to Baldwin but distancing herself by sliding the chair a few feet to the side, so the table wasn’t between her and Buckley. “Here you are, Mr. Buckley. I sure am sorry we had to put you out like this. I’d understand if you didn’t want to talk to me, but I’d love to hear your side of the story, how that lip got cut. Was it one of the patrol officers?”
Buckley snarled at her. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re about there, little lady. You’re trying to get me to confess to something I don’t know anything about. All I know is I got pulled over, dragged from my car, assaulted by one of Metro’s finest and brought here. What the hell do you people think you’re doing? I swear I’m going to make sure every single one of you is fired.” He glowered at her, hostile and demanding. Taylor could see this man as a killer, and the thought made her blood run cold. She almost dropped the act, nearly spit out what she was actually thinking about the bastard, but she held her tongue and simply nodded and crossed her legs.
“I understand completely, Mr. Buckley. I can’t apologize enough, for the whole department. We are truly sorry we inconvenienced you. I’m sure you understand, we have just one little problem to clear up and then we’ll do our best to get you out of here. Get you home to Mrs. Buckley. Quinn, isn’t it? I’m sure she’s worried sick about you right now, sir, what with you being on the news and everything tonight. She’s probably sitting at home right now, crying her eyes out because she doesn’t know what’s happening. Would you like to call her?”
“I’m on the news? Why the hell is that?”
Taylor chose to stall him. “Tell me, Mr. Buckley. Your wife mentioned that you like poetry.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Oh, I think you know. Love poems. She mentioned you used to send them to her, way back when. Are you still in that habit now, Mr. Buckley?”
“What difference does that make? So I send my wife love notes. Doesn’t make me any different than the next guy.”
“And when you send them to your wife’s sister? Does that make you any different?”
“Send poems to Whitney? What exactly are you accusing me of, Detective?”
“It’s Lieutenant. And I’m asking if you were having an affair with your wife’s sister. Identical-twin sister, at that, who happens to be very, very dead.”
Jake Buckley opened and closed his mouth, took a breath and spoke, menace in his voice. “I don’t know anything about Whitney’s death. I’ll have your badge for this, Lieutenant. I may not be a lawyer, but I know slander when I see it. Is that what you’ve been telling my wife? That I cheated on her with her own sister? What do you think I am, some kind of monster?”
“Perhaps you are.”
“And perhaps I’d like to know what you meant by me being on the news.”
It was time to get to it. Taylor raised her hands, palms up, entreating him for calm. “Well, Mr. Buckley. Sir, I’m sure you understand that we’ve been looking for you for a couple of days now. And there’s that little technicality we’ve been dealing with. Sir, how do you explain the girl in the trunk of your car?”
Buckley’s eyes widened and his bullying veneer dropped for an instant. “What girl? What the hell are you talking about?”
“How about the bag with the knives, rope and tape…your tool kit, full of bloody evidence?”
Buckley shifted in his chair. “I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
Taylor stood now, ready to hit her stride. She paced the room. “Let me guess, no one mentioned that you had a dead girl in the trunk of your BMW, Mr. Buckley? A girl named Ivy Tanner Clark? You met her in Louisville? It’s okay, Mr. Buckley. I understand how these things work.” She sidled up to him. “You meet a girl, maybe get a little friendly with her. Maybe things get a little rough, and suddenly, BAM! She’s dead, and you don’t know what to do. So you stash her in the trunk of your car and drive toward home, figuring you’d find a good place to dump her along the way. Is that how it happened, Mr. Buckley? Isn’t that what you’ve been doing here for the past couple of months? Meeting a girl here or there, sweet-talking her to go somewhere with you? Getting a little frisky, okay, maybe a lot frisky, and she somehow accidentally ends up dead?” Taylor stopped pacing and planted herself two feet from Buckley. He reared back in his chair as if he’d been hit.
“No. No, no, no, that’s impossible, that’s not right. I never killed any girls. I have no idea-”
Taylor interrupted him, all the sweetness and light gone from her voice. “Oh yes, yes, yes, Mr. Buckley, that’s just what you’ve been up to. Your happy little road trip throughout the Southeast? Picking up girls, murdering them, transporting their bodies. Or has that little tidbit slipped your mind? What about their hands, Mr. Buckley?” Taylor was two inches from Buckley’s face now, each word biting and cutting as well as a knife. He looked terrified.
“What do you do with their hands, Jake? Do you mind if I call you Jake? Do you tell them your name before you kill them, Jake? Were you just trying to get yourself a little bit of ass and it went awry? You found out how much you liked it, didn’t you? You liked forcing them, liked choking the life out of them. And then you administered the coup de grace, didn’t you, Jake? You cut off their hands, took one with you to throw down at the next dead body, the next mutilated girl. Isn’t that how it went, Jake?”
Her voice was sharp, loud, and Buckley flinched away from her, shaking his head, a low keening sound
