Fourteen
Nashville, Tennessee November 1 7:00 a.m.
D awn had passed and Taylor’s stomach was growling viciously before she’d finished taking statements from all the victims’ families. She was exhausted, and most of her questions remained unanswered. The facts were straightforward-someone had slipped into the home of each victim and marked their flesh. Each victim had ingested some sort of poison.
The one exception was Brandon Scott.
She and McKenzie were loading up on coffee at the Starbucks on West End. There was no sense in sleeping. Taylor knew Sam was going to be at it bright and early-she had seven autopsies today, and her team had worked through the night. So far the last victim, Brittany Carson, had been holding her own, though she was in a deep coma.
Tim Davis had stayed up all night running tests on the Ecstasy tablets Theo Howell had provided them. Theo’s theory was wrong-the drugs he had collected weren’t laced. Which meant the victims weren’t random, proving Taylor’s initial theory.
Preliminary toxicology reports showed a mishmash of chemical components: Ecstasy combined with high doses of PMA, codeine, Ritalin and Valium. Apart, none of the drugs were immediately fatal. Together, the combination was overwhelmingly deadly. There were many more tests to be run, and the results combined with autopsy would help define exactly what effect the drugs had on the children’s systems.
Lincoln had been running through video feeds, looking for familiar or repeat faces. He had one, and he was waiting at the CJC for Taylor to look it over.
Marcus and McKenzie had taken statements from every kid at the party, all of whom had been honest and open about the events of the afternoon. They’d had the fear of God put into them, without a doubt. They weren’t aware that the pills they had turned over to Theo Howell weren’t deadly. As far as they knew, if they hadn’t checked their text messages, had turned off their phones, gone to a movie, anything-any little tiny thing-might have sent them to their deaths. Mortality weighed heavily on the young-the entire school was deep in mourning. Worry, relief and extreme pain had caused all of them to come together. Taylor could only hope they’d had their fill of messing around with drugs.
Hillsboro High School was expecting them at 10:00 a.m. to discuss possible suspects among the students. Taylor had talked to the principal at three in the morning-she had grief counselors ready to be unleashed on the school. There was talk of canceling classes on Monday, but Taylor had advised against it. Normalcy was best. Plus, she would be able to walk the halls, talk to some other people, see if they could find out who this kid dealer might be, assuming he really was a Hillsboro student. No one at the party last night knew his real name.
Taylor needed a few minutes to regroup. She drank deeply from her triple-shot latte, hoping for strength from the meager caffeine the espresso beans provided. She probably should have gone with black coffee, but her stomach wouldn’t stand for that. She nibbled on a piece of lemon pound cake, realized she hadn’t eaten the evening before. She was suddenly ravenously hungry and ate the rest of the cake in three bites.
McKenzie joined her, crashing in the chair next to hers. He had dark circles under his eyes, his sandy hair in total disarray. She could only imagine what she looked like.
“We’ve made serious progress, you know that,” McKenzie said.
“I do. Still, we need a quick solve on this. Tell me what else you’re thinking about this mysterious drug dealer before we jump back into the fray.”
“Well, I hardly think a fourteen-year-old is running a drug cartel through Nashville. You should put the word out through the Specialized Investigative Unit, see who’s selling to him. He’s being run by someone on the outside.”
“Three steps ahead of you. I’ve already called my friend there. Lincoln said the same guy was on video at four of the crime scenes, and at the press conference, lingering in the background. He’s trying to match it to people in the databases, sex offenders and the like.”
“I think the sex offender route is a solid one. Whoever’s behind the drugs is an adult. Who else would be able to get that quantity and quality of drugs into the school? And we all know how much our friendly neighborhood pedophiles like to peddle drugs to their innocent prey.”
“That expands our suspect pool exponentially, you know that.”
“Yes, I do. Are you ready? Why don’t we go take a look at those tapes.”
They gathered up their cups and coats. They’d just reached the parking lot when Taylor’s phone rang. The caller ID read Tennessean. A reporter, no doubt. She let it go to voice mail. They got into her Lumina-she’d never made it back to headquarters to retrieve her 4Runner the night before.
She turned right on West End, past the stunning foliage of Vanderbilt’s campus. Fall had come late this year, the colors not reaching their peak until the last week of October. There were still plenty of leaves on the trees, but the reds and golds were starting to be muddled by dead, brown chunks. Soon it would be time to hire one of the neighborhood boys to collect and bag leaves, get their lawn ready for winter. My God, had she really just had that thought? Eight victims, all kids, and she was worried about the grass. Something was wrong with her.
Her phone rang again. This time it was Commander Huston.
“Morning, ma’am,” Taylor answered.
“Lieutenant, David Greenleaf is trying to reach you.”
Crap. So that was the phone call. She played dumb.
“The editor of The Tennessean? Why?”
“You need to go over there right now. I’m sending Tim Davis along, as well. They have a possible piece of evidence that pertains to your cases.”
“You’re kidding. What is it?”
“A letter about the murders, apparently. You know they’re good at sussing out the real from the fake. Greenleaf called me directly, said he’d tried you but you didn’t answer. He didn’t tell me what it said, just that they were in possession of a letter that seemed credible, and they thought an evidence technician would be a good idea.”
“That’s interesting. Yes, I just got the call. I figured it was just another reporter. My apologies.”
“No matter, I wouldn’t have answered it myself.”
Taylor smiled. One of the things she especially liked about Joan Huston was her inability to mince words.
“I’ll head over there right now. Thanks for letting me know.”
“Check in with me when you get in the building.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She clicked off, looked over at McKenzie.
“ The Tennessean has a letter that pertains to the case. We need to go there first.”
She was just crossing the interstate; The Tennessean building was on her left. She turned left into the parking lot and took the last space, sandwiching the Lumina into one of the too-small spots. The paper’s parking left a lot to be desired.
She and McKenzie walked in, gave their names to the security desk and waited. The lobby had changed dramatically since the last time she’d been forced to make a visit, to tell then Managing Editor David Greenleaf his good friend Frank Richardson had been murdered.
Greenleaf himself came through the locked door off the lobby. They shook hands awkwardly, and Taylor introduced McKenzie. The Tennessean had dined out for weeks on her fall from grace, and she still smarted from the drubbing. But they’d been trying to make amends, had done a positive piece on her ascension back to the head of Homicide just a few days earlier. She couldn’t blame them too much-they were in the business of news, and unfortunately she had been the lead story.
Greenleaf waved them into the hallway. He talked as they walked.
“How are you, Lieutenant?”
“Good, David. What’s been going on here?”
“Oh, you know. Buyouts and layoffs. This building can be like a ghost town sometimes. Whoops, here we are.”
He led them into a conference room, where two people were standing with their backs to the door, staring at
