Читать книгу 14 - J.T. Ellison, J.T. Ellison - Страница 15

Taylor put both thumbs up and punched her hands skyward, a victory sign. “Yes! Good job, Marcus. Let’s go to the war room, get it all plugged in. Giselle St. Claire. Why does that sound familiar?”

As she said it, it hit her. She groaned, long and loud.

“Oh, shit. Marcus, you better get Price on the phone. He’s gonna want to know this.”

“Who is she? Why don’t I recognize the name?”

“Just go get Price for me. I’ll tell you in a minute.”

He stepped away, and she turned to Baldwin. “Do you know who this is?”

“Isn’t she the kid of someone big?”

“You could say that. Remy St. Claire. It’s her daughter. That’s what’s been bugging me, the girl looks an awful lot like a dark Remy. Damn it, she can’t be more than, what.” Taylor calculated. Man, she was getting old. “I think Giselle was about fifteen. She looks older. Oh, fuck. This is not good. Remy and the press are going to be on us like white on rice. Damn, damn, damn, damn!”

Remy St. Claire. Taylor didn’t know what to make of her. She was an actress, but didn’t find much lead work anymore. Instead, she did the rounds relentlessly, reveling in her roles as a “character actor.” She was a constant on the talk-show circuit. Her gadfly antics made her a perfect target for the gossip instigators. She’d left Nashville years before, made it in Hollywood for a while, then fluttered away. Married three times to two different men, she’d had a child by one of them. Taylor couldn’t remember which. A little girl named Giselle, with dark, flowing hair.

When little Giselle grew up a bit, the paparazzi constantly buzzing around her caused her mother endless headaches. Remy wasn’t happy with that overattention, and sent her only child to live with her parents, away from the glare of Hollywood. Giselle’s grandparents immediately enrolled her in her mother’s alma mater in Nashville, Father Ryan. They assumed the first-class Catholic school would be good for their beloved granddaughter, used the abundant love to compensate for her mother’s recurring absences.

At Father Ryan, Remy and Taylor had been friends, albeit briefly. They weren’t enemies, just didn’t hang in the same crowds. The woman was a drama queen, a scene stealer, an attention getter. When she found out her only child had been murdered on her old classmate’s watch, there would be hell to pay.

Taylor leaned against the wall and damned herself for not listening to the advice of her old buddy Fitz, walking out of this place and spending the next three days fretting over Chinese gobans and monogrammed bath towels. Despite a declaration that they didn’t want gifts, wedding presents were piling up. And all those unwritten thank-you notes just made her think of her mother. Kitty wasn’t available for the wedding, thank God. Though if she knew Remy St. Claire’s daughter had been murdered, she’d be back from Gstaad in a heartbeat. A brush with a minor celebrity would stoke Kitty for a few weeks, though she’d look down her nose and pretend it meant nothing. God, her mother was such a bitch.

Baldwin leaned against the wall next to her, toying with the curled-up end of her ponytail.

“Evanson called. The official requests have been approved. My team at the field office is available to you at any time. How do you want to handle this, Taylor?”

She appreciated his show of respect. Baldwin could have asked to step in at any time but had held off, allowing the locals to work the case with his peripheral involvement until now. The FBI’s active support would shift the dynamics, but they could use the help. “Let’s see what Price has to say.”

Marcus was signaling from the conference room. Taylor took a deep breath, then went in and sat at the long table. The speakerphone was on.

“Hey, Cap. How’s Florida?”

Captain Mitchell Price was on a long-overdue vacation. Or trying to be. Calling him in Florida was a sure sign that the shit was hitting the fan back in Nashville. He didn’t bother to play along.

“What’s wrong?”

“Other than our happy little Snow White murderer decided to off Remy St. Claire’s daughter, nothing much. How’s the fishing?”

Taylor almost laughed when the groan came through the phone loud and clear.

“Do I need to come back?”

“Well, I think we can handle it, but if Remy blows into town and there are cameras at the ready, the chief’s gonna get involved.”

“I got a call from Quantico. Baldwin there?”

“He’s right here. I asked him in this morning—the official request just came through. Two items came up from yesterday’s murder. The substance we’ve been trying to identify is a compound that has frankincense and myrrh in it. We’re about to discuss that right now. The second thing is he’s escalating. He killed that girl at the scene, and rimmed the neck wound in lipstick.”

The curse words were clear and loud, and Taylor envisioned the man’s mustache jerking up and down in response to the utterances. It almost made the conversation bearable.

When he finished cursing, he sighed.

“I’ll make a reservation.”

Baldwin tapped Taylor on the shoulder, then spoke. “Hey, Price, no need. I’ll send the plane for you.”

“Thanks, Baldwin, that’s mighty nice of you. I love having the Bureau on my cases. I’ll see y’all tonight. Let’s get St. Claire notified and get this ball rolling. Jeez, what a way to ruin a vacation.”

He clicked off, and Taylor looked at Baldwin, the question apparent on her face. He didn’t respond, so she asked.

“Should we…?”

Baldwin shook his head. “No, no, no, we are not canceling the wedding.”

“Could cause some bad press. Lead investigator heads off on honeymoon….”

“Screw them. No. We are not canceling.”

She patted him on the forearm. “Okay, sweetie, okay. Just throwing out options. I’m going to go get the Santa Barbara police on the phone, see if they can’t get a chaplain roused to go notify Remy. And see if Father Ross is available to go talk to her grandparents, since they were primary caregivers. We’ll need to interview them, anyway, find out what they know about Giselle’s last steps. You’re in it now. Get ready for the shit to hit the fan.”

Taylor, Fitz, Marcus and Lincoln sat around the conference table, reviewing the facts of the Snow White cases. Taylor’s stomach had settled, they had sandwiches from Panera, a froufrou delicatessen, and a round of fruit tea, that bizarre Southern concoction. Baldwin had demurred on the lunch offer, instead leaving to procure the FBI plane for Price. They were shoveling in the food, needing fuel for the long day ahead. The room fairly hummed with their intensity.

Four dead girls, each murdered more horrifically than the last. A serial killer who’d been dormant for years. Among the paper lunch boxes, the murder files were spread before them, white elephants in their midst.

Nashville hadn’t seen much in the way of serial killers, per se. They had plenty of serial rapists, and many high-profile murders. But the vast scope of the Snow White Killer hadn’t ever been repeated. The terror, the manipulation, the horrific crime scenes—Snow White held the title for the worst their town had ever seen. Ten girls. Now there were four more. Most likely not by the hand of the original Snow White, but by someone with close ties to him.

The evidence from the earlier murders alone was staggering. Ten murder books, ten evidence files and conclusion files drawn after each case. The paperwork was overwhelming, but Taylor had gone through it all. More than one hundred boxes were stacked along the back wall of the conference room, ready for battle when called upon. Each previous victim had a stack. On the wall above the boxes, the photographs of the victims were hung, a head shot side-by-side with a blown-up picture from their individual crime scenes. The similarities were mesmerizing. Taylor caught herself staring at the pictures, thinking, man, twenty years. That’s a long time to be dormant. Where did you go?

Taylor’s gaze went around the room, stopping in turn on each victim, a silent tribute. She’d done this every day for two months.

The first murder occurred in January 1986. A young woman went missing from an evening out with friends. Her body was found a week later, her lips painted in a wide red grin, brutally assaulted, raped and her throat cut. Her name was Tiffani Crowden. The brand of lipstick was identified as Chanel Coco Red. She was the first confirmed kill for the Snow White Killer. Each subsequent murder scene was identical, though he never left the bodies in the same place twice.

The next victims were Ava D’Angelo, an eighteen-year-old waitress, and Kristina Ratay, who attended the prestigious all-girls’ school called Harpeth Hall. In late October 1986, Colette Burich was killed; she worked as a nanny for a wealthy family.

In early 1987, Evelyn Santana, a Belmont coed whose parents were well-respected doctors in town, showed up dead. In late summer, Danielle Seraphin and Vivienne White, both French exchange students, were found together in Centennial Park, slain in a double homicide.

In 1988 there were three more murders, Allison Gutierrez, Abigail McManus and Ellie Walpole. Each girl was found with her throat cut in various parks around the Nashville area.

And then he stopped. She wished she knew why. And why it had started again.

Ritual complete, Taylor brought her attention back to the table. There was a separate pile of information in front of them. On the top was the key piece of evidence from the killings—the letter written by the Snow White Killer back in 1988. A polite fuck you, you’ll-never-catch-me type of communication to the police. Every bite Taylor took, her eyes were drawn to the letter. She just knew, in the way of all good detectives, that there was something in the killer’s words that would help solve the cases. There must have been something in the old files that the detectives who handled the cases back in the eighties had missed.

That was next on Taylor’s agenda, speaking to the homicide detective from the case. His name was Martin Kimball, and he’d retired the year before Taylor joined the homicide team. She needed to interview him, glean all she could from his memory. She hoped it was solid and intact.

Taylor swallowed her chicken salad and mused. She also needed to talk to the reporter who’d handled these cases from the beginning. She’d been trying to reach the man but had been stymied; he was in Europe. He was due back tomorrow, and he was aware that she needed to talk to him. Those were her next steps, talking to Martin Kimball and Frank Richardson, the Tennessean reporter.

She put down her sandwich and started in on her Kettle chips.

“So,” she crunched, “the crime scene was clean. No new evidence. Talk to me. Why are we so sure that this isn’t the Snow White Killer?”

“We’ve gone over this a million times,” Fitz grumped at her.

“I just want to have all the information in front of me to think on. Start talking, old man.”

“Naw, I’ll go. He still has half a sandwich left.” Marcus threw the older man one of his trademark puppy-dog grins, and Fitz nodded his thanks.

“Yeah, let the little man speak,” Lincoln teased.

Marcus responded with a halfhearted “Shut up, Lincoln.” Taylor was reminded of two wildly diverse brothers, two boys who loved to razz each other. They all interacted in a family dynamic. The closeness of their unit simply escalated their success rate. Taylor oversaw all of Homicide, Fitz was her sergeant—the troops reported to him. But this core group of four was responsible for an eighty-six percent close rate on their individual cases, a record unheard of in the rest of Metro.

Marcus was running the case down. “Okay, here’s what we know for certain. Snow White was left-handed. He attacked from behind, pulling on the hair of the victim to expose the throat. The knife moved across the girls’ necks from the right side, severing the exterior carotid artery and moving across, through to the internal carotid, to the left. The knife impressions were deeper at the end of the slash. This was consistent on all of the victims.

“Our new killer is right-handed, though he’s trying to make it look like he’s left-handed. He’s cutting their throats from the front. The knife enters the right side of the victims’ necks, moves across, severing both carotid arteries. But the knife slash is deeper at the point of origin, instead of at the end. So it’s safe to conclude that this new killer is right-handed.”

“That’s a biggie, too. Good. What else?” Taylor finished her last chip, pushed her plate away.

“The DNA hasn’t come back yet, but the blood types match. The rope fibers lifted from the victims’ wrists and ankles are inconsistent with the fibers from the earlier cases, though the knots are nearly identical. Obviously the original Snow White killer didn’t leave presents in his victims’ hoohahs, either.”

Taylor suppressed the urge to laugh. “Hoohahs? Something wrong with the technical term?”

Lincoln and Fitz cracked up when Marcus blushed.

“No, I just hate that word. It sounds so, I don’t know. Fine, never mind. He didn’t leave news articles in the victims’ vaginas. Happy now?”

“Very, puppy, very. What else?”

“Tox screens on the first three new victims show high levels of Rohypnol, and elevated BALs. So they all drank doctored drinks. That wasn’t something the original killer did, either.”

Taylor fished a piece of paper out of her pile. “Make that four. Giselle’s lab work was identical. He’s getting them wasted to lower their inhibitions.”

Fitz chimed in. “You’re right. I was in uniform when these cases were ongoing. The word from Homicide was Snow White was a charmer, he sweet-talked the victims instead of drugging them. All the reports say he’d approach them in a safe environment, was someone they could trust. Girls nowadays aren’t as trusting, they’ll need a little extra incentive to go with a stranger willingly.”

Taylor nodded in agreement. “Well, now we have the makeup of this cream found on their temples. Arnica, frankincense and myrrh? What’s up with that?”

“I think we’re dealing with a religious nut. Look at the biblical aspects—the gifts of the Three Wise Men were gold, frankincense and myrrh. They also used myrrh oil in Roman times to cover up the smell of dead bodies. I looked up the modern uses—perfume, anti-inflammatory, homeopathic cholesterol-lowering agents … there’s tons of uses and tons of availability. But the most common use is in churches and synagogues. It just makes more sense that this has some sort of significance to the killer. And the placement on their temples makes it seem like he’s anointing them.”

“Lincoln’s right, there might be a religious component to all of this. Toss that into the mix.”

Marcus played with one of his chips. “Maybe he stopped killing back then because he got called to God. You know, took the opposite road, tried to repent. Hell, he might have become a priest or something. And then he just couldn’t stand it, broke free and started killing again.”

They were all silent for a moment, thinking about those implications.

“I wish we had the DNA comparison. That would at least tell us definitively if we are dealing with the same man or a copycat,” Fitz said.

“You’re right, Fitz.” Taylor absently twirled a piece of her ponytail around her forefinger. “Without the DNA, we can’t go too much further.”

“Have you heard what the holdup is? I know TBI is backed up and they passed it up the chain to Quantico, but still. This should be a priority case for them.”

“I know, Fitz, I know. Now that Baldwin’s assigned to the case, I’ll ask him to tag a priority to the lab work. Remind me, okay?”

“When’s Price back?” Lincoln asked.

“He should be here tonight. Baldwin sent the plane for him. Let’s get back to the rundown, boys. Now, the lipstick. Giselle St. Claire’s neck wound was rimmed in red lipstick. Tests aren’t back yet, but I’ll throw out the assumption that it’s the same lipstick that was found on all of the previous victims’ lips, that Chanel Coco Red. As far as we know, this is a new step, one he hasn’t done to any of the other victims. Coupled with the fact that there wasn’t a separate dump site. Why? Any ideas?”

Marcus nodded. “There has to be a pathology behind the lipstick in the first place. Something from Snow White’s past that drove him to defile the girls, to paint them. To alter the way they looked naturally. Something his mother did, perhaps? But the new killer, he’s just copying his predecessor. So the lipstick on Giselle’s throat could just be his way of saying this is my kill. I did this one. It screams ‘Mine.’”

“That’s a good start, puppy. Why wouldn’t he do it to the first three?”

“Because he knew by this kill we would have figured out that he was a copycat. He knew we’d have DNA to match, and would know he was right-handed instead of left. He’s ready to be acknowledged.”

Lincoln pointed a finger at Marcus. “But we don’t have the DNA results, so we can’t be absolutely sure that this isn’t the work of the original killer. They’ve been known to lie dormant for years, have lives, make a name in the community. That could be the case here. If it is the original killer, what would drive him to the tipping point? What would make him start killing again?”

Taylor nodded. “The usual stuff. Loss of some kind. We have to find out what the trigger was. I’m open to ideas.”

No one answered, all four heads shaking slowly. Fitz started crumpling the paper insert his sandwich had been wrapped in, and Taylor decided to call it quits.

“All right, that’s it for now. Go focus on Giselle St. Claire. I want to know what she was doing, where she was headed, and why she was targeted. Did he know she was the daughter of a celebrity or was it chance? All that stuff. Let’s talk again later this afternoon. I’m going to go bug Baldwin for the DNA.” She started to turn, then stopped.

“Fitz? You know what? Let’s go talk to Martin Kimball right now instead of waiting. Can you be ready in half an hour?”

“Yep. I’ll meet you out back.”

They scattered, teasing one another. A solid team confident in their ability to break another major case, to right the wrongs of this egregious killer. Taylor watched them go, filled with a sense of pride and a small nugget of hope. They were hers, and she loved them.

Fitz drove to Martin Kimball’s house. He wanted to check out Taylor’s new ride and had the 4Runner in four-wheel drive, powering the truck through the icy streets.

They talked casually of the case, the impending wedding. Taylor was always open with Fitz. He was more like a father to her than her own ever was. She never had to worry about her image, never was concerned that he had a problem being the older man, the second in command to the younger woman. Fitz was edging closer and closer to retirement; he’d been making noises about leaving sooner rather than later. Taylor hoped this visit to Martin Kimball would change his mind; maybe Kimball would be bored and depressed, and that would be enough to convince Fitz to stay on board for a while longer.

They arrived in front of the bungalow on Granny White Pike. The land itself was worth at least $500,000, the cottage another $200,000. The houses on the left and the right of the Kimballs’ had been razed and rebuilt into monstrosities, a stone-and-timber Tudor on the left, a redbrick, columned colonial on the right. Each would easily sell for well over $800,000. Both had elaborate landscaping that belied their small lawns, wrought-iron gates across their tiny driveway entrances. This area was booming, and the Kimballs’ cottage, though the original plan for the area, looked out of place among the finery.

That news had not reached the Kimballs. Christmas lights decorated every square inch of the front their home. A festive evergreen wreath hung on the door, festooned with curling red ribbons. The walk had been meticulously shoveled. A fine spray of cat litter was scattered along the bricks in polite readiness for any guests who might arrive. Taylor and Fitz took this path, Taylor’s boots squeaking on the remaining snow. She knocked on the freshly painted bright red door. It may not have the biggest house on the block, but it was clean and cared for.

The door opened, a small face peeked out at their knees. “Merry Christmas. Welcome to the Kimball home. May I help you?”

Taylor bit back a laugh. The urchin couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, but what a presence.

“Yes, miss. May we speak with your grandfather?”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“He knows we’re coming.” Taylor bent at the knee, got face-to-face with the little one. “I’m Taylor. This is Fitz. What’s your name?”

“Sabrina.” The little girl stuck out her hand to shake. Taylor took it, all seriousness now. Sabrina gave her a nod, as if she’d been judged and found worthy, then opened the door fully.

The rooms within were filled with gaiety and love. A warm fire crackled in the hearth, the house was decorated to within an inch of its life with red and green—popcorn and cranberry strings, garlands, paper rings. Sabrina led the way to the kitchen, where the aroma of pumpkin pie and gingerbread wafted. She announced their visitors to the two people in the room.

“Gran, Grampy, this is Taylor and her friend Fitz. Grampy, they say they have an appointment with you. Are you ready to see them?”

Martin Kimball turned to his granddaughter with a glint of amusement in his eye. He reached out and grabbed her by the waist, swinging her into his arms as he stood. The waif reined in, he smiled at his old friend Fitz, nodded politely to Taylor.

“Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in. Pete Fitzgerald and his lovely lieutenant. What can I do for you fine folks today? We’ve got a lot of pie, and we’re building a gingerbread house for Sabrina. Plenty of gumdrops hanging around. Care to help?”

Fitz looked wistful for a moment; Taylor knew his love of sweets was undermining his willpower. He gathered himself, a pillar of strength and resistance. If retirement meant a warm, loving home and a happy family, it didn’t look all bad. But Fitz had never married, didn’t have this built-in infrastructure to keep him satisfied.

“Wish we could, Marty. We need to talk. You got someplace private where we can chat?”

“Sure, we can go in the den. Here you go, sugar.” He handed off the child to his wife, a cheery-looking woman with red cheeks and a plump chin.

“Don’t be too long, Marty. The gingerbread is about ready.”

He kissed her on the forehead, patted the child’s hair, then signaled to Taylor and Fitz to follow. He went the length of the kitchen, through a swinging door and into a short hallway. The first room on the right was a small, cozy office/den, the blue-and-white choo-choo-train border along the ceiling giving away the space’s previous employment as a child’s bedroom. There was a plush, soft chocolate chenille couch and a cherry desk with two ladder-backed chairs on either side. Three weathered brown corrugated boxes sat on the desk. They bore the mark of private evidence files. All investigative cops had one or two stashed away.

They got settled, Taylor and Fitz on the couch, Kimball leaning against the desk. Taylor took the chance to size the man up.

Kimball’s hair was gray, cut in a military-style bristle top. His face had a permanently mournful expression, his eyes hangdog. His clothes were old-fashioned, from a previous generation. He wasn’t old, but he was certainly not doing anything to make himself seem any younger than his sixty-four years.

He was soft-spoken, and Taylor imagined he’d been a shy man once, with jug ears and a slow, sad smile. Retirement had eased some of the pressures on his mind, but the years were etched on his face. He’d seen too much, witnessed too many vicious crimes, to have a smooth, carefree aspect. He stooped slightly, and Taylor wondered if it was the weight of all he had seen in his years on the force.

Fitz had told Taylor that Kimball was the detail man of the old homicide unit, the one attuned to every nuance and ripple in a case. He was the homely one, the man any victim would confide in, the man every criminal confessed to.

He rested against the desk and waited for them to speak. Just like the old days, she assumed. No sense pushing an issue if it was going to come to you, anyway.

Satisfied they were in good hands, Taylor started. “We wanted to talk to you about the Snow White murders. The early ones. We’re pretty sure these new ones are a copycat, but you’d be the best person to confirm that with. The DNA isn’t back yet, but you know this guy. You can tell us if it’s him doing these crimes or if it’s someone else.”

“Okay.” Kimball walked behind them and shut the door. No sense in scaring his granddaughter if he could help it. Fitz got up and examined his friend’s bookshelf, whistling softly.

Kimball reperched himself on the edge of the desk. “What do you want to know?” He held up a hand. “No, let me ask you something first. Why do you think this is a copycat?”

“To start with, the wound tracks are inconsistent. Snow White was left-handed, you confirmed that with all the original autopsy findings. This guy looks like a righty trying to make himself look like a southpaw. He’s cutting them from the front instead of from behind. There are two other major discrepancies—the news articles placed in the vaginas, and there’s a cream on each girl’s temples. It looks like it’s arnica cream, and we’ve found the composition includes frankincense and myrrh. We can’t be sure that the substances are combined or separate just yet, but regardless, it’s a big deviation from the original murders. We’re tossing around the idea that this might be some sort of religious ritual.”

“So there’s no hair evidence?”

“You mean at the scenes? Not that we’ve found.”

“No, I mean the new victims’ hair wasn’t pulled out at the roots like the first girls’?”

Taylor and Fitz exchanged a glance, and Fitz answered, “Not that we’ve come across, no.”

Kimball went to the boxes on his desk, flipped the lid off the center box, slipped on a pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses. He thumbed through the center of the files and pulled out a manila folder marked Photos. He paged through until he reached one he liked. He held it out for Taylor to look at.

“That picture is of the back of Vivienne White’s head. See that little bald patch? We always figured he was yanking their heads back so hard that he pulled the hair out at the roots. It was the same for all ten girls. A bald patch, right at the nape of their necks. I don’t know about any cream being found on the bodies, but the missing hair was a big deal for us.”

Taylor’s lips were pursed. “That wasn’t in the files.” She looked at Kimball then, a mean thought niggling her mind. She hated to think the worst, but it had happened before.

“Kimball, is there something we’re missing? Are our files incomplete?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I can’t answer that for you. That’s why I pulled these from the garage, just in case. You know how it is. Files get lost over time. The case is twenty years old. You’re welcome to these, if you want. Compare and contrast.”

“I appreciate that.”

Kimball circled the desk, sat in his leather chair. He pulled out a pipe and loaded it up. The scent reminded Taylor of her grandfather, a man she hadn’t known very well. When she looked in a mirror there was a likeness, and when she felt her temper rise, she knew it was his anger.

“Anything else top your list?”

Taylor smiled. The man was still as sharp as ever.

“Tell me. Why did they name him Snow White?”

Kimball smiled, then turned and went to the bookcase. He ran his fingers along the spines on the third shelf from the bottom, the wood just high enough that he didn’t need to bend over to read the titles. He made his selection, a tattered, beaten book that looked quite old.

He turned back to them. “That was my fault, I’m afraid. My daughter, Stacy, Sabrina’s mother, was a little girl when the first murder happened. I was reading to her before I tucked her in, a ritual I tried to maintain even when I was working the B-shift on Homicide. I’d read, get her to sleep, then go to work.”

He fingered the cover of the book. Taylor could see that the edges of the pages were gold.

“Well, this was the story I’d read to her that night. It was snowing hard, and I got to work thinking we’d have a slow night. Instead, we got called to the lot behind the old Chute Complex, those gay bars out in Melrose. You know where I’m talking about, off Franklin Road? It’s all built up now.”

Taylor nodded.

“That was Tiffani Crowden’s final resting place. I got on the scene and saw her, lying there in the snow. The story popped right into my head.”

He cracked open the book. No bookmark was necessary; it opened to the page he wanted. The words he read made a chill spread through Taylor’s body.

“‘Once upon a time, when the flakes of snow were falling like feathers from the sky, a queen sat at a window sewing, and the frame of the window was made of black ebony. And whilst she was sewing and looking out of the window at the snow, she pricked her finger with the needle, and three drops of blood fell upon the snow. And the red looked pretty upon the white snow, and she thought to herself, would that I had a child as white as snow, as red as blood, and as black as the wood of the window frame. Soon after that she had a little daughter, who was as white as snow, and as red as blood, and her hair was as black as ebony, and she was therefore called little Snow White. And when the child was born, the queen died.’”

Kimball closed the book, cleared his throat. “Fitting, really.”

They were silent for a few beats. Taylor was the first to venture in. “Wow. I had no idea.”

Kimball offered her the book. She took it and glanced at the cover. Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm.

“That was my copy from when I was a boy.”

Taylor met Kimball’s eye, gave the book back. “Thank you. This helps. Did you ever think that he’d read the story and was trying to re-create the scenes?”

“Sure. Made perfect sense. Too perfect. I always thought there was more. Hate. Lust. Power. All excellent motives. But why does any killer develop his MO? Maybe Snow White’s mother read to him before she went to work. Maybe he had someone who he read to, and lost her? Attaining the unattainable, always a rich source for motivation. We won’t know unless we catch him, ask him.”

“Can I ask you about the note he sent you? I’m curious about that.”

“Smart girl. I bet you are.” Taylor took the praise and realized she would have enjoyed working with this man, had she ever gotten the chance.

He puffed, sucking the fire into the tobacco, ruminating. “That damn note. I swear, we went over it and over it. Didn’t have all the fancy tests y’all have nowadays, but we could do a fair amount of work back then. The computers were young, and the printers weren’t as plentiful. Just the fact that it came off a computer told us something. He was well-off. It came from an IBM 8580, PS/2 Model 80 386, one of those early desktops, and the printer was a Hewlett-Packard Deskjet Inkjet.”

Fitz shook his head. “You remember that offhand?”

“Yeah.”

Taylor was beginning to understand the reputation Kimball had acquired as the detail man. He continued his recitation.

“Top-of-the-line printer, too. Those things were a thousand bucks a pop when they first came out. At the time, not too many people here in town had one. We traced the ownership, came back to a fellow in Green Hills, man by the name of Mars. Wasn’t him doing the killing, but it was his computer that the note got written on, his printer that spit it out.”

Burt Mars. Taylor knew that name. He was a friend of her parents. An accountant, if she remembered correctly.

“But it wasn’t Mars who wrote the note, right?”

“We never could prove it was him. Never thought so, either. He just didn’t seem capable of pulling off something so elaborate as ten murders. Now, he could bilk Uncle Sam out of a pretty penny, I’ll give him that. No, we always thought it was one of his clients. Someone who had access to his office.”

“Why a client? Why not an employee?”

Kimball gave her a look, then smiled at Fitz, who had rejoined Taylor on the couch. “Because whoever this guy was, he had money. Now, Mars was a generous guy, but not that generous. His employees didn’t have the cash flow that Snow White did. No, it was one of Mars’s clients, all right. Someone who paid other people to do his work for him. I’ve always been confident about that.”

“Why? What was so special about him that you think he came from money?”

“The signet.”

Taylor shook her head. “What?”

“The signet ring. Jesus, that wasn’t in the files, either?”

“I know nothing about it. Fitz, what about you?”

“Don’t remember anything in there about a ring.”

“Found it at one of the last scenes, let’s see, I believe it was Ellie Walpole. When they rolled the body, the ring was caught in her hair. It was a gold ring, scroll work on the sides, big sucker, with a monogrammed F in the crest. That’s all. Just an F. We went through Mars’s files with a fine-toothed comb, interviewed every single person whose name started or ended with an F. Didn’t get anywhere, but that didn’t mean too much. It could have belonged to the killer’s parent, grandparent—hell, cousin or friend, for all I know. It looked old, like it might have been passed down, you know what I mean?”

“Now, that isn’t in the files, I know that for sure. I went through all of the evidence by hand three weeks ago when we pulled some of the boxes for our investigation. There’s nothing about a signet ring. And nothing in the interviews about a ring, either.”

“Don’t know what to tell you, LT. It was there. Saw it with my own eyes. I wrote a lot of those reports myself—that’s why I know they were there. I’m getting the feeling you aren’t working with a full deck on this one.”

Taylor looked at Fitz. This was a problem.

Kimball took a last puff on his pipe, emptied it out in a clay ashtray that looked homemade, and stood.

“You can take these files, just be sure you get them back to me in one piece, okay? I want to go be with Sabrina now. We don’t get to see her as much as I’d like, and she’s growing up too fast. Pretty soon she won’t have any desire to make gingerbread houses with Gramps, you know?”

Fitz carried two boxes, Taylor one. Kimball escorted them out through the kitchen, where Mrs. Kimball and Sabrina stopped them and put cookies wrapped in foil on the tops of the boxes, a treat for later. Kimball saw them to the door, a sad smile on his face as they drove away.

Taylor was three feet tall and fit perfectly into the space between the banister and top step, slightly shrouded by a Doric column that abutted the crown stair. She could see the ball going on below her. There seemed to be hundreds of people, all dressed in the most elaborate of costumes. It was New Year’s Eve, her parents’ traditional masquerade ball, though the house and environs were new. This was Taylor’s second home, but the only one she ever remembered.

The music was loud, and the people twirled around like marionettes, flutes of champagne disappearing at an alarming rate—tuxedo-clad waiters circling the foyer and ballroom, keeping the guests well supplied.

A woman in a large Marie Antoinette wig, powdered face, a black triangle patch meant to be stuck to the corner of her mouth askew and half-unglued, sat down hard on the bottom step—a full forty-seven steps away from Taylor in her little hiding place. Her mother was dressed as Marie Antoinette, but this wasn’t her mother. Taylor felt the concussion of the woman’s sudden not-quite fall, smelled the alcohol waft up the stairs mixed with another scent, a powdery musky smell.

Three people rushed over to make sure she was okay, but she giggled and shooed them, assuring them she’d purposely taken a seat to rest her weary feet. After three waiters had helped her up, she waddled away, dress swinging precariously.

Then there was quiet for a few moments before her father and mother came into view, several people at their heels.

The women were simpering back and forth to one another, but the men talked loudly, expansive with drink.

“Win Jackson, you’ve obviously made a deal with the devil,” a dark-haired man brayed.

“Yeah, Win, your own little Manderley, is it? What did you do in a past life to get so goddamned lucky in this one? The judge should have thrown you in jail, not dismissed the charges.” A sandy-haired man with thick black glasses smacked her father on the shoulder. Win laughed.

“Manderley? Shit, let’s just hope the place doesn’t burn to the ground. Kitty would have my head.”

And so they went, on and on, poking and gibing at one another, until Taylor’s governess found her and snatched her from under the curved balustrade, shuttled her back to the nursery.

Taylor squeezed her eyes shut, trying hard to place the moment, the spot where one of the men turned….

“Jesus, Taylor watch out!” Fitz shouted.

She opened her eyes, disoriented to see the road in front of her, her hands on the steering wheel of the truck, and a small car swerving through a slide on the ice right into her path. The ballroom was gone. She swung the wheel lightly to the right, steered into the slide and scooted around the Camry, which righted itself and slowed, creeping away in her rearview mirror.

Something there, she thought to herself. Something there. But the memory was lost in the glare of the snow.