The upstairs of Taylor’s house was small. Just a master bedroom with an attached bathroom, a spare bedroom that he’d left completely empty, a common bathroom, and a landing which he’d turned into a computer workspace. Both the hallway and the bedrooms were decorated with earth tones that were carefully coordinated to match the carpeting.
She led the way to the master bedroom. “What do you think the killer was trying to tell us by transporting only one body?”
“I don’t know what he was trying to tell us,” I said. “But considering the facts so far, he has managed to tell me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
The master bedroom’s carpet was freshly vacuumed, probably by the CSU searching for trace evidence. The room looked pristine, nothing out of place.
“That he’s unique in the way he thinks.” I knelt and scanned beneath the bed. Found nothing. Stood and glanced at her.
“In other words,” she said. “Hard to pigeonhole.”
“Seems to be going around.”
“Makes me think of something I once read: it is essential for an investigator to understand his opponent’s intellect, training, and aptitude and then respond accordingly.”
I paused. “My article last month.”
“Yes. It was one of your better ones this year.” Her eyes became careful planets orbiting the room in precise symmetry. Occasion ally, she would move her lips slightly but then furrow her eyes and shake her head slightly as if she were having a quiet discourse with herself. “I didn’t agree with all your conclusions, but I did agree with the section about not expecting a person of inferior or superior intellect to act in conventional ways.”
We entered the bathroom.
“Well, that’s the one part I can’t take credit for.” Shaving cream and a razor lay on the counter. A laundry bin sat in the corner. I lifted the washcloth that was lying on top and gently held it against my cheek. Still slightly damp. “It’s not a direct quote, but the concept comes from C. Auguste Dupin’s approach in ‘The Purloined Letter.’ I credited him in the endnotes.”
“I know,” she said. “I read them.”
Now this was my kind of woman.
I knew from the case files that the crime scene unit had found strands of Taylor’s hair in the shower drain. I saw nothing else of note in the shower area.
“But,” she said, “I was surprised you’d cite a fictional story.”
“Well, my daughter-that is, stepdaughter-she’s a big fan of Poe. She convinced me to read three of his detective stories. Not bad, actually.”
“I’ll have to check them out.”
We took our time exploring the upstairs rooms, then headed to the first floor where we found Lieutenant Kurt Mason sending one of the members of his crime scene unit to examine Brigitte’s car.
As he left, Cheyenne approached Taylor’s liquor cabinet and pointed to a half-empty wine bottle. “Brunello di Montalcino, 1997. Nice. This man knew his wine.” She gestured toward the array of bottles. “But, there’s an awful lot of pretty potent stuff there. You think he had a drinking problem?”
Kurt shook his head. “Someone with a drinking problem doesn’t leave half-empty bottles sitting around, or keep a shelf full of booze out in the open. He hides the bottles in the cupboard, under the bed, in the closet.” Whether or not Kurt realized it, his voice was becoming softer with each word. He knelt and peered through a bottle of vodka. “No. Taylor didn’t have a problem. He had a hobby.”
Cheyenne and I exchanged glances. I was pretty sure Kurt didn’t drink, but I knew that his wife Cheryl had picked up the habit after their baby daughter’s death last winter. And, despite all the times I’d visited their home since he invited me to join the task force last January, I’d never seen any half-empty bottles lying around.
Time to change the subject.
“Prints and DNA,” I said. “Anything yet?”
Kurt stood, shook his head. “Not a thing.”
I looked in the kitchen trash can: a granola cereal box, a few crumpled napkins, orange peels. Closed the lid. “Listen, I’ve been thinking we should take a closer look at the victimology.”
Cheyenne spoke, mirroring my thoughts. “The more you know about the victims’ lifestyle, history, and habits, the more you’ll know about the killer.”
“Yes.” She’d obviously read one of my articles from last year too. Impressive. “How is he choosing them? Where did his life intersect with theirs? Let’s go deeper. Not just the typical things like acquaintances, place of employment, home address, club memberships. I want to know what route our victims took to work, where they rented their videos, where they bought their gas.”
I realized I was giving orders and caught myself. “I’m sorry. I mean, that’s the approach I think we should take.”
“We’ll get Robinson and Kipler on it,” Kurt said. He didn’t seem bothered by my tone.
“I need to talk to Kipler anyway,” Cheyenne interjected. “I’ll give them a call.” She pulled out her cell and stepped into the dining room.
When she was gone Kurt glanced at the door at the far end of the kitchen. “Have you seen the garage?”
“Not yet.”
“C’mon. It’s time you had a look.”
21
Taylor’s garage was a brightly lit sanctum for his freshly waxed Lexus SUV, which sat perfectly centered between the walls. A workbench skirted the west side. The room appeared spotless except for the wide, angular swathe of blood where the killer had done his work.
Most of the evidence had already been removed from the garage and taken to the lab, including the ropes that had bound Taylor, the gag, and his corpse itself; but the manila envelope with the killer’s handwritten message to me was still lying on the workbench: “Shade won’t be bothering you anymore, Agent Bowers.”
I slid the photos out of the envelope and found that they were snapshots of Tessa leaving her high school. Taylor had included a note that read, “She would be such an easy target. You should keep a better eye on her.-Shade.”
My fingers tensed, and as I set down the photos I realized that, despite how much I value human life, I was glad Sebastian Taylor was dead.
According to the case files, the tire impressions that had been found two weeks ago beside one of the mailboxes Shade had used matched the tread patterns on Taylor’s SUV. I asked Kurt, “Both of Taylor’s guns are at the lab?”
“Yes.”
“And neither had been discharged? Neither was loaded?”
“That’s right.”
The door to the house opened, and Cheyenne joined us again.
“I think our guy emptied the guns while Taylor showered,” I said. “It was all one elaborate, twisted game.”
Cheyenne looked a little confused. “Talk me through that.”
“Taylor was well-trained. He never would have carried a gun without a chambered cartridge, and he would have almost certainly gotten a shot off at the intruder if either of his guns were loaded. I’m thinking the killer must have gotten into Taylor’s house, found the guns, and emptied them prior to the time Taylor entered the garage. The perfect time to empty the guns would have been while Taylor showered.”
One of the CSU members stopped dusting for prints on the doorknob and stepped our way. Brown hair. Early thirties. Inquisitive face. I recognized him as one of the men who’d been waiting outside the mine when we investigated Heather’s body on Thursday. We hadn’t met yet, so I guessed he was new to the unit. I extended my hand. “Special Agent Bowers.”
“Reggie Greer.”
We shook hands, then I knelt beside the driver’s door and he squatted beside me. “See the blood here, under the car? Taylor must have approached the vehicle and was opening the door when the killer, who was hidden beneath the car, struck.”
I gestured with my hand, imitating the slicing motion of the killer’s blade. “One, two. First the right leg. See the cast-off splatter over there?” Kurt and Cheyenne nodded. Reggie scrutinized the bloodstains.
With my finger, I traced the outline of the blood spatter. “Taylor was already on his way to the ground when the killer sliced his left Achilles tendon. You can see how the blood spatter from the right leg begins perpendicular to the vehicle and ends parallel to it, so Taylor twisted counterclockwise on his way to the ground. Probably landed on his back. I can’t be certain about that, though. Bloodstain analysis isn’t my specialty.”