“What, Lieutenant? We need to start getting some shots of this scene so it can make the midday report. Hey, you want to comment on the Rainman?”

“Drop it, Stacy. Focus. Whitney Connolly was in the accident. Her X5 hit another car, killing all three people in it.”

Stacy’s eyes lit up for a moment. Immediacy was the name of the media game, and there was nothing like a scandal to boost the noontime ratings. “So you’re arresting her for vehicular manslaughter? Was she drunk? I have to call my producer, he’s going to flip.” She started to pull out her phone but caught Taylor’s eye and stopped. Realization dawned on her face.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding. She’s not…”

“Yes, she is. So I think you do need to call your producer. We’re only telling you so you can talk to the station and get moving on whatever it is you need to do.”

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be a very complicated day. They swung into action, getting into the back of the van and starting to make calls. Taylor stepped away from the van just as Channel Four’s van pulled up. She could see another satellite truck coming down from West End. She signaled a

“hurry up” to Stacy and Tommy and started back toward the Channel Four van.

When they pulled to a stop, Taylor could tell they knew what was going on. Laura McPherson, the pretty brunette with what Taylor thought was one of the higher IQs in the field, stepped out of the van and came right for her. Taylor braced herself for the onslaught.

“Is it true that Whitney Connolly was killed in the accident?”

It never ceased to amaze her how quickly news could spread through Nashville. Taylor’s mouth started forming a “no comment” when Laura shot out her hand, palm up.

“We’re not going to do any film, so you can relax. We heard that Whitney was killed as well as three others. Someone on the scene called me to put in the tip, said she thought she recognized Whitney before they covered her up.”

Taylor sized Laura up. Young, smart, as ambitious as any other reporter, yet the girl had never burned her before. She was one of the few, and though Taylor knew better than to think it would never happen, she respected that the woman hadn’t ever misquoted her or screwed up a report. Taylor knew the rest of the force felt the same way. It was common knowledge who could be trusted and who needed to get the runaround on details. Laura had always done a nice job working the angles 172

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and hadn’t left anyone out to dry. Integrity in a reporter. Taylor almost laughed.

“All right, but just because it’s you. Whitney Connolly is dead. What are you going to do now?”

Laura gave her a look. “Talk to my producer, of course. Whitney was an icon here, we’ll want to put together some of her best work to honor her with. I wouldn’t worry about the rest of us, everyone will be keeping their cameras off. Respect for your fellow journalist, you know?”

“Why aren’t you guys like that with everything?”

“C’mon, Lieutenant, you know how it is. We certainly don’t want to offend any of the viewers. Besides, it’s just not right to capitalize on her death, you know?

I kind of admired her.”

With that, Laura disappeared back into the news truck. Others were pulling up, the whole contingent of ABC, CBS, NBC and Fox local affiliates were in attendance, but there wasn’t any activity from them. No satellites going up, no cables being unrolled, no copy being written. They were all huddled together, allegiances to individual stations forgotten, grieving the loss of one of their own. An unscheduled funeral cortege on West End. That’s how we do it, she thought. When one of our cops goes down, that’s how we handle it. All the animosity is forgotten, all the hate and fear is gone. We all grieve together. Most of the time. It had never occurred to her that the media would react in the same way. Thank God, at least none of them were clamoring for information on the Rainman. They were too shocked to think clearly, for once. Taylor left them and walked back across the street toward Sam. She thought her All the Pretty Girls

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friend still looked a little pale and could only imagine what she herself looked like. The first rush of adrenaline had passed, the hangover was back with a vengeance and she was very tired. As she reached Sam, she went to put an arm around her, then drew back when she saw the smear of blood on her sleeve.

“You’ve got some blood on you.”

Sam looked down in surprise. “Hmm, clumsy of me. Oh well, it’ll come out. How’s everything with the newsies?”

“They’re all standing down. No photos, no film. They’re pretty shook up, most are just trying to decide how best to lead the show without upsetting the whole city. Actually not being vultures, which is nice. You don’t need to worry about a thing.”

Sam gave her a smile. “Thanks, T, you’re the greatest. I’ve got to get to the morgue. You all set?”

“Yeah. I’m going to head in to the office. Take some aspirin. Get caught up on some things. Hope the boys have solved all my cases so I can put my head on my desk and sleep for an hour.”

“All the men in the world, and so little time. Tell Baldwin I said hi.” Sam gave her arm a squeeze and walked away.

Twenty-Three

Baldwin stood in the glaring sunlight, shielding his eyes and watching the panoply of activity around the body. Each person at a crime scene had a specific task, yet it looked like ants at a picnic, chaotic and busy. The similarity to the previous crime scenes was disconcerting, and he tucked the thought away to be brought back out later. He ducked under the yellow tape and worked his way to the periphery of the activity. Marni Fischer was certainly getting the best attention a body could get. He made his way to her, slipping on his Ray-Bans so he wouldn’t have to squint. Mesmerized by what had been a beautiful young woman, he squatted for a closer look, swatting flies away from his face. Marni Fischer was naked, lying on her back, arms spread out to either side. Her arms ended at the wrist, her hands no longer in their proper place. That’s where the similarities ended. He’d been right on the money. The killer was escalating, the violence increasing. His eyes traveled to what had been her face; knife All the Pretty Girls

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slashes had rent channels over an inch deep in a crisscross pattern from her forehead to her chin. The deep cuts were borne of rage. Baldwin wondered what she’d done to piss him off.

He made a mental note to check the sexual activity—

seduction had been the previous MO, that might be different here, too. Her legs were demurely crossed at the knee, a gold chain nestled incongruously around the fragile bones of her right ankle. It struck Baldwin that it looked more like a shackle than purposeful decoration. Another, smaller zone had been created a few yards from Marni’s body. A pale hand, palm up in supplication, was nestled in the long grass. They were getting more adept at finding the hand of the last victim, at least. The local cops knew what to look for; they found it rather quickly. Why had the killer started leaving the hands away from the body? Just another item to add to his ever-growing list of quirks, the elements that made up the psyche of a murderer.

A breeze kicked up, and Baldwin was surprised to see a bank of black clouds approaching from the west, crawling furiously over the mountains. He wondered how long he’d been standing, staring. Better get a move on before it started to rain. The beauty of a southeastern summer afternoon, a thunderstorm was bound to crop up. He turned and looked back at Grimes. The man wasn’t going to make it. He’d been going downhill steadily since they’d gotten the call that Marni had been found. Right now he was trying to avoid the klieg light of a news truck instead of accompanying Baldwin to peruse the corpse. He was going to have to find a way 176