All The Pretty Girls

Six

Taylor woke early and flipped on the television. Despite Baldwin’s prediction that Shauna Davidson wouldn’t be found anywhere in the local area, a search had been organized. The early news was broadcasting the shot—a line of men and women in blue cargo pants and T-shirts, clutching long poles, moving purposefully through an open area adjacent to Shauna’s apartment complex. Comfortable that the investigation was proceeding appropriately, she showered, pulled on her jeans and boots, snapped on her holster and gun and set out for Jessica Porter’s autopsy.

She rolled along the highway, darting between speeding eighteen-wheelers, absently noting the beauty of the day. Entranced by the blue skies, she opened her window only to be assaulted by the oily fumes of the highway. She wrinkled her nose and shut the window, thinking back to the conversation she’d had with Baldwin before they’d gone to bed. He was adamant that the Southern Strangler was escalating, positive that the All the Pretty Girls

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evidence in Shauna Davidson’s apartment would trace back to the other three murders. Baldwin had a bit of a sixth sense when it came to his cases, a trait that was highly appreciated and necessary in his line of work. Profiling was a bit like being a criminal yourself. He had a knack for understanding what was within the mind of the killers he hunted. It frightened Taylor sometimes, his intensity and single-mindedness, but he got results. She was hopeful that having him full-time on the case would mean a happy outcome for Shauna Davidson, but didn’t really believe it. There was too much blood in the girl’s bedroom. His little debutante. She snorted. She hated it when he called her that, and he knew it. He just loved to stick that pin in a little bit every once in a while. Hell, she would give anything for that part of her past to go away. It wouldn’t, though, no matter how hard she might try to pretend. Taylor came from a wealthy family, and had grown up in an affluent area of Nashville known as Forest Hills. She’d had all the little luxuries of a wellbred girl, including the debutante ball she’d reluctantly attended in order to be properly presented to Nashville society, New Year’s Eve after her eighteenth birthday. She wondered briefly if Shauna Davidson had been privy to such pointless goings-ons, and quickly dismissed the thought. It still made her laugh to remember the outright fury she’d caused her parents when she told them she was going to be a cop. Her parents felt she had a few socially acceptable options to choose from as a career. It was generally expected that college was the first destination, where she would meet her future husband who was headed to medical school or law school. Once they 46

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were established within his residency program or a junior partnership and were back settled in Nashville, she could devote herself to raising the children, being a leader in Junior League, and maybe open a little specialty shop or form a small charitable organization, of course only after the children were in school full-time. A second but not as popular option was to aspire to a profession of her own—medicine, law, marketing—

finding a husband during the course of these actions and immediately starting the marriage/baby track. But Taylor was Taylor, and dismissed both options out of hand. She’d watched her mother’s life: lunches, teas, commitments to charity work that allowed her group of wealthy friends to continue living in their sorority days, never aging, never losing the shallowness that permeated their lives. Taylor knew that they did good work, that their charities made a difference on some level, but couldn’t stand the idea of doing it herself.

That just wasn’t for her. Taylor wanted excitement, even danger. She wanted to live, to really experience life in reality, not never-never land. She needed something to allow her to be her normal, unpretentious self. Nashville wasn’t a huge town, and due to her rebellion against her mother’s well-born intentions for her, she knew people in all walks of life throughout the city. And cops. Lots of cops. She’d had a few run-ins with the law, and as a result not only charmed her way out of trouble but also established friendships with a number of officers, who strongly influenced her decision to join their ranks.

It was a perfect fit for Taylor. She could give back to All the Pretty Girls

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her city and not sell herself out in the process. And there was a sense of power, lurking around town, dealing with shady characters and criminals, that she really got off on. She was living in a real world, not one based on spun-sugar bullshit and cutthroat social climbing. Of course, the idealistic view Taylor had, wanting to be a protector, to take care of the people in her community, became crowded by the comprehension that while the cops took care of everyone, no one was there to take care of them. It was a difficult realization, and explained why so many cops had such complicated personal lives, from multiple divorces to illegal drug use, alcoholism and psychological problems and serious control issues. But Taylor still held on to her utopian view of the purpose of the force. She never wanted to go down the broken and tortured path she had seen many of her fellow cops follow, and believed she had the strength to keep herself in check. So against her mother’s wishes, she went to the University of Te

Her first dose of reality wasn’t long in coming. Driving her squad car through downtown, keeping an 48

J.T. Ellison

eye out for trouble on Second Avenue, she received a message on her endlessly ringing computer screen that a stabbing had been called in from the projects. Taking off with lights flashing and siren blaring, she arrived to see a young black man sprawled on the ground in a grungy doorway. He was surrounded by wailing family and friends who were trying to stop the copious amounts of blood pouring from a gaping wound in his stomach. In desperation, they were trying to shove his intestines back into the yawning hole. It made no difference. He bled out at her feet. The EMTs arrived moments later, but too late to stop Taylor from losing a large part of her i

She nearly laughed at the memory of that young girl, shocked by a little blood on her shoes. She’d seen plenty since, enough to weaken the idealistic view she’d had as a rookie officer. Now, at thirty-five, she was the youngest female lieutenant on the force, headed a crack team of homicide detectives, and had seen more than enough blood, some of it from her own gun, some of it hers. Yes, the idealism was well and truly gone now.

She pulled up in front of the Forensic Medical Building on Gass Street, secure in the knowledge that she knew who she was, and was relatively happy with that person. Relatively.

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Baldwin had suggested she apply to the Academy, go through the rigors to become an FBI agent, but she’d turned him down cold. She belonged to Nashville. Dr. Sam Loughley, medical examiner and Taylor’s best friend, was sewing closed the Y incision on Jessica Porter’s limp chest as Taylor rolled into the autopsy suite.