LITMIR.BIZ

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to the head of the bed. “Hey, get your crime scene guys back in here.”

      Fitz disappeared and came back with one of the crime scene techs. Baldwin motioned the man over and pointed to the headboard on the wrought-iron bed. “You missed something,” he accused.

      The tech turned red, realizing he had missed something. A pale fiber was attached to the frame of the headboard. He quickly collected it, apologizing. As he left, Baldwin clapped him on the back.

      “Probably from a rope. We found it at the other scenes, as well. That’s why there isn’t much sign of a struggle. That he would tie them up fits. See, this kind of killer is excited by the helplessness. Anger, excitement, pleasure, they all come from the same place for this guy. He has a thing for their hands, which I haven’t figured out yet. The fetishistic elements are all there, I don’t think he’s doing it to hide their identities. He’s highly organized, plans in advance. The fact that he parts with any of his trophies is interesting. It’s a clue, a trail of bread crumbs that he’s leaving for us. He wants to sensationalize the killings. Taking the bodies over state lines, the mutilations, all were calculated efforts to make these crimes heinous and splashy. A surefire recipe to get the FBI involved. He wants us to know him. To be sure that it’s him. He won’t deviate from this pattern, it’s become his signature. Now we just have to figure out who he is. VICAP doesn’t have a match to this MO in their system. Other than the forensics, we don’t have any other information to go on. Witness statements are thin to nonexistent. He’s a real ghost, which is part of his plan.” The Violent Criminal Apprehension Program would guide them to corresponding murders if the system had a match. Baldwin had been watching for a hit, a fruitless endeavor thus far.

      He stopped pacing, a gleam in his eyes. “It’s a challenge. He enjoys the fact that he has us stumped. We can’t predict where he’s headed next, it assures that we’re on our toes. Mark my words. He’s begging for us to try and find him.”

      Chapter Five

      Whitney Connolly sat at her computer in her home office, tapping out e-mails to people around the country. It was her usual morning ritual. Regardless of the day, she got up from her lonely bed, ran to Starbucks for a latte, greeting people she knew and those she didn’t with a humbled smile, returned home and turned on the computer. She had a vast network that she communicated with, and the mails were sorted by priority. Friends came first, because that category had the fewest mails to go through. And since they were generally the kindest of the lot, she entered the next grouping with a sense of peace. The fans. They came in all colors, shapes and sizes. Female and male, young and old. Pleasant and not so pleasant. The messages were hard to escape; the network broadcasted all reporters’ e-mail addresses on the screen as they gave their reports and posted them next to their pictures on the station’s Web site so they’d be accessible to the viewing public.

      Whitney felt it was important to answer, thanking those who had enjoyed her work the night before, being courteous to those who hadn’t. Being the top reporter in the Nashville market had its upside, that was for sure. Inevitably she pissed some viewers off, and she felt a sense of responsibility to acknowledge their displeasure and attempt to set things straight. Community relations, and all that.

      Today was a good morning though. She had forty fan mails and only five weren’t happy with her performance. She read the comments carefully, disregarding the wackos with a simple “I’m sorry you weren’t happy with the broadcast. I’ll make every effort to correct the problem.” She effusively thanked those that sent generous, loving comments and seriously answered questions from those who thought they knew better than she did about the world they lived in. That done, she took a long drink from her cooling latte and set to work on the next group. The important group. The one that really mattered. The tipsters.

      Whitney had a vast network of people across the country who sent her information. She had been cultivating the group for years, adding legitimate and not-so-legitimate contacts as she went. She had aspirations, big ones. She knew she was one story away from making it. Being a ranking reporter in Nashville was a pretty good gig. Her station had the highest rating in the market, consistently achieving higher market share than the other network affiliates. She handled the beat during the week, sat in the anchor’s chair on the weekend 10:00 p.m. newscast. But deep down, she felt she was better than even a full-time local anchor job. She’d been paying her dues for a while now, and at thirty-four, it was time she got picked up by one of the big dogs. She wanted New York. Not Atlanta, where they all looked the same and weren’t allowed to express their own opinions. No, New York was the place to be, and she was one big story away from being there.

      She had the looks, that was a given. Tall, leggy and blond, she had a perfect nose that hadn’t been surgically altered, full lips that had only seen a little work and a pair of flawless breasts that had cost her a fortune. Finely drawn eyebrows two shades darker than her hair arched over what she had been told were spectacular blue eyes. Yes, she had the looks all right. And the brains to go with them. Not to mention the ambition to get the job done. She just needed that one story on her reel that would blow them away.

      As she scrolled through her mail, searching for the address that would make her a star, she allowed herself a brief respite by switching on the television to the very network she wanted to work for so badly.

      The News Alert flashed red across the screen, and Whitney felt her pulse quicken. She was a consummate newswoman after all. What would it be now? A bombing overseas? A trial decided? A politician caught with a dead girl or a live boy? Bad news makes good news for a reporter, regardless of the cost to the public. As the anchor’s concerned face filled the screen, she felt the warmth spread over her body. She leaned back in her supple leather chair and smiled. He had struck again.

      Chapter 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 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 well-bred 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

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