Field Of Graves - J.T. Ellison MIRA

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a mic in her face. “Just give us something,” she pleaded.

      Lee Mayfield of The Tennessean gave Taylor an inquiring smile. Taylor shook her head; she’d be damned if she gave the paper’s crime reporter anything. Besides, the woman would spin it her own way and distort the facts anyway. Let her do it on her own.

      “You have to give us something to go on, Lieutenant,” the latest talking head from Channel 17 admonished.

      Taylor whipped around, her limited patience worn through. Spotlights glowed in her eyes, blinding her for a moment. Blinking back into focus, she said, “I said we’ll have something for you later. Now quit lurking around my crime scene. You’re making my team’s work difficult.”

      Taylor turned her back on them, hurried across the small parking lot in front of Lake Watauga, jumped into her unmarked squad car. Wow, she’d let them get to her. Not very professional. It seemed every little thing got to her these days. Oh well, it would give them something fun to work on for their precious stories: Lead Investigator Loses Temper.

      “Jerks,” she said vehemently, rubbing her temples. She watched the press milling around their trucks, each trying to find a spin on her blatant and sarcastic remarks.

      One by one, she saw the cameras start to point at the sky. A banner day for Nashville’s reporters. A murder and an eclipse, all tied up in one tidy little package for them. The noon broadcasts really were going to be chock-full of fun.

      She pulled to the east entrance of the park, noticing the Park Police weren’t letting anyone in, on foot or by car. At least they were making themselves useful.

      She stopped at a light and briefly closed her eyes. The body of the dead girl was stark against her eyelids. Taylor couldn’t help but think of the terror she must have felt as her life was stripped away, and wasn’t surprised to feel the anger come. It had been like that lately.

      Over the years, she’d learned how to detach herself from crime scenes. She had to; it kept her sane. After a time, she’d grown relatively numb to the atrocities she saw. Lately, though, her armor had developed cracks.

      Giving the Parthenon one last glance, she realized the vibe surrounding the scene was making her very uncomfortable. She had the feeling she’d missed the message the killer was trying to send.

      She turned left onto West End Avenue and registered the slow burn that had started. “I’m gonna catch you, you son of a bitch. You just wait. I’m coming.”

      The sky darkened. The moon moved before the sun, blotting out the sunlight in momentary increments until the world became a shadowy place, darkness scarring the light.

      He gazed at the miracle, oblivious to the scene in front of him and the frenzy he had created. He had been so patient. So focused. He’d interpreted the signs correctly, and now he was being rewarded.

      He murmured at the sky, “...And the sun became black as sackcloth of hair, and the moon became as blood.”

      Then it began to pass, and the man felt his heart stir once more. So many things to do.

      He left the parking lot. No one noticed him.

      Taylor followed the streets back to headquarters, swinging down Church Street toward Hooters, turning left on Second, circling the courthouse, driving past the front entrance of the Criminal Justice Center. She frowned at the attempt to modernize the architecture of the building. Someone had gotten the idea that they could take a squat, brown brick square and fancy it up with a courtyard full of benches and a rounded portico over the main doors. A nice idea, but the bevy of criminals scurrying in and out of the doors of the CJC ruined the effect.

      Adding to the atmosphere was the close smell of river water, which made Taylor wrinkle her nose in disgust. The water level of the Cumberland was low, and the fetid reek didn’t help the depression of the area.

      It was a busy morning. It took five minutes to find a spot. After circling twice, she finally slid into a space on Third by the back door to her offices.

      Taylor went up the flight of concrete stairs leading to the side door entrance, stepping carefully around the overflowing bucket of cigarette butts in the corner of the landing. Swiping her card to gain access, she pulled open the door and made the short walk to the Homicide office. Her team was already assembling, putting together the necessities to start the murder investigation.

      “Are y’all up to speed?” There were nods all around.

      “Okay. I’m gonna check in with Price.”

      Taylor hadn’t missed a stride as she crossed the room. Though the door was uncharacteristically closed, she walked into the captain’s office without knocking.

      Captain Mitchell Price was a small, generally happy man in his early fifties, nearly bald, with an impressive mustache he took great care to groom. As the head of the Criminal Investigative Divisions, he oversaw Homicide, Vice, and all the other investigative departments. Price was on his phone when Taylor barged in, but quickly placed his finger over his mouth, hit the speaker button for her to hear, and set the handset quietly back in the cradle. He ran his hand over his shiny scalp, pushing away the last few stray strands of faded red hair, and motioned to the door, rolling his eyes at the voice now emanating from the speaker. Taylor closed the door silently behind her and took a seat across from his desk.

      “Damn it, Price. When are you going to have some answers for me?” Mayor Meredith Robbins was yelling loud enough that even with the door closed, Taylor knew the rest of the squad could hear her strident voice. “When are your people going to get their asses in gear? A girl shows up dead in the middle of Centennial Park, which is going to be closed for God knows how long while your teams wander around, and we’ve got the Arts and Crafts Fair this weekend. There are trucks full of crap ready to get in there and unload, and I’m the one who has to smooth out all the granola-filled feathers. It’s too late to cancel this thing now. There’s going to be hell to pay if you can’t get the park open immediately. And all you can tell me is ‘you’re working on it’? I want some answers, and I want them now!”

      Taylor mouthed the word bitch to Price, then turned away, smiling. Meredith Robbins was a thorn in the department’s side. The woman was a self-serving, nasty politician whose only concern was making herself look good, the citizens of Nashville be damned. How she got elected in the first place was still a mystery to Taylor.

      Turning back to Price, she twirled her finger around and raised an eyebrow. He smiled and nodded, interrupting the tirade.

      “Um, Mayor, we’re working things as fast as we can. I’m sure we’ll have some answers for you very soon. And the sooner we can get off this call, the sooner I can get the details from Lieutenant Jackson.”

      “Fine. Get back to me the moment you have some new information. And get the damn park opened back up. If the vendors start canceling because of this, I will hold you personally responsible.”

      Price sighed loudly for effect and said, “If anything, Meredith, I’d assume the curiosity factor is going to draw people to the park, not drive them away.” The comment hit its mark, and she backed down a bit.

      “No more excuses. Get the park open. And tell that lieutenant of yours to be nicer to the media.” She hung up the phone with a bang, and Price slowly clicked off the speaker. He looked at the phone with distaste, and then raised a hairy red eyebrow at Taylor.

      “Well, that was fun. She is such a pain in the ass. Ignore her—I’ll deal with it. But tell me you have something for me.”

      Taylor took in a deep breath. “Sam thinks the scene was staged, and I have to agree. She’s going to get the girl’s prints over here ASAP. As soon as they show up, we’ll start looking for a match. That’s my number one priority. I want to give this girl a name, and

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