As he came back from his thoughts, the female anchor threw it to her co-anchor. The story was over. Then it hit him. Taylor Jackson. That’s who she was—they’d gone to Father Ryan together. He’d always thought she was hot as hell, but she was more into the popular crew’s scene than he had ever been. He’d never pursued the matter, and he’d bet a million dollars she’d never remember who he was. Besides, she was a couple of years younger, and he hadn’t been on the A-list on the private school circuit. Nashville really was a small town.
Baldwin switched stations and watched as another distraught female anchor gave the details of the rape and murder of the two girls. He was able to get a little more information before they cut away to the footage of the press conference. The rest of the story was a simple reprise. There was no new information coming out tonight.
He knew the cops had much more detail, but there was only so much the public could handle, much less understand. Without realizing he was doing so, Baldwin mentally began forming a profile of the murderer, murmuring to himself.
“Guy’s white, around thirty, complete sociopath. He’s killing in a private place, probably has some menial night job that gives him free movement during the day. Lives with someone who can support him, had a crappy childhood, domineering mother, distant father, yada, yada, yada. Killing girls with similar characteristics of someone close to him, probably has a record, these aren’t his first crimes. Has kept souvenirs, is keeping clippings from the paper and watching the media coverage. Doesn’t date, very organized, stalking the girls. Wants the police to see what he’s done, so he’s dumping in a public place. Lives in the area, has means of transport...” He trailed off. The typical profile of a serial killer.
It was getting redundant, and some of the profilers he knew had been sloppy lately, often throwing the same categories at all the killers, lumping them together. Granted, killers weren’t terribly original, but the complacency that came with dealing with these men was beginning to show. There were “former” profilers all over the cable news networks anytime a series of killings started, and even when there was only one violent crime to go on. They needed to be a little more careful. The word was out that they hadn’t been completely accurate in a few cases. He’d heard a former cop bluster his way through a television interview a few weeks before, saying, “Profilers don’t put cuffs on the criminals.” That could start some trouble.
Baldwin came back from his thoughts to hear Garrett yelling at him. “Sorry. What?”
“God, man, where’d you go?”
“Just watching a little TV.”
“I have something else I need you to know. It’s about Arlen.”
Baldwin tensed. “I don’t want to talk about him, Garrett. All bets are off if you bring him up again.”
“But, Baldwin, there’s new—”
“That’s my deal, Garrett. No Arlen, and I’ll think about talking to your friend. Are we clear?”
“You’re not exactly in a position to make demands on me, Baldwin. Just let me tell you what’s happening.”
“No.”
Garrett was silent for a moment. “Fine, have it your way. Will you call Price?”
Baldwin gave a last longing look at the gun. “Yeah.”
He clicked off the phone and gently set it down on the table beside him. Went into the kitchen, fetched another Guinness. Poured it into an ice-cold mug from the freezer. He’d always preferred it cold, rather than the correct British lukewarm.
The gun wasn’t calling as loudly now. He’d felt a small adrenaline rush at the news reports. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to talk to the captain. He could pull out at any time and come back to his miserable little existence. Maybe fate was dealing him a new hand. He guzzled half the beer, called Price at home, and set an appointment for eight in the morning.
He sat back in the chair, took a smaller sip of the beer, picked up an empty notepad from the coffee table. Began writing out the thoughts in his head. Time to trade the mind of one madman for another.
21
Taylor was wide-awake. She had gone home after the press conference and hit the bed completely exhausted, hoping a good night’s sleep would help her think clearly in the morning. Instead, she kept reviewing the facts of the case. The whiteboard from the squad room shone brightly in her mind’s eye, the faces of the dead girls running over and over through her head.
After an hour of tossing and turning, she finally accepted sleep wasn’t going to come anytime soon. She got out of the bed and made her way to her pool table, flipped on the TV as she walked by for noise.
Racked the balls. Took the break. Smoothly cracked the balls into their respective pockets. She felt the tension go out of her shoulders as she finally started to relax. The rain was still coming down. The local weather station had broken into the late-night feed to give radar warnings for the severe thunderstorms moving through the area. Tomorrow’s storms were supposed to be even worse.