“Nice to meet you, Dr. John Baldwin. No offense, but who exactly are you?”
A deep baritone startled her. “A washed up drunk who has no business being here.” He stood, nodding at them both. “Thank you, Captain. I do appreciate the offer, but I think your case is in capable hands.” He inclined slightly at the waist, and Taylor was taken aback yet again. Baldwin was at least six feet four, but so thin his clothes drooped from his shoulders as if on broken hangers. She’d seen vestiges of what would have been a very good-looking man with a little TLC when he walked through the door. Up close, he looked like he’d been on a weeklong bender. She made his age as late forties.
“Whoa, Baldwin, sit back down.” Price had come around from behind his desk and was ushering the man back into his seat. Baldwin didn’t resist, but sat heavily, expelling a long sigh. He resumed his mournful glare at the linoleum.
“Taylor, Baldwin is with the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit. He…”
“Was,” said the skeleton in the chair. “Was with the BSU. Get the details straight, Captain.”
Price took a long look at Baldwin, then continued. “Dr. Baldwin worked with the BSU for many years, and has taken a leave of absence to pursue a few personal matters. I would like to see him act as a journeyman to your case, Taylor, in a consulting role. He has…”
“Had,” came the flat voice.
“Has immeasurable experience in sexual murders. I believe he can be of help.”
Taylor was swinging her head between the two men, confused. This Dr. Baldwin certainly didn’t want to be here. What was Price up to, assigning her a babysitting job from some politico from the FBI? She opened her mouth to protest, but the Captain interrupted.
“Dr. Baldwin, would you mind stepping out for a moment? I’d like to speak to Lieutenant Jackson privately. And don’t leave. Please.”
Baldwin sighed noisily. “I need caffeine. Soda machine in the hall? I’ll help myself.” Without waiting for an answer, he saw himself out of the office, shutting the door quietly behind him. He was quite sure Captain Price was going to fill Taylor in on all his dirty little secrets. Good. The details should seal the deal. She wouldn’t want him on the case, and he could go back to his dank chair in the darkened living room and get on with, well, whatever.
He didn’t know why he’d even bothered. Price’s eyes weren’t exactly accusing, more appraising, almost compassionate, but he felt them bore into him. That’s how they would all be. Humoring him, but watching closely to see he didn’t botch anything. Screw it, he thought. He’d rather have the judgment.
But his feet didn’t follow his brain. He didn’t leave. He got his soda, and for reasons he would never be able to understand, he went back into the squad room, sat at the nearest desk, and waited for Judgment Day.
Twenty-Three
Taylor sat in the newly vacant chair, fidgeting with her hair. “Price, what the hell was that?”
“That, my dear, was one of the most talented profilers the FBI has ever seen. The man’s a legend, or was. Double doctorates in Psychology and Criminology, a law degree, the best close rate in the business. There are rumors that he’s psychic, if you like to believe that crap. But our good doctor has fallen on some hard times.”
“That’s an understatement. He looks like he’s been out trolling Dickerson Road.”
Price raised his eyebrows and sighed. “Yeah, well, as far as I know, he has been.”
“Then what in the world is he doing here? He doesn’t look like he could read a full file without landing face first in it.”
“He had a bad experience a few months ago. Pulled himself out of the field, then out of the Bureau altogether. He’s been hermiting down here in Nashville for months. His boss was giving him some space, but thinks it’s time for him get his feet wet again.”
Taylor was already shaking her head. “Not on my case. I don’t need some middle-aged drunkard trailing around with us, getting in the way or stopping off for a drink while we do the work.”
Price steepled his hands in front of him, elbows on the desk. “I understand your reservations, I do. But this is a special favor for an old friend. Baldwin’s a good cop, and despite his current appearance, I can assure you he won’t be a hindrance.”
“You can assure me, huh? I’m not sure this is such a great idea, boss. Why doesn’t he just go on back to Quantico and bury himself there?”
“He won’t. They’ve been begging him for a while. He’s done nothing but shut them out. Garrett Woods—my friend, his boss—thinks it’s imperative he gets back on the horse, and he thinks doing it here as a consultant would be the best way to get him out of his funk.”