“Yep. Fire Chief Andrew Rove, meet Dr. John Baldwin, FBI. He’s working the case with us.”
They shook, and the chief said, “FBI, huh? Well, you’ll want to know this is, without a doubt, arson. The combustible gas detector found gasoline was used as an accelerant near the confessional. Jackson, your crime scene techs are trying to lift some prints from the priest’s office; it looks like there were people in there before the fire started. Tea for three, laid out on the coffee table. How very civilized.”
“Tea for three. But only two bodies. The victims knew their killer,” Baldwin said.
“Could be. We didn’t find anything leftover, no gas cans, no rope, nothin’. Place is clean as a whistle except for the office. We’re pulling out now, there’s nothing more for us to do.”
“Thanks, Chief. I look forward to the report.”
With a nod and a small salute, he went to his truck.
Tim Davis, Sam’s death investigator on the scene, walked out of the church with several bags in his hands. Taylor jogged over to him. “Anything worthwhile?”
“I managed to picked up prints off two of the teacups. Unfortunately, the third was clean, still full of tea. Untouched. There was some liquid left in the two that I printed, I’ll run it through the mass spectrometer and see what turns up. And I’ll get these prints over to Lincoln. If I were a betting man, I’d wager they belong to our vics, so there may be nothing to compare them to if we can’t lift something off their hands. Third cup was probably the person who set the fire. Didn’t want to leave any traces behind.”
Taylor chewed on that for a minute. Baldwin was silent. She could see the wheels turning in his head.
“Good work. Get out of here, Tim. Thanks for everything.”
He waved his bags at her and walked away. Taylor turned to Baldwin, confusion settling in her eyes. She needed some time to think about what had happened. “Wanna get some breakfast?”
He looked deep into her eyes, recognizing the frustration she was feeling. “Yeah, let’s do that. I’m starved. My mama always told me, when in doubt, eat.”
They made their way to the car and headed out. They took the back roads past the huge homes in Belle Meade into Green Hills, skirted the morning traffic down Hillsboro Road and pulled into the parking lot of the Pancake Pantry, a well-established staple for breakfast in Nashville. The restaurant was so popular that an hour wait was not uncommon, but on this brisk morning, the line was blessedly absent. They had to wait ten minutes for the doors to open, both standing with hands in their pockets against the cold. Baldwin moved closer to shelter the worst of the breeze. Taylor leaned against him gratefully, happy for the contact as much as the warmth of his body.
When the hostess finally came to unlock the doors, Baldwin held the door for Taylor. Inside, she caught a glimpse of a flyer in the window. The poster featured a large picture of a smiling Jill Gates. The headline read Have You Seen Jilly? Under her picture were her vital statistics, what she was last seen wearing, and the phone number to the Homicide office. Taylor felt all the breath being sucked out of her body.
Taylor looked up and down the street and realized there were posters tacked in all the windows and stapled over the latest band announcements on the telephone poles. She felt sick to her stomach. She’d just seen Jill Gates, and she didn’t look anything like the smiling woman in the picture.
She didn’t know how she managed to make it to the table; her legs were wobbly, her vision blackening. She felt the chair slide in under her, heard Baldwin order her a Diet Coke, but nothing was registering. She tried to breathe, but the panic attack was on her. She bent at the waist, trying not to faint.
She had no idea how long it took her to get it back together. She heard Baldwin muttering softly in her ear and realized he was sitting in the chair next to her, holding on for dear life. She was mortified to have fallen apart in front of him, not to mention in such a public venue. She drew in a few gulps of air. Her head started to clear, and she sat up. Baldwin let her go and leaned back into his chair, his eyes full of concern.
“You okay?”
She still had her eyes closed but nodded. Her breathing was returning to normal, and she opened her eyes, shocked to see how scared Baldwin looked. She gave him a weak smile and tried to make a joke.
“You’ve never seen a southern belle have a fainting spell?”
“That was no fainting spell, Taylor. You had a nice, full-blown panic attack. This happen a lot?”
“Can we not talk about this here? I’m fine.” She’d recovered enough to take a drink of the soda in front of her. Great, the waitress had seen the whole thing, too. But when she looked behind her the woman was standing at the kitchen door cracking jokes with the dishwasher. Thank God.