posturing. To his surprise, the sheriff flashed him a big smile. He was younger than he initially looked, and Baldwin breathed a sigh of relief. Sometimes the locals just weren’t thrilled to have the FBI involved in their cases, and sometimes they were.
“Sheriff Terrence Pascoe,” the man rumbled. “You must be John Baldwin. I read your white paper on anger-excitation killers in the Law Enforcement Bulletin last year. Great stuff. It’s good to have you. Sorry about the heat.”
“Thank you, Sheriff. Not much better in Nashville this time of year. Agent Grimes told me you wanted to tow the car. I appreciate you holding off for me.”
“Not a problem. The locks are popped.” He handed a manila folder to Baldwin. “Here’re the crime scene photos. Nothing much different, ’cept we pulled the keys out from under the car to process. We’ve been holding her cell phone in case any calls come into it.”
He held up a bag with the phone. “Already dusted it, so I’ve just kept it on my person until I turn it in to Evidence. We didn’t get anything off it but her prints. Same for the car. No prints other than her and the fiancé, which isn’t surprising. We’ve talked to him and let him go back home. He’s praying she makes a call to him. Straight shooter, I highly doubt he was involved in this.”
Noble may have been a small, poor town, but they had a first-class sheriff. Baldwin gave him a nod of gratitude, took the file and glanced at the high-resolution crime scene photos inside. The sheriff was right; other than the keys being under the car, the tableau was identical. Baldwin pulled gloves out of his pocket and eased himself into the small BMW. He was thankful they’d left the door open, it must have been well past 120 degrees in the car. He felt around the seats, noting the lack of typical accumulation usually present when a woman spends a lot of time in her car. It was very clean, perfectly organized and told a clear story about Marni Fischer. She kept herself in shape. There was a gym bag on the back seat. Baldwin rifled through it—Lycra shorts, wicking T-shirt, socks and high-end running shoes. A brush, hair dryer, small soap-and-shampoo containers completed the bag. There were medical textbooks stacked in the seat next to the gym bag. The console held lipstick, hair bands and classic Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses. Typical stuff.
Baldwin worked his way through the car, not finding anything out of place. When he opened the glove box, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. He picked it up carefully by the edges and gave the sheriff a questioning look. “You guys see this?”
“Hasn’t been printed, if that’s what you’re asking. I read it, it’s just a poem. Figured her boyfriend gave it to her.”
Baldwin stepped out of the car and looked carefully at the note. It was a poem. A love poem. Typed on a piece of white paper with nothing else on it. He wasn’t surprised the sheriff hadn’t thought twice about it; in normal circumstances, no one would. But Baldwin was a profiler, and his sirens went off as he read the lines.
Being so caught up, So mastered by the brute blood of the air, Did she put on his knowledge with his power Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?
“Yeats,” he murmured. Grimes and the sheriff looked at him closely.
“You really think a poem could make any difference in this case?” Grimes was shifting from foot to foot, anxious, realizing they may have their first break and it wasn’t because of him.
“Grimes, did you find any poems at any of the other scenes?”
“Not where we found the bodies. I don’t know if anyone checked the victim’s effects. Shit!”
He pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number. “Thomas, it’s Grimes.” Baldwin recognized whom Grimes had called. Thomas Petty was Grimes’s partner and had handled the start of the investigation. He had been on-site for two of the murders, present at the death scenes.
Grimes
“Sheriff Terrence Pascoe,” the man rumbled. “You must be John Baldwin. I read your white paper on anger-excitation killers in the Law Enforcement Bulletin last year. Great stuff. It’s good to have you. Sorry about the heat.”
“Thank you, Sheriff. Not much better in Nashville this time of year. Agent Grimes told me you wanted to tow the car. I appreciate you holding off for me.”
“Not a problem. The locks are popped.” He handed a manila folder to Baldwin. “Here’re the crime scene photos. Nothing much different, ’cept we pulled the keys out from under the car to process. We’ve been holding her cell phone in case any calls come into it.”
He held up a bag with the phone. “Already dusted it, so I’ve just kept it on my person until I turn it in to Evidence. We didn’t get anything off it but her prints. Same for the car. No prints other than her and the fiancé, which isn’t surprising. We’ve talked to him and let him go back home. He’s praying she makes a call to him. Straight shooter, I highly doubt he was involved in this.”
Noble may have been a small, poor town, but they had a first-class sheriff. Baldwin gave him a nod of gratitude, took the file and glanced at the high-resolution crime scene photos inside. The sheriff was right; other than the keys being under the car, the tableau was identical. Baldwin pulled gloves out of his pocket and eased himself into the small BMW. He was thankful they’d left the door open, it must have been well past 120 degrees in the car. He felt around the seats, noting the lack of typical accumulation usually present when a woman spends a lot of time in her car. It was very clean, perfectly organized and told a clear story about Marni Fischer. She kept herself in shape. There was a gym bag on the back seat. Baldwin rifled through it—Lycra shorts, wicking T-shirt, socks and high-end running shoes. A brush, hair dryer, small soap-and-shampoo containers completed the bag. There were medical textbooks stacked in the seat next to the gym bag. The console held lipstick, hair bands and classic Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses. Typical stuff.
Baldwin worked his way through the car, not finding anything out of place. When he opened the glove box, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. He picked it up carefully by the edges and gave the sheriff a questioning look. “You guys see this?”
“Hasn’t been printed, if that’s what you’re asking. I read it, it’s just a poem. Figured her boyfriend gave it to her.”
Baldwin stepped out of the car and looked carefully at the note. It was a poem. A love poem. Typed on a piece of white paper with nothing else on it. He wasn’t surprised the sheriff hadn’t thought twice about it; in normal circumstances, no one would. But Baldwin was a profiler, and his sirens went off as he read the lines.
Being so caught up, So mastered by the brute blood of the air, Did she put on his knowledge with his power Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?
“Yeats,” he murmured. Grimes and the sheriff looked at him closely.
“You really think a poem could make any difference in this case?” Grimes was shifting from foot to foot, anxious, realizing they may have their first break and it wasn’t because of him.
“Grimes, did you find any poems at any of the other scenes?”
“Not where we found the bodies. I don’t know if anyone checked the victim’s effects. Shit!”
He pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number. “Thomas, it’s Grimes.” Baldwin recognized whom Grimes had called. Thomas Petty was Grimes’s partner and had handled the start of the investigation. He had been on-site for two of the murders, present at the death scenes.
Grimes
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