The Cold Room

Twenty-Seven

Taylor sat in her old office, away from the B-shift detectives, watching a replay of the late local news with disgust. She’d like to strangle all of the reporters, and a few people in Metro’s ranks as well. They had a leak. She’d been playing with the stupid Brit and hadn’t been on top of this. Served her right. She’d lost her focus.

Channel Four had scooped everyone, had gotten someone from the Radnor Lake crime scene to talk. One of the rangers, more than likely. But they would have had to confirm the information with an officer or technicians who’d been on the scene, and that’s what had her so riled up. Her people knew better. At least, when they were her people they did.

She watched as Demetria Kalodimos read the copy against a cutaway shot of the entrance to Radnor Lake. She threw it to Cynthia Williams, who let all of Middle Tennessee, parts of Kentucky and the northern tip of Alabama know that a postcard of a famous painting had been found at the scene, and that the police felt the two murders were connected.

Oh, this was not good. She’d never be able to unring this bell. They already had that damn name for him, the Conductor. Catchy and descriptive. Great. Just great. The crackpots would start coming out of the woodwork and lead them down false trails. The networks would get involved, and the national media platform would lead to the international news forums.

It all served to make her more determined. It was getting late and Taylor was tired, but she pushed that away. She needed to catch this suspect, now.

She shut off the television, went to her desk in the bullpen and turned on the computer. She started with the databases available to her, looking to match the names on the sheet to the DMV database. She wished the name would leap out at her, declare itself. I am your killer. Wouldn’t that be nice? It would certainly save her a lot of time.

The names from the copyright pages weren’t entirely unique either, which was going to be a problem. She’d have to run down every Gavin Adler, Al Hardy and Paul Theroux in town. The remaining names belonged to women, so Taylor triaged them. These crimes didn’t have a feminine touch, that was for sure.

The first search turned up seven entries for the Theroux name alone. She worked quickly, running addresses and criminal records for each name, cross-referencing with the DMV database, looking through the tax rolls.

She ended up with forty-six possibles. Forty-six. Too many. She needed to keep looking.

She narrowed the search further to Prius drivers, and got it down to eight. Eight was more manageable. Two G. Adlers, three A. or Al Hardys, and three P. or Paul Therouxs. Still, she was amazed that so many names matched white Priuses. It might be a mistake in the system. She’d have to check each one out, just to be certain. The Prius and the Infiniti G35 had usurped the BMW as Nashville’s car of choice, so it did make a perverse kind of sense.

Tyrone Hill’s interview popped into her head. He was right; the odds of a killer being foolish enough to use his personal vehicle in the commission of such a major crime would be slim. But it was a chance, and she took it, making a note to herself to look at rental agencies if this didn’t pan out.

She started with the full names, just in case. Initials usually meant women.

She matched the addresses from the car registrations to the driver’s license database, and had her jumping-off point. She ran arrest and probation histories, and narrowed the list down to four. Two Al Hardys and two Paul Therouxs. None of the Adlers had a history with the department. One of them, as a matter of fact, was so clean that she added it back into the mix. Their boy was careful, and it stood to reason that he might, just might, be completely off the radar.

That was a good enough start for her. Five possibles. Astounding, really, that so many of the names and cars matched and were in the system. She’d found a good groove. She’d had plenty of experience with the databases being a dead end.

She glanced at her watch-it was nearly midnight. She debated for the briefest of instances, then grabbed her keys. So she’d wake a few people up. Too bad. She was the one with the gun and the badge. She called Bob Parks to run the gauntlet with her; no way was she going to go knocking on doors at midnight alone. He’d recently been moved to the B-shift and was her overnight go-to guy. He was happy to join her; it was a quiet night for Nashville’s criminals and he had nothing cooking.

They hit the four houses closest to town; no one answered. Two of them had garages that could easily house a matching car with a matching license plate, so Parks check-marked them as a yes. She’d send someone out again tomorrow, in the daylight.

Two of the houses looked completely deserted; the addresses were most likely defunct. The DMV databases weren’t necessarily exact and current. They put a question mark next to those two names. The fifth and final address was out in her neck of the woods. They agreed to swing by this last address, and barring unforeseen issues, she would head home after and Parks would go back to prowling the streets.

She followed Parks down Highway 100, the moon lighting their path, careful to watch for deer. They loved to leap across this stretch of road. Close to the Davidson-Cheatham county line, this area was completely rural, quiet and dark.

They both missed the road where they needed to turn off, had to make a U-turn in the middle of nowhere. She pulled ahead of Parks and found the cross street on the second try. The house’s address was stenciled in white on only one side of the black metal mailbox. This was it. She pulled into a long, gravel driveway slowly, then exited her vehicle. Parks rolled in behind her, the lights of his cruiser blinding her for a moment. She shut her eyes, let them re-adjust to the night.

Nothing was happening here either, it seemed. The house was pitch-black, no movement, no lights. No white Prius.

They approached the door anyway, knocked twice. Nothing. Frustrated, they went back to their respective cars, boots crunching in the gravel.

“You givin’ up?” Parks asked.

She stretched, rubbing her fists in the small of her back. “Yeah. It’s late. I’ll send some patrols out here in the morning, try again.”

“You heard from Fitz?”

“No. Nothing.”

“I’m sure he’s fine. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

His radio crackled; Dispatch requesting his assistance in a drunk and disorderly arrest outside The Corner Pub. He rubbed his moustache wearily, gave her a mock salute, then climbed into his patrol car and edged backward out of the driveway.

Taylor waved at him, then stood at the door to her car for a few moments, staring back at the deserted house. Could be whoever was inside was just a heavy sleeper, or no one was home at all. She felt a chill creep up her spine. What if this was their guy, and he was out hunting right now?

Oh, come on, Taylor. You’re making some serious leaps of logic now.

She climbed back in the car, yawning widely.

Time to call it a night.

There were noises. Cars in the gravel, doors slamming. Footsteps walking around the fountain. A shadow…my God, whoever it was just passed his basement window. He wasn’t worried about anyone seeing in; he’d applied a film that allowed him to look out but appeared dark from the outside. But it unnerved him, knowing someone was out there.

He heard the knocking and froze. It was very, very late. He wasn’t even sure it was knocking at first; maybe he’d fallen asleep, was dreaming all of this. He was in the basement, it might be Art, playing. But no, there it was again. All the lights were off. He didn’t move.

The doll whimpered in her sleep. He stood and walked to her, looked into the glass dollhouse. He’d been fighting with himself all night. He wanted to talk to Morte, but he was still so upset at how he’d been treated.

The car doors slammed again, engines revved. Must have been a wrong address.

He kept telling himself that, holding his arms while he shook.