Field Of Graves. J.T. Ellison

7

      Taylor took the long way when she headed out to Sam’s office. Flying by the exit that would lead her to the morgue, she turned north and felt herself relax as she drove up the interstate, letting the wind from the open window blow her hair around. Thirty minutes of head-clearing drive time wouldn’t change anything. The girl would still be dead. And Sam would probably applaud her taking a few minutes to herself.

      She settled into the fast lane and started passing cars, pushing eighty. Cruising mindlessly, she jumped when her cell phone chirped. She let out a deep sigh, moved over three lanes, and pulled onto the shoulder.

      “Yeah, Jackson.”

      “Hey, LT, it’s Marcus. We got a hit on the prints.”

      “That was quick. Who’s our girl?”

      “Shelby Kincaid. She’s a student at Vanderbilt. She doesn’t have a record, but we got lucky. She was printed for a job she applied for at a day care center on West End.”

      “Damn it,” Taylor said with heart. “A student at Vandy, and no one reported her missing?”

      “Nope. At least there’s nothing official. Want me to call the school?”

      She thought for a minute. “Tell you what. Let me get over to Sam’s and see what she’s found from the autopsy. We’re going to want to tread lightly. Vandy won’t cooperate with us without some paper. Go ahead and get a subpoena started for Kincaid’s records. Besides, I don’t want to start a panic if we can help it. This is going to be the lead story on the news. It was sensational enough that she was found at the Parthenon. When the media finds out she was a Vandy coed, they’re going to go nuts.” She ran a hand through her hair, unconsciously combing out the windblown tangles. Catching a knot, she looked in the mirror in aggravation and struggled to put it into a ponytail while holding the cell phone. She lost the whole mess, hair and phone alike, and cursed. She grabbed the phone from between her legs and brushed her hair out of her eyes impatiently.

      “I assume there was contact information with her print card?”

      “Yep.” She could hear him shuffling papers in the background before the roar of an 18-wheeler passing much too closely drowned him out.

      “...Kentucky. Want me to—”

      “Wait, wait. Say that again. Couldn’t hear you over the traffic.”

      “Where are you?”

      “I’m pulled over to the side of Interstate 24. Where’s she from again?”

      “Bowling Green, Kentucky. The contacts are Edward and Sally Kincaid. I assume they’re her parents. We need to get them notified.”

      Taylor rubbed the back of her neck. “Go ahead and call Reverend Spenser. I always like to have him around when I have to do a notification. He can get in touch with the Bowling Green police, see if their chaplain’s available to do the notification. Ask him to arrange to have them driven down here, too.”

      “Will do. They’re going to want to talk to you, I’m sure.”

      “Yes, but I don’t want to talk with them until Sam has more definitive results. I’d like to be able to give them her cause of death, if we have one. Damn, this really sucks. Get the family notified, then we’ll go ahead with Vandy. Be delicate, Marcus. This is going to be beyond difficult for them.”

      “Yeah, I imagine it will ruin their lives. I’ll talk to the chaplain and get it all arranged.”

      “Thanks, man. I’ll be back after I see Sam.”

      “Um, Taylor, before you go?”

      “What?”

      “Your dad called.”

      Her father. Her chest tightened. Oh man, talk about something she didn’t need.

      “Did he say what he wanted?”

      “No, just that he needs to speak with you. He said it was important.”

      “Yeah, it always is,” she muttered.

      “What?”

      “Nothing. Go on and get in touch with Shelby Kincaid’s parents. I’ll talk to you later.”

      She hung up, pushing thoughts of her father away and getting her mind back on the case. There was nothing worse than having to tell parents they’d outlived their child. She was more than a little relieved Marcus was going to handle the notification.

      She pulled back out on the interstate and took the first exit leading her back into the city. She tried not to think and, instead, enjoy the few moments of freedom she had left. A pointless endeavor. She gave up and gunned the car.

      The late-afternoon traffic was terrible, and it took her twenty minutes to plow her way through to Gass Boulevard. The State of Tennessee Center for Forensic Medicine was run by a private group contracted with the city. Their brand-new, twenty-thousand-square-foot building looked more like the local offices of a corporate giant than a morgue.

      She pulled into the parking lot, more than a little jealous of Sam and her new realm. It sure beat Homicide’s crappy little office. Then again, they didn’t have dead bodies next to the break room.

      She was buzzed through the door into the spacious lobby. She was facing the family viewing room, where family members of the deceased could identify their loved one’s mortal remains on closed-circuit TV.

      She was thankful the new system had been put into place. It was easier for the family not to go through up-close-and-personal body identification, or deal with photographs of their dearly departed. They had a quiet, nicely furnished room, professional support, and some distance from their deceased family member. It was a good system.

      One of the grief counselors would eventually be back there with Shelby’s parents, ready to bolster and guide the family through their worst nightmares. Taylor felt chill bumps on her arms. She was glad she didn’t have to come back and deal with them tonight. Loss wasn’t something she was ever comfortable with.

      Despite the constant flow of people who entered and exited the building throughout the day and night, there was never a magazine out of place, nor a small piece of trash sitting on a side table. Taylor secretly thought members of the cleaning crew lurked in the hallways, ready to sneak into the foyer unseen to straighten and sanitize at a moment’s notice.

      She waved to the receptionist, Kris, and entered the door leading to the autopsy suite. The odor hit her: in contrast to the sweet, clean smell of the open foyer, this area was antiseptic and metallic, overlaid with chemicals, like a hospital corridor. And it was colder, sterile and overtly hygienic. The smells weren’t unpleasant. They were simply what she always associated with death.

      The odd reek settled in her sinuses. Taylor tried to concentrate on other things as she walked in. She knew that within a few minutes she’d get used to it. She always did.

      Stopping briefly in the biovestibule, she changed into a pair of disposable scrubs and went inside.

      The main autopsy suite held four fully functioning workstations, two on the wall facing Taylor, and two on the opposite wall. Sam was at the far table, the natural sunlight from the huge skylight above streaking her hair with rosy highlights.

      “Sam.”

      Sam turned toward Taylor with a look that said, Go away, I’m trying to work.

      “Sorry, Sammy, I need to talk. We’ve got an ID. Her name’s Shelby Kincaid. Went to Vanderbilt. We’re notifying her parents right now, so I wanna see what you have.”

      Sam actually looked at her this time, blinked, finally realized who was there, and said, “Oh, hey. Gear up. Vanderbilt, huh?” There was almost no inflection in her voice. She was lost in her work.

      Taylor