The Cold Room. J.T. Ellison

was in a hurry to get moving on the scene. Paula Simari was twenty feet away. She caught Taylor’s eye, angled her head with a jerk. Meet me inside, the look said. Taylor got out of the car, intrigued.

      “Detective!”

      A young man signaled her to join him on the lawn of the house. It was deep emerald in the false light, freshly mown; the tang of green onion and cut grass felt so familiar, so right. Normal and unthreatening, just another suburban evening.

      But it wasn’t. She shut the door to her car, trying to assimilate the scene. The man continued waving, gesticulating wildly as if she hadn’t seen him already.

      Her new partner. Renn McKenzie. Nice enough guy, but she wasn’t willing to get to know him. It was too damn soon. She was still in mourning, recovering from the demise of her team, her career. Her future.

      He galloped up to her, breathless. She nodded at him, willing some zen calm into him. “McKenzie.”

      “Just call me Renn, Taylor.”

      “Jackson is fine, McKenzie.”

      “I wish you’d just call me Renn.”

      Just Renn. “I’m not on today. I assume you had me called for a reason. Could you fill me in?”

      She saw the blush rise on his cheeks. Just Renn had been transferred in from the South sector. He and Marcus Wade, one of her former teammates, had essentially traded places. Captain Delores Norris, head of the Office of Professional Accountability, was the architect of the restructuring.

      She would kill to have Marcus by her side right now. Or her former sergeant, Pete Fitzgerald, or Lincoln Ross. But her entire team had been disassembled, and she felt the loss sorely. She was sure Just Renn was a fine detective, but he had his own rhythms, his own demeanor, an eagerness that belied the streaks of gray at his blond temples that was hard to get used to. He was gangly, all sharp edges, no real refinement to his walk or manners. Brown eyes, thin lips, three days of fuzzy golden razor stubble. A decent-looking man, if you liked the enthusiastic type. But he’d only been in plainclothes for about a month, which frightened her. Inexperience could blow an investigation; she was used to working with seasoned pros. Pros she had trained to work her way.

      To be truthful, a small part of her liked keeping him off balance. It gave her the sense that maybe this wasn’t forever.

      “Sure, yeah. Jackson. Such a harsh name. I assume you’re related?” He looked at her, his face turning blue, then white, then blue.

      “Related to …?”

      “Andrew Jackson, of course.”

      This boy obviously didn’t know his Southern history. There were no direct descendants of Old Hickory—though he’d raised eleven children, none were his own. There was a family connection though, through Jackson’s wife Rachel’s son…. She bit her lip, resisted the urge to scream. None of this had any bearing on her job.

      “McKenzie?”

      “Yeah?”

      “Who’s dead?”

      “Yeah. Sorry. We don’t know.” He didn’t make a move toward the house, just stood there.

      “Could we possibly go see the body?”

      “Oh, yeah, sure. Let’s go. She’s in the living room, or the great room, or whatever you call that big open space in the middle of the house. You can’t see her from the front door, the best view is from the kitchen. Not a lot of walls in the downstairs, it’s all open except for a few columns. She’s, well, I’ll let you see for yourself.”

       Now we’re talking.

      They reached the front steps. Taylor took them two at a time. Just Renn was right on her tail. It wasn’t her imagination; the command center had been set up on the porch of the house.

      “McKenzie? Why don’t you suggest they move the command back a bit? We usually don’t have all this activity so close to the scene. There’s a chance of contamination. Crime Scene 101, buddy.”

      He looked down at the deck of the porch, chastised. She felt bad for snapping at him, mentally promised herself to be more careful. He was just a kid, learning the ropes. She’d been there once.

      “It’s okay. We all make mistakes,” she said. It wasn’t okay, but the damage was already done. She’d sort it out later.

      Even with all the people worrying the scene, the interior of the house felt spacious. Teak floors, exposed beams, whitewashed walls, architectural and designer accoutrements. Elegant abstract paintings pranced along their neutral background to an exposed brick-and-stone fireplace.

      The mood of the scene bothered her. The lack of concern about the exterior scene, the milling about, the simple fact that she’d been called in all bespoke the worst. Something was happening, something more than a typical murder. She felt a lump form in her throat.

      Under the drone of voices, she heard music. Faint strains of a classical composition … what was that? She felt a buzz of recognition, reached into her mind for the name—Dvořák. That was it. Symphony #9. In E minor. Years of training, even more as a minor aficionado, and it had still taken her a moment. Funny how the mind worked. Her fingers unconsciously curled in on themselves, moving lightly in time with the notes. She’d played clarinet growing up, thrilled with her budding expertise when she was a child, mortified by the time she was a teenager looking for some fun up on Love Circle.

      Looking back, she was sorry she’d given it up. Playing in a symphony had been one of her childhood desires, supplanted by the allure of law enforcement after a brief brush with the law when she was a teenager. Now she could see how that would have been quite satisfying. It was a game she rarely played—if you weren’t a cop, what would you be? She’d never been in a position to have to think about not being a cop. Now that she felt the jeopardy slipping in like cat’s feet on a fog, she’d started wondering again.

      Taylor concentrated on the music. The last strains of the allegro con fuoco were fading away, then the opening movement started. A loop of the New World Symphony, as the piece was more commonly referred to. Bold and aggressive, lyrical and stunning. She’d always liked it.

      She looked for the stereo, didn’t see one. The music was all around her; it must be on a house-wide speaker system. It was hard to drag her attention away. She caught the eye of one of the techs she knew, Tim Davis. At least he was on the scene—she could count on him to preserve as much evidence as possible.

      “Tim, can you cut the music?”

      He nodded. “Yeah. It’s on a built-in CD player. The controls are in the kitchen. I was waiting for you to hear it. The loop is driving us all mad. You know who it is?”

      “Dvořák. Symphony #9. Keep that quiet, will you? I want to be sure that detail isn’t leaked to the press. They’ll seize on it and start giving this guy a name.”

      She hadn’t even seen the body, and she was already assuming the worst. Not surprising; the whole tenor of the crime scene screamed “unusual.”

      “Where are they, anyway?”

      Tim glanced out the window. “Channel Five just pulled up. The others can’t be far behind.”

      She nodded to him and looked for Paula. She was standing in the open living room, looking toward the back door. The great room of the house was separated from the eat-in kitchen by three columns, which mimicked the pyramid-shaped support columns out front. There was a small knot of people surrounding the center column, a surreal grouping of cops and techs waiting on her. Three things hit her: she couldn’t see a body, the faces glancing her way were visibly disturbed, and there was a fetid whiff of decomposition in the air.

      She stepped lightly toward the group, making sure she didn’t tread in anything important. As she passed the column, Paula pointed toward it with her eyebrow raised. Taylor turned and sucked in her breath.

      The