All the Pretty Girls - J. T. Ellison [37]
How can anybody, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?
This was not good at all. Baldwin closed his eyes to shut out the sight of Grimes’s relentless pacing. He could still hear the man’s shoes passing through the industrial-grade carpet—swoosh, swoosh, swoosh, swoosh.
As Grimes made his latest turn, his phone rang. He looked at Baldwin. “Finally.” He snapped the phone open. “Grimes.” He listened, then motioned for a pen and pad to write on. He scribbled furiously, nodding and uh-huhing for a few minutes, then hung up and looked at Baldwin.
“I really fucked up, didn’t I?”
Grimes’s admission of the mistake was surprising. An undercurrent of animosity had plagued their relationship from the beginning, yet here he was, ready to confess all his sins, to be absolved by the one man he didn’t want in the investigation. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Baldwin couldn’t justify the blunder, but he could understand it.
“Grimes, you’ve been dealing with three separate law enforcement agencies in three states. Countless people, high-stress situations. Anyone could have missed it.”
“But you didn’t,” he said miserably. “See, I haven’t really been on my ‘A’ game with this. I’ve been having some trouble at home, been thinking about retiring. Turn in the badge, get a real life.” The melancholy in his tone was alarming. “I should take myself off the case. I could have blown the whole thing. I might have been able to save one of those girls.”
Baldwin clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Hey, I didn’t find the note in Nashville attached to Shauna Davidson’s murder.” He waited until Grimes met his eyes. “Listen, I need you to keep your head in the game. Yeah, it was a miss. A big miss. But we need to move forward now, okay? I want you on this case. Read me what they found.”
Grimes nodded, swallowing hard.
Jesus, Baldwin thought. Just what I need.
Grimes shook his head, cleared his throat, tried to gain an element of dignity and control. “All right. Let’s see how you do with these.”
“More poetry?” Baldwin felt his heart beating just a little harder. His instinct was right.
“Yep. The notes have been there all along. Each girl had one in their personal effects. According to Petty, Lernier’s and Palmer’s were in their gym bags, Jessica Porter’s was in her date book. We just didn’t see it. God, how could we have missed this? They’ve been collected, they’ve already been printed, but nothing showed. Jesus, I’ve blown the whole case.” Grimes was back off on his “woe is me” tangent, and Baldwin was getting impatient.
“Grimes. The poems?”
“Yeah, yeah, let me read them off to you. Ready?”
“Okay, shoot.”
“This was in Susan Palmer’s car.” He read the verses aloud.
“A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of an angelic light.”
Baldwin scribbled and nodded, murmuring to himself. “Wordsworth. Okay, who’s next?”
“Jeanette Lernier. Here we go.
“A creature not too bright or good
For human nature’s daily food
For transient sorrows, simple wiles
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.”
Baldwin smiled. “Another stanza from the same poem. What was found in Jessica’s dayrunner?”
Grimes flipped the page of his notebook. “Jessica, Jessica…Here.
“A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By his dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.”
“Same poem?” Grimes asked.
“No, that’s one’s Yeats. Excellent poet, Yeats.” He reached for Grimes’s notebook. “Let me see that.” Grimes handed it over and Baldwin read the lines again.
“Jessica’s, Shauna’s and Marni’s poems are from ‘Leda and the Swan,’ William Butler Yeats. Jeanette’s and Susan’s are from a William Wordsworth poem, ‘She Was a Phantom of Delight.’ Our killer knows some of the classics.”
Grimes scratched his head. “Apparently you do, too. But what does it mean?”
“See, that’s the problem. It means something different to different people.