All the Pretty Girls - J. T. Ellison [60]
He sighed and ran his hands through his hair again. He’d have a Mohawk going by the end of the afternoon.
“Then Baldwin, I suggest you get five steps ahead of where we are now.”
“I’m doing the best I can. I’m going to go in with her, be there while they do the autopsy. I need to see—”
Garrett cut him off. “I know. Go on.”
Baldwin put the phone in his pocket and leaned against a sheriff’s cruiser. He steepled his fingers in front of his mouth and blew out a sigh. In the midst of all this, he missed Taylor. She had saved him from himself, from the world of death and dying. She’d saved his soul, which was more important to his continued living than a heartbeat would ever be. Just the thought of her made him smile. A moment alone with her would make everything better. It always did. He imagined her puttering around the kitchen in Nashville, tossing out comments over her shoulder while she put together dinner. He saw her smile, her teasing gray eyes, one slightly darker than the other, those full lips, the honey-blond hair cascading down her back. He thought of the night he’d made love to her for the first time, and was embarrassed to feel himself harden. He shifted around so he was facing the cruiser and put his head in his hands. God, just the idea of her excited him, filled him with a longing that was almost painful. It was the inconsequential things that got to him. Her throaty laugh, that husky voice. The body that wouldn’t quit. The silky skin on the back of her neck, leading into the scar that nearly took her life slashing across her throat. He ached for her, for her touch, a kiss, her voice, anything that would draw him away from this desolate field and into her warm embrace. It never ceased to amaze him how closely linked sex and death were. He supposed that was why men killed for love.
He looked around, taking in the leaves turning up in anticipation of the rain, the pollen that attached itself to every inanimate object in sight. The sun was getting dusky, the storm was moving in, clouds darkening the sky, and he was surrounded by flashing lights and the smell of death. Voices shouted around him, impatient, testy. Yet crickets chirped, unfazed by the threat of rain, making the scene feel like a big camping trip. He asked himself for the hundredth time what he was doing. Out chasing another killer when he could be home, warm in Taylor’s embrace, protected from the reality of his life. He should quit for good, he knew it. Taylor had healed his heart, but killers still roamed his mind. He just wanted to go home, but he hauled himself off the cruiser. He needed to get to the morgue and witness the autopsy. No more time for love in his heart. He hardened it, turned off his inner psyche and approached Grimes.
“Hey, you ready to go to the M.E.’s office? They said they’d do the autopsy pronto for us.”
“Baldwin, you go on ahead. I’m going to stay out here with the crime scene people, see if we can find anything, something useful before the rain washes away any evidence.”
Baldwin nodded and looked for the red-haired sergeant. Within an hour, he found himself gloved and smocked.
He opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by the medical examiner, a kind young doctor named Rusty Sampson.
“Aha.”
“Aha what, Doc?”
“She fought him, hard. See the bruises on her forearms? Defensive wounds, no doubt. She’s got a knot on her head, too—may find a subdural hematoma when we get to the brain. She got knocked pretty good, that might have put her out. And there’s a hyoid fracture. Could see the bruising around her neck pretty well out in that field, but here it is.”
“He strangle her before or after he cut her up?”
“There was some clotting