All the Pretty Girls - J. T. Ellison [74]
Baldwin looked inside and was assaulted with a strong coppery smell. He held up his hand to signal that he didn’t want anyone else coming in the room, then flashed his Maglite through the door. The sight was grim.
He could see almost immediately that there was no one in the room. It was a small area, just large enough for a bed and a desk, the latter taken up with a battered old television. A door led off to the right and Baldwin could see the reflection of a toilet and tub in the mirror. He could see blood on the unmade bed, enough blood that his mind told him the story. If this was Christina Dale’s last-known resting place, she was most likely no longer with this world.
He looked back out into the parking lot at the expectant faces and shook his head to signal that she wasn’t in the room. He signaled to Grimes. “I need gloves and boots, and a crime scene tech to start collecting evidence. Do you have a camera in the car? We need to get some pictures of this.” Grimes went to the car and came back with a digital camera.
“You can use this for now. The tech should have his own, but I always carry this in a pinch.” He also handed Baldwin gloves and booties to cover his shoes, then put his own on. They were ready to see what had happened in the indifferent little room.
Baldwin took one step inside and felt the energy, a palpable mass that nearly took his breath away. Maybe because this was the first mobile killing site they had found, there was a different power to this crime scene—a deeper sense of evil. He hoped they would be able to learn more about their killer, and his anticipation ran high. Many of the other members of Behavioral Science didn’t feel the necessity of physically being at a crime scene. They were meant to draw conclusions about personality types, not process an event off the ground. Baldwin had always felt differently. He found that being at the scene gave him an honest taste of the killer. Being in the same room helped him understand on a far deeper level what actually happened. Seeing the blood firsthand, tasting that coppery tang in the back of his throat, his eyes assailed by red, his olfactory senses working overdrive, gave him an overwhelming ability to know what the killer was thinking at the time he committed his crime.
He shone the flashlight throughout the room, and then focused on the light switch at the door. He didn’t want to run the risk of destroying a possible print, so he decided to leave the light off and make do with his Maglite. He swept the beam back to the bed. The sheets were soaked with blood. He flashed the light around the walls—there was blood spray and droplets everywhere. The spray, the copious blood—he’d changed his pattern, without a doubt. Christina had been alive while she was separated from her hands. Intuition told him that she was dead.
The light took in the rest of the room. Something on top of the TV caught Baldwin’s eye. Carefully picking his way to the television, he read the note aloud without picking it up.
“She half enclosed me with her arms
She pressed me with a weak embrace;
And bending back her head, looked up,
And gazed upon my face.
’Twas partly love, and partly fear,
And partly ’twas a bashful art,
That I might rather feel, than see,
The swelling of her heart.”
“My, he does love the classics,” Baldwin remarked, sliding the note into a plastic sleeve. “That one’s Coleridge. It’s called ‘Love.’” He glanced at Grimes and nodded, looking around the little room for any other signs. He saw none, so he backed carefully into the dusty courtyard. The rest would be up to the crime scene techs. He hoped they were good.
“I wonder if he had feelings for her,” Grimes asked.
“No, Grimes. He doesn’t have feelings that can be equated to love. She’s a pawn in his game. That’s all. The poems mean something to him. I don’t know if they’re supposed to mean anything to us. Let’s get this room processed, we need to see if we have anything that can link Christina Dale to the rest