Nashville
10:00 p.m.

Taylor stood in front of the whirring cameras, Dan Franklin next to her. She was speaking into forced light, and couldn’t see much, just the outlines of bodies, a journalistic nightmare of the living dead. She’d been hoping that she’d be able to look into the crowd, recognize the killer and end this charade, but that wasn’t going to happen.

She held up a hand to silence them and began.

“I’m sorry to see you under these circumstances. Tonight we’ve been struck by a tragedy, the magnitude of which we’re only just beginning to understand. We’ve lost seven of our children. An eighth is fighting for her life at Vanderbilt Children’s Hospital. We have the very best men and women at Metro, and they are working around the clock to assure two things—one, that we catch the suspect who committed these crimes, and two, that you and your children are safe.

“I won’t be releasing the names of the victims at this moment because not all next of kin have been notified. We’re doing all we can to make that happen, and as soon as we do Dan Franklin will have the list for you. I’d anticipate that happening overnight. I can confirm that three males and five females were targeted in this attack.

“We are confident we will be able to bring this suspect to justice very soon. We ask that anyone who has information about these crimes come forward. A tip line is available at 888-555-9880 and will be manned twenty-four hours a day. You can remain anonymous if you wish. We do ask that you call the tip line instead of Crime Stoppers so we can keep all information relevant to these cases in one place.”

She steeled herself, then said, “I’ll take questions now.”

There was a cacophony of voices. She picked one she recognized, Cindy Carter from FOX, and focused on it. Cindy asked, “Are there any leads?”

The crowd quieted down.

“The question was, do we have any leads. Rest assured that we are doing everything possible to capture the suspect, and are working these crimes as a single event. We believe the same person is responsible for all of the murders this afternoon. But, as I’m sure you’re aware, I’m not in a position to discuss anything that relates to the ongoing investigation.”

There were groans, then the typical repositioning of questions, all of which Taylor was forced to deflect. That was how the game was played—feed a little bit of information to the reporters, let them ask their questions with the knowledge that they wouldn’t be getting an answer on the air. Off camera, each would sidle up to Taylor, or Dan, or any of the other officers and get the inside scoop. Most of Nashville’s reporters had a great tradition of being told the truth, because the police trusted that they wouldn’t put that truth directly onto the air and ruin their cases.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work. I’m going to turn this over to Dan Franklin now. He’ll do his level best to answer as many of your questions as he can. Thank you for your time, and for being patient with us.” She paused for a moment, looked right into the cameras. “You have my word. We are doing everything in our power to solve these heinous crimes.”

She stepped away from the makeshift podium, and Dan caught her eye, nodded imperceptibly. He took her place, faced the group and was immediately barraged with questions. She avoided smirking and backed away until she was out of camera range. Lincoln came up beside her.

“I was watching the crowd. I can’t tell who’s a part of the neighborhood and who isn’t. Feels like half of Nashville is out here watching the show. We’ve got a long-ass night ahead of us.”

“You’re telling me. Okay, I’m heading to the party. You start on these tapes. Lincoln? Find me something.”

“Will do.”

“Okay. I’m outta here.”

Taylor opened her cell and called Marcus. He answered with a morose, “Hey.”

“Hey yourself. Any word on the vic?”

“She’s in a coma. They’ve loaded her full of Narcan. They think it was some kind of drug overdose. But they don’t know if she’s going to make it—you know how quickly Narcan works. She didn’t come to, just slipped into the coma.”

“A drug overdose makes sense. That’s what Sam thought, too. The presentation screams drugs—I instructed the ’gators and crime-scene techs to look for anything that might be the culprit. I need you to join us at this address—8900 Sneed Terrace. It’s the home of Theo Howell, best friend of victim number three, Xander Norwood. He’s supposed to be having a Halloween party. I sent McKenzie over there a while ago to get everyone corralled, and apparently some of the kids’ parents have shown up there, as well. I’m going to need your help taking all of the statements. I’m sure word has spread, and a few kids may have scattered by now, but McKenzie’s got at least thirty people waiting around.

“The victims are being described as the perfect kids, and I want to find out what the real story is. Sam’s gone to Gass Street, and Lincoln’s doing the video footage. So that leaves us. You up for it?” She wanted to get him away from Brittany Carson, away from the guilt, get him preoccupied with something else. Interviewing thirty teenagers should do the trick.

“Yeah, I’ll be there. Give me fifteen. Want me to wrangle up a couple of lattes? I’m across the street from Starbucks.”

Her stomach growled in a Pavlovian response. “That would be heavenly. I’ll see you there.”

“Will do, Taylor.”

“Thanks, Marcus. Hang in there, okay? I know you’ve had a bitch of an afternoon.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“Good man. See you in a few.”