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The Cold Room
J.T. Ellison
He can only truly lover her once her heart stops beatingHomicide detective Taylor Jackson thinks she’s seen it all – but she’s never seen anything as perverse as The Conductor. After capturing his victim, he contains her in a glass coffin and slowly starves her to death. Only when her last breath is gone does he give in to his attraction.Soon bodies begin to litter the town, arranged in sinister, well-known poses of great works of art. But when similar murders are reported in Europe, it appears the twisted fantasies of a madman cannot be contained. The coffin is empty… Are you next?Praise for J.T. Ellison"A terrific lead character, terrific suspense, terrific twists…a completely convincing debut." - Lee Child "A taut, striking debut. Mystery fiction has a new name to watch." - John ConnollyThe Taylor Jacksons series1. All The Pretty Girls2. 143. Judas Kiss4. The Cold Room5. The Immortals6. So Close the Hand of Death7. Where All the Dead Lie
Praise for J.T. Ellison’s TAYLOR JACKSON NOVELS
‘Scintillating … Suspenseful … Startling …’
Publishers Weekly
‘Mystery fiction has a new name to watch.’
John Connolly, New York Times bestselling author
‘J.T. Ellison’s debut novel rocks.’
Allison Brennann, New York Times bestselling author of Fear No Evil
‘Creepy thrills from start to finish’
James O. Born, author of Burn Zone
‘Fast-paced and creepily believable … gritty, grisly
and a great read’
M.J. Rose, internationally bestselling author of The Reincarnationist
‘A turbo-charged thrill ride of a debut’
Julia Spencer-Fleming, Edgar Award finalist and author of All Mortal Flesh
‘Fans of Sandford, Cornwell and Reichs
will relish every page.’
J.A. Konrath, author of Dirty Martini
About the Author
J.T. ELLISON is a thriller writer based in Nashville, Tennessee. She writes the Taylor Jackson series and her short stories have been widely published. She is a weekly columnist at Murderati.com and is a founding member of Killer Year. Visit her website, JTEllison.com for more information.
Other novels in the Taylor Jackson series
ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS
14
JUDAS KISS
THE COLD ROOM
THE IMMORTALS
SO CLOSE THE HAND OF DEATH
WHERE ALL THE DEAD LIE
The
Cold
Room
J.T.
Ellison
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
For Scott and Linda.
You took a chance, and I’ll be forever grateful.
And, as always, for Randy.
‘Understanding does not cure evil,
but it is a definite help, inasmuch as
one can cope with a comprehensible darkness.’
—Carl Jung
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS FOR
THE COLD ROOM
It takes a village to write a book, and The Cold Room was possibly the most difficult, research-intensive novel I’ve ever written. I owe a debt of thanks and gratitude to the following:
First, the Team:
Scott Miller—my wonderful agent, friend and partner, who never ceases to make me laugh.
Linda McFall—my editor, my friend, my sanity. Without you, these books would be mere shadows of the stories I want to tell.
Stephanie Sun and MacKenzie Fraser-Bub—assistants extraordinaire, whose energy and enthusiasm are always appreciated.
Adam Wilson—my right hand, and sometimes left hand too. I couldn’t do it without you.
Marianna Ricciuto—publicist to the stars and unflagging cheerleader.
Christine Lowman—for dealing with my finicky ways.
Kim Dettwiller—indie publicist and Nashville girl. You rock!
The rest of the MIR A team: Donna Hayes, Alex Osusek, Loriana Sacilotto, Heather Foy, Don Lucey, Michelle Renaud, Adrienne Macintosh, Megan Lorius, Nick Ursino, Tracey Langmuire, Kathy Lodge, Emily Ohanjanians, Margaret Marbury, Diane Moggy and the artists Tara Kelly and Gigi Lau.
Second, the Research, the heart and soul of this novel:
Sean Chercover, for giving me the access point.
The Federal Bureau of Investigation, for being so incredibly open and generous with time and expertise, especially: Angela Bell, Office of Public Affairs, Federal Bureau of Investigation
Special Agent Ann Todd, Office of Public Affairs, FBI Laboratory
Supervisory Special Agent Kenneth Gross, Chief Division Counsel, Critical Incident Response Group, FBI Supervisory Special Agent Mark Hilts, Unit Chief, BAU,
CIRG, FBI
Dr Vince Tranchida, Deputy Chief Medical Examiner, Manhattan
Dr Michael Tabor, Chief Forensic Odontologist for the State of Tennessee
Detective David Achord, Metro Nashville Police Department
Elizabeth Fox, Metro Nashville Police Department (Ret)
Shirley Holley, Manchester Public Library, Manchester, Tennessee
Assistant Chief Bob Bellamy, Manchester Police
Captain Frank Watkins, Coffee County Sheriff’s Office
James Tillman, for sharing his Uncle Welton Keif’s term for identical twins, “Born Partners.”
John Elliot, former Interpol Agent, who steered me in the right directions.
Sharon Owen, for the fishing expertise.
Christine Kling, for the boating expertise.
And the Personal:
Zoë Sharp, whose debt can never be fully repaid, for bringing Memphis to life, all the Britishisms (and an amusing and lengthy discourse on the correct term for erections).
The Bodacious Music City Wordsmiths—Del Tinsley, JB Thompson, Janet McKeown, Peggy Peden, Cecelia Tichi, RaiLynn Wood—for everything.
A special thanks to JB, who read, and read, and read this book for me, and my other mother, Del Tinsley, who always cheers me up and cheers me on.
Joan Huston, first reader and friend.
Tasha Alexander and Laura Benedict, for always knowing the right thing to say.
Murderati—you know why.
Rosemary Harris, for bidding on a character name at auction and presenting me with Patrol Officer Paula Simari, and her canine companion, Max.
Charlaine Harris, for bidding on a name in another auction and appears here and forevermore as Special Agent Charlaine Shultz, FBI Profiler.
Elyse Schein and Paula Bernstein, for sharing their incredible journey in the book Identical Strangers.
Evanescence, whose songs more than inspired; they got me through this very difficult subject matter.
All the libraries and bookstores who have shown such unflagging support, especially Murder by the Book in Houston, Davis Kidd in Nashville, Sherlock’s Books in Lebanon, Poisoned Pen Press in Phoenix, the Seattle Mystery Bookshop in … you guessed it, Seattle, and the great staffs at Borders and Barnes & Noble who hand-sell me all over the country.
My incredible parents and brothers and nephews and niece, for constantly believing in me. I love you all. More.
My rock, my love, my Randy, who just plain gets it. Without you, none of this would matter.
And to the people of Nashville. Thank you for allowing me the honour of writing about our great city, for opening the doors and for giving me such great background to work with. Your support honours me. I’ve taken some liberties in this novel for the purpose of poetic licence. All mistakes, exaggerations, opinions and interpretations, especially about the inner workings of Metro Nashville, are mine, and mine alone.
Wednesday
One
Gavin Adler jumped when a small chime sounded on his computer. He looked at the clock in surprise; it was already 6:00 p.m. During the winter months, darkness descended and reminded him to close up shop, but the daylight savings time change necessitated an alarm clock to let him know when it was time to leave. Otherwise, he’d get lost in his computer and never find his way home.
He rose from his chair, stretched, turned off the computer and reached for his messenger bag. What a day. What a long and glorious day.
He took his garbage with him; his lunch leavings. There was no reason to have leftover banana peels in his trash can overnight. He shut off the lights, locked the door, dropped the plastic Publix bag into the Dupster, and began the two-block walk to his parking spot. His white Prius was one of the few cars left in the lot.
Gavin listened to his iPod on the way out of downtown. Traffic was testy, as always, so he waited patiently, crawling through West End, then took the exit for I-40 and headed, slowly, toward Memphis. The congestion cleared right past White Bridge, and he sailed the rest of the way. The drive took twenty-two minutes, he clocked it. Not too bad.
He left the highway at McCrory Lane and went to his gym. The YMCA lot was full, as always. He checked in, changed clothes in the locker room, ran for forty-five minutes, worked on the elliptical for twenty, did one hundred inverted crunches and shadow boxed for ten minutes. Then he toweled himself off. He retrieved the messenger bag, left his sneakers in the locker, slipped his feet back into the fluorescent orange rubber Crocs he’d been wearing all day. He left his gym clothes on—they would go straight into the wash.
He went across the street to Publix, bought a single chicken cordon bleu and a package of instant mashed potatoes, a tube of hearty buttermilk biscuits, fresh bananas and cat food. He took his groceries, went to his car, and drove away into the night. He hadn’t seen a soul. His mind was engaged with what waited for him at home.
Dark. Lonely. Empty.
Gavin pulled into the rambler-style house at 8:30 p.m. His cat, a Burmese gray named Art, met him at the door, loudly protesting his empty bowl. He spooned wet food into the cat’s dish as a special treat before he did anything else. No reason for Art to be miserable. The cat ate with his tail high in the air, purring and growling softly.
He hit play on his stereo, and the strains of Dvořák spilled through his living room. He stood for a moment, letting the music wash over him, his right arm moving in concert with the bass. The music filled him, made him complete, and whole. Art came and stood beside him, winding his tail around Gavin’s leg. He smiled at the interruption, bent and scratched the cat behind the ears. Art arched his back in pleasure.
Evening’s ritual complete, Gavin turned on the oven, sprinkled olive oil in a glass dish and put the chicken in to bake. It would take forty-five minutes to cook.
He showered, checked his work e-mail on his iPhone, then ate. He took his time; the chicken was especially good this evening. He sipped an icy Corona Light with a lime stuck in the neck.
He washed up. 10:00 p.m. now. He gave himself permission. He’d been a very good boy.
