He leads the way through a foyer section of the house. I’ve changed back into my regular work shoes, and they make a loud clipping sound on the slate, the noise triggering a vision.
Sherry opens the front door, takes off a pair of high heels and tiptoes along the hallway.
The vision is probably an accurate insight of Sherry coming home late one night, or perhaps it was a regular Friday and Saturday night routine for her. Regardless, I doubt it’s of consequence to the case. It certainly doesn’t give me a sense of what might have happened to her last night.
The house is very light and mostly open—a staircase to the right, almost immediately at the entrance, and to the left the space is barely separated into rooms. From here I can see a living room, dining room and expansive kitchen. Mr. Taylor takes us through the first room, which seems like a formal living room or sitting room, through the dining room and into the kitchen. To the right of the kitchen is another living space, which opens up onto a large deck with double doors and a swimming pool. He takes a seat on one of the leather couches and we sit on the couch opposite him.
Sloan props on the edge of the couch. “Is your wife here, Mr. Taylor?”
“Um…yes. She’s upstairs…lying down.”
“It would be better if we could talk to you together.”
He rubs his hands up and down his thighs. “I don’t know if Mandy’s up to it, Detective.”
“Please…it is important. Would you mind asking her if she could come down? Even for a little while.” Sloan’s voice is both sympathetic and authoritative. She realizes it’s much more likely for a mother to know about a young woman’s comings and goings than a father.
Taylor nods in an absent manner and he heads up the stairs.
“Still in shock.” Sloan leans back on the couch.
“Yes.” I look around at a few family portraits. “Looks like there are two girls. Wonder where the other one is.”
“College age, so chances are…”
I nod. “I don’t know if we’re going to get anything useful out of them in this state.”
Sloan shrugs. “I’d like to get this moving sooner rather than later.” She looks at her watch. “And we’ve still got a few visits to get through today.”
Footsteps are audible coming down the stairs and we’re both silent.
Mr. and Mrs. Taylor enter arm in arm, although it’s obvious she’s leaning heavily on him. She’s dressed in expensive-looking casual wear that could double as gym gear. A common look in L.A. Black leggings show off her slender but muscular frame, accompanied by a halter-neck top and sweater. Her mass of red curls is pulled into a ponytail and a few stray curls hang at her face. A glance at her eyes tells me she’s had something to take the edge off the pain or to help her get closer to oblivion—perhaps Valium or she could have knocked back a few drinks.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Taylor says, “it’s Detective Sloan and…”
Sloan introduces me again, this time adding in my role in the investigation as a behavioral analyst.
“Behavioral analyst? A profiler, right?” Mr. Taylor leads his wife over to the couch opposite us.
“Yes, sir.”
They take a seat.
Mrs. Taylor turns blurry eyes our way. “So you’ll help catch the…the monster who did this to our baby girl?”
Sloan jumps in. “We’ve asked Agent Anderson to consult on the case. She will draft what’s called an offender profile and help us interrogate suspects. We’ll also use her expertise for our media strategy.”
“Media strategy?” Mr. Taylor seems confused.
The services a profiler offers law enforcement cover four areas—media strategy, offender profile, interrogation strategy and prosecution strategy. We may be asked to consult on all or just one of these areas.
“The way the media portrays the case may affect the killer’s behavior, and thus how we track him or her down,” I explain. “I’ll liaise with the media to help contain their reports as much as possible. Try to control how Sherry and her murder are reported to the public.”
Mrs. Taylor lets out a large sigh. “Can we just get this over with?” Her speech is slurred.
“I’m sorry. My wife’s just taken a sleeping pill.”
“That’s okay, Mr. Taylor. We understand.”
He nods, seemingly relieved that we’re not judging his wife for popping a tablet at lunchtime.
I smile at them both and try to gauge how much time we’ll get with Mrs. Taylor veering toward the incoherent. We should get at least a few minutes out of her, maybe ten.
“Can you tell us a bit about Sherry?”
He looks at a photo of her on the mantelpiece. “What do you want to know?”
“Did Sherry work?” I ask. According to Sloan there was no employer noted on the missing persons report but I’d like to confirm it with the Taylors. We need to talk to as many people who knew Sherry as possible, and place of employment is usually a good start.
“No. She was at UCLA. Drama.”
“An actress.” Sloan doesn’t seem surprised. Then again, in L.A. lots of people are hoping to become actresses, especially pretty young women like Sherry Taylor.
“That’s correct, yes. She has some talent, too.” Mr. Taylor has none of the usual parental bragging in his voice. He seems detached, more like he’s making a professional observation.
“You’re in the industry?” I ask.
“Yes. I’m the lead writer and producer on Stars Like Us.”
Impressive…I don’t watch much TV, but I know the half-hour sitcom is doing very well in the ratings and I see billboards for it everywhere.
“So Sherry grew up with it. I presume she’s already appeared on TV?” Sloan still hasn’t taken out her notebook. I doubt she’s relying on my notes so she must have a superb memory.
“No.” Mrs. Taylor’s voice floats. “Brian won’t let either of the girls act until they’ve finished college.” It’s hard to tell from Mrs. Taylor’s tone if she has any strong feelings about her husband’s rule. Perhaps there’s a slight exasperation in her voice.
“I’ve seen what acting does to children…adolescents. Especially girls. And that’s not what I wanted for Sherry or Misha.”
College isn’t exactly the most wholesome environment, either, but I keep my mouth shut. Mr. Taylor doesn’t strike me as particularly strict, certainly not authoritarian, so I’m guessing this was one of his few rules—something he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, bend on.
“She was only a couple of months away…from finishing college and being able to fulfill her dream.” Silent tears fall down Mrs. Taylor’s cheeks. Before the sleeping tablet they probably would have been hysterical tears but now they’re masked by medication and numbness. She’s been beaten—by life, by God, by whatever you believe in. Although I try not to, I can’t help but think of my mother. Even though I was nine years old, I don’t remember the day they told us that my brother John’s body had been found. It was a year after his disappearance and I already knew he was dead anyway…I saw it in a nightmare. But I have managed to block the death knock from my memory.
“What about Misha? How old is she?”
Sloan’s question brings me back to the present.
“She’s eighteen.” Mr. Taylor rests his hand on