Eighteen
The humid Houston evening was cooled by gathering clouds, so Matt put the top down on the ’Vette as he drove to the Silvers’ house. Shelly said since they were supposed to meet with Clark later that evening, why didn’t he come early and have dinner. He didn’t have to be asked twice. Barbara Silver’s cooking was legendary among the house staff.
Shelly and Barbara lived in University Place, the same neighborhood near the Village where Sam lived, just behind Rice University and about two miles from the medical center. Probably ninety percent of the homes were owned by Rice University professors or medical center doctors. The houses were all over twenty years old, but had been maintained very well. The Silvers’ home was no exception. It was a two-story brick, with vines covering the walls and flower beds that looked as if they took all of Barbara’s time to maintain.
As Matt pulled into the big circular drive, he noticed a battered Ford Pinto in the driveway. His suspicions that it belonged to Samantha Scott and TJ were confirmed when Sam answered the door and asked him in.
The room was elegant and restful. The living room was huge, with wooden floors of stained pine covered with oriental area rugs in deep scarlet and blue. A built-in wet bar was against the far wall, and to the right was a multisectional sofa covered in a pattern complementing the rugs, flanked by two armchairs with a long coffee table between them. The couch and chairs faced a fireplace outlined in rough river stone, with a large oak beam as a mantel. It was a room that made you want to sit down, kick off your shoes, and stay awhile.
Shelly offered him a drink, and while he was fixing it, Sam disappeared into the kitchen. Matt and Shelly sat and talked medical center politics for a while and caught up on gossip about colleagues who had left Houston for greener pastures.
Sam and Barbara were still in the kitchen preparing dinner.
Barbara leaned her head out the door and said, “Hi, Matt, glad you could join us.” She smiled and held up five fingers. “Now, you have five minutes to finish your gossiping. Then y’all can set the table and prepare yourselves for a feast.”
Later, Matt looked around the table and grinned. “Now that’s what I like, a nice Jewish meal: pot roast, mashed potatoes with gravy, creamed corn, and fresh rolls.”
Sam stopped chewing long enough to say, “And we took all the calories and cholesterol out so you could gorge yourself without guilt.”
Shelly speared another piece of meat and put it on his plate. “Guilt, what guilt?”
Matt laughed. It was true. When it came to eating, Shelly had no guilt, or common sense, at all. The meal went on until they each felt as if another bite would cause them to explode. Barbara served coffee in the living room. Matt leaned against the bar, resting one foot on the bar stool.
As they drank their coffee, Barbara said to Matt, “I’ve heard that you all have something interesting going on with a murder.”
Matt glanced at Shelly, who shrugged. “After twenty-five years, she reads me like a book. It’s terrible when a man has no secrets in his own home.”
Sam leaned over and refilled her cup from the decanter on the table. “See Barb, we have this case of a woman whose throat was cut . . .”
Shelly held up his hand, index finger extended, and interrupted. “Not cut, Sam, ripped out.” He sat forward in his chair, gesturing with both hands. “Barb, the throat had been ripped out, apparently with teeth since the edges of the wound showed bite marks on all the margins.”
Matt could see Barbara was used to such talk. “Do you think it was done by animals, or by some deranged psychopath?” she asked.
“That’s where Shelly and I disagree,” Sam said. “I feel it was definitely done by a human, probably a psychopath who believes he’s a vampire or a werewolf.”
Shelly scowled. “Sam, you’re forgetting everything I’ve tried to teach you.”
Barbara reached over and moved the platter of chocolate chip cookies out of Shelly’s reach. “Now, dear,” she said, “I’m sure that Sam remembers everything you’ve taught her.” She took one of the cookies and nibbled daintily on the edge as an excuse for moving them away from her husband. “After all, you keep telling me that she’s one of the best students you’ve ever had.”
As Sam’s mouth fell open, Shelly groaned and grabbed his head in both hands. He looked over at Matt, a pained expression on his face. “Oh, Jeez, now she’s done it. There’ll be no living with Sam now.”
Barbara winked at Sam, then turned an innocent face to Shelly. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t realize you hadn’t told Sam how much you think of her.”
Shelly cast a disbelieving eye on Barbara’s innocent expression. “You can’t fool me with that Mother Teresa look.” He rose from his chair, retrieved the chocolate chip cookies, and popped one in his mouth, giving Barbara a defiant look as if to say, So there! He mumbled around the cookie, “We should never have given women the vote, they’ve been ganging up on us ever since!”
“Shelly, don’t try to change the subject; what do you mean I’ve forgotten everything you’ve tried to teach me?” asked Sam.
“Okay,” he said to Sam, “I’ll remind you. In the first place, you called the killer a ‘he,’ and there’s no evidence that the killer is a male. Then, you state without any evidence that ‘he’ is a psychopath who thinks he is a vampire or werewolf. In one sentence you’ve assumed sex, mental state, and what the killer was thinking at the time of the murder.”
Sam grinned ruefully. “Okay, okay, so maybe I was a little presumptuous in my remarks.”
Shelly held his hands up at her. “At least you knew enough not to try and put your conjectures in the official report.”
Barbara interceded for Sam. “But, Shelly, I agree with Sam. What else could it be other than a crazy person who would kill someone that way?”
Shelly leaned back, crossed his legs, and steepled his fingers under his chin. “Offhand, I can think of several possibilities that would fit the facts as well as Sam’s explanation.”
Sam grinned and challenged. “Okay, Sherlock, let’s hear ’em.”
“First, you may be right, this was done by some psychopath who thinks he’s”—he smiled and dipped his head toward Sam—“or she’s, a vampire, werewolf, or some other animal. Then again, it might just be someone who wants us to think it was done by a crazy person in order to confuse the police and make them overlook people with personal motives who knew the victim. Then, there’s the most intriguing possibility of all.”
Sam and Barbara and Matt looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders.
Shelly reached over to the table and poured himself a half cup of coffee. “Okay, what if the killer really is a vampire?”
Matt smirked and shook his head. “You mean a real blood-sucking, cross-fearing, tuxedo-wearing creature of the night?” Then he began to hum the theme from Outer Limits and roll his eyes.
Shelly didn’t blink an eye or change expression. “Why not?”
Barbara started to laugh, then stopped when she saw that Shelly wasn’t joining in. “Shelly, you’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Of course, dear. Remember, we’re discussing our roles as forensic pathologists here. We were asked to determine the cause of death, not who or what the perpetrator was, and certainly not the presence or absence of sanity in the perpetrator at the time of the crime.”
Matt interrupted to argue, “But, Shelly, that doesn’t include invoking a supernatural being.”
“Wait a minute, I said a vampire may have killed the woman, I said nothing about it being a supernatural being. A vampire, to my way of thinking, is a being, male or female, who drinks the blood of its victim. Whether or not the vampire conforms to popular legends regarding supernatural abilities is something I have no way of knowing without further evidence.”
Exasperated, Sam said, “Shelly, now you’re agreeing with me when I said it might have been someone who thought he was a vampire . . .”
“No, Sam. What I’m saying is that if someone thinks he’s a vampire, and actually kills someone and drinks their blood, then he is a vampire. Also, when you take into consideration the second murder and the similarity of the wounds to the throat . . .”
As Sam started to argue further, the doorbell rang, bringing the discussion to a halt.