Twenty-three
That evening, they met at the Silvers’ house to discuss the results of the autopsy and the progress of the investigation. Barbara passed out coffee and sandwiches and pretended not to listen to the discussion.
Clark looked up and thanked her as she handed him a tuna sandwich. “Well, it looks as if we may have had our first break in the case,” he said. “Tell ’em about it, Shooter.”
Shooter opened his briefcase and took out a handful of typed pages. “This is a report filed by two officers who happened upon the scene just as the perp was dumping the body.”
“Did you get a description?” Matt asked.
Shooter scowled. “I’m coming to that. They chased the perp at high speed up Fannin to where he turned in at the Astrodome parking lot. There, he—” Shooter hesitated and looked up from his papers. “Ripped a steel door almost off its hinges and entered the dome.”
“Jesus,” Shelly whispered.
“The officers called for backup and entered after him. Once inside, they were attacked without warning. One of the men, Sam Wilson, was immediately knocked unconscious, suffering a broken jaw and severely bruised neck.”
“And the other?” Sam asked, sitting forward on the couch.
“He too was knocked unconscious. He says he remembers nothing after they entered the dome, but his shotgun was fired and there was blood and tissue at the scene indicating the perp took a direct hit with twelve-gauge buckshot.”
Shelly and Matt and Sam looked at each other, then back at Shooter, waiting for him to go on.
“By the time the other officers arrived and entered the building, there was no one to be found.”
“What about his car?” Matt asked.
“A black Mercedes sedan, registered to a Jonas Wilkes.” Shooter referred to another piece of paper. “Evidently an alias, ’cause we can’t find any DMV records of such a person.”
“Fingerprints?” Shelly asked.
Shooter shook his head. “None usable, just some smudges.”
“Tell them what we found in the trunk,” Damon said.
Shooter looked at them, his face serious. “An empty gasoline can and a katana.”
“What’s that?” Sam asked.
“A Japanese long sword,” Shelly answered, his face curious. “What the hell was he doing with that?”
“We think the car is the same one seen leaving the scene of the killing a couple of weeks ago where the body was beheaded and set on fire,” Damon said. “And get this, our experts say the katana is the real thing, over two hundred years old. I called the art museum and they said if that’s true, the damned thing’s worth over fifty grand.”
“Not something I’d leave behind,” Shooter said with a smirk.
“Has the scene at the dome been preserved?” Shelly asked.
Damon nodded. “Yeah, and we had the Crime Scene Unit boys get you samples of the blood and tissue from the fight.”
“Good,” Shelly said. “I think if you don’t mind, Chief, I’ll get my expert to run it through his machines again and compare it with the other sample to see if he gets the same readings the second time.”
“No problem,” Damon said. He glanced at Shooter. “Tell them what else you came up with.”
“I got lucky after the call on this one came in. I was browsing through the reports on the first killing, and found a notation that the manager of the club where the girl worked hadn’t been able to be interviewed ’cause he was in the hospital.”
“Sick?” Matt asked.
He shook his head. “Nope. Apparently he was assaulted the same night that the girl disappeared. Someone fractured his skull, and he’s been unconscious until today.”
“Do you think there’s any connection with the murder?”
Shooter grinned. “That’s the best part. I went over to the hospital and interviewed him today. Unless I miss my guess, the guy who cracked his skull is our perp.”
“Then you’ve got a description,” Matt blurted.
“Yeah, wait until you hear it,” said Damon.
Shooter said, “I’ll give it to you just as the manager gave it to me.” He looked down, reading from the transcript of his interview. “‘The son of a bitch was tall, at least six feet. Average face; that is no scars or other marks. He was weird though, his skin was cold, clammy, like a fish, and his eyes . . . Jesus, those eyes.’”
Shooter glanced up. “Here, I asked him ‘What about his eyes?’ ”
“He said, ‘They were black as the ace of spades, and when he looked at you, it was like you were staring death in the face.’ ”
“I asked, ‘Anything else weird or noticeable about him?’ He said, ‘ Yeah, the bastard was strong as a mule. He picked me up and threw me around like I weighed two pounds.’ ”
“How did he fracture the manager’s skull?” asked Sam.
“The perp put his hand on top of his head and squeezed. The last thing the manager remembers is looking over at the girl, hoping for some help. He said she seemed to be in a trance or somethin’, then he heard a pop and passed out.”
Shooter put the papers away and sat back. “Not someone you’d want to meet in a dark alley. Or anywhere else for that matter.”
Clark lit a cigarette, crossing his legs and staring at Sam. “Doc, why don’t you list what we know about this character? I want to see if you have a different slant on him than I do.”
“You mean you want to see if I’ve noticed anything that you haven’t? Okay, here goes.... Let’s see now.... We have a male, six feet or so in height, no distinguishing features except for striking black eyes. He’s not abnormally big or muscular, but seems to have the strength of several men. His skin is cold and clammy to the touch—”
Matt interrupted. “Chief, that seems to rule out PCP as the source of his strength since it causes a high fever in its users. Of course, intravenous methamphetamine or cocaine could do it. That would make him sweat, which could cause his skin to feel clammy.”
Sam nodded in agreement, then continued, “He is either a master hypnotist or has mental powers of which we’re not aware. . . .”
Clark sat forward, stubbing out his cigarette. “Whoa, wait a minute Doc. Where do you get that ‘mental powers’ bit?”
“Chief, look at the history of this killer. Not one potential victim escaped or called for help. Now, this club manager tells us that one of his employees watched calmly while her boss was picked up and his head squeezed until it cracked like a boiled egg, all without uttering a sound.”
“Yes, I see what you mean.” Damon shook another cigarette out of his case and put it in his mouth unlit.
Shooter agreed. “Yeah, Chief, it looks like somebody would have raised hell when this guy started chewing on their necks . . . if they were able to, I mean.”
“And yet, there’s been no sign of drugs or tranquilizers in the victims on the postmortems,” Matt added.
Damon motioned at Shooter’s notebook, indicating he should make a note of their comments. “Good thought. Go on, anything else?”
“You’re not going to like this, Damon,” said Sam.
“Oh?”
“I think the man believes he’s a vampire.” After saying this, Sam looked around and found the policemen looking at her with expressions ranging from derision to incredulity.
Matt groaned to myself. Sam was about to repeat the arguments they had gone over at Shelly’s house. He feared Shooter and Clark would think her unbalanced, or naive. It’s generally all right to discuss theoretical hypotheses with medical colleagues who know that often theories are thrown out for discussion to test their validity and to try and find flaws in the reasoning behind them. They are used to that kind of argument, and even relish some of the more offbeat theories, but Matt had no idea how hard-boiled cops would take her ideas.
“Aw, c’mon, Sam,” said Shooter. “You can’t really believe in that superstitious bunk.”
Barbara laid her hand on Shelly’s leg, looking directly into his eyes. She too was afraid his assistant was about to make a fool of herself.
Sam stood and refilled her coffee cup, seemingly unruffled by the doubt in the cops’ eyes. She leaned against the mantel and addressed the group as if she were giving a lecture to the freshman med students, waving the coffee cup around for emphasis. “I know, you think I’m crazy, but hear me out first. Let’s try to examine the evidence objectively, then form intelligent opinions based on that evidence. Someone once said, ‘Eliminate the impossible; then whatever you have left, no matter how improbable, is the answer.’”
Shelly grinned. “That was Sherlock Holmes, Sam.”
Damon stared at her. “But, Sam, surely we can eliminate the idea of a vampire as being impossible.”
Sam shot back, “Why? Because we’ve never caught one?”
“Well, uh . . .”
“Chief, two weeks ago you would have said a serial killer with over a hundred victims without anyone noticing would have been impossible.”
“Yes, that’s true, but . . .”
Sam raised her hands. “All I ask is a chance to propose my theory, without interruption. Then you can all have a chance to shoot holes in it. Okay?”
Clark and Shooter scowled at each other, Barbara looked puzzled, and Shelly seemed absorbed in his own thoughts.
When Shooter looked over at Matt, he nodded. “Give the lady a chance. If you can find anything wrong with what she says, say so.”
Sam waited a moment until she had everyone’s attention, then went on. “First of all, remember the list of facts we went over earlier—normal appearance, great strength, and possible mental power over his victims. Add to that the fact that tissue samples show him to be dead for over one hundred years.” She stopped and stared around at the group. “We still can’t explain that little fact. Also, and here I’m making assumptions that can be checked out later, all of the victims were killed at night, and all had their blood drained, or sucked out.”
With this last statement, Shooter took out his pad and began to make notes to have Sherry check out the times of death of the other throat victims.
“Now, I’m going to also assume that our vampire is not the only one in existence. In fact, that would be far more unlikely than the existence of many of these creatures. I think the murder victim whose tissue was also abnormal was another vampire and that our boy killed him. Or it.”
This was news to Matt. “But why, Sam?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe vampires are natural enemies, or maybe they’re territorial and one intruded on the other’s territory. I don’t know, yet.”
Matt looked at the others, warming to her theory. “You know, it makes sense, in a crazy sort of way. What if all the old legends had some basis in fact? Over the years, the truth in them has been ignored and they’ve been discounted as mere fantasy, when in fact vampires have always existed side by side with humans. Living in fear and hiding, afraid to let their existence be known for fear of being eliminated . . .”
Shooter looked at Matt as if he had lost his mind. “C’mon, Matt, you can’t believe that creatures like these could live among us for hundreds of years and not be found out.”
“You’re right, Shooter,” Shelly said, joining in the argument for the first time. “It is hard to believe. The only way this could happen is if the creatures possessed great intelligence and cunning.”
Barbara broke in. “Of course, not all of the aspects of the old legends have to be true. You know, the tales that they can’t stand sunlight, can’t be seen in a mirror, can’t stand the sight of a cross, and all the other bits that have been perpetrated by authors over the years.”
Clark held up his hands, shaking his head. “People, before we get totally out of hand with this speculation, I propose that we make a list of what we know about the creature, and what ways we have to deal with it, if we ever manage to confront him.”
Matt smiled to himself. Clark’s use of the word creature to describe the killer showed that he hadn’t rejected Sam’s theory out of hand.
Shooter smirked. “Yeah, maybe I should have some silver bullets made and start carrying a wooden stake.”
Matt glanced at him. “Might not be such a bad idea, pal.”
The group gathered close and began to work on a list of attributes of the killer that had been documented.
After a while, Shooter, who had grown bored with all the talk and no action, looked at his watch and announced he was off to interview the prostitutes who worked with the latest victim.
“Chief, how about me going along with Shooter?” Matt asked.
“What? Why?”
“Well, I might think of some things to ask that wouldn’t occur to him. Questions about the victim’s past medical history, possible venereal diseases, things like that.”
“I don’t know, Doc. I said at the outset that you doctors wouldn’t be involved in the active investigation.”
“It’s okay with me, Chief,” said Shooter. “I’m just going downtown to check with the other girls where she worked.” He winked at Matt. “Shouldn’t be too dangerous. In fact, I planned to pick up . . . a friend on the way and go out for a late dinner afterward.”
Sam punched Shooter on the shoulder. “Well, if that’s the case, then you shouldn’t mind if I tag along to keep you men out of trouble.”
Clark threw up his hands in exasperation. “Okay, okay.” Then he fixed Shooter with a fierce glare. “But it’s your butt in the fire if anything happens. You know how the PC feels about civilians being involved in departmental business.”
Sam grabbed Shooter by the hand and pulled him to his feet. “We’ll meet you at the car, Matt,” she said as she pulled him toward the door, evidently afraid the chief would change his mind about letting them go.
“Do you really believe in this bogeyman, Chief?” Matt asked as he stood and prepared to follow them.
“Matt, I’ve been dealing with bogeymen in one way or another ever since I became a cop. Hell, a vampire is only slightly harder to believe in than a man who would abuse and murder his kids, or someone who would walk into a McDonald’s and kill thirty-two strangers.”
After they left, Shelly got out his Harris County Medical Association address book. He looked up Roger Niemann’s office phone number and dialed it.
“It’s awfully late to be calling anyone, Shel dear,” Barbara said as she gathered empty coffee cups from the living room.
“I’m just gonna leave Roger a message on his voice mail at the office,” Shelly said. “I want to give him a heads-up that I’ve got some more special studies I want him to do for us tomorrow so he’ll have the machines ready when I take the specimens by there.”
“Well, hurry to bed,” she said as she disappeared into the kitchen. “You know you haven’t been sleeping well since all this vampire foolishness began.”