Thirty-three
The task force members sat in stunned silence. Finally, Damon Clark shook his head and turned to Shelly. “Now, since the cat seems to be out of the bag, how about sharing with us why you suspect this Roger Niemann.”
Shelly glanced at the papers on his lap. “First of all, and this should have tipped us off much earlier, he’s a hematologist, a blood specialist.”
“But, Shelly, Roger’s the one who told us about the tissue on the bullet being dead and that it had evidence of CJD in it.”
Shelly nodded. “Only because he had to, Matt. I remember now I told him identical specimens were being sent to the FBI lab in Quantico. He didn’t dare falsify his report or it would have pointed a finger directly at him.”
“Just the fact that he studies blood is pretty thin, Doc,” Damon said.
“That’s not all. While in his office yesterday, I noticed several grant applications he’d filled out. Several dealt with Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, and a couple of others had to do with Erythropoietic Uroporphyria.”
“What the hell is Erythro . . . whatever you just said?” Shooter asked.
“It’s a disease that’s inherited, Shooter, and it causes a severe, rapidly progressive hemolytic anemia, which in turn can only be treated with repeated infusions of whole blood. Also, some of the side effects of the disease are pink- or red-tinged sweat and urine, marked photosensitivity, and fluorescent teeth.”
“So?” Shooter asked. “The way that son of a bitch went over the wall, I don’t think he was very sick.”
Sam looked over at Shooter. “Don’t you see, Shooter? This disease might account for the killer’s need for blood. It also just happens to be a possible explanation for some of the legends about vampires, without invoking supernatural causes or abilities.”
Shooter shook his head. “That’s very interestin’, Sam, but I never believed in that supernatural crap anyway.”
Suddenly, Sam snapped her fingers and gave a low laugh. “Niemann . . . Nie . . . Mann,” she mumbled.
“What are you talking about?” Matt asked, worried she might be getting hysterical.
“The bastard was toying with us all the time. His name, Niemann, means no man, or not a man, in German.” She looked around at the group. “He had the clue out there for us the whole time.”
Shooter turned his attention to Clark. “That must have been him outside the window, listening to us. Do you think he’ll try to run now that he knows we’re on to him, Chief?”
Damon shook his head. “I don’t know. If I were Niemann, I’d move to another city as soon as I could.”
Matt thought for a moment, then disagreed. “I don’t know, Chief. I don’t think he’ll leave town just yet.”
Shelly frowned. “Why not? It would be foolish for him to stay in a town where he’s wanted by the police. What makes you think he won’t just pack up and move to another big city where he can kill with impunity?”
“Well, the way I figure it, Niemann has a big stake in this town. He’s put in a lot of years establishing an identity; he’s bought property, and he’s probably got a safe house somewhere nearby, a place where he feels secure. I just don’t think he’ll pack up and leave all that overnight. There’s also the matter of the computer files of victims that he went to so much trouble to amass.”
Sam glanced up at the mention of the computer. “Speaking of that, Matt. With his ID number and password, Niemann could have ordered the tests under Dr. Goddard’s name, then checked the results himself later.”
“That’s why so many of the victims showed up under Goddard’s name,” Sherry said.
Matt continued his argument. “Think about it. If he’s the vampire killer, he’s probably at risk for contracting CJD and AIDS or almost any other blood-borne disease, and almost certainly he was using the hospital computer to find a list of ‘safe’ victims to choose from. If he leaves here, it’s going to take him some time to come up with more victims that he can be sure aren’t infected. Also, it’ll be difficult to establish a new medical identity without being able to account for his activities the past few years.”
“You mean, you think he’ll continue to pick victims from that list even though he knows that we’re on to him?” asked Damon.
“Sure. What’d we figure, he feeds about every one to two weeks? My guess is he’ll take a few more victims that he knows are safe, using the time in between feedings to travel and set up his new identity, or at least try to procure a list of safe victims wherever he plans to move to.”
Barbara was standing in the door with a pot of fresh coffee in her hand, listening to the conversation. “Sam?”
“Yes, Barb, what is it?” she asked.
“If you know he’s going to pick a victim from the hospital computer list, couldn’t you get a copy of the same list and warn all the people, or put a guard on them, or something?”
“I don’t think you realize just how many people Methodist Hospital does blood tests on each day,” she answered. “There are probably several hundred people on the list that Niemann has. How can we warn or watch that many people, and what would we say? ”Be careful, we think a vampire is going to try and kill you’?”
Shooter asked, “Matt, do you think there might be anything in the bastard’s office that may help us find him, or TJ?”
“I don’t know, Shooter. But if he thinks we’re on to him, I doubt if he’ll take the chance of going back there to clear his files out.”
Sam stood and walked over to Matt. “We should go over there right now and take a look. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Dejected, Shooter sat back in his chair. “Yeah, and maybe we won’t.”
Barbara stepped into the room and began refilling their coffee cups. “Don’t say that, Shooter. Don’t ever give up hope. If I know TJ, she hasn’t given up on us, so we can’t give up on her.”
Shooter blushed and nodded his head. “You’re right, Mrs. S.” He struggled up out of his chair, looking over at Damon. “I’m gonna head on over to the medical center and go through Niemann’s files, and I’m not waiting for any goddamned warrant.”
Damon smiled. “I didn’t hear you say that, Shooter. Just don’t get caught. I don’t want to have to bail you out of jail tonight, not with Hillary James meeting with the PC and mayor in the morning.”
Matt stood up too. “I’ll follow Sam home and then I’ll meet you over there, Shooter. It’ll go faster with both of us searching.”
Sam covered a wide yawn. “Ordinarily, I’d argue about going with you two, but I’m dead on my feet. I don’t think I’d be much help.”
“Come on,” Matt said. “The sooner I get you home, the sooner we can start looking for clues to TJ’s location.”
Matt followed Sam home, keeping a close lookout to make sure they weren’t followed. After he kissed her good night at the door and heard her lock the dead bolt, he ran back to his ’Vette and jumped over the door into the driver’s seat.
He made a left turn on Kirby out of the Village and headed toward the medical center and Niemann’s office.
As he waited to turn left at the light at Holcomb and Kirby, he glanced in his rearview mirror and saw a large, black Mercedes swing in behind him. The front windshield was tinted and he couldn’t see the driver, but he knew who it was.
Without being too obvious, he pulled his cell phone from his jacket and dialed 911. When the operator answered, he put it to his ear and told her to get in touch with Chief Clark and tell him Dr. Carter had an emergency on Holcomb near the medical center.
Evidently when the driver of the Mercedes saw him using his phone, it galvanized him into action. The Mercedes revved its engine and accelerated into the rear of Matt’s ’Vette, shoving him out into oncoming traffic.
Matt acted instinctively and instead of hitting his brakes, which would have caused him to be smashed broadside, he popped the clutch and floored his accelerator. With tires spinning and throwing out clouds of smoke, the ’Vette leaped through the traffic and made a sliding left turn onto Holcomb.
Knowing he stood little chance against the monster behind him, Matt never slowed as he pushed the ’Vette to the max, hitting eighty miles an hour within the next block.
When he dared to take his eyes off the road for a second, his heart hammered and his mouth went dry at the sight of the big, black car directly behind him, weaving in and out of traffic to keep up.
“Shit!” Matt muttered, downshifting and pushing the pedal tighter against the floorboard as he popped the clutch again. The big 327 engine roared and Matt was pushed back against the seat as he whipped into the right lane to pass slower moving cars ahead of him.
The Mercedes began to lose ground slowly, even though the man was driving like a maniac, bumping other cars out of the way instead of going around them.
Matt glanced in the mirror and gave a savage grin as he saw the Mercedes falling farther behind. “No German piece of shit can keep up with a good old American muscle car,” he growled as he forced his eyes back to the road just in time to see a little old man with a walker step out into the street in front of him.
There was no way to stop in time, so Matt jerked the wheel to the left, throwing the ’Vette into the center median curb at ninety-five miles an hour.
The front tires exploded into hundreds of fragments and the ’Vette became airborne, actually passing over two oncoming cars in the far lane before bouncing once on the sidewalk in front of a Burger King and leapfrogging through the front window to land in a heap among the tables and chairs.
Matt, who’d fitted the classic car with new seat belts, stayed in the vehicle but was knocked unconscious by the force of the crash.
He awoke fifteen minutes later, looking up into Chief Clark’s face as he bent over him.
“Are you all right?” Damon asked.
Matt shook his head and stared at the pieces of fiberglass and twisted steel that had been his “baby.”
He spread his arms and shouted, “Look what that bastard did to my ’Vette!”
Damon straightened up, a relieved smile on his face.