I would rather live in a
world where my life is surrounded by mystery than live in a world
so small that my mind could comprehend it.
—Harry Emerson Fosdick
2
“According to Wikipedia, a vampire
feeds on a mortal being’s life essence, which is most often defined
as blood,” Fischer recited as Chief Peyton navigated her black
government-issue Suburban through thick Baltimore
traffic.
Chief Peyton flipped on her turn signal
and changed lanes, somehow defying the rules of geometry by wedging
the huge vehicle into a space the size of a Chevy Volt. “I think we
all know this. But I suppose I’d better ask, since this is the
team’s first case, does anyone not have a
rudimentary grasp of vampire legend?”
Riding shotgun, I raised my hand,
hoping I wouldn’t be the only one. About a half minute later, I
learned I was. And I couldn’t help laughing at the irony.
Throughout all my years in school, that had
never happened. Not even after skipping one grade in elementary
school, one in middle school, another in high school, and starting
college at the age of fifteen. For the first time in my life, I
didn’t know something that everyone else did.
I was both amused and
mortified.
If Chief Peyton was disappointed in my
lack of knowledge of supernatural beings, she hid it well. “I guess
we’ll start from the top, then.” She pointed at the file sitting on
my lap. “Skye, you’ll need to review everything in that file. I
hope you’re a fast reader.”
“I am,” I assured her.
“Excellent. Fischer,
continue.”
Sitting directly behind Chief Peyton,
Fischer read from a book. “‘While ancient cultures all had some
form of vampire-like creatures within their legend systems, the
being most commonly associated with the word vampire has roots in
eighteenth century Eastern European lore. This being is commonly
described as ruddy or purple-ish in color, bloated—’”
“Not skeletal and pale, like Bram
Stoker’s Dracula? Sorry for interrupting,” I interjected, somewhat
confused by the difference between the vampire I was vaguely
familiar with and the one Fischer was describing. I’d caught maybe
twenty minutes of Dracula playing on
television one Halloween. To say my exposure to vampire legend was
limited was a gross understatement.
“Don’t apologize. You’re a part of this
team for a reason, and I want you to keep asking questions.
Questions lead to answers. Or, in some cases, more important
questions.” After a beat, Chief Peyton continued as she cut across
three lanes of traffic to exit onto I-295. “The type of creature
you’re describing is what we’d call the contemporary vampire. It’s
an adaptation of older vampire legend. Fischer, could you please
give Skye the book you’re reading?”
“Sure.” Fischer handed the heavy
hardcover to me.
“I understand. But I have to ask,
aren’t there living, breathing, mortal
people who think they’re vampires? Or pretend to be vampires? And
if so, couldn’t this murder have been committed by a human being
with an unusual fetish?”
Chief Peyton nodded. “Sure. Our job is
to develop a profile that local agents and police personnel can use
to eliminate suspects. While we’re talking as if it’s a given the
unsub is a vampire, until we have enough information to make a
clear determination, we will not set our minds on any one
possibility.”
“Got it.” I set the case file on top of
the book and flipped it open. The very first thing I found was a
photograph of the victim, a woman, lying with arms and legs askew,
on a sidewalk. Like every dead person I’d ever had the misfortune
of seeing, she looked like a mannequin. It was hard to guess her
age, but I estimated her at about thirty-five. Judging from her
clothes, hairstyle, and level of skin wrinkling, she appeared to be
older than me but younger than my mother. Her mouth was slightly
open, eyes staring blindly. Her clothing was still in place, shoes
on her feet, hair slightly mussed. Overall, she looked like she’d
simply collapsed and died of natural causes.
Except there were those puncture marks
on her neck.
“The wounds were made before she died.”
JT, who’d been inhabiting the seat directly behind mine, leaned
over my shoulder. He indicated the redness around the injury. “See
here, she bled. Dead people don’t bleed.”
“Yeah. No heartbeat, no circulation.” I
leaned to the side, a smidge uneasy by how close he was. With his
shaggy brown hair, dark eyes, razor-sharp cheekbones, and adorable
dimples, he was a little too good-looking for my comfort. He also
smelled really nice. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. But I
was an intern. He was an agent. That made him strictly off-limits
to me, and me to him.
Reading my body language, he sat back.
“Didn’t mean to crowd you.”
“It’s okay.” I shifted in my seat and
stared down at the file on my lap. My cheeks were burning, which
wasn’t good. But I knew he couldn’t see them, since he was still
sitting behind me. When I was almost positive my cheeks weren’t the
color of the traffic light we were stopped at, I twisted, facing
the back of the vehicle. “I’m a little overwhelmed. I didn’t expect
to be hitting the road my first day, profiling a murderer. I mean,
I’m just an intern. I assumed I’d be filing paperwork and fetching
coffee.”
Fischer, busy reading the rest of the
documents in the case file, responded to my confession with a quick
smile.
JT leaned forward, elbows resting on
his knees. The seat was big and cushiony, but he was bulky enough
to make it look small. The guy obviously spent some serious time in
the gym. “Since this is our first case, we’re all a little
overwhelmed. And excited. We have a lot to prove.”
“Are you new to the FBI?” I asked
him.
“To the FBI, sort of. I was a field
agent, low on the food chain. I’ve only been out of the academy a
year, not long enough to apply to the BAU. When I heard about the
PBAU, though, I knew it was the place for me. Luckily, the
qualifications aren’t as strict.” He motioned for me to come closer
and whispered, “I think they’re having a hard time staffing the
unit. Most of the agents in the bureau—the ones that know about
it—think it’s a joke.”
“I did too ... kind of.”
JT nodded, his expression clear of any
anger or defensiveness. “None of us would have taken it personally
if you’d said, ‘Thanks, but no thanks’ to Peyton’s offer. We know
we’re neck deep in The X-Files territory,
risking ridicule. But we’re all determined to do our best and
hopefully save lives by helping local authorities get killers off
their streets, whether they end up being homicidal vampires,
psychotic werewolves, or sociopathic mortals.”
I liked this guy. “A noble cause, for
sure,” I said.
“The cases we’ll be taking are the ones
no other units want to touch. For the victims of these crimes, we
are their voice.” After a moment, he pointed at the photograph on
his lap. “Notice anything else?”
“No. Did I miss something?” I opened my
file and stared at the picture.
“Look again. A good profiler will pay
attention to every minute detail.”
Slightly bothered by the fact that I
wasn’t catching everything I should, I concentrated, starting at
the upper left corner of the image and moving across the photo
slowly enough to give my mind time to register everything I saw. I
scrutinized the woman’s hair, eyes, face, neck, shoulders, the
patch of cement sidewalk beneath her. “There’s no blood on the
sidewalk.”
JT lifted the photo and pointed at the
dry area just under her neck. “She stopped bleeding before she
collapsed.”
“Did that mean she was already dead
when she was placed here?”
“Good question.” He handed me a pencil
and pocket-sized notebook. “You’ll want to make some notes for
yourself, so you’ll remember to ask the right questions when we’re
at the crime scene.”
“Thanks.”
He set his hand on my headrest. “We’re
in this together. We all want the same thing—to do our jobs and do
them well. And I know, once you get your feet beneath you, you’re
going to be a valuable member of this team.”
“Thanks.”
JT’s words echoed in my head during the
rest of the drive as I read The Vampire
Encyclopedia and then scoured each document in the file,
looking for clues. By the time we’d made it to the crime scene, I
knew the basics about every vampire legend in the world, from the
West African Asasa-bonsam to the Greek Vrykolakas. I was ready to
prove to my new coworkers, and myself, that criminal profiling was
the perfect job for me.
This was not the
job for me.
I swallowed. At least a dozen times. I
breathed through my mouth and closed my eyes. I concentrated on
taking slow, deep breaths. And still, I couldn’t stop it. I puked.
In front of Chief Peyton, as well as the other members of the PBAU,
and the local FBI contact, and a whole passel of Baltimore’s finest
men in blue.
Little had I known, but getting up
close and personal with a recently deceased person was not the same
as seeing one that had its hair done, makeup on, and was posed in
an appropriately peaceful manner, snug in a coffin.
I was ready to crawl back in the
Suburban and die of embarrassment.
Chief Peyton was nice enough to
compliment me for not contaminating the crime scene. Then, kind
soul that she was, she suggested I accompany JT in interviewing a
witness who claimed to have seen the victim collapse. The witness
was standing at least twenty feet away.
After doing what I could to eliminate
all signs of my shamefully weak moment, I headed in the direction
Chief Peyton had indicated, quickly locating the pair.
JT greeted me with a nod before turning
back to the witness. “This is Sloan Skye.”
The witness, a woman wearing a dress at
least four decades old, turned bloodshot eyes my way, giving me a
quick assessing glance before looking back at JT.
“Can you tell us what you saw, Mrs.
Zumwalt?” JT asked.
“Miss Zumwalt,”
the witness corrected, her wispy gray hair whipping into disarray
as an almost imperceptible breeze blew through it. “I saw a woman
walking from that direction.” She pointed a shaking hand toward a
tall redbrick building hidden by a small grouping of trees. “I was
going this way, toward Centre Street. I collect the cans and
bottles people throw into the street. You know, just doing my part,
keeping the city clean... .” Her words trailed off, and her eyelids
slid over her eyes.
“Miss Zumwalt,” I asked, “what happened
next?”
Miss Zumwalt’s eyes snapped open.
Looking a little confused, she glanced around. “Oh. Yes. Where was
I?” Her hands disappeared into her pockets.
“You saw a woman. Coming this way.” JT
pointed toward the redbrick building.
Miss Zumwalt fingered her mouth. “Yeah.
She came from that way. We passed each other here, at the
intersection. A few seconds later, after I turned the corner, I
heard something behind me. A dull thump like a heavy sack being
dropped. When I turned around, she was lying on the ground, just
like she is now.”
JT scratched some notes in his
notebook. “Then you didn’t see the victim fall?”
“No, I guess I didn’t.” The witness
swayed slightly. She blinked in slow motion.
Swaying. Slow reflexes. Bloodshot eyes.
Shaking hands. Was this witness credible? Regardless of my doubts,
I took notes on both what the woman said and what she
did.
I asked, “Did you happen to notice if
the woman was bleeding as she walked toward you?”
Miss Zumwalt’s forehead crinkled into
deep grooves. “Bleeding? No. But ... now that I think about it, she
didn’t look right.”
“In what way?” JT asked.
“She was kinda pale. And I think she
was sweating. With this cold snap—it was downright chilly this
morning, for June—and dressed the way she was, she should have been
cold, not hot.”
I jotted, sweating,
pale. “Did you see her carrying anything? A purse?” I asked,
recalling the one useful detail I’d retained from the crime
scene.
“No.” The woman paused. Nodded. “I take
that back. Yes. She had a purse.”
“What did it look like?” JT scribbled
more notes.
“Brown.” Miss Zumwalt tapped her chin,
then shook her head. “I’m sorry. That’s all I remember. The bag
couldn’t have been big. That would have stood out. But it was big
enough for me to see it. So, I’m guessing medium and brown. Or
maybe it was black.” The witness sighed. “I don’t remember. I
looked at her face, not her purse.”
“It’s okay. You’re doing fine,” I
reassured her. The details the woman had been able to give us were
remarkable, especially considering her state. I had a sneaking
suspicion she existed on a primarily liquid diet, and it wasn’t
coming from the local soup kitchen. I’d seen my share of hard
lifetime alcoholics to recognize one when I saw it. “Did you hear
anything? Gunfire? A struggle?”
Miss Zumwalt shook her head again. “No
gunfire. I would’ve ducked for cover if I’d heard a
gun.”
“Okay. Thank you for answering our
questions.” JT flipped to a fresh page in his notebook. “Do you
have a phone number where we can reach you if we have any more
questions?”
Miss Zumwalt’s eyes brightened. She ran
a hand over her mussed hair, catching a thin tendril and curling it
around her finger. “No, but you can always find me at St. Edith’s
during lunchtime. They serve the best soup. Maybe you’d like to
join me sometime?” She gave poor JT a coquettish
smile.
“Thank you for the invitation, but I’m
afraid I can’t. It’s against agency rules.” JT glanced at me. “Do
you have any other questions, Skye?” I shrugged. I couldn’t think
of any. “Thank you again, Miss Zumwalt. You’ve been very
helpful.”
“I hope you catch whoever killed that
nice woman. It’s terrible of me to say this, but I’m grateful it
wasn’t me. You never know if you’ll be in the wrong place at the
wrong time. I’m thinking I almost was today, just like my friend
Lulu.” She made the sign of the cross over her chest. “God rest her
soul.” The fear in Miss Zumwalt’s eyes couldn’t be missed. “Lulu
was buying some cigarettes in a 7-Eleven when it was robbed.
Bastards shot her. For no reason.”
Again, I could relate. Once, years ago,
I was almost mugged on campus. A man came out of nowhere and
grabbed me. I had no idea what he was going to do. Luckily, a
campus security officer saw it. He dashed to my rescue, and the man
ran off. I’d never felt so helpless, vulnerable, or terrified
before.
“We’re going to do our best to help the
police catch whoever did this. I promise.” I wrote down St.
Edith’s, and JT and I started back toward the rest of the team. I
saw Chief Peyton talking to the local FBI field office liaison.
Agent Fischer was talking to a couple of Baltimore police
officers.
“I wasn’t sure about that witness when
we started,” I admitted before we were within earshot of the other
agents. I didn’t mention Miss Zumwalt’s obvious flirting, figuring
JT probably dealt with that kind of thing all the time. He clearly
knew how to handle it.
JT nodded. “It’s probably alcohol. But
she gave us some good details. I wish she’d seen the victim
collapse.”
I chewed on my pencil eraser as I
reread my notes. “The purse was a good catch. I don’t remember
seeing the victim’s handbag. Maybe it was a robbery. Or she could
have collapsed. Miss Zumwalt thought she might have been ill.” I
took a quick glance around. “This doesn’t look like the best
neighborhood. Someone could have stolen her handbag after she
passed out.”
“The witness saw no blood. That would
suggest the bite was an old wound.”
I stood next to a parked police car,
intentionally positioning myself so I couldn’t see the body. “Not
necessarily. Puncture wounds don’t always bleed, or if they do,
they don’t bleed for long.”
“Sure, but a puncture striking the
jugular?”
I shrugged. “Could have missed the
major blood vessels.”
“I guess it’s possible.” JT stared over
my shoulder, in the general direction of the dead
body.
I cleared my throat. “I think I’ll go
find Chief Peyton, ask her what she’d like me to do
next.”
“Sure.” JT gave me a knowing smile. “It
gets easier, Skye. I promise. The first body’s the
worst.”
“Thanks.” I swear, I was so embarrassed
my cheeks were hot enough to melt lead. I’d hoped he hadn’t seen me
throw up. So much for that.
JT, bless him, didn’t say another word
about my weak stomach. “The ME’s here. Before I talk to him, I want
to double-check and see if a purse has been found. We need to
identify our victim.”
“Has her car been located?” I
asked.
“Probably not, but we can check the
meters and run the plates of any cars parked at the ones that are
expired.”
“What about a bus?”
“Looks like there’s a stop back there,
so that’s a possibility. I’ll be looking at maps of the area later,
once we’ve finished up here.”
I took one sweeping look around, at the
old brick and concrete multistory structures crowded together.
There had to be hundreds of people in the neighboring buildings.
Which one had the victim been headed for when she’d died? And why
had the killer chosen this location for the crime?
The traffic wasn’t heavy, but it wasn’t
light either. And there were pedestrians walking around, people
gathering at the bus stop, businesspeople walking to and from cars.
It was a busy intersection, the meeting of not two but three roads.
Behind me sat a homeless shelter; in front, some kind of large,
sprawling building. To the left and right were a deli, beauty
salon, and church. To me, it seemed like a very risky place to jump
someone.
As I approached Chief Peyton, I
overheard part of the conversation she was having with Agent Nelson
from the Baltimore FBI field office.
Nelson was saying, “There haven’t been
any similar deaths reported, that I’m aware of. That’s why we
couldn’t get the BAU in here. The locals don’t think it’s an FBI
case.”
“You don’t agree?” Chief Peyton asked
as she gave me a slight nod, signaling for me to stay put and
listen.
Nelson added, “Something just doesn’t
sit right with me. I’m hoping you’ll get to the bottom of
it.”
“We’re going to do our best.” Chief
Peyton’s phone rang, and she glanced down at it, smiling. “Just a
minute.” When Nelson acknowledged her with a nod, she stepped
aside, out of both his earshot and mine, and flipped open the phone
to answer.
That left me standing next to an agent
I didn’t know, an agent who had seen me throw up. I might as well
have been wearing a big scarlet letter N for
“Newbie” on my chest.
I had no idea what to say. I tried to
push aside my discomfort by focusing on the case.
Our job wasn’t necessarily to gather
evidence; that was the work of the local detectives and agents. We
were there to interpret the evidence they uncovered, to determine
if a paranormal element was involved in the crime. If there was
one, we were to provide a profile of the creature responsible. It
was all very X-Files.
But, of course, we didn’t have a
profile yet. So, instead of standing there feeling out of place, I
turned to look back in the direction the victim would have come
from.
That’s when I noticed the sign. The
blue rectangle with a capital H in
white.
“Excuse me, Agent Nelson, but is that a
hospital?” I indicated the building on the opposite side of the
street.
“Yep. That’s Good
Samaritan.”
Could that be a coincidence? My mother
didn’t believe in coincidences.
The victim had looked as if she might
be sick.
She’d collapsed within eyesight of a
hospital.
Seemed like the hospital might be a
clue.
I asked, “Has anyone checked to see if
our victim was a patient?”
Nelson nodded. “We checked both the ER
and the cashier. Nobody fitting the victim’s description was seen
in the emergency room or clinic. Nor was anyone fitting her
description discharged this morning. However, visiting hours start
at nine. She could have been visiting a patient.”
“I see.” I took a few more
notes.
Chief Peyton gave my arm a tap, letting
me know she was back. “There may not have been another death like
this in Baltimore, but there has been one in a town close by. Agent
Nelson, the rest of my team will stay here with you and follow up.
I’m going to take Skye and see what we can learn from the first
victim.” She didn’t wait for Nelson to respond before she started
toward her Suburban. “Hurry up, Skye, we need to pay a visit to the
hospital before the victim’s body is released to the
family.”
“Another death?” I echoed, trying to
keep up. For a woman who needed three-inch heels to stand eye to
eye with me, Chief Peyton sure could move fast. “Do you think we’re
looking for a serial killer?”
“I don’t know yet, but I’m hoping the
pathologist can tell us something useful. Let’s go.”