“You do?” Batting his eyes, Tucker looked into the distance and ran his fingertips across the hairnet. “I call it, Tech Looking Sexy After Midnight. Too bad there’s no onlookers here to admire me.”
Randall flipped open her notebook and clicked her ballpoint pen. “Heager says you found something.”
“Yeah, some blood—probably the victim’s.” Tucker gestured at a fist-sized number billboard that marked a stain near the movie theater’s brick wall. “Also found hair fibers, the short and curly kind.”
“What color?”
“Brown.”
“Good, then they might be the assailant’s. The victim’s hair is blonde unless she’s dyed it. Did you lift any prints?”
“Nope.”
Randall chewed her lip as she took notes. Damn. They hadn’t recovered prints attributable to the assailant from any of the three crime scenes. Acting on Valarie Thompson’s statement that her attacker had sounded barefoot and that he pinned her to the ground with his hands, they’d even used sophisticated rubber-gelatin print lifters on her clothing and on the parking lot where she was raped. They found little more than smudges.
The best evidence so far was the semen collected from the victims’ vaginas. After the second rape, the State Forensic Lab on Braddock Road began a mitochondrial DNA analysis of the specimens. Randall expected the results back any day. If the police eventually charged Eric Gensler—or anyone else—with the rapes, then they would only have to swab the inside of the suspect’s cheek, analyze the collected skin cells, and see if the mitochondrial sequences matched.
Randall sighed, wishing the night was over. “How much longer you think you’ll be out here?”
“We’re almost done. Then we gotta help with a homicide in Pimmit Hills.”
“That’s not far from here.”
Tucker shrugged and adjusted his gloves. “I’m not looking forward to it. Body’s in a Dumpster.”
“All right, you can release this scene when you’re ready,” she said—then, remembering his rank, added, “sir.”
Later, as the techs finished up and Pavlik transported evidence to the crime lab in Fairfax, Randall sat in her car and reread her notes. As she worked, she tapped her fingers against the junk mail sticker she’d pasted to the inside of her notebook cover during a fit of boredom: The New M-4 Rifle: Maximum Penetration in Any Confrontation. She kept stopping to rub her dry eyes—another recent and recurring problem with her body.
Ah, fuck it. Maybe I really should go see a doctor.
Turning to her glowing CAD laptop, which was mounted between the front seats and forward of the radio and PA mikes, she fed Eric Gensler’s name into the wireless database. Within seconds, the Virginia Criminal Justice Information Network sent her a report collecting data from the Department of Motor Vehicles, National Crime Information Center, and National Law Enforcement Telecommunications System. It said that aside from a traffic citation for a low-hanging bumper, Gensler had no history worth noting—no criminal convictions (yet), and no warrants or protective orders against him. His DMV record said he had brown hair, which made Randall grin because it matched the color of the pubic hair Tucker collected. She copied down Gensler’s Social Security number and address, plus his car’s tag number, make, and model, and began marshaling information for an arrest warrant.
Pausing, she checked the unit status listings to see what Officer Heager was doing. Good; he was on his way to the crime lab, hopefully with Daniella Connolly’s PERK results. Tucker and the other tech had just punched in that they were headed to the homicide in Pimmit Hills, where there were already two units on scene. Meanwhile, Officer Cowden’s status read 602/421/2242 Gallows Rd/COP/1, which meant he and unit 421 had met for a non-emergency “Community Orientated Patrol” at the department’s favorite 7-Eleven. Randall envied them.
Scrolling down the other listings in her district, she noted with mild interest that there were several animal noise complaints near the hospital. And two units were investigating the burglary of a nail salon at the Yorktowne shopping center, also near the hospital. She sighed and returned to her paperwork.
Dispatch came on the air with a bulletin. Usually, communications were handled through CAD instant messages, with voice radio reserved for priority communiqués and for when it was impractical to be typing, like during a highspeed chase. A patrol officer before she was a detective, Randall listened to these transmissions out of habit.
“Units respond: signal 42R, code 3. 2815 Bright Meadows Lane. . . .”
Randall looked up from her papers. Signal 42R meant “rape,” and code 3 meant “emergency.”
“. . . White female victim is lying in her yard. Suspect fled on foot a minute ago and might still be in area. Advise EMS on arrival.”
The incident soon appeared on the status list as 2815 Bright Meadows La/42R/3. Within moments, the listing for Cowden’s and 421’s coffee break vanished, and their designators appeared next to the first listing, making it 602e/421e/2815 Bright Meadows La/42R/3. They were virtually around the corner from the address, and soon the little “e”s, signifying “en route,” disappeared as well.
Randall looked down at the blank arrest warrant form in her lap and chewed her fingernail. Sometimes, she needed to remind herself she wasn’t a patrol officer anymore. The others had the situation well in hand, and she would know soon enough if the new rape was related to her case load. For now, she needed to focus on the Connolly assault and her lead suspect.
Still, it was the second rape in one night, and Bright Meadows Lane was only two miles south of her position. After finishing with Daniella, did the rapist stroll down Gallows Road until he found someone else?
The dispatcher, who apparently was talking to the victim by cell phone, came back on the air with more details: “Victim says she was slammed headfirst into her mailbox, then assaulted. Subject bit her twice. Male subject is naked and covered with thick brown body hair.”
Randall hesitated for only a second. Throwing her papers into the passenger seat, she started her engine and jerked the gearshift into drive.
Along the way, she typed one-handed that she was en route, and a D415e/ prefixed the incident listing a moment later. She grinned as adrenaline flooded her system—fully awake for the first time that evening.
✽ ✽ ✽
There wasn’t any traffic this time of night, so Randall sped down Gallows Road with only her unmarked car’s grille lights flashing. She listened to the radio chatter as she passed the 7-Eleven:
“421 requesting helo unit. Subject’s not in sight.”
“626, ten-four. ETA three minutes.” In the background of this second voice, the distinctive whine of a helicopter engine rose in pitch.
“602 start EMS code 3,” Cowden’s voice said. Dispatch answered, “EMS code 3, ten-four.”
Randall passed the fire station as its garage doors raised to show the ambulance Cowden had just summoned. The CAD status listing grew longer, sprouting EMSe/ and H626e/ prefixes.
“Fucking thing’s growing hair,” she mumbled as she approached Bright Meadows Lane at high speed—then, remembering the report of “thick brown body hair,” decided she’d finally made a joke Nurse John would appreciate.
She turned onto the residential street, slowed, and switched on her side-mounted flood lamp. She used the control arm on her door to aim the powerful light between the single-family homes in search of the assailant. An officer—unit 421, she presumed—jogged down the other side of the street and shined his flashlight into shrubberies.
When the ambulance arrived, Randall turned off her light and parked behind the two police cruisers. The combined red and blue glare of the rotating overheads transformed the prim neighborhood into a macabre funhouse—the central attraction being the young woman with the bleeding head lying in her yard.
It pissed Randall off that in such a place a screaming woman had to use her cell phone to summon help. Randall got out of her car and glared at the neighbors she saw watching fr
om behind glass storm doors. They wore pajamas and bathrobes—callous suburban idiots with their perfect lawns and expensive cars and their addresses neatly painted on their curbs. She looked forward to confronting them when she gathered eyewitness statements.
As the paramedics went to work, Cowden walked up to her. He gestured in the direction of the movie theater. “Didn’t make it far, did we?”
“No, we didn’t. Hopefully the attacker didn’t, either. Get a statement?”
He nodded. “Name’s Jan Lee. Just got off work.”
“This late?”
Cowden grinned and shrugged. “Just telling you what she said.”
“All right, go on.”
“She was checking her mailbox when someone came up from behind, slammed her into it, bit her, raped her, bit her again, and then took off. But she got a description.”
“I heard it. Thick brown body hair. Okay, go search. I’ll handle things here.”
“Going.” He jogged back to his car. As he peeled off to where the other officer was walking, the helicopter came into sight and shined its searchlight downward.
Randall turned to the victim, who now sat upright on the grass. The woman still held her cell phone in a death grip, as if afraid releasing it would make her rescuers vanish. A paramedic pressed gauze onto her bleeding head and examined the bites on her shoulder while another took her blood pressure. Pretty and with Asian features, the victim wore a business suit. Beside her sat the type of boxy lawyer’s briefcase that Randall’s friend in the Commonwealth Attorney’s office had called a “litigation bag.” Her skirt and panties lay in tatters beside her, so the medics had covered her legs with a blanket.
Good Christ. Raped on her own lawn.
Randall glanced at the car in the driveway, noting its shabby appearance and DC parking decal. She put that together with the woman’s youth and suddenly understood why she was returning from work at—Randall checked her watch—four a.m. Jan Lee was probably an entry-level attorney—an “associate”—at a K Street lobbying firm. Randall’s Commonwealth Attorney friend, who used to be that kind of lawyer, had said an associate’s hours could be worse than a detective’s.
Again, she searched for a commonality among all the victims that made sense. Nationality apparently wasn’t important, nor was profession. Youth appeared to be significant, and—
Aw, screw it, she told herself and flipped open her notebook. You know how he’s choosing them, so stop denying it.
“Hi, Jan. I’m Detective Randall. My first question might sound kind of stupid. Did you just have your period two weeks ago?”
Jan Lee scowled from behind the blood dripping into her eyes. “What?” Even the paramedic paused to look up.
“Please, it’s important. I’ll get to the rest of your statement, but I need to know this first.”
Jan blinked rapidly and looked at the ground. Her eyes moved back and forth, perhaps reading an internal script that said, Who in the fuck is this?
“Jan, another girl was raped tonight. I might know why. Now please—”
“My period? I . . . I suppose it . . . two weeks ago. Yes. It started on my last pre-trial deadline.”
Randall let out a sigh. Oh, no.
Jan must have seen her troubled expression, because she said, “Is that bad?”
Randall closed her notebook. “No, it . . . it’s just a theory I have.” The paramedics were helping Jan to her feet, so she added, “I’ll catch up with you at the hospital.” She backed away before the woman could ask more questions.
Randall went to the ambulance’s driver’s side and waited as the medics helped Jan Lee into the back. A moment later, she heard the back doors slam, and the younger of the two medics came around to get behind the wheel.
“Need something?” he asked.
“Yeah. Can you do me a favor and ask the ER to advise Dr. Bowen of this one? He’s working with me on these assault cases.”
“Sure.” The young man opened his door, then paused. “Tell me, did you ask her that question about her period to see if she’s ovulating?”
Randall tried not to show her shock. Had word already leaked out of the isolation ward? “Why do you ask?”
“A hunch.” The medic—probably not much older than Daniella Connolly—gave a country-boy grin. “I part-time at the hospital, and I know Bowen’s an obstetrician. So when I put that together with your question . . .”
Randall laughed. “Maybe you should be a detective.”
“Yeah? Maybe you should be a doctor.”
Smiling and shaking her head, Randall returned to her car. The helicopter’s searchlight raked the ambulance as it drove away.
She leaned against her door and listened to the radio dispatches through her open window. A doctor, she thought. Yeah, I could use a couple good ones right now. One for me, and one for this case. I wonder what kind of medicine Margaret Connolly practices.
Well, one thing was for certain: it was time to call her supervisor and request more backup. Besides bagging and tagging the clothing remnants scattered on the lawn, there were witnesses to locate, a new rape victim to go interview, and still a warrant to write and execute. There was also the small matter of the manhunt that had just begun.
She was reaching for her door handle when the helicopter pilot shouted over the radio: “Detective, look out!”
✽ ✽ ✽
Randall looked up in time to see a man leap onto the roof of her car. He landed hunched-over on his hands and feet. The metal resounded from the impact. She had an instant to register a hairy face and fanged mouth before he leapt again and tackled her.
Reflexes and training took over before she knew what had happened. She curved her spine and threw her head forward to absorb the impact of her attacker and the ground. She tucked her knees up and over into a backwards roll to throw him headlong with his own momentum. Randall grunted as she regained her feet.
She spun around, fists raised in a fighting stance . . . and gaped.
A man? I thought it was a man.
It was crouched again on all fours, a naked animal-thing covered in a thick coat of brown body hair. No, she realized, it was fur, fucking fur. It opened its too-large mouth, exposing curved, yellow fangs, and screamed. The sound was somewhere between a puma’s cry and the shriek of an enraged child.
But the thing was indeed man-like, or at least parts of it were: the stereoscopic eyes—although the pupils were slit vertically like a cat’s—the nose, arms, hands, and fingers. Even the general body was human-shaped—but covered from head to toe with fur. It was dark—dark brown, of course—everywhere except for the white patch on its chest.
In the three seconds it took to notice all this, the creature’s ears—which jutted straight out from either side of its bushy head in elven triangles—rotated like radar dishes to home in on the sound of her breathing. A long, furry tail rose behind it to swish from side to side.
Randall knew she should react—run away or, better yet, draw the nine-millimeter SIG P226 from her shoulder holster and ground the hairy sonofabitch. But after the initial drop-tuck-roll, it was like freon had iced her veins. It didn’t help when the creature curled its fingers and two-inch yellowed and pointed fingernails extended from them. Claws.
The searchlight swept over them, blinding Randall as the animal lunged at her. Its large hands pushed her into the car.
The back of her head cracked against the door hard enough to see stars. She fell to the ground. The creature fell with her, its claws hooked into her breasts through her shirt. It made a high-pitched squeal and bit her right shoulder. Pain sizzled down her arm to her fingertips.
Then it let go.
As Randall lay there on her side, too stunned to move, the animal drew back on strange, backward-bending knees and licked her blood off its fangs. Hocks, she remembered, those kind of knees are called hocks. Like on the hind legs of a cat.
It must have liked what it tasted because it closed its eyes and smiled—a perfectly human smil
e—and raised its tail high overhead.
That wasn’t the only thing that raised.
It couldn’t have been a penis. No, dicks never got that large, even on horses. . . .
Here her thoughts trailed off, swept away in a surge of revulsion as the damn thing kept growing—now a mottled-brown appendage fully as long and thick as a man’s forearm, ridiculously large. It pulsated with the quart of blood it must have taken just to fill it. It reminded her of the oversized dildos at that sex shop in Georgetown, toys so large that they were more suited for gag gifts than practical use. Pre-cum beaded at the tip of its mushroom-shaped glans and dribbled down the shaft until it disappeared into a thick pubic mane. Even the testicles were freakishly large, the size of grenades.
Regaining some control, Randall sat up until she leaned against the car door. The action brought awareness of her injuries: the sting of the bite beside her neck, the egg growing at the back of her head where she hit the door, the pinpricks of the tiny punctures stippled across her breasts from where the creature had locked into her as they went down.
It stepped forward, tail swishing from side to side. Randall reached behind her until she felt the curve of the hood and pulled herself up. The creature advanced another step, its white locket of chest hair gleaming in the helicopter’s light.
Her legs felt like jello as she regained her feet. She couldn’t take her eyes off the gigantic member—but she didn’t stare out of sexual attraction. She felt more like a cornered animal transfixed by the flared head of a cobra.
It means to rape me with that thing. How will it even fit inside me? How did it fit inside those girls?
The pre-cum flowed so fast now that it was like it was already ejaculating. The fluid dripped to the asphalt in steady splatters that she heard over the hum of the helicopter—and therein probably lay the answer to her question. Maximum Penetration Through Superior Lubrication, as the M-4 ad writers might say.
The monster again curled its powerful hind legs. Randall screamed and dove to her right as it jumped.
This time it missed her completely. It landed on the car hood with a bang. Randall hit the ground with her hands and tucked her head to execute a clumsy shoulder roll. She wound up on her butt facing Jan Lee’s mailbox.
Blood Born Page 6
