Code 61

by Donald Harstad

  And I actually listened to what the bastard was saying. You know what? He was bringing up all the old pain, everything I'd told him. And while he was doing that, he was saying that 'one last cut, and then you'll never do it again. One more and it'll all be out, all the pain, let it out…. The last one.' That prick was depressing me on purpose! So I'd cut myself. Encouraging me to do it again! Can you believe that?”

  She'd been leaning farther and farther forward, as she spoke. She became aware of it, and sat back, very carefully, and composing herself almost instantly.

  “Pardon me. I really don't like to rant.” She shrugged. “But, I mean, all he wanted was my blood.” She forced a weak laugh. “I mean, it didn't have to be my personality, but why not just my body? So, anyway, that's why I stopped.” She forced a smile. “It didn't make me feel that good, not anymore. You know?”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Monday, October 9, 2000

  19:18

  More to just take some of the tension out of the air, I simply said, “So, that's why Toby thinks that this Peale is a vampire. He has a blood fetish.”

  “Noo, I don't think 'thinks' is the right word,” said Huck. “No, Toby believes that Dan is really a vampire, is immortal and will never die, can't stand exposure to sunlight, is supernaturally strong, and has to consume blood to exist.” She looked at Hester and me in turn. “Really, I'm serious. Toby believes Dan is a vampire, because Dan himself really believes Dan's a vampire, and Toby really needs to believe in Dan.” She smiled, apologetically. “That's pretty complex.”

  “But don't vampires have little quirky things that give them away, that you could use to prove it, sort of stuff?” I was curious.

  “Such as?”

  “Well,” I said, drawing on my vast movie experiences, “like, not reflecting in mirrors? Having to be invited in? You know. That stuff.”

  She smiled. “Movies, huh?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Let me tell you what Dan tells people when they come up with some things that he just can't do, or can't bring off. He says that those are false aspects of the vampire. He says that they're purposefully invented and promulgated by vampires, to mislead normals into looking for false signs. To lull humans into a feeling that, like with your mirror trick, they can test for vampires. When the test fails, they feel safe.”

  “So, anything he can't do, he just says that it's a false expectation?”

  “Yep. But falsehoods planted by very smart vampires. Just so they have an easier time of hiding.”

  “That,” I said, “strikes me as being awfully fucking convenient.”

  She smiled at that, too. “Well, yes.” She giggled. “Awfully. But he exhibits enough of the familiar traits, like stamina, strength, being nocturnal, being very convincing in everything.”

  “Did he ever say how you get to be a vampire?” asked Hester.

  “Well, he says he was 'turned' a long time ago, by a female vampire. He says you can't be born a vampire, or anything like that. You have to choose, like he did.” She shrugged. “I suppose if I'd actually expressed an interest in becoming one, he might have said more. You should ask Toby about that.”

  “Toby,” I asked, “wants to be a vampire?”

  “In the worst way,” said Huck, with a little smirk. “You know what I mean. He's really a wannabe, for all the wannabe reasons.”

  “Does anybody else think Dan Peale is really a vampire?” asked Hester.

  “Oh, yes. Hanna does. I think Melissa does, at least I think she probably does now. Kevin doesn't really say, but I'm sure he leans that way, too.” She shrugged. “There are times I'm not too sure, myself. Honest.”

  “What is it that makes you think that he's a real vampire?” I was really curious.

  “You saw that photo on the wall, up on the third. The one taken at Highgate Cemetery?”

  “Yeah. Circle of Lebanon…. ”

  “Well,” she said, in a very low voice, “one of the crypts there is Dan's.”

  “Pardon me,” interjected Hester. “His?”

  “That's what he says. His. He told me.” She looked at the curtains again. “Maybe that's why you can't find him in the London Directory?”

  “Serious?” I asked.

  Huck giggled nervously. “Shit, I don't know. Sitting here with you two, oh, maybe not. But I don't want to take any fuckin' chances.” She looked me square in the eye. “Would you?”

  “Well,” I said, truthfully, “I'd really need a lot of evidence. One whole hell of a lot of evidence.”

  “Me, too,” said Huck. “But let me tell you…. Look, he is really strong, all right? And he is an absolute sex machine. Really, he can keep it up for seven, eight hours easily. He refuses to go out in the sunlight without max-SPF lotion. He's got … well, a really dominant personality. Really.” She twiddled her fingers for a second, considering something. “It's a lot more than that. Things he says. Things he does. Really, like, supersophisticated, well educated, and he … ” She laughed. “Shit, I can't believe I'm telling you this, but he, well, talks about things that happened in the 1700s and 1800s. Like he was there, you know?”

  “You okay?” She was getting brittle again, and close to the edge, I thought.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. But, and I'll tell you straight up, you watch him drink some blood, watch him drink your blood, and the greedy, slurping sounds, and he … ”

  She shuddered, and then just stopped. None of us spoke for a few moments. I figured it was time to change our tack just a bit. “So, why would Dan kill Edie? Any idea?”

  Huck shook her head. “Are you so sure that he's the one who did?”

  “He's our chief suspect,” I replied. “Unless you know different.”

  “Well, if he's your best suspect, then you're probably right. If it's any help, it sounds like you might be right.”

  “But you don't know why he did it?”

  “Edie was getting so controlled, you know? It's not like she'd ever walk away. So, so she'd do what he wanted, I know that.”

  “What exactly did he want?” asked Hester.

  “Oh, you know. Sex, of course. Blood sharing, not like me, Edie didn't go for cutting on my scale. But a little. He could at least get a taste. With me,” she said, ruefully, “he could drink the stuff.” She shuddered again. “Compliance. Service, and I mean that in a business sort of way.” She struggled for a word. “Hausfrau? Geisha? She provided all the creature comforts when he came up without Jessica. Especially access to the third floor, where all the privacy was. Edie had the only access key except for Jessica, as far as I know.”

  “Third is a big plus, then?”

  “Privacy. I mean, if there was a chance somebody else was going to drop in, you wouldn't be so comfortable with … well, with debasing yourself, actually.” She shrugged. “All I know is that when he took me upstairs, he'd have to get the key from Edie. She didn't like that, not a bit.” She looked at Hester. “I mean, she was worried for me, too, you know, but jealous at the same time? Especially later, when we were doing him on about a fifty-fifty basis.” She sniffed. “No secrets up at Renfield House.”

  “Is that the only connection you all have with him?” asked Hester. “Nothing more … oh, I don't know, social? For want of a better term.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Huck, with enthusiasm. “That's just about the best part, really. I mean, we really dine, you know? Full, formal dining, with seven course meals that we prepare. Just like in real Victorian times.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Oh, you bet. Formal attire. Men in black tie, women in their finest.” She smiled. “I'm sure you saw the clothes? And we'd talk, or anyway, Dan would, mostly. About the old days, in Victorian England. Mostly.”

  “He'd talk about them like he'd been there then?” I asked.

  Huck considered that a moment. “Well, now that I think about it…. Not so much as if he'd been there, but he gave the impression that he had been. I'm not being very clear, am I?”


  “Not sure,” I said.

  “Then I'm not. He never actually said, I don't think, that he'd like, talked to Emily Brontë, or Lord Byron, or anything that straight out. But,” she said, earnestly, “he gave that impression, without saying it. He'd sort of refer to them, you know? Like they were old friends. But he never said he was actually there.”

  I looked at her quizzically.

  “Okay, look, he'd say something like 'Like Byron used to say,' but he'd never say 'that's what he said to me.' See?”

  “Okay.”

  “Now, in private, it was different. Well, with me, I know for sure. Once he told me about a conversation he'd had with a Prime Minister named Gladstone, and he said he'd known the Wyndam sisters.”

  “And they were?”

  “Gorgeous women at the turn of the century, I think. Maybe in 1910 or so. High London society.”

  “And he's about thirty-five or so?” I just thought I'd better interject that.

  “That's how old he appears,” said Huck.

  “Was Jessica at these dinners, then?” asked Hester, heading us back on track.

  “They were only when Jessica was there,” said Huck. “He and she were the Lord and Lady of the house, kind of, and we were their friends invited to dine.” She sighed. “It was great, really great. We'd use the finest china, and light the real candles in the candelabras, and use the good goblets, and got to drink the old wines Jessica keeps in the basement.” She looked wistful. “New Years is always the best.”

  “Does Jessica talk about the past?” I asked.

  “Oh, sure. But not like Dan. Just asks him questions. Laughs at his answers sometimes. I don't know why she does, but she laughs.”

  I thought I might know, but decided not to say anything. Time to get back on track again. “What did you think when you first heard that Edie was dead?” I asked.

  “That he'd killed her.”

  “Dan, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Deliberately?” from Hester.

  “No, I thought he'd fucked up. He used to give us a bit of blood thinner, you know, to retard clotting with the little cuts.” She held up her right hand, palm toward me. “Not with my 'special' cuts, though. No way. Neither of us was ever fucked up enough to try that shit, not those times.” She shook her head. “Christ, I could have bled to death in no time.”

  We were all quiet for several seconds, as Hester and I brought our notes up to date.

  “A moment ago,” said Hester, “you said something about Melissa and believing Dan was a vampire, something like 'she does now,' or something close to that.”

  “Well, yeah,” said Huck. “Sure. I mean, for one thing, we all know one of you shot him and it sure doesn't seem to have affected him. What else could we think?”

  “What?” I asked.

  “The young cop dude, you know. He shot him, and it didn't affect him at all.”

  “The younger officer didn't hit him,” I said, rather embarrassed.

  “Oh, sure. Yeah. You bet, but we looked for the holes, see, and there wasn't a mark in that doorway or in the little wall or anywhere, all right?” She looked disgusted. “We aren't stupid, you know.”

  It was the first sign of anger I'd seen in her, and it struck me that, what with time passing and all the talking about things being like a catharsis, her post-grief euphoria was wearing off.

  “I don't think you're stupid, Huck. Not at all.” That was certainly true, and I think she detected that. “He fired a warning shot,” I said. “Two of 'em.”

  “Bullshit,” she said. “Sorry, but I mean, even I know you aren't supposed to do that.”

  “True,” I said. “True enough.” I looked at Hester. “See? Even civilians know that.” I turned back to Huck. “Well, Deputy Borman just didn't seem able to remember that, though. And he isn't around today, as you might have noticed. He got a one-day suspension for that little error.”

  She considered what I'd said, but didn't say a word.

  “I'll prove it to you,” I said. I picked up the phone, and dialed Dispatch, and pressed the speaker button. One of the new dispatchers, Gwen, answered.

  “Yo ho! Donut shop!” They could tell it was on an intercom line. I hoped.

  “Yeah, it's Houseman. Sally out there?”

  “One sec … ” she said, and then, obviously calling to the kitchen, “Sally, intercom!”

  We waited a few seconds, with the constant crackling of the sixteen radio channels being picked up in the background lending an air of authenticity, if any were required. They almost never used the hold button on the intercom line.

  “Yeah, whaddya want, Houseman!” That was Sally's voice, as she walked toward the phone. I could tell Huck recognized the voice. “You need the criminal history on this Peale dude?” This as she picked up the phone. “It just came back, give me a minute.”

  “No, no, I'll come out and get that,” I said quickly. “No, hey, you're on speakerphone back here, and I want you to just say what happened to Borman, and why he's not here today.”

  There was a pregnant pause. “Uh, you sure you want me to do that?”

  “I'm sure.”

  “Umm, well, okay. Well, as far as I know, Borman fired two warning shots, and you got all over his ass, and he got suspended today.”

  “And where did that happen?”

  “Up at the Mansion, when the guy slashed his chest when he came out of that door.”

  I looked at Huck, who nodded, and gave me a “thumbs up.”

  “Thanks, Sally.”

  “Anytime I can help refresh your failing memory. If you're coming out here soon, we got fresh coffee.”

  “Cool. Thanks.” I cut the connection. “There.”

  “Ah,” said Huck. “Thank you. I'll tell the rest. They might not believe me, but I'll let 'em know. Thanks.”

  “No problem. Tell 'em not to spread that around, though. It's confidential information. Personnel records.” It had been a toss-up, but it seemed to me the benefits outweighed the liabilities.

  “Sure.”

  “I'm going to go out and get that coffee,” I said. “You guys want some?” Two affirmative answers later, I was on my way to the kitchen.

  While I was in the kitchen, I mulled over the young people who lived up at the Mansion. Huck, in particular. It was such a damned shame that bright people could lead such shitty lives, but there it was. We saw it all the time. Maybe their lives turned to crap because they were bright, bright enough to notice. They all seemed to have these perfectly reasonable expectations that just never got realized. They seemed to spend a lot of their lives trying to adjust to that. The upside was that they usually made it in spite of it all. The downside was that what emerged was so irrevocably affected, you'd never know what could have been. Well, not really all of them, I thought. Just enough to make it a really crummy thing.

  As I listened to the coffee pot gurgling, I thought about Toby developing away from the comic relief role I'd unconsciously assigned him, and turning into a dedicated ferret with a head full of shit. At some point, we were going to have to get his attention.

  And Borman. I don't know why, but the fact that his dumb mistake had inadvertently compounded the effort by Peale to be thought of as a “real” vampire made me angry all over again.

  The pot gasped and wheezed, ffnished. I poured the cups, and searched the kitchen for a tray. Being unable to locate anything of the sort, I carefully placed the three steaming cups on the breadboard. It looked a little bare, so I put a half dozen little pink packets of nonsugar sweetener on it, and four or five napkins. An afterthought made me stop and pour a cup for Sally.

  As I passed through Dispatch, I saw a stack of paperback books partially concealed by a monitor screen and a weather radio box. I peered at the titles. Darkness on the Ice by Lois Tilton, and both Interview with the Vampire and The Vampire Lestat by Anne Rice.

  “Doing a little research?”

  “Thanks for the coffee, Houseman,” she said as
she handed me the criminal history on Peale. “Research is everything. You should read these.” She also told me that there were two people there to pick up Huck.

  “Which two?”

  “Melissa and Kevin,” she said.

  “Okay.” I motioned toward her books. “Library?”

  “You bet.”

  I stopped to read the criminal history on our vampire, before taking the coffee back to my office. It was interesting. First of all, he had apparently used an alias for the two offenses with which he had been charged. His real name was listed, too, along with his SSN and his FBI number. Convicted felon, twice, in two different states. Therefore, a first offender in each. Somebody hadn't done their homework and checked him out thoroughly in the second case.

  I double-checked the secondaries, just to make sure. Yep. Same height, eye color, same finger print code. Just different names used upon arrest. Shifty, but not very thoughtful of him. A really dedicated criminal could maintain a false identity for a long time. Of course, most of them weren't delusional like he was, either.

  The first case was from North Dakota. He'd been arrested for contributing to the delinquency of minors in 1989. That was all there was on the initial entry, but Sally had contacted the agency in North Dakota, and had obtained some details. This is what she handed me:

  SUBJECT KNOWN AS F/N DANIEL L/N POOL CHARGED WITH ELEVEN COUNTS CONTRIBUTING TO DELINQUENCY OF MI NOR BY SEXUAL MISCONDUCT. ENTERED PLEA AGREEMENT OF GUILTY TO ONE COUNT. ORIGINAL INVESTIGATION INDI CATES SUBJECT POOL INDUCED JUVENILE FEMALES TO IN FLICT WOUNDS UPON SELVES, AND SUBJECT POOL INGESTED BLOOD OF THOSE FEMALES. DUE TO WOUNDS BEING SELF INFLICTED NO CHARGE AVAILABLE. SEXUAL MISCONDUCT CHARGE AROSE FROM ORIGINAL INVESTIGATION.

  POOL IDENTITY ESTABLISHED AS ALIAS. TRUE NAME SUSPECT: LN/ PEALE; FN/DANIEL; MN/GORDON DOB: 04/10/65.

  The second entry was from Walworth County, Wisconsin, in 1993, and was remarkably similar, with two exceptions: He'd used the alias of Daniel Gordon, which was hardly a stroke of originality, and likewise used a false date of birth of 10/04/65; and he'd gotten a two-year suspended sentence this time. There was a teletype from the originating agency, which merely said that the original charge involved something they referred to as “consensual ingestion of small amounts of blood,” and that he had pled guilty to one count of assault by injury to an unnamed minor. The guilty plea figured. If the state tries you, they tend to give you a bit of time in the slammer to make up for their trouble. If you plead guilty, and avoid them having to actually go to the expense of trying you, you usually get a reduced sentence as a reward. First offense, the sentence tends to get suspended. The thing's justified by the guilty party telling the judge just how sorry he really is for what he's done. Those who can maintain a straight face do best. Actual guilt, obviously, has little to do with it.