Night Blood

by James M. Thompson

  Visions of Bela Lugosi biting and sucking his way through the dark Houston streets played in Matt’s mind.

  Shooter’s mouth dropped open. “No way!”

  Clark stared at the stack of papers for a moment. “How many, in round figures, in the last year?”

  “Over a hundred, give or take ten or fifteen that looked like typical throat cutting with a knife or razor.” She looked at the group around the table, wet her lips, and went on rapidly, as if afraid they wouldn’t let her finish. “Chief, I think this is clear evidence that we have a serial killer in Houston who has been killing with the same modus operandi for at least the last year.”

  Shooter blurted out, “Jesus, that’s incredible! There’s no way this could have gotten past the homicide department without this kind of pattern being noticed.”

  Sherry said, “And what about the medical examiner’s office?”

  Clark held up his hand. “Our medical consultants and I discussed that at length earlier this morning, and I assure you it’s not only possible, but it’s probable that’s just what happened.”

  He inclined his head toward Shelly, who recounted the discussion they’d had in his office.

  Sherry frowned in concentration for a moment. “I agree, Chief. From the printouts, it seems that most of the victims were prostitutes and winos, and the killings were spread out over the entire city in different precincts.” She spread her arms. “There just wasn’t anyone who cared enough about these people to put pressure on the investigators to solve the crimes. Also, since no single precinct saw more than a few of them in the course of a year, there wasn’t anyone to put the pattern together. Hell, it took me over two hours on the computer, and I was looking for a pattern.”

  Clark rose and walked over to the window and stared out at the heat waves radiating up from the concrete all around the station. Finally, he turned and sat on the edge of his desk. “Sherry, I want you to drop everything else and get on this full-time. Get as many of the actual autopsies on these cases as you can, with pictures if available.” He glanced at Shelly. “Shelly, I want you to compare the wounds and see if there really is a similar MO or if all this is just coincidence.”

  Clark cut his eyes to Matt. “Matt, you need to bring the various emergency rooms in the city up to date on our findings and have them be on the lookout for any further throat wounds.”

  After Matt told him he was already working on it, Damon pointed his finger at Shooter. “I want you to get the word out that all homicides that involve throat wounds are to be handled by you personally—work on nothing else until this is over.”

  Shooter said, “Check.”

  Clark stood and walked toward the door, indicating the meeting was over. “I’ll get with the police commissioner this afternoon and try to clear the way for Dr. Silver’s team to participate more actively in the investigation, since it’s obvious the ME’s office has dropped the ball.”

  Shooter stood and unconsciously mimicked Damon’s habit of adjusting his coat and hitching up his pants. “See ya later, Chief.” As he left the office, he unconsciously patted down his curly hair, glancing back over his shoulder at Sam.

  Clark stepped through the door, rubbing his face with his hands as if he could rub away his fatigue. “I’ll justify it to the chief of police on the basis of security. If we are dealing with a serial killer, we need to keep the news from the media, and the ME’s office is a sieve where that’s concerned.”

  He stopped at the doorway and glanced at Shelly. “Any results on that blood from the Bellaire killings yet?”

  Shelly shook his head. “No, but my consultant said it’d be ready in the next day or two. He was having some trouble getting time on the electron microscope.”

  “Good. Let me know when you’ve got it.”

  Silver, Sam, and Matt left after Sherry said she would send over the packet of autopsy reports and photos as soon as she got them together.

  Eighteen

  The humid Houston evening was cooled by gathering clouds, so Matt put the top down on the ’Vette as he drove to the Silvers’ house. Shelly said since they were supposed to meet with Clark later that evening, why didn’t he come early and have dinner. He didn’t have to be asked twice. Barbara Silver’s cooking was legendary among the house staff.

  Shelly and Barbara lived in University Place, the same neighborhood near the Village where Sam lived, just behind Rice University and about two miles from the medical center. Probably ninety percent of the homes were owned by Rice University professors or medical center doctors. The houses were all over twenty years old, but had been maintained very well. The Silvers’ home was no exception. It was a two-story brick, with vines covering the walls and flower beds that looked as if they took all of Barbara’s time to maintain.

  As Matt pulled into the big circular drive, he noticed a battered Ford Pinto in the driveway. His suspicions that it belonged to Samantha Scott and TJ were confirmed when Sam answered the door and asked him in.

  The room was elegant and restful. The living room was huge, with wooden floors of stained pine covered with oriental area rugs in deep scarlet and blue. A built-in wet bar was against the far wall, and to the right was a multisectional sofa covered in a pattern complementing the rugs, flanked by two armchairs with a long coffee table between them. The couch and chairs faced a fireplace outlined in rough river stone, with a large oak beam as a mantel. It was a room that made you want to sit down, kick off your shoes, and stay awhile.

  Shelly offered him a drink, and while he was fixing it, Sam disappeared into the kitchen. Matt and Shelly sat and talked medical center politics for a while and caught up on gossip about colleagues who had left Houston for greener pastures.

  Sam and Barbara were still in the kitchen preparing dinner.

  Barbara leaned her head out the door and said, “Hi, Matt, glad you could join us.” She smiled and held up five fingers. “Now, you have five minutes to finish your gossiping. Then y’all can set the table and prepare yourselves for a feast.”

  Later, Matt looked around the table and grinned. “Now that’s what I like, a nice Jewish meal: pot roast, mashed potatoes with gravy, creamed corn, and fresh rolls.”

  Sam stopped chewing long enough to say, “And we took all the calories and cholesterol out so you could gorge yourself without guilt.”

  Shelly speared another piece of meat and put it on his plate. “Guilt, what guilt?”

  Matt laughed. It was true. When it came to eating, Shelly had no guilt, or common sense, at all. The meal went on until they each felt as if another bite would cause them to explode. Barbara served coffee in the living room. Matt leaned against the bar, resting one foot on the bar stool.

  As they drank their coffee, Barbara said to Matt, “I’ve heard that you all have something interesting going on with a murder.”

  Matt glanced at Shelly, who shrugged. “After twenty-five years, she reads me like a book. It’s terrible when a man has no secrets in his own home.”

  Sam leaned over and refilled her cup from the decanter on the table. “See Barb, we have this case of a woman whose throat was cut . . .”

  Shelly held up his hand, index finger extended, and interrupted. “Not cut, Sam, ripped out.” He sat forward in his chair, gesturing with both hands. “Barb, the throat had been ripped out, apparently with teeth since the edges of the wound showed bite marks on all the margins.”

  Matt could see Barbara was used to such talk. “Do you think it was done by animals, or by some deranged psychopath?” she asked.

  “That’s where Shelly and I disagree,” Sam said. “I feel it was definitely done by a human, probably a psychopath who believes he’s a vampire or a werewolf.”

  Shelly scowled. “Sam, you’re forgetting everything I’ve tried to teach you.”

  Barbara reached over and moved the platter of chocolate chip cookies out of Shelly’s reach. “Now, dear,” she said, “I’m sure that Sam remembers everything you’ve taught her.” She took one of the coo
kies and nibbled daintily on the edge as an excuse for moving them away from her husband. “After all, you keep telling me that she’s one of the best students you’ve ever had.”

  As Sam’s mouth fell open, Shelly groaned and grabbed his head in both hands. He looked over at Matt, a pained expression on his face. “Oh, Jeez, now she’s done it. There’ll be no living with Sam now.”

  Barbara winked at Sam, then turned an innocent face to Shelly. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t realize you hadn’t told Sam how much you think of her.”

  Shelly cast a disbelieving eye on Barbara’s innocent expression. “You can’t fool me with that Mother Teresa look.” He rose from his chair, retrieved the chocolate chip cookies, and popped one in his mouth, giving Barbara a defiant look as if to say, So there! He mumbled around the cookie, “We should never have given women the vote, they’ve been ganging up on us ever since!”

  “Shelly, don’t try to change the subject; what do you mean I’ve forgotten everything you’ve tried to teach me?” asked Sam.

  “Okay,” he said to Sam, “I’ll remind you. In the first place, you called the killer a ‘he,’ and there’s no evidence that the killer is a male. Then, you state without any evidence that ‘he’ is a psychopath who thinks he is a vampire or werewolf. In one sentence you’ve assumed sex, mental state, and what the killer was thinking at the time of the murder.”

  Sam grinned ruefully. “Okay, okay, so maybe I was a little presumptuous in my remarks.”

  Shelly held his hands up at her. “At least you knew enough not to try and put your conjectures in the official report.”

  Barbara interceded for Sam. “But, Shelly, I agree with Sam. What else could it be other than a crazy person who would kill someone that way?”

  Shelly leaned back, crossed his legs, and steepled his fingers under his chin. “Offhand, I can think of several possibilities that would fit the facts as well as Sam’s explanation.”

  Sam grinned and challenged. “Okay, Sherlock, let’s hear ’em.”

  “First, you may be right, this was done by some psychopath who thinks he’s”—he smiled and dipped his head toward Sam—“or she’s, a vampire, werewolf, or some other animal. Then again, it might just be someone who wants us to think it was done by a crazy person in order to confuse the police and make them overlook people with personal motives who knew the victim. Then, there’s the most intriguing possibility of all.”

  Sam and Barbara and Matt looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders.

  Shelly reached over to the table and poured himself a half cup of coffee. “Okay, what if the killer really is a vampire?”

  Matt smirked and shook his head. “You mean a real blood-sucking, cross-fearing, tuxedo-wearing creature of the night?” Then he began to hum the theme from Outer Limits and roll his eyes.

  Shelly didn’t blink an eye or change expression. “Why not?”

  Barbara started to laugh, then stopped when she saw that Shelly wasn’t joining in. “Shelly, you’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Of course, dear. Remember, we’re discussing our roles as forensic pathologists here. We were asked to determine the cause of death, not who or what the perpetrator was, and certainly not the presence or absence of sanity in the perpetrator at the time of the crime.”

  Matt interrupted to argue, “But, Shelly, that doesn’t include invoking a supernatural being.”

  “Wait a minute, I said a vampire may have killed the woman, I said nothing about it being a supernatural being. A vampire, to my way of thinking, is a being, male or female, who drinks the blood of its victim. Whether or not the vampire conforms to popular legends regarding supernatural abilities is something I have no way of knowing without further evidence.”

  Exasperated, Sam said, “Shelly, now you’re agreeing with me when I said it might have been someone who thought he was a vampire . . .”

  “No, Sam. What I’m saying is that if someone thinks he’s a vampire, and actually kills someone and drinks their blood, then he is a vampire. Also, when you take into consideration the second murder and the similarity of the wounds to the throat . . .”

  As Sam started to argue further, the doorbell rang, bringing the discussion to a halt.

  Nineteen

  Shelly looked at Barbara with upraised eyebrows. “Must be Chief Clark.”

  The guests heard him greet someone, and he reappeared with Chief Clark and Shooter in tow. “Hey, everyone, look who came to visit.” He ushered the group over to the couch and introduced them to Barbara.

  As she shook their hands, she said, “Shooter? What an interesting name.”

  Shooter blushed and mumbled, “It’s a long, and boring, story.”

  Shelly said, “Why don’t you tell it while I get some refreshments? No, Barb, you keep your seat and I’ll attend to the serving.”

  By the time Shelly returned from the kitchen with fresh cups of coffee and more cookies, the ladies were in tears of laughter and even Shooter was smiling. Shelly, having heard the story again from the kitchen, was also grinning. Matt offered to tell some more vintage “Shooter” stories, but desisted when Shooter reminded him how easy it would be for someone to slit the ’Vette’s tires.

  After the food had been served, Clark looked at his watch and said, “Well, I guess I’d better get down to the reason for our visit.” He leaned forward and poured himself another cup of coffee before continuing.

  “First of all, let me welcome you all to our team and tell you how appreciative we all are that you have agreed to join us in this case, and that includes the police chief and the mayor.”

  Barbara coughed and almost strangled on her coffee as she heard this. “Wait a minute!” She shot a questioning glance at Shelly. “What is he talking about, ‘joining him in this case’?”

  Shelly looked sheepish as he reached over to pat her on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, dear. I haven’t had time to discuss it with you yet, and I was waiting to see if Damon could get permission from his superiors before I brought it up.”

  He glanced at the chief. “Damon, you’ve cleared our participation with them, I take it?” he asked.

  Clark nodded.

  “Have you informed them about the possibility that we’re dealing with a serial killer?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve become head of your department without realizing the political importance of CYA?” Damon replied with a crooked grin.

  Shelly chuckled. “If you mean ‘cover your ass,’ that’s one of the first things you learn in medicine, even before the Hippocratic Oath.”

  “It goes double for civil servants like the police. There was no way I could keep the possible existence of a serial killer from the PC, and no way he could keep it from the mayor. Fortunately, they both agreed with my assessment that it was crucial to keep the news from the media, at least for the time being.” He picked up his coffee and took a sip. “It seems there’s an election coming up in a few months and they are scared to death of the publicity.”

  Barbara was still frowning at Shelly, but he patted her again and whispered that they would discuss it later.

  Clark continued. “Okay people, this is our semiofficial ‘serial killer task force,’ and I want you all to realize that the only way we can possibly succeed is to think and act like a team at all times.” He stood and began to pace the room as he talked. “Like any team, each of you will have different responsibilities. Shooter, you and Sherry will be the gatherers of intelligence about the killings and do the legwork to track down any clues or leads the team may come up with. Shelly, you and Sam and Matt will be our scientific eyes and ears, and it will be up to you three to find any and all clues that may be gleaned from the victims and any physical evidence found at the crime scenes.”

  He stopped pacing and looked directly at Barbara. “Let me emphasize that they will not, I repeat, not be involved in any way with the apprehension of this perpetrator.”

  Shelly glanced at Barbara. “That’s a good point, Chief, but it
brings up a question. To whom do we report our findings, anyone on the team or just to you personally?”

  “Doc, first of all, I want everything in writing, with you and Matt keeping a copy, and one copy hand-delivered to me personally. Verbal reports, if urgent, can be given to whomever in the team you can reach first. Remember, if this hits the media, the party’s over and we’ll probably be crucified for not giving the public their right to know; that’s why I want a paper trail of everything we do and think.”

  Shooter grinned. “You mean more CYA?”

  “You got it! Now let’s get to work.”

  Clark took his cigarette case out, then remembered where he was and put it back in his pocket.

  Barbara stood. “Just a minute, Chief. I’ll get you an ashtray.”

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  She went to the mantel and picked up a small glass ashtray and handed it to him. “No, of course not.” Then she looked at her husband. “As long as Shelly doesn’t revert to his old habits.”

  Clark lit a cigarette, then gestured to Shooter, who pulled out a stack of papers and handed them to Clark. “These just came over from the ME’s office. They’re results of some lab tests that were done by one of the junior pathologists just after the ME’s heart attack. They just came back from the state lab in Austin.”

  Sam started to speak, but Shelly stopped her with a gesture. “Sam, let him tell it in his own words.”

  Clark took another drag on his cigarette and hesitated, weighing his next words carefully. “The results are from a homicide that we didn’t think was connected to the serial killings.” He got up and once again began to pace, smoking as he talked.

  “A male body was found beside the road in the warehouse district. It had been beheaded and then doused with gasoline and set afire. Luckily, a group of teenagers arrived just after it happened and put the fire out before the body was completely consumed.”