by Mike Omer
“Well, we’re hoping our unsub feels the same. And there’s an even bigger chance someone will spot Glover and recognize him from the picture or call in with pertinent information.”
“I just wish Harry would stop using my name with those adjectives. Renowned, accomplished, famous.”
“Guy’s got a crush on you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s just doing this because he’s about to publish a book about me, and he wants to increase his sales.”
“It can be both.”
“I need to go talk to him.” Zoe put her phone down. “Let’s go grab a coffee, and I’ll swing by the Chicago Daily Gazette afterward, before going to the station.”
Tatum stared at a message from an unfamiliar number. I had a chat with Peter Damien. He’s a clan elder. He wants to talk to you. He frowned at the nonsensical text. Then it clicked.
“We’ll get the coffee to go,” he told Zoe. “Our vampire librarian has a friend who wants to talk.”
The door was painted black, with the store’s name, Night Fangs, in red. The paint on the letters trickled down, as if it had been written in blood. Underneath, someone had written in Gothic letters, Go out with a FANG. Tatum rolled his eyes as he pushed the door open.
The interior of the store was in surprisingly good taste. Tatum had half expected a coffin or two, perhaps some fake skulls on shelves, and cobwebs everywhere. But instead, it was a small brightly lit room with a few pictures on the wall and a large wooden table. A lanky young man with long blond hair sat by the table, frowning at something in his hands. Tatum came closer and saw the man was carefully applying a sort of clay onto a mold of teeth.
“Welcome to Night Fangs,” the man said, glancing at Tatum and then at Zoe. His eyes seemed to widen. “Oh, wow. I know you said you want the troll fangs, but can I suggest you reconsider?”
“What?” Zoe sounded incredulous.
“Your boyfriend, he’s definitely troll material. But with you, what I’d aim for is a seductive vampiress. Trust me, with your eyes and small fangs, you’ll be like the real-life Drusilla. I’d be willing to give you a discount if—”
“We’re not clients.” Tatum flipped his badge.
“Oh,” the man said, startled. “You’re the FBI people Carmela mentioned. I thought we’d talk on the phone.”
“We figured talking in person would be better,” Tatum said. He felt miffed about being tagged as troll material. “You’re Peter?”
“Yeah, but you can call me Damien, whatever.”
“I’ll call you Peter.” Tatum looked around him. “You sell fangs?”
“Custom-made fangs and claws. Vampires, trolls, orcs, werewolves. I just did some dragon teeth for a client in China.”
Tatum walked over to the pictures on the wall. Each one displayed one of Peter’s customers as they showed their fangs to the camera. A man snarling, a mouthful of razor-edged teeth. A girl in a black cloak smiling mysteriously, the hint of fangs at the edges of her grin. Another girl with two tusks curving over her bottom lip and chin. “You actually make a living doing this full time?” he asked, amazed.
“Yeah, I guess? I have orders from all over the world, and I have some famous clients. You know the Bloody Barnacles?”
“No.”
“Did all of their fangs. Now every time they have a concert, I get a few orders. And by March I’m always totally booked for Comic-Con. I am the fang in fangirl, you know? Ha ha. Cosplayers are half my orders.”
Tatum had a vague idea what the man was talking about at best, but he let him go on. Peter was clearly nervous, and Tatum wanted him to relax.
“So are you a vampire?” Tatum asked, trying to keep the snark from his voice.
“I’m like, a psychic vampire, so I don’t actually drink blood, you know? But I’m like, the head of my clan. I mean, sort of. It’s complicated.” Peter ran his hand through his hair. “I feel weird telling this to like . . . law enforcement. You aren’t here to arrest me, right?”
“As incredible as it may sound, vampirism is not a federal offense,” Tatum said. “But Carmela said you had something you wanted to tell us, right?”
Peter shifted uncomfortably. “You guys are investigating that woman’s murder from last weekend, right? And Carmela said you think one of us did it.”
“She mentioned you knew all the vampires in Chicago,” Zoe said.
“I mean, I guess. I’m one of the elders, right?”
Tatum’s poker face was having a hard time staying straight as the pimpled twenty-five-year-old called himself an elder.
“We need a list of all the Chicago vampires.”
“I can’t give you that.”
Tatum leaned over the table, got close to Peter’s face. “Listen, Damien, a woman was killed. If you don’t give us that list—”
“It wasn’t one of us, I swear!” Peter’s voice squawked. “But I think I might know who it was.”
Tatum’s eyes widened. “Who?”
“We have this forum, right? Where we all talk. But, like, some of the members aren’t vampires. Some of them just want to learn more, so they lurk, or they ask a question. And some are donors. We’re doing our best to cultivate a sense of equality between donors and vampires. Anyway, one of the users began asking a few questions a while ago. Wanted vampires to describe what blood tasted like. And he was talking about nonconsensual blood drinking, which we are totally against. I mean, this is the twenty-first century, not the nineteenth century in Transylvania, right?”
Tatum glanced at Zoe. She hardly even breathed as she listened to Peter talk.
“Anyway, some members bashed him, and he stopped posting. But I was, like, worried that he might do something weird? So I reached out with a personal message and explained what people had an issue with and suggested that he maybe find a donor who would role-play as if she was nonconsenting. Some donors are excited by that.”
“And was he interested?” Zoe asked, tense.
“Nah, he wasn’t interested at all. He said that it wouldn’t work, whatever that means. Then I didn’t hear from him for a while. Then, two weeks ago, he began talking to me again. He asked if I thought drinking blood could cure anything. I was like, um . . . no, it’s good for some things, if you need it, right? But if you break your leg, or, I don’t know, have diabetes, go to the doctor. And then he asked if I thought drinking blood could replace antipsychotics.” Peter paused, shaking his head.
“What did you tell him?” Tatum asked.
“I told him no way! And he kept going on about what if the blood was really pure, like if the donor was purehearted or whatever, so I just straight-out told him he was being stupid. And he didn’t answer. So I was, like, thank god, I got some sense into him, right? And then, two days ago, I got a short message from him.”
“What did he say?”
“He said that I was wrong.”
“What then?”
“Nothing. I answered, asked him what he was talking about, but he didn’t reply. I sent him a few more messages, but I got absolutely nothing. And then when Carmela talked to me, I thought, shit, that could be your guy.”
“We need the email he was using,” Tatum said.
“The forum doesn’t use emails, just usernames and passwords. His username is Dracula2.”
“Fine. We’ll need admin access to your forum and to talk to whoever is running it.” Unless Mr. Dracula2 was a technological wiz, the bureau’s analysts would be able to locate him in five minutes.
“It’s a Tor-based forum,” Peter said.
Tatum gritted his teeth. The Tor network, commonly known as the dark web, almost completely guaranteed digital anonymity. This was why it was often used by pedophiles or for black markets such as the Silk Road, which sold drugs and guns. And, apparently, it was also used by Chicago’s vampire community.
“Peter, if this guy is the one we’re looking for, he might kill more people,” Tatum said, neglecting to mention the fact that he already had. “We need to find him
as soon as possible.”
“Listen, I’ll give you what I can, okay? I’m just saying there’s a reason we use this forum. Some vampires don’t want to be found.”
“Did this . . . Dracula2 ever mention the purity of blood before his last messages?” Zoe asked. “Any mention of that word at all in one of his earlier messages or his posts?”
Peter thought about it. “I don’t think so. I mean, I’ll check, but I feel like the first time was two weeks ago.”
“Is it something you talk about routinely on the forum?”
“Nah, I don’t remember anyone talking about blood purity. I mean, we talk about STDs a lot, so there’s that.”
Zoe caught Tatum’s gaze, her eyes telling him that they were done.
“Can you find the posts by Dracula2 to show us?” Tatum asked. “And the forum’s details too.”
“Uh, sure, hang on. My laptop is in the back room. Don’t touch the fangs on the table, okay?” He exited the room, leaving them alone.
“What do you think?” Tatum asked. He could see the spark in Zoe’s eyes, the way she bit her lower lip. She thought it was their guy.
“It fits,” she said. “The timeline works, and everything he told us fits the profile. The fact that he wasn’t interested in role-playing clarifies his blood drinking isn’t a result of paraphilia.”
Tatum took a few seconds to catch up. When they’d analyzed the various possible reasons for consuming blood, Zoe had said that paraphilia was a possible reason. A sexual fetish. “Why does it mean that?”
“Well, if it was a sexual fantasy, I’d expect him to be interested in role-playing it. In fact, I’d think he’d be thrilled. But it didn’t interest him at all. He said it wouldn’t work.”
He could see the logic in that. “So that leaves . . . a psychotic disorder or Renfield’s syndrome, right?”
“I don’t think it’s Renfield’s syndrome. I’m not even entirely convinced Renfield’s syndrome is real,” Zoe said. “But in any case, it doesn’t sound like he’s just after blood, right? He was talking about nonconsensual blood drinking. There’s something more intricate, and violent, in his desires. And the fact that his username is Dracula2 is interesting.”
“Because it’s a dumb username?”
“Well . . . yes. It means he doesn’t really care about vampire lore or vampire culture. These guys, most of them can recite all the vampire names from TV shows or Anne Rice’s books without blinking. But he tries to get a username for the forum, chooses Dracula, and it’s taken. Instead of picking Lestat, or Edward Cullen, or Spike, or anything else, he goes with Dracula2. Dracula is the only vampire he knows; he’s not interested in being in a clan or adopting their lifestyle. So he doesn’t want to be a part of the community, and just regular blood drinking doesn’t interest him. Add that to the fact that he mentioned antipsychotics. I’d say he has a mental illness that results in delusions, possibly a form of schizophrenia.”
“That would make him unpredictable,” Tatum said.
“Unpredictable . . . and susceptible to pressure.”
“Why did you ask Peter about the purity thing?”
“Two weeks ago, this guy starts asking around if pure blood can replace antipsychotics. He’s never mentioned it before. Do you think there’s a coincidence here?”
Tatum frowned. “You think Rod Glover gave him that idea.”
“I’m sure he did.”
CHAPTER 38
O’Donnell sat behind the steering wheel, eyes set ahead. Ellis sat by her side, drinking the remainder of his Starbucks coffee. Outside, the street was still, aside from the occasional vehicle that passed them by. They were waiting for Good Boy Tony to make his appearance.
“So why is he named Good Boy Tony?” O’Donnell asked.
“It’s an old nickname,” Ellis answered. “He used to live with his mother a few years ago. And whenever we ended up knocking on her door, looking for him, she’d tell us that he’d done nothing wrong and that he’s a good boy. So it stuck.”
“He doesn’t live with her any longer?”
“She died last year.” Ellis finished his coffee and looked around the car. “You don’t have a place to throw trash here?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I do, the trash just sits there. And then it starts smelling. This way, I don’t have trash in my car.”
“But I have this cup in my hand now. It’s trash. I want somewhere to put it.”
“Later we can drive around, look for a trash can,” O’Donnell said. “I don’t think he’s coming.”
“Let’s give him ten more minutes. It’s a beautiful day. And it’s Thursday.”
Frannie’s Scrap Shop was open on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. According to Ellis, Frannie was one of Good Boy Tony’s major income sources. And he almost never missed a Thursday, because missing Thursday meant he’d have to wait until Monday to sell her whatever he’d collected. And that meant a difficult weekend.
“As far as crackheads go, Tony’s pretty reliable,” Ellis said. “He’ll show up—you’ll see.”
O’Donnell yawned, regretting her decision to go with Ellis on this stakeout. Her time would be better spent working on those “L” stations’ security cams like she’d discussed with Tatum the day before. Ellis could have picked Tony up and taken him to the station to be questioned. But Ellis didn’t think that Tony would be very cooperative that way.
Ellis placed the empty cup on the floor of the car.
“Don’t forget it there,” O’Donnell said.
“I won’t.”
“I don’t want my car smelling like coffee.”
“Yeah, I get it.” Someone crossed the road ahead of them, pushing a shopping cart full of junk. Ellis pointed. “That’s him. Told you. Reliable.”
They got out of the car and approached the man. He was so thin O’Donnell had no idea how he managed to push that cart. He had on a grimy sweater and stained blue jeans. As they got closer, she could see one of the telltale signs of a crackhead—two ugly burn marks on his lips.
“Morning, Good Boy,” Ellis said cheerfully. “How’s the haul this morning?”
Tony’s eyes darted around. “It’s fine. I got twenty-three cans, mostly Coke cans. And I found some wire, I din’t swipe it, I know it looks like I swiped it, but I din’t, it was lying on the street. I think I might get a good price for the wire. Usually I don’t find so many cans, but I think there was a conference or something by the school. Maybe they gave the people Coke, like for refreshments. I figured if I knew about conferences in advance, I could maybe always go afterward, collect the cans. That’s a business opportunity, right?” He kept pushing the cart as he talked, the wheels squeaking, accompanying his monologue.
“That sounds like a good idea,” Ellis said. “And I see you also have a long metal pole there. You didn’t saw off one of the traffic signs, did you?”
“No, I jus’ found it, I don’ steal traffic signs. I know some people do, but I don’, it isn’t safe for the cars. I jus’ collect what I find.”
Ellis motioned at O’Donnell. “This here is Detective O’Donnell. She’s investigating a homicide.”
The man’s eyes darted around. “Okay.”
“Tony, I got a feeling you already know what this is about.”
“Nobody I know died,” Good Boy Tony said. “And I don’ know anyone who killed anyone. I try to stay out of trouble, an’ people mostly leave me alone. I have a friend who died two months ago, but it wasn’t a murder or anything, he jus’ died of the cold. It can get really cold at nights, and he slept outside that night, so he died of hypothermia. He was half-naked when they found him. Did you know that when people get hypothermia, they sometimes feel really hot? So they take off their clothes. That’s what happened to Randy. Randy was my friend, the one who died.”
“We’re talking three nights ago. You were under the bridge at South Halsted, right, Tony?”
The man seemed to think th
is over. He breathed hard, the wheels squeaking. O’Donnell shuffled in half steps to keep his pace.
“Yeah,” he finally said.
“Did you see someone while you were there?” O’Donnell asked.
He didn’t answer.
“This is important,” Ellis said. “I know you don’t want to get in trouble, but we know you were there. If you don’t tell us what happened, we’ll have to take you to the station and talk.”
“And my stuff?” Tony asked. “I need to sell my stuff. Frannie closes at four. If I don’ get there by four, I’ll have to wait until Monday. And people might steal my stuff. Back in the summer some of my stuff got stolen. They punched me and took my stuff, and the police din’t do anything back then.”
“Tell us what you saw, and we won’t delay you any further.”
“I won’ have to go to the station and give a statement?”
“Not right now,” O’Donnell said. “But we’ll record this conversation.” She took out her phone and started recording.
“And I won’t have to testify in court?”
“We might need you to do that later,” Ellis said. “But it’ll be months from now, if we’ll need you at all. And we don’t care that you were smoking crack. This isn’t about that at all.”
He stopped walking, and O’Donnell exhaled in relief as the wheels stopped their squeaking.
“I was looking for a place to smoke,” he said. “Usually I try to do it behind the mall, but the security guy spotted me, so I went to the bridge. Nobody cares if I do that under the bridge. So I finished, and I got out, stepped into the woods to take a piss. And when I got away from the bridge, I could hear two people talking. But, like, in hushed whispers.” He stopped, staring at the cart’s handlebar.
“What did they say?” O’Donnell prompted.
“Don’ know at first. I was high, and it was good stuff. So I wasn’t concentrating. And when one of them spoke, he was whispering, but he was angry, so he was kind of shout whispering? You know what I mean? So his words were all like a hiss, and that made me feel uncomfortable because it was an unpleasant sound, and I was high, so I shut my ears. And I lost track of time, kept seeing flashes of light, and I was nauseous . . . but when the high faded, they were talking about someone. They said to move her and dump her stuff. And I heard some splashing from the river.”
