“Like I need your permission.”
“I know you’re tired and edgy. We all are.”
“Then cut the shit and let me go home.”
“We will,” Muggins reassured him. “We just need to go over a few things in your statement.”
“Fuck.” Patterson drew out the word in a long, exasperated breath. “What more do you want from me?”
“How about stopping the fucking bullshit?” Cassidy stepped up to the table and bent over, bringing his knuckles down on the surface with a loud crack.
“What bullshit?”
“What bullshit?” Cassidy leaned even farther across the table, getting into Patterson’s face. “For starters, how about these monsters that you claimed ripped off your friend’s head?”
“Claimed?” Patterson bellowed the word. “Didn’t you assholes find Marlowe’s body? Or were you too busy eating donuts and writing parking tickets?”
Cassidy’s right hand clenched into a fist. “Why you—”
“Enough!” Muggins shouted. These two macho assholes were feeding off of each other like fire and propane. You could almost choke on the testosterone. Looking up at Cassidy, Muggins issued a single order. “Back off or get the fuck out of here.”
For a moment, it appeared as though Cassidy might take a swing at Muggins. After a second, he went back to the door jamb while muttering, “Fuck both of you.”
Muggins turned back to Patterson. “We did find Marlowe. He was beheaded.”
“Beheaded? His God damn head had been ripped off by one of those things?”
“That’s where I have the problem. With your description of the attackers.” Muggins looked down at his notes. “You described them as having pale skin, like a corpse. Fangs. Fingers like claws. And you referred to them as inhuman.”
“I said they weren’t human.”
Cassidy scoffed. Muggins ignored him and concentrated on Patterson. “Don’t you think you’re exaggerating just a bit?”
“I’ve been working in the sewer for decades, back when you two were still jerking off to the girlie mags you found in your dad’s sock drawer. I’ve seen more shit down there than you can ever imagine, including a few beheaded bodies. Fucked-up addicts living like hermits. The homeless. Even some ’tard who had been abandoned down there by his parents and had grown up feral. I’ve seen some bad shit, but nothing like what I saw yesterday. Those things were powerful and vicious.”
“The monsters?”
“You used that word, not me.” Patterson took a long drag on the cigarette, than exhaled a cloud of smoke toward Cassidy. “Can I go now?”
“What about it, Chief? Should we let him go?”
Mark Roach, chief of the Metropolitan Police Department in Washington D.C., ignored the sergeant. He stared through the two-way mirror and watched the questioning of Patterson, which had become unproductive. Not that he could expect anything different. Patterson had been undergoing marathon questioning for almost eight hours, five hours last night when they first brought in, and another three hours this morning. Every time the story sounded concocted. Monsters living in an abandoned row house ripped off his friend’s head before chasing him through the sewers. Roach had no reason in the world to believe Patterson. Except that Patterson was not lying. The man tested negative for alcohol or narcotics. His supervisor described him as a model worker, honest and level-headed, someone who could be relied on in a crisis. Not the type of person prone to exaggeration. On top of that, Patterson’s story did not change with each telling, which gave it an air of credibility.
Besides, Roach had seen enough these past few months to believe that something monstrous was threatening his city.
Not the Sy-Fy Channel brand of monsters, but some whacked out serial killer or a gang whose penchant for brutality defied imagination. Washington always had experienced more than its fair share of violence, and even endured a few crime emergencies in its day. This new wave of violence, though, involved something entirely different. It had begun with a sudden and unexplained increase in the number of missing persons, mostly among locals along the Mall. That was disturbing enough. Then the violence began to openly play itself out in the public domain. The first incident involved Jason Clark, the eleven-year-old boy attacked in the restrooms at Union Station. Then the rampage a few days later on the Metro where a gang of… something… nearly twisted the head off of one young man, Gunnery Sergeant Thomas Napier, and tore out the neck of a nurse, Sylvia Jackson. Not to forget the night guard at the morgue, whose mutilated body had been found in the supply closet.
Finally Robert Dekker, the chief medical examiner, and Roach’s friend. Just thinking about what happened to Dekker made him nauseous. The same person who had killed the night guard had also snuck into the morgue and murdered Dekker. Actually, butchered would be a better word. The lunatic cut open Dekker from chest to pelvis, tore back his skin to reveal the body cavity, removed his intestines, and sliced every organ with a scalpel. All while Dekker was alive and conscious.
In every encounter, the few eyewitnesses who survived each gave similar descriptions of the attackers. The words they used varied, but the descriptions were the same: pale; hideously-deformed, with fangs and talon-like finger nails; unnaturally strong; and incredibly savage. Jason referred to his attacker at Union Station as a monster, though granted that came from an eleven-year-old boy with an active imagination. Not that Roach could blame him, not after reading the other eyewitness accounts. He could not be certain what type of psycho, or psychos, his police were dealing with. Whoever these killers were, their violent spree took not only a physical toll on Washingtonians but also on the public’s peace of mind. These killers needed to be stopped, and quickly, before the city slipped into total panic.
Sadly, these psycho-killers weren’t the only threat to the city. Roach also had to deal with Drake Matthews and his friends, Alison Monroe and James Delmarco. They were involved in every instance related to these psycho-killers, though Roach couldn’t figure out exactly how. Drake and Miss Monroe had first arrived in Washington three months ago after being forced to leave Boston following an incident in the Old South Church that involved arson and the unexplained death of a serial killer they were pursuing. Within days of their arrival, they were arrested for a brawl in a biker bar near the Navy Yard that had left the place trashed, with broken pool cues impaled into the walls and floor, each surrounded by a pile of ash, and a dozen bikers strewn around the debris with wounds ranging from bruises and lacerations to broken bones and concussions. Before any formal charges could be brought against them, the mayor interceded, claiming that a powerful and influential person who he was not at liberty to name had ordered Drake Matthews and Miss Monroe to be released and all charges to be dropped. Since then, whenever one of these violent attacks by the psycho-killers occurred, Drake or one of his cronies had usually been arrested for their involvement. Each time, this anonymous benefactor arranged their release. Roach felt certain that they also were involved in most of the other incidents throughout the city, such as the murders at the morgue, but could not prove it.
And yet, each of the eyewitnesses who described the attackers as monsters swore that Matthews and his cronies were the good guys. Jason testified that Matthews had fought off his attacker at Union Station. The survivors of the Metro incident recalled seeing Matthews defending the nurse from the psycho-killers, not harming her. Now Patterson claimed that Matthews and the others fought off the group in the sewer, and that the kid who escorted him to safety. Not the type of stuff superheroes are made of, but in the end that didn’t matter. As the mayor had not-so-eloquently pointed out earlier that morning, Matthews and his cronies may be slowly burning out the city battling these psycho-killers, but at least he was doing something to stop the violence.
Roach knew the mayor meant it as a damning accusation against his police force, an accusation he knew all too well to be true. But how the hell do you fight something when you have no idea what you’re fighting?
/> “Excuse me, Chief?”
Roach snapped himself out of his thoughts and looked at the sergeant. “What?”
“I asked if you wanted us to let Patterson go.”
Looking through the two-way mirror, Roach watched the interrogation play out. Patterson and Cassidy were going at it again, and looked like this time they might exchange blows. Muggins had lost all control. Not that it mattered. Patterson had told them everything he knew, or at least what he thought he knew. Keeping him any longer would not benefit the investigation, and might land Patterson with a charge of assaulting an officer.
“Release him,” said Roach. He thought for a moment. “But tell him not to leave town for a few days in case we need to ask him some more questions.”
“Yes, sir.”
Roach headed back to his office. The city faced a growing threat, one that needed to be dealt with sooner rather than later. He still had to determine how to deal with this crisis, and whether Matthews was part of the problem or a potential ally.
First, however, he needed to determine what type of crisis he faced.
* * *
Joel Preston pulled a pack of cigarettes from his suit jacket pocket. He flipped open the lid, pulled one out, and placed it between his lips. “Tell me what you know about Drake Matthews.”
“What makes you think I’d know more about him than you do?” answered Sergeant Juan Rodriguez.
“I’ve never met Drake, you have.” Preston placed the pack back in his pocket and took out a disposable lighter.
Rodriguez looked away from the road at Preston. “You’re not supposed to be smoking in the squad car.”
Preston ignored him. He flicked on the lighter and placed the flame against the cigarette. “You arrested Drake three times, if I remember correctly.”
“Four, actually. Though I don’t know what that has got to do with it.”
“You’ve talked with him and observed him. That gives you more of an insight into Drake Matthews than I can ever get from the official records.” Preston exhaled. Cigarette smoke billowed across the front seat and formed a cloud against the windshield. “What I want to know is if he’s certifiable.”
“Nuts? Far from it.” Rodriguez pressed the button on his door that lowered the passenger’s window. The wind blew most of the smoke out of the squad car’s interior. “Drake Matthews and Alison Monroe are as sane as you and I. They’re just dedicated to their cause.”
“Fanatical would be a better word.” Preston winced against the wind blowing into his face. He rolled up the passenger-side window and took a drag on his cigarette. As he exhaled, another cloud of smoke formed against the windshield. “I’d like to know what exactly ‘their cause’ is.”
“We all would.” Rodriguez lowered the passenger-side window again, but this time engaged the child-proof button that locked the windows in their current position. “Every time we arrest them, it’s the same routine. The two of them refuse to say anything and just wait it out until they’re released. The only one who ever talked was the kid.”
“Jim Delmonico?
“Delmarco. That’s the one.”
“And he claimed they were vampire hunters.” Preston unsuccessfully tried to roll up the window. He calculated what he wanted more—a cigarette or a wind-free ride. Opting for the latter, he tossed the cigarette out the window. “If you ask me, the kid’s as crazy as the other two.”
“I talked to a friend of mine on the Fairfax County Police Force who questioned the kid after his arrest at Wolf Trap. According to my friend, the kid exhibited none of the signs of being delusional or psychotic. He told the truth.”
“Or what he believed to be the truth.”
“Maybe,” said Rodriguez with a slight hesitation in his voice.
Preston tried to roll up the window again, but it remained locked open. He banged his finger several times on the control button, then looked over at Rodriguez. “Do you mind?”
Rodriguez clicked off the child-proof lock.
Preston raised the window, cutting off the flow of air into his face. “What do you mean, maybe? Don’t tell me you honestly believe that shit about vampire hunters?”
“I don’t know what to believe.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”
“You got to admit, something strange is going on. Every time Drake is arrested, he leaves a trail of destruction behind him. But never any bodies, just ash.”
“There’s a rational explanation for that,” Preston said dismissively.
“Then I wish somebody would tell me. I arrested Drake after the incident at Union Station. I chased that tanker truck Drake was hanging on, and watched it crash into the Woodrow Wilson Bridge and explode. And I know for a fact they never found the driver’s remains. What about the gunfight on the Metro? We found eighteen .40 caliber shell casings in the Metro car, but no body. What the hell can take eighteen rounds from a Glock and still walk away?”
“Nothing. Which means Drake missed. It’s as simple as that.”
“Really? Then how come we never found any of the rounds, either on the floor or imbedded in the walls?”
Preston ended the conversation with a frustrated huff and turned to look out the window. No one had an answer to Rodriguez’ question, and that bothered the shit out of him. As special assistant to Roach, his primary responsibility was to protect the force and cover the chief’s ass. He could easily do that with a corruption or abuse scandal, or with major embarrassments like the city’s reoccurring crime emergencies. In those instances, he could put a positive spin on the facts and manipulate the media to make the situation look better than it actually was. This time he drew a blank because he had no facts to spin. Or, more accurately, the few facts he had did not easily lend themselves to being spun.
This trip probably would add little to his CYA initiatives. Jack Craig, chief of security at the city morgue, called last night to report that his staff had compiled and reviewed the security camera footage from the night that Robert Dekker had been murdered. Craig would not go into details over the phone, other than to say that he thought the cameras had recorded Dekker’s murderers, and that Alison Monroe may somehow have been involved. Other than that, Craig would only say that Preston needed to see this video to believe it. Since Preston had never met Alison Monroe, he brought along Rodriguez, who had arrested her on several occasions.
Whatever that footage contained, Preston felt certain he would not like it.
When they arrived at the morgue’s security office, Jack Craig came around from behind his desk to greet them. Preston thought he looked like the stereotype for a security guard, a burly man with a sizeable paunch that hung over his belt, and close-cut blonde hair that did little to detract from his bald spot. Preston figured Craig for either a retired cop who took this job to try and stay connected with law enforcement, or a cop wannabe.
Craig greeted Rodriguez with a hearty handshake and a slap on the right shoulder. “God, I haven’t seen you for ages. What have you been up to?”
“The same. Still walking a beat and trying to stay out of trouble.”
“I hear ya.” Craig turned to Preston and offered his hand. “You must be the guy I talked with on the phone.”
“Yes. Joel Preston.” He gave the hand a perfunctory shake.
Craig turned back to Rodriguez and leaned against the rim of the desk. “So, how’s the family?”
“Good. Sophie started elementary school this fall. What about Jack Junior? He must be nearing graduation.”
“Next May. He’s already signed up with the Marines. Wants to serve his country for a few years before going to college.”
“What’s Eileen say?”
“She cried and tried to talk him out of it. Did no good, though. He’s as stubborn as his old man.” A slight pause ensued, then Craig asked, “What are you doing here?”
“I asked him to come down,” said Preston, aggravated with the small talk. “If you two are done, can we see the security footage now?”
<
br /> “Keep your suit on, son.” Craig made no effort to hide his new-found contempt for Preston. He went behind his desk and removed a CD-ROM from the top desk drawer. He crossed the office to where a television and CD player sat on separate levels of a rolling, three-level metal rack. As Preston and Rodriguez joined him, Craig turned on power to both machines and inserted the CD-ROM.
“This is the strangest shit I’ve ever seen, and God knows I saw some pretty strange shit while on the force. I double checked with my tech support people to make sure the original hadn’t been tampered with and replaced. They assured me it wasn’t.”
Craig hit the PLAY button. The snow on the screen changed to a black-and-white paused image of the morgue’s basement corridor. A black man in a security guard uniform sat in a folding metal chair.
“That’s Mark Robson,” Craig explained. “He is… was… our night guard.”
The footage began playing. Four figures entered the screen. A tall man with raven-black hair led the way, followed by a nondescript man, an overweight black woman in a stained nurse’s uniform, and a man with the build of a football linebacker. Robson stood to confront them. The tall man grabbed Robson around the throat. Judging by the fear and pain on Robson’s face, the tall man must have been extremely powerful. He pushed Robson to the nurse and the linebacker, who dragged him into the adjoining room. The nondescript man turned to face the tall one, giving the camera its first look at his face. It was grotesquely deformed.
“Hit pause,” ordered Preston. As Craig responded, Preston stepped up to the screen and studied the image. “What the hell is wrong with that guy’s face?”
“Pretty fucked up, huh?”
“I’ve never seen a deformity like that before.”
“Could be a mask,” said Rodriguez.
“Maybe. Just watch.” Craig pressed the PAUSE button again.
The tall man said something to the deformed man, who set off down the corridor. The tall man entered a room next to the one where Robson had been dragged into. Several seconds later, at the upper level of the screen, the deformed man entered another room.
The Vampire Hunters (Book 2): Vampyrnomicon Page 4
