The Vampire Hunters (Book 2): Vampyrnomicon

by Baker, Scott M.

  “It’s okay. It’s Alison. What happened?”

  Jim tried to speak, but instead coughed uncontrollably. The tears flowed more heavily.

  “Are you all right?”

  Jim nodded, then coughed again.

  “Is anyone up there?”

  Jim shook his head. Clasping Alison’s left arm, he tried taking a deep breath, but began hacking. After a few seconds, the spasm subsided. He took another breath, this time not as deep, and succeeded in inhaling. After a few shallow breaths, Jim could take in air without coughing. Using the backs of his wrists, Jim wiped his eyes and opened them, fluttering the lids a few times until the irritation subsided.

  “What happened?” asked Alison.

  Jim spoke in between shallow breaths. “I was experimenting… with the tear gas… laced with holy water.”

  “It didn’t work?”

  “The tear gas… works fine…. It’s the dispenser… that sucks.” Jim coughed again, though not as hard this time. “While I was reloading the canister… the dispenser nozzle went off…. Emptied the whole thing… in a single gush.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” Jim climbed to his feet, using the wall as support. “The lab’s a mess, though. Tear gas everywhere.”

  “Tear gas?” asked Drake as he walked across the office. Alison had not noticed him enter. “What happened?”

  “One of my weapon experiments… misfired. I flooded the workshop… with tear gas.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Drake leaned over and looked up the stairs at the smoke that filled the upper level. “How long will it take to clean up?”

  Jim shrugged. “An hour or so for the gas to dissipate, then a couple more to clean up.”

  “Do you feel well enough to stick around?”

  “I think so. Just give me a few minutes to get some fresh air.”

  “Good.” Drake patted Jim’s shoulder. “Make sure you both go home early tonight and get some rest.”

  “We going hunting on the Mall tomorrow night?” asked Alison.

  “Yes. But not on the Mall.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “We’ve been cruising the Mall for over a week and haven’t run across anything. If the vampires are still out there, they’ve probably changed tactics and hunting grounds, which means we have to. We’ll be hunting for them somewhere else.”

  “I don’t think I want to know where,” said Jim.

  Drake smiled. “You probably don’t.”

  * * *

  Racing through the front entrance of The Washington Standard building, Jessica accidentally slammed the doors on an intern on her way out. Jessica offered a hurried apology and headed on inside to the elevators. Despite being thirty-five minutes late, she couldn’t have cared less. Her plans for a quickie in the shower with Drake fell apart and turned into another double round of lovemaking in his bedroom. By the time they were finished, she had only ten minutes to make it to work. So she took a quick shower, raced out of the apartment without even applying make-up, and hailed a taxi to the office. She didn’t mind, though, because this was the best morning she had experienced since God knows when.

  It did not even bother her when she ran into Philips waiting to get on the elevator as Jessica stepped off onto her floor.

  “There you are,” said Philips, surprised to have run into her. Philips placed his hand on her wrist and gently pulled Jessica back into the elevator with him. “Walk with me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The elevator doors slid shut. Philips pressed the button for the top floor. As the elevator lurched up, he turned to Jessica. His eyebrows crunched in curiosity. “Didn’t you wear that same outfit yesterday?”

  “No,” lied Jessica, hiding her embarrassment.

  Philips shrugged and continued. “I have an assignment for you. I want you to handle the Mike Fletcher case.”

  “The junior high school vice principal who was found murdered in his home?”

  “Yup.”

  “No problem. I’ve handled murders before.”

  “This is a little different.” The elevator pinged when it reached the top floor. Philips waited until the doors opened, then he and Jessica stepped off. He lowered his voice so as not to be overheard. “Two facts about the case haven’t hit the media yet. First, they found a shitload of child porn on the bastard’s computer. Mostly teenage girls. And he didn’t download the stuff from the Internet. The police found it on several USB hard drives in his desk, so it’s practically undetectable.”

  Jessica suppressed any outward display of emotion. As disgusting as all this was, she sensed a major story here. “Go on.”

  “Here’s the sick part. Someone bit off Fletcher’s penis during sex.”

  “Bit off?”

  “Presumably one of his teenage girlfriends. Son of a bitch bled to death, which in my opinion is still too good for him.” The two stopped in front of the door to the publisher’s suite. “So, do you think you’re up to this?”

  After what she had experienced hunting with Drake, investigating a pedophile killer would be a welcome break. Yet she could not say that to Philips. Instead, she opted for the generic, “Not a problem.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.” Philips flashed an uncharacteristic smile. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he withdrew a small, folded piece of paper and handed it to Jessica. “This is the cop who’s handling the case. I don’t know how much information you’ll get out of him, but it’s a start.”

  “Where did you get this?”

  “A good reporter never reveals his sources.” Philips gave her a friendly wink, then entered the suite.

  Jessica headed back to her office. Once in the elevator, she opened the folded piece of paper and read the name. Juan Rodriguez. Plus his phone number at police headquarters. Holy shit. That was the same cop who kept on arresting Drake. This could turn out to be more interesting than she originally thought.

  * * *

  “I don’t like this one damn bit,” protested Roach.

  “Neither do I,” said Preston. “But what else can we do?”

  Roach grunted. Partly out of frustration, but mostly because he had developed one of his mega-migraines that even a double dose of pain relievers had no effect on. There were many downsides to this job. Too many, truth be known. Having to tell families that they lost a loved one in the line of duty. Having to watch scum avoid doing well-deserved jail time because some judge threw out the case over a minor technicality, or because the judge felt a naive and misguided sympathy for the defendant. One of the more distasteful tasks, however, was having to suspend one of his cops. Especially a cop like Rodriguez, whom he had known for years.

  “There’s got to be another way to handle this,” said Roach, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Rodriguez is a good cop.”

  “Was a good cop.” Preston huffed. “Look, I agree with you. Rodriguez used to be one of the best we had. But these past few weeks…. Hell, I don’t know what happened. First, we had the incident in the sewer when he not only lied about that junkie who tried to escape, but also let Drake and the others go, despite your orders to arrest anyone leaving the row house. Now this.” Preston held up a manila folder to emphasize his point.

  “I guess you’re right.”

  Of course Preston’s right, Roach chastised himself. He never took pleasure in disciplining one of his officers, but occasionally it had to be done. Too many a good cop turned bad, though admittedly some had been bad seeds to begin with. Cops who became enthralled by the underworld culture that they policed and immersed themselves in it. Cops who couldn’t handle the daily depravities they witnessed and turned to alcohol or drugs to deaden the pain, or who took the law into their own hands. This seamy side of law enforcement garnered media attention. “Cop busts drugged-up speeding motorist” never made the news. “Cop busts open motorist’s skull” became the top story for days. This was why Roach needed to be especially diligen
t in disciplining or removing such influences if he wanted to retain the police’s credibility.

  Still, that didn’t make this any easier.

  Roach expanded the massaging to include his temples. “I hate suspending him for lying.”

  “He’s not lying about taking a few bucks as a bribe for not writing a parking ticket. That I could excuse. He’s falsifying official records and trying to get others to falsify them. We also know of at least one instance when he violated his orders.”

  “It doesn’t make sense. We’ve never had trouble with Rodriguez before. Why now?”

  “It’s irrelevant.” Preston did not hide his frustration. “Rodriguez is no longer reliable. He can’t be trusted to deal with the public. It’s your duty to suspend him pending an investigation.”

  “You don’t have to tell me my duty,” snapped Roach. “I know what I have to do. That doesn’t mean I have to—”

  A knock interrupted the conversation. Roach’s secretary opened the door and leaned in. “Rodriguez is here to see you.”

  “Send him in.”

  Preston sat upright in his seat. Roach took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, simultaneously trying to calm his anger and summon up his nerve.

  Rodriguez entered. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  “Yes.” Roach motioned to the empty chair in front of his desk. As Rodriguez sat down, Roach continued. “I wanted to get an update on the Fletcher investigation. Did you find anything interesting among his belongings?”

  “Just his blood-stained clothes. I checked with the officers who searched his house. Fletcher was careful to cover his tracks. The only thing we found so far is an instant messaging address his wife says doesn’t belong to either a friend or colleague. VampGirl1648. I tried tracing who it belonged to. The owner set up the account a week ago using a Hotmail account and only used it at different Internet cafes throughout D.C., so there’s no way of tracing who it belongs to. Saunders is checking the cafes to see if we can get a description of the user.”

  “Did you try contacting this VampGirl1648 yourself?” asked Roach.

  “Yeah, but it didn’t do any good. The account went dead the night Fletcher was killed.”

  “What about Fletcher’s hard drive and the USB disk?” asked Preston.

  “I haven’t seen the take for those yet. The lab techs are still going through it. I should have access in a few days.”

  Roach nodded his acknowledgement. “Did the funeral home find anything unusual about the body?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did they have any insights into the case?”

  Rodriguez shook his head.

  “You didn’t get much from there, did you?”

  “Not really.”

  Roach resigned himself. He had given Rodriguez every opportunity to tell the truth, but he refused to cooperate. Roach didn’t know why he refused to fess up, and at this point he didn’t care. Rodriguez would have to deal with the consequences. Looking over to Preston, he nodded for him to proceed.

  Opening the manila folder, Preston removed several pieces of paper stapled together and passed them to Rodriguez. “Explain this.”

  Rodriguez took the pages apprehensively and flipped them open, scanning the content. After a few seconds, he asked, “What’s this?”

  “It’s a police report filed late last night by Anderson,” said Preston. “After you left the funeral home, Bob Hanley called and asked to speak to a detective. It seems an incident occurred at the funeral home while you were there, one that you failed to report. Hanley was not pleased with both the way you handled the situation and, as he put it, ‘the cavalier and bullying manner’ in which you treated him and Miss Hughes.”

  Rodriguez continued reading through the report, never once making eye contact with Preston.

  “Do you have anything to say?” demanded Preston.

  “No.” Rodriguez closed the report and handed it back, again without making eye contact.

  “You realize the seriousness of this?”

  No response.

  “Based on what Hanley told Anderson, you’re suspected of filing a false report.”

  No response.

  “You know what the consequences are if you’re found guilty?”

  Still no response.

  “Fuck him,” Preston said to Roach.

  “Joel, please.” Roach leaned forward and spoke to Rodriguez in a fatherly voice. “Juan, you can’t keep up the silent treatment. Will you answer some questions?”

  “If I can, sir.”

  “Did you file a false report on your trip to the funeral home?”

  “No comment.”

  “Did Fletcher’s corpse spasm repeatedly during the embalming process?”

  “No comment.”

  “Did you cut the head off of Fletcher’s corpse?”

  “No comment.”

  “Did you suggest that Bob Hanley lie to the Fletcher family about what happened at the funeral home?”

  “No comment.”

  Roach closed his eyes, the throbbing behind his temple almost unbearable. He did not need this shit, and would not take it any longer.

  “Juan Rodriguez, you’re hereby suspended from the force until further notice. Hand over your badge and your weapon.”

  Without so much as a protest, Rodriguez removed his weapon from its holster, ejected the clip, and pulled back the slide into the locked position. He placed his weapon and his badge on the desk in front of Roach.

  “Is there anything else, sir?”

  Roach shook his head. “Just get the hell out of here.”

  “May I pick up some personal belongings from my desk?”

  “As long as you’re out of the building in fifteen minutes.”

  Rodriguez stood and left the office. The other men watched him exit. When the door closed behind Rodriguez, Preston turned to Roach.

  “What the fuck was that all about?”

  Roach inhaled deeply. “Maybe it’s stress.”

  “Good luck getting him to take a psych exam.” Preston laughed derisively. “If you want, I’ll have Internal Affairs open a file on Rodriguez.”

  “Wait on that.”

  “What for?”

  “Give him a few days to sort his shit out. Then we’ll talk to him again. Maybe he’ll be more cooperative.”

  Preston stared at Roach, incredulous. “Why bother?”

  “Rodriguez has never caused problems before. The way he’s been acting lately doesn’t make any sense.”

  “So you want to give him the opportunity to make complete assholes of us?”

  “That’s enough!” Roach slammed his hand onto the top of his desk, ending any further discussion. “It’s my decision to make, and I’ve made it. Now, do we you have anything else we need to discuss?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re dismissed.”

  Preston sat staring at Roach for a few seconds. With a sigh and a disgruntled shake of his head, he stood and left the office. Roach felt the same level of frustration toward Preston that he knew Preston harbored toward him. Preston was a damn good special assistant, having proven himself invaluable to Roach more times than he could remember. But Preston was also a bureaucrat, not a street cop, which often meant he took a hardline, by-the-book attitude when it came to the men and women under his command. Preston often forgot that those cops who worked on the street often saw shit the desk jockeys could never imagine, and those experiences affected each cop in different ways. More than likely, Rodriguez had experienced something that affected his judgment.

  With luck, things would work themselves out in the next few days.

  That confirmed it, fumed Preston as he stormed back to his office. He kicked open the outer door to his suite, scaring the hell out of his secretary. She jumped in her chair, spilling half of her tea onto her blouse and lap. She opened her mouth to protest, but wisely thought better of it. Glaring at her, Preston did not offer an apology, but instead barked, “No calls or visitors.” H
e shoved open the door to his private office, slamming it so hard behind him that one of the picture frames on the wall flew off of its mounting and crashed to the floor.

  Preston stepped over to the window and gazed out onto the station’s main entrance, watching people come and go. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, holding it for ten seconds before exhaling. It helped calm him down, but only slightly. The human body naturally reacted to certain conditions, in his case with having to deal with timidity and gross stupidity. Both of which were epitomized by Roach.

  How fucking stupid could one man be? Roach had been hired to protect the citizens of Washington, and for the most part he did, albeit within his limited abilities. Roach made a good effort, and racked up a lot of success, in keeping violence off the street, in minimizing the gang and drug problems, in cracking down on non-violent crime, and the like. While acceptable under normal circumstances, the existence of the undead presented an unprecedented threat to this city, one that demanded leadership, courage, and the will to act. Not the type of qualities you find from someone unable to think outside his extremely narrow box.

  Granted, no one had ever trained for a scenario such at this at the academy. He could imagine the ridicule if he issued everyone on the force stakes and bottles of holy water. Or the look on the face of the Internal Affairs inspector when one of his cops said, “Sorry, there’s no body to conduct a police brutality investigation on because it turned to dust when we drove a stake through its heart.” Or worse, the panic that would ensue when the public realized that vampires walked amongst them. No, under the instances, the force needed to take unorthodox measures and handle the problem out of the public’s view.

  Neither of which Roach was capable of doing.

  For those few with access to it, enough evidence existed confirming the existence of the undead for anyone with the foresight to recognize it. The testimony of Jason Clark, the eleven-year-old boy attacked at Union Station. The incident on the Metro where Matthews pumped two full magazines of .40 caliber rounds into something powerful enough to walk away from such an attack. The disintegration of the thing that attacked Rodriguez and the others in the sewer during the raid on the row house. Hanley’s description of what happened to Fletcher during the embalming. Christ, he even had the security camera CD-ROM of the vampires who murdered Dekker and that photographer at the morgue, which had cinched it for him.