by C. M. Sutter
“Hello, Second Life Resale, Emma speaking. How can I help you?”
Sam smiled as he listened. The store name was more than ironic. “Hello, I’m wondering if you have any armchairs for sale.”
“We do, but do they need to match?”
“Not at all.”
“Then yes, we have five armchairs in various conditions for sale. I’m afraid the upholstery is stained on all of them, though.”
“No worries, they sound perfect. I’m practicing the craft of reupholstering furniture. They’re probably exactly what I’m looking for. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” Sam clicked off and followed the directions on his GPS.
He found parking along the curb several stores down from Second Life. He scanned the street for anything or anyone who looked suspicious before getting out of his van. The area was sketchy at best. He noticed that most buildings had barred doors and windows, and he was thankful that the occasional ambient store lights helped illuminate the sidewalk. He’d make this quick, buy the chairs, and get out of the area to places he was more familiar with. Even South Chicago looked more inviting than that neighborhood.
Sam exited the van and clicked the fob to lock the doors. The sun had already dipped beneath the horizon, and the early evening air had a definite bite to it. He pulled his hoodie over his head and tightened the drawstrings to keep the wind out. Then he zipped his jacket and walked quickly to the front door. Inside the store, he scanned the area for the large upholstered chairs. He hoped to find some that were sturdy, with high backs and wide arms. They had to meet his needs. Sam browsed the selections as he envisioned how he’d keep the women still while drawing their blood. Several chairs that could work caught his eye.
“Hi. Can I help you find something?”
Sam jumped. He didn’t realize someone had come up behind him.
She chuckled through the hand she had put to her mouth. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you—or laugh.”
Sam sized her up as he began the conversation. She could be a future prospect. “Yeah, no problem. I guess I zoned out for a minute. It’s that artistic thing. I was picturing the fabric I would cover these chairs with.”
“Are you the guy that called earlier about the armchairs?”
“Guilty. So, what do you have?”
She pointed. “Well, there’s the two that you were fawning over”—she grinned—“and three more back here.” She led the way to the rear of the store as Sam followed.
He imagined how the chairs would function as he gave them the once-over. “Ah, yes, these are nice too. I’m looking for the heaviest chairs with wide arms.”
“Sure, and the condition and fabric don’t matter, right?”
Sam gave her a long smile. “Not at all.”
She tipped each chair back to feel the weight then patted the one on the left. “I’d say this one is the heaviest of the three here”—she walked back to the first two—“and this one is the heaviest of these.”
“Yeah, and the arms are wide enough.”
“Wide enough for what?”
“For comfort. I’ll take those two.”
“Okay, I’ll get Jerry from the back and have him give you a hand loading them. Where is your vehicle parked?”
“Out front a few buildings down.”
“Sure, but pulling around the back to our loading dock will work better. The front door isn’t particularly wide.”
Sam nodded and left. Ten minutes later, with the chairs secured in the van, he went back inside and paid thirty-seven dollars for the two of them. The clerk passed the receipt across the counter, and Sam shoved it into his jacket pocket.
“Thanks. It was nice doing business with you, and I hope you enjoy the chairs.”
He looked over his shoulder as he left. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”
The buzzer sounded as Sam pushed through the rear service door and exited Second Life. His mind was a flurry of thoughts as he climbed into the van, turned the key, and pulled out of the alley.
Now to get home, secure the chairs against the wall, make dinner, draw blood from Molly, then leave to prowl for women. Thank God I’m not scheduled to work tomorrow.
He had plenty to do and still no idea who he’d sell the blood to.
Chapter 19
We congregated around the table, this time with four additional officers that Captain Sullivan brought in on the case. We had several hours to review what each of us had discovered that day. Then we’d switch our focus to the gathering Alex Everly had arranged to take place later at Dasher Point. We’d surveil them from a distance, but if anything looked off, we’d bust up their vampire party. As it stood, they’d be trespassing on private property, which would give us the legal right to move in.
Captain Sullivan began by introducing the additional officers. All four were men—Bill Stone, Clark Mills, Peter Jeffries, and Joe Christopher. Sullivan explained that they would be in charge of conducting in-depth interviews. The notes from each interview would be forwarded to us. That would free up time for J.T., me, and the detectives to really dig in and do everything in our power to apprehend the killer.
Sullivan put a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. “So, Andrews and Fitch, let’s hear what you discovered today.”
Andrews began. “Well, the tech department did get into Corrine’s social media site. There are a few more friends she had contact with, which we’ll pass off”—he nodded to his left—“to you guys to interview. No mention of a boyfriend or anybody she had recently met.”
Sullivan tipped his head toward Fitch. “Mel, have anything?”
“Yes, sir, and it isn’t actually a new development but something we found odd.”
J.T. spoke up. “We’re good with odd.”
She gave him a quick smile. “Anyway, we pulled up every garage, tow service, junkyard, chop shop, and statewide police department that could have come across, or had in their possession, Corrine, Taylor, or Heather’s vehicles. Not one facility in Indiana had their plate numbers or VINs on file. Of course, a chop shop wouldn’t admit it, anyway.”
“Humph,” J.T. said. He gave his cheek a thorough scratch. Yesterday’s stubble was popping through. “That is odd, especially with Heather’s vehicle. You’d think it would be sitting somewhere with a half dozen tickets on it, or the city would have had it towed. And with Heather’s case being a recent investigation, why hasn’t a BOLO hit on the car?”
I added my thoughts. “Unfortunately, it takes months before cars are reported as parked where they don’t belong. That’s especially true in large apartment complexes. Nobody notices an extra car sitting around as long as it isn’t parked in somebody’s assigned spot. We all know it could take time to find those cars, but it’s time we don’t have.”
“Nothing turned up on Molly’s car, but hers wasn’t moved. You’d definitely think since the cars weren’t located where the bodies were found, the obvious explanation would be that the killer drove them away,” Fitch said.
“Exactly, but that would also tell us he had to leave a trail behind. Either someone picked him up, meaning an accomplice, or—”
Sullivan interrupted with a moan. “Please don’t say that word.”
“Sorry, sir, but I had to throw it out there. So, either somebody picked him up, he walked back home from the spot he left the vehicles at, or he took some type of public transportation.”
“Maybe you’re on to something, Jade,” Sullivan said as he sat upright.
“Possibly, but the trail has likely gone cold on Corrine and Taylor’s cars. It’s been months.”
Andrews and Fitch looked down at the table and fidgeted. It took a moment before Andrews spoke up. “That was our oversight. We messed up and let valuable information get by us.”
“Well, we still have Heather’s vehicle to look for. Chances are, since the others weren’t found, the killer may have taken her car to the same place he dumped the first two. Why change something if it has worked to perfection?”<
br />
Captain Sullivan wrote that down. “Mills and Stone, follow up with that. Triple-check to make sure Heather Francis’s car isn’t anywhere in Indiana, then move on to Illinois. I-90 runs through both states and they each use tollbooth cameras and plate readers.”
Sullivan turned his focus to J.T. and me. I began. “We interviewed every coworker that had direct access to Heather. Not one person seemed any more suspicious than the next. As with Taylor and Corrine, Heather’s personality came across in the interviews as someone who had few friends and seemed somewhat introverted. The killer may be preying on that type of victim, but how he would know that without being an acquaintance baffles me.”
“It could be luck, nothing more,” Stone said. “He could have been watching any one of the girls for some time from a distance. It’s possible he overheard conversations, watched their mannerisms, and so on. You can generally tell if someone is demure and approachable before too long.”
“Good point, Stone. Okay, in the morning I want you and you”—Sullivan pointed at Peter Jeffries and Joe Christopher—“to keep conducting interviews. Hit the neighborhoods of all the girls, see if the parents of Heather and Taylor know social media sites their daughters had accounts for, pull the phone records for each girl, and so on. You get my drift? Mills and Stone, find out where those cars went. How well did we search Marquette Park, where Heather was found, and the trail system where Molly Davis ran?”
Andrews answered, “Pretty well, sir.”
“Not good enough. Do it again.”
I took another turn. “Tomorrow, J.T. and I are going to talk to Molly Davis’s parents and workmates ourselves. If new information comes in from everyone else, we’ll address that by need and urgency. I’d suggest since Heather and Molly are both very new cases, we keep their profiles and pictures running on the news. Has anything come in on the tip lines?”
“As of before this meeting began, nothing with substance, even though our officers are following up on every lead,” Sullivan said.
I drummed my fingers on the table as I thought. “Did Molly’s parents know what she was wearing when she left home?”
“They said they didn’t see her leave.”
“But they acknowledged Molly ran often, correct?”
“Yes,” Andrews said, “according to the statement they gave.”
“Then they should know what she normally wears to run. Most people who are real runners have several outfits they rotate. They could go through her clothes and see what’s missing.”
“Not a bad idea. Fitch and Andrews, follow up on that tomorrow.” Sullivan leaned back and stretched, then he slapped the table with his open hands. “Take a ten-minute break, then we’ll move on to our surveillance plan for Dasher Point and Alex Everly.”
We stood and stretched too, then everyone headed for the door. J.T. followed at my back.
“Want a coffee?” he asked as we entered the hallway.
“Yeah, I’m going to need a pick-me-up. We still have a long night ahead of us.” We turned right at the first corridor. The break room was straight ahead. Several vending machines lined the wall, and a half pot of coffee sat on the warming tray of the turned-off coffeemaker.
I looked at the coffee suspiciously. “I’m going with the vending machine coffee. That stuff in the pot was probably from this morning, and it’s cold, anyway. Want a candy bar or chips?” I opened the zipper on my coin purse and dumped all the change out onto the table. Quarters spun and pennies rolled and fell to the floor. “Damn coins are weighing my purse down.”
“So it’s necessary to get rid of them?”
“Yeah, kind of.”
“Okay, I’ll take a bag of chips, then. You know, all of those coins dumped into a sock and tied would make a pretty good weapon.”
“Hmm, but so does my Glock 22, and I have a lot more range with that.” I pulled my coffee from the door at the bottom of the machine, handed J.T. three quarters for his, and moved on to the snack machine.
Five minutes later, everyone was back in their seat with a cup of coffee in front of them. I tossed six bags of chips onto the table and told the group to help themselves.
Captain Sullivan slid color photos of the abandoned steel mill across the table. “Have any of you officers ever been out to Dasher Point?” Grumbling and headshakes confirmed that nobody had. “Well, like most abandoned steel mills, Dasher Point is large and has many areas where a gathering can take place, inside or out. The mill has been closed for thirty years, and the structure is dangerous and rickety. My best guess would be the gathering, or ritual, as they call it—” He stopped and looked across the table at Andrews. “How many people were going to be at this hoedown according to that site Alex posted on?”
“Between twenty and thirty, sir.”
Sullivan rolled his neck. “Okay, with that many people, they’ll be hard to miss. I’m sure they’ll either be outside near the structure where they can build a bonfire or on the lower level where the floors have succumbed to the dirt. We’ll watch for fire and listen for chanting, or whatever those weirdos do. I’ve done a little research, but since this is just a theory, I don’t want to spend too much time on it. Anyway, they either feed on each other’s blood or have safe donated blood they share. Apparently, they believe they need to drink blood for energy. Most of the time they dress the part, especially when they go to the vampire dance raves. I think—but don’t quote me on it—the rituals done outside are mostly chanting their beliefs and sharing blood, usually with a bonfire for warmth or ambience.”
I shook my head, and Sullivan turned to me.
“Jade, what are you thinking?”
“If they’re just drinking each other’s blood, with permission, then the MO wouldn’t fit. They aren’t killing random people to drain and drink their blood.”
“Maybe or maybe not. The larger these covens get and the more popular that vampire lifestyle becomes, the more blood they’ll want. Some so-called vampires drink blood daily, others less often. No matter what, they’re trespassing, and that will give us the right to investigate into their activities. If they have extra blood, it could be animal or human, and if it is human, we’re going to find out where it came from.” He jabbed one of the photos with his index finger. “There are several ways to get into this place. I’m guessing they’ll take the most well-known, easy route in, and that’s what used to be the main entrance. It’s overgrown but drivable. We’ll go in through the back. It’s a road the big trucks used to go in and out of to the loading docks. They probably don’t know that road exists. We’ll park and walk in, so make sure you’re dressed for the weather. Wear sturdy shoes, gloves, and a warm hat if you have one. We’ve got plenty of binoculars to pass around. We’ll watch their activity and see what shakes loose. No matter what, Alex Everly, or as he likes to call himself, Massimo, has some explaining to do.”
Chapter 20
We moved in, and other than the occasional crunch of a rock under tires, our approach was smooth and silent. Each cruiser followed the one before it, apparently unnoticed by the group farther ahead that would soon be under surveillance. We parked and exited our cars several football field lengths from the twenty to thirty people we saw through our binoculars. We crept in closer on foot. Nine of us had positioned ourselves about a hundred yards back from the deserted mill. Crouched behind stacks of rusted metal that had been thrown in a waste heap, we had been surveilling the group for twenty minutes. With binoculars pressed against our eyes, we watched as they piled old boards and two-by-fours ten feet high to start their bonfire. One person was clearly in charge. I whispered to Sullivan and asked if that was Alex. He gave me a nod.
They dressed in similar fashion, each wearing black pants, a coat, and shoes that resembled combat boots. Through the binoculars, they looked like any other person under thirty and weren’t donning the white skin, fangs, or capes seen at Halloween. Maybe they chose to look more exotic only when out in public at dance clubs. They circled the now ten-foot-tall
flames with their hands locked. From our position, we heard the sounds of chanting, or possibly prayers, but we couldn’t make out the words. For all I knew, they could be reciting something in Latin or Romanian.
I kept my binoculars focused on Alex. If anyone were to call out commands or start the blood ritual, it would likely be him. As they completed their chant, they lifted their heads and split into several groups.
“It looks like something is about to go down,” J.T. whispered.
Several men approached a group of antique looking wooden boxes trimmed with brass nail heads. The boxes sat ten feet to their backs. Four other men went to the double rear doors of an extended van and lifted out a long wooden table. With two men at each end, they carried it to within ten feet of the fire and set it on the ground. Two chairs were lifted out of the van and placed at either end of the table.
I adjusted the focus to get the best clarity. Bonfire smoke clouded their actions at times, but now Alex was back in view. He was seated on the far right end of the table, and another man sat on the left.
“Who the hell is that—his underboss?” I turned to look at J.T., who was shoulder to shoulder with me. He shrugged.
Several of Alex’s minions placed the wooden boxes in the center of the table. We had a clear view of their movements.
Alex stood and, with his right hand, drew a symbol in the air. The group mirrored what he had just done, and they waited as Alex approached the first box to his left. He removed eight knives that looked to be about six inches long. The man who had been seated on the left end of the table rose and approached Alex. He stood at his side and removed eight hand towels from a bag slung over his shoulder. He placed them on the table next to the knives. One by one, a line of people approached the table, took a knife and towel, and knelt beside another person sitting on the ground.
