by Lee McGeorge
“Oh, yes. I can show you that.”
Ciprian radioed for assistance and waited for backup. They dropped Mihai off with a social worker and then with four men in tow he made his way to the sixth floor.
Ciprian raised his hand to knock.
“Remember, this guy could be insane.” One of the officers commented. “You saw what he did in the forest. He cut that guy’s guts out.”
The police officers looked to one another waiting for guidance. For the first time in his career, Ciprian withdrew his pistol. He motioned the others to do likewise and step back. They backed away from the door and prepared to shoot as Ciprian knocked.
They waited.
He knocked again.
Nothing.
He banged hard. It brought out a neighbour who was surprised to find five armed policeman all poised for a shootout. The neighbour said they hadn’t seen or heard anyone there for a few days and asked if they wanted the landlady’s telephone number.
They all sighed in unison.
“Please,” Ciprian answered.
----- X -----
Lupescu stared through his office window slowly drawing on a cigarette. The room was lit with a single desk lamp, dark and subdued. There was no guilty culprit sitting around. That was what he’d expected. Most of the police knew this stuff by superstition and reputation and none of them really believed in vampires. Of course the word ‘vampire’ was nothing but a label, a moniker for a violent and random act. Lupescu knew there had to be some truth in it somewhere.
Noua, just like the last two times. One of the big reasons that Noua was so cheap and filled with poor people was the belief in devil forests. There was a local superstition of men becoming vampires and people only lived there because they couldn’t afford a place in the city of Brasov.
The back wall of the office was a bookcase of dark mahogany with crafted glass doors. It was the type of case to hold antique books and was a fine piece of workmanship made during communist times. Lupescu unlocked the case, located the file he needed and sat down with it on his desk.
The title read, Aberantă Violente Incidente
Reporting guidelines. There had to be something in this vampire legend in Noua. Three incidents at least in the space of his career. This stuff didn’t happen elsewhere in Brasov.
Lupescu flipped through the folder wishing he didn’t have to. He wanted to report this when it was all wrapped up and final, not whilst the investigation was ongoing.
He didn’t even know what he was supposed to say. The half-baked forensic investigation could tell him no more than Nealla Stolojan’s body was frozen solid. Time of death was impossible to determine. For all they knew he could have been there for a month.
The only thing the forensics team did of genuine merit was accidentally discover a second body. Nealla’s sidekick Raul Ponta had also met his end out there. In Raul’s case, the killing seemed controlled, a few precise knife wounds to the neck, but Nealla was quartered by a maniac who enjoyed the sight of blood. Lupescu had put a few extra officers aside to help the forensic team pick through the area just to make sure there weren’t any more bodies in the immediate vicinity. Nothing would make them look more inept than discovering a third body after the fact.
Lupescu dialled a telephone number. A serious sounding woman answered on the second ring. “Bună dimineata,” the woman said. “Institutul de Cercetare Psihopatologice.”
Institute of Psychopathological Research. What the hell did that even mean?
“Bună,” Lupescu said. “This is Comisar de Poliţie Brasov, Ion Lupescu. I wish to report an ongoing A.V.I.”
“Ongoing?” the lady asked.
“We have two murders that meet A.V.I. criteria. We do not have a suspect or obvious perpetrator.”
“One moment, Officer Lupescu, I will transfer you to Dr. Noica directly.”
----- X -----
By late afternoon darkness had consumed the squat. The window was boarded up with corrugated steel plates and the slight wave at the top allowed the tiniest light to spill in from the street. Paul thought it best to block the window entirely before turning on any lights. The home must look abandoned from the street.
The bed and mattress were wet and he’d muscled them out into the back yard. He’d brought dry bedding down from one of the bedsits, but the place was still damp. With nothing to do he climbed into the bed and set his laptop on his legs.
He was in a strange bed, in a strange room, with odd smells and a musty, dank quality to the air. It was dark except for the laptop screen. The air felt icy cold.
“This is your life now,” he mumbled to himself. Somehow he knew not to dwell on this, to fight the misery away and focus on what had to be done. He couldn’t allow himself to feel sad, or to wish that things hadn’t happened as they had. He couldn’t permit his mind to drift to his lost future. He was supposed to become a journalist or writer for money, but the offer of a middle class existence as a professional man had been withdrawn. His friends would all attain their professional status and happy family lives whilst he would be a drifter for life. He wouldn’t permit himself to think about what his friends would say when the police eventually came to talk with them. It was gone. His friends, his future, his happiness.
The exhilaration of finding the place had evaporated to leave him with the reality. He was living in a damp squat. He was on the run.
“This is all your fault, Nisha.”
It wasn’t, but he just wanted to say it. He wanted a target, a focus for his attention to place blame and hate. A swell of emotion in his chest threatened to make him cry. He felt like he should purge and get it all out but some lower instinct was preventing him. He had to stay tough and focussed. No matter how badly Nisha Khumari had ruined his life. He had to remain single minded in his goal of evasion by new identity. God, he wanted to slit her throat right now. The logical part of his mind that was focussed on future planning was controlling him and wouldn’t let him cry. But Nisha was still there, teasing from the edges. Nisha Khumari with her Bollywood beautiful looks and sensuous dusky skin. The logical part of him had no patience for emotion. But the lower part of his instinct was looking into her eyes as she hitched up her dress, he could feel his heart quicken as she took hold of his hand and guided his fingers into her panties so he could feel her cunt. The bitch even squatted slightly as she leaned against the wall and opened her legs wider to make it easier for him to finger-bang her. How the fuck could she accuse him of rape? She was leaning against the wall, sipping vodka over ice and getting her pussy rubbed in the darkness whilst everybody else partied downstairs.
And now he was a vagrant in a damp squat and it was all her fault for her fucking lies. The bitch cunt!
Stop this.
“Don’t mourn for the old life,” his subconscious spoke with the soft skills and competent tones of an effective manager. “Keep fighting to build a new future. Focus on that. Focus on getting better... For Ildico.”
Ildico.
He searched his laptop for images of her. A picture of her could defeat a thousand thoughts of Nisha. He chose a favourite at Castle Bran, the castle most associated with the story of Dracula. She had taken him there for research, to help him with his story. They had taken a walk in the forest, trudging through crisp fresh snow, enjoying one another’s company.
He remembered how he had been overcome with a sudden urge to throw her to the floor and rape her. It was a completely non-linear thought at the time and now he realised it was the first time he had such an intrusive violent thought. They were walking and suddenly he wanted to punch her and hurt her and throw her to the floor. He wanted to tear at her clothes, he wanted to see her cry.
Why should he want such things?
He had never desired such a thing before. In fact, until that point the thought of violent sex was a turn off. He was a sophisticated and intelligent young man who was kind and respectful to women. There had never been arousal or enjoyment from such ideas before. So why
did it suddenly become so damn sexually frustrating? For what reason should his mind become consumed and overwhelmed by rape fantasies?
As he relived the memory he felt his eyes begin to dart backwards and forwards. It hurt him, like a knife screwing into his head, it made his eyes feel sore. He noticed his hands begin to tremble as the muscles of his arms and shoulders tensed.
Calm it down... think of Ildico.
It worsened.
He closed the laptop with shaking hands and whispered the words, “Sublimation. Get better. Do it for Ildico. Calm down.”
It worsened further.
God, he really could rape Nisha Khumari right now. To lay between her legs, fucking her, choking her, watching her cry.
His teeth began clamping together as the clenched muscles travelled from his shoulders to neck and face. With pain in his jaw he hissed the words, “Ildico won’t love you if you behave like this.”
The words acted like cold water splashed in his face. There was a short shock and the trembling and clenched muscles began to ease.
It was the purer thoughts that helped, thoughts on Ildico. That was what he wanted. If she loved him, if she desired him, that would somehow make everything better. He had to win her heart by being good. Win her heart. Sublimate these terrible feelings and desires for the sake of winning her heart. She was a prize worth fighting for. Do what it takes. Do whatever it takes. Fight these urges and impulses. Sublimate this negative desire. For Ildico.
Do it for Ildico... Don’t even think about Nisha... don’t think about her. Don’t. DONT!
----- X -----
“One has been completely disembowelled. The abdomen is empty and the entrails have been stretched out to either side. He looks like a pig carcass in a butcher’s window.”
The cultured voice asked, “Could it be an animal attack?”
Lupescu furrowed his brow. “Not unless this animal is using a big knife. The bodies aren’t eaten or torn or... Mr. Noica, I assure you, you don’t need a medical degree to see that this was done with a bladed weapon.”
“I’m sorry, I realise that may have sounded condescending. I often get called out to violent crimes that are not A.V.I.’s”
“Sir, with respect. I don’t understand why I need to call you anyway. I just know that if something this violent happens without reason, like this thing in Noua...”
“Noua! Oh, my God, Noua! ...of course, Noua is on the outskirts of Brasov.”
Lupescu caught the surprise. The situation was a collage of information that didn’t quite fit together for him; but to the man on the phone, it sounded like everything made perfect sense.
“Mr. Lupescu, please secure the murder scene and ensure your officers are safe. The person who did this may attack again and do so without warning, the murderer may not even realise what they’ve done. I’m coming to Brasov now and will be there in about two hours.”
“It happened before in Noua,” Lupescu said. “When I was just starting out in the police it happened. In fact, I think it’s happened twice.”
“Not twice,” Noica added. “In Noua, it’s happened four times. I’ll be there in two hours.”
----- X -----
As the landlady unlocked the apartment door the policemen began sweating. Ciprian withdrew his weapon. He would go into the apartment alone. In the wait for the landlady he had formed a mental image of finding another dead body inside. The most recurrent thought would be to find this Englishman slumped against the wall in a pool of blood. Better that than finding him alive and crazy.
The door pushed open.
Linoleum floor in the entrance. A mild scent of bleach. There was an open door to the left, another door ahead, and a corner to the right. He edged inside and peeked through the left door. A kitchen, empty.
The door ahead looked like a sitting room. There was a sofa under the window and an armchair facing the main wall, but there was nobody in there. The chair was odd, it was right in the centre of the room.
Ciprian backed out and moved into the dogs-leg corridor. The first door was a bedroom; covers were strewn about the place and a smell of sweat and mildew. He crouched to look under the bed. Nothing.
The bathroom was next.
Spots of blood on the porcelain. Brown streaks on a bar of soap that could be blood. There was a plastic bucket in the bathtub, a towel hung over the side, crumpled clothes on the floor. Evidence of a presence. Evidence that someone had been there.
The last room had no furniture and led to a balcony.
Empty. The place was empty. He holstered his weapon and walked back through the apartment. “It’s clear,” he called to the other police hovering on the landing outside.
He looked in the sitting room again and noticed the oddly placed armchair in the centre of the room. This time he noticed a few nested tables ahead of the chair upon which was a cruciform, a large wooden cross with a silver figurine of Christ. When he turned back he saw the wall of notes. The longest length of the room was covered in neatly arranged sheets of yellow legal paper to make eight large panels. They covered almost the entire wall. There was writing all over these pages. Whoever sat in that chair looked at these writings like they were paintings in an art gallery. The writing was in English and seemed a disjointed mess. Outside the apartment the policemen laughed at a joke he hadn’t heard whilst at the same time Ciprian’s blood turned very cold. He called out to the policemen and snapped his fingers three times to signal them.
They went quiet. “What is it?” one of them called.
“We need to get the photographer out here,” he replied.
His eyes darted across the pages, reading out all the words that his school level English language skills could understand. Words like, vampire, kill, murder, hide, blood, massacre. Everywhere he looked the notes seemed to say vampire, vampire, vampire, kill, kill, kill. One note in the bottom corner looked like it had been scratched on. The handwriting was shaky and the pen had trailed a messy jagged line before tearing the paper to scratch the wall. It said ‘Fuck Nisha, Kill the bitch.’
Mihai had told him he was looking for an English vampire. Whoever lived in this apartment had no television, radio, books or any form of entertainment that could be seen. The only thing here was an empty chair facing a wall full of murderous ideas written in English.
Ciprian looked back to the armchair.
“Who sits in this chair?” he wondered aloud. “And where are you now?”
----- X -----
Lupescu pushed through queues of people to find Lucian Noica. The public areas of Brasov police station always looked like a rush hour train station and queues of three and four hours to get a rubber stamp on a driving license or passport were not uncommon. People brought food and had picnics whilst standing in line. It was noisy, even this late in the day when most people had gotten what they wanted or given up waiting.
“Dr. Noica?” Lupescu asked looking at the out of place man. “I’m Ion Lupescu.”
Noica was about fifty years old, immaculately dressed in a dark blue pinstripe suit and a tie that couldn’t be set more perfectly straight with a spirit level. His light brown hair was immaculate, his shoes were shined to glass... Jesus Christ, he was fucking perfect.
Noica reached out a hand to shake as he stood. Lupescu noticed the double cuff to his shirt and the subtle silver cufflink holding them. All his life he’d wanted a shirt like that. Against Noica, he suddenly felt like a dishevelled, overweight slob and as they walked back to his office he had to fight the urge to stare at him.
“We have a person of interest we’re searching for,” Lupescu began. “His name is Paul McGovern and we believe he is either British or American.”
“But you haven’t found him in the local vicinity?”
“No. He wasn’t just sitting there if that was what you mean.”
“That is what I mean.”
Lupescu waited for Noica to continue. He didn’t.
“McGovern is renting a place in Noua,” he conti
nued. “It’s only a few hundred metres from the murders. The victims, Nealla Stolojan and Raul Ponta, have a... cohort, I suppose you could describe him as. A young kid. He’s twelve years old, mentally retarded, a heroin addict and has full blown AIDS.”
“Unlucky.” Noica said matter-of-fact.
Lupescu snorted a laugh. “Yes, you could say that. So this kid, Mihai, he told one of my officers about an English vampire.” He paused to see how Noica took the word ‘vampire’. He made no movement. “The boy led us to an apartment block where we discovered the name of Paul McGovern and inside the apartment my officers found what they are describing as ‘vampire writings’ across the wall.”
“Vampire writings?”
Lupescu shrugged. “That is how it was described to me. It’s being photographed as we speak.”
“Would it be possible to see the apartment this evening?”
“We should get photographs tonight, but I doubt forensics will have the place ready until tomorrow. I’m afraid most things are going to wait until the morning. We’ve got the kid, Mihai downstairs we want to talk to, but he’s not easy to communicate with and we’re having a specialist social worker come in first thing to help us.”
The phone rang. Lupescu answered. “Buna... Da...” he started writing notes quickly then looked up to Noica and repeated the information so that Noica could hear too. “Paul McGovern went through passport control... Do you know his destination? ...he went to London. OK... when did this happen?”
The call ended.
“He’s left the country?” Noica asked mildly startled.
Lupescu nodded. “He flew out of Bucharest a few days ago... I take it this is what you were expecting?”
Noica pursed his lips. “No. It’s not what I expect. Mr. McGovern may be just some ordinary crazy person, not an A.V.I, or he may not be the person responsible.”
