The Love-Haight Case Files

by Jean Rabe, Donald J. Bingle

  “But blood,” Thomas said.

  Evelyn saw what Thomas had done, learned a little bit about Dimitar, got him to talk and relax—he was not fidgeting near as much, and now was swinging the conversation around to the heart of the matter.

  “You drink blood,” Thomas continued.

  “Sure. Sure.”

  “That is food to you.”

  “Sure. Sure. But I do not need much blood to survive. Once, twice sometimes a week is all I go out and buy for. Here in jail, they provide me blood once a day, a small bag.”

  “And you worked at a blood bank,” Thomas said. “Part-time, right? Four nights a week?”

  A new expression crossed Dimitar’s face: mean, ugly, angry, suspicious. Evelyn saw all of those things. She also saw him clench his fists, the knuckles turning bone-white.

  “I do not get my blood there, from the blood bank. Well, I do … but I don’t. I told Ms. Wyndam-Smyth that. I told the judge that. I explained it all. My blood, I buy it from Type-O-To-Go on Geary near the Alcazar Theatre, the blood store in the Tenderloin. My brother buys there, too. The prices are good … animal blood, human blood, sometimes fey blood … but that is too expensive for me, and I do not care for it anyway. My brother, he likes fey blood, though. They also carry corpses and assorted body parts for the ghouls and zombies. It is all regulated. They have a business license.”

  “Is that the only place you went to buy blood for drinking?” Thomas asked.

  “Sure. Sure. But I know what you hint at. There are other places in the Tenderloin, places where the living people go to get their blood drained, to get high from the experience, euphoric. Some say it gives them a sexual buzz. Some of the living people go to those places looking to be made a vampire. But those places are not legal, Mr. Brock, no those places are not. People, they can die in those places. And those looking to become one of us … it does not always work. The police, they raid those places when they find them. I do not go there, and I do not think my brother goes there either. We obey the law, Ms. Love, Mr. Brock. We respect this country and all of its many, many laws.”

  “Tell us more about the blood bank,” Thomas coaxed.

  Dimitar tugged on the chain, and the post in the center of the table wiggled. “The blood bank I worked at … it supplies hospitals. It is closely regulated, the blood carefully tested and typed. Not like at Type-O-To-Go and other such stores. Those stores never test the blood. They just buy it from those who roll up their sleeves. They are not required to test it. For us? For vampires, it is not necessary to screen the pints we drink. Blood is blood. But bad blood leaves a funny taste sometimes.”

  Evelyn intended to write all of this down the moment she left here. Thomas had suggested she not take notes during the first meeting, just rely on her memory, make a judgment on whether she would take the case, and schedule a second meeting to follow up for more details.

  “At the blood bank,” Evelyn nudged. “What was your job there?”

  “I worked in the lab at night, four nights a week. But sometimes three. It depended on the schedule. They always kept me under the full-time mark so I would not qualify for insurance and benefits.”

  “So you have had lab technician training?” Evelyn pressed.

  “No.”

  “Then what, precisely, did you do in the lab?” Thomas leaned halfway into the table. “Your employment record says technician.”

  This time when Dimitar shrugged the bench groaned ominously. “I am a taste-tester, Mr. Brock. But the blood bank, I do not think they want the hospitals or the public to know that.”

  Evelyn sucked in a breath. “You taste blood? For the blood bank?”

  “Sure. Sure. That job … that was the reason I only bought a pint of blood from Type-O-To-Go once or twice a week. I was taste-testing enough to keep me filled. See, all those tests they run on blood with microscopes and whirr-machines, they are not perfect. Sometimes, Ms. Love, sometimes a donor is so recently exposed to something that it doesn’t show up in the blood right away—at least through the usual testing methods. You see, those tests and the whirr-machines do not pick up the early-early diseases, which can get passed along through transfusions. But I can pick up the early-early diseases. My palate? It is so refined I am better than all those machines and microscopes. Not all vampires have such a refined palate. I am a bit of an exception. Perhaps my years in the bakery helped. So, like I say, I was testing so much blood I never had to buy a lot for myself. I was the only vampire working at that blood bank. They had a few zombies, though, in the cleaning crew.”

  “And you tested every sample?” Evelyn asked.

  “Sure. Sure. Just a teaspoon’s worth is all I’d need to check. I’d usually find bad blood a couple of times a week. And the bad stuff? They let me have that. I drank it on site, never took any home. Most of the blood, though, most coming in was good and safe for the hospitals. And before you ask, no, I do not know if other blood banks in other places use vampires for taste-testers. And, no, I did not ever say that blood was bad just so I could have it. I do not lie.”

  Evelyn sat back. HIV was still prevalent in San Francisco, and she guessed that was primarily what Dimitar was talking about. If someone had just been exposed and had given blood, standard testing methods might not reveal that.

  “HIV.” Thomas voiced her thoughts. “You test for HIV-tainted blood.”

  “And hepatitis B and hepatitis C, too. Those are the most common blood-borne pathogens, Mr. Brock. Bacterial contaminations too, though not so often. But every once in a while a … oh, what do they call it … component. Sometimes a ‘component’ will become contaminated during collection or processing, and it isn’t caught until someone receives a transfusion and has a reaction. I taste for all of those things. I keep people from getting sick with bad blood.”

  “Wow,” Evelyn said. “Important work.”

  “So I did not do this thing they say. I did not steal blood. Why would I need to, Ms. Love? And why would I? Thou shalt not steal.” Again he made the sign of the cross. “My boss, Ginny Sams, she wants me cleared so I can go back. She came to visit me yesterday. You talk to her. She will tell you I did not do this thing.”

  Evelyn consulted the papers in the folder. On the floor above, a wheeled cart clattered by again and another cell door ratcheted open and closed.

  “Fahim Yar’Adua, one of the evening shift lab technicians, documented blood missing on three consecutive shifts that you worked. He claims he saw you stuffing pints in your backpack on one of those nights and slipping out the side door. He’s the one who went to the police.” Evelyn closed the folder. “That’s basically the extent of the evidence. That, and a police search of your apartment yielded a dozen empty pint containers stamped with the blood bank logo.” The report also said there were no fingerprints found on the containers, something she found suspicious but did not mention to Dimitar.

  “Fahim Yar’Adua tells lies, Ms. Love. I do not. And those containers? Someone put them in my apartment. I think the word is planted, yes?”

  “I believe you,” Evelyn said. She really did.

  “So you will take my case? I will let my brother pay you. I want to go home. I want to see my Bella. And I want my job back. Of all the jobs I’ve held in San Francisco, I like tasting blood the best.”

  “Yes, we will take your case,” Evelyn said. She shook his hand. It was cold.

  Chapter 3.6

  The bus driver was some sort of troll, wedged in tight and head rising above all those seated behind him, spiked ridge of hair teasing the ceiling. For all of his bulk, it looked like he’d have a hard time turning the steering wheel, but he managed it deftly. He wove in and out of traffic, proving to be an expert at negotiating the busy streets.

  Evelyn and Thomas sat halfway back. Thomas, the only obvious OT passenger, was well aware that the other riders’ stares were divided between himself and the troll. Two tough-looking men seated at the back were nervously eying him. He toyed around with drifting their way
to see if he could spook them because they were so insensitive, but decided that wouldn’t help the image of OTs in the city, and it might get him tossed off the bus.

  “At least this is easier on the office expenses, eh?” Thomas gave Evelyn his full attention. They’d only been charged one fare despite Evelyn again trying to pay for two. Apparently ghosts weren’t recognized as real passengers on either the bus line or the trolley—maybe because they couldn’t physically put money or tokens in the box. “A two-fer, you know.”

  “I’d think we should be able to get the charges dismissed,” Evelyn said, changing the subject to the case. Thomas liked her passion for law and their clients. “I’d really like to go to trial, good experience and publicity. But dismissal would be the best route for the client. It’s a first offense, and Dimitar has no record. Get the D.A. or the judge to drop the charges and spare Dimitar the stigma of a permanent criminal record.”

  Thomas kept his voice low. Other conversations were going on around them, including repeated mention of a ghost on board. “It’s not going to be that easy. It should be, given the first offense charge. Keep it off his record, that’s the way you’d think it would go. Then he should be able to get his job back … or one just like it. But I’ve a bad feeling about this case.”

  Evelyn’s eyebrows rose.

  Thomas thought she looked cute when she was curious. He floated closer until her face filled his vision. “Look, it should be easy. And we can take a stab at dismissal, but it’ll have to be through the judge. The D.A. will dig his heels in. I know him. Manny Rizzo’s been assigned the case. He’s all-out against OTs. It wouldn’t have been a ‘grand theft’ matter otherwise. Most first-time charges like this usually come across as misdemeanors. Under Penal Code 487, a misdemeanor charge is certainly allowed. Or the D.A. settles before arraignment, asking for community service, theft counseling, and looking for a promise in writing to repay the victim. Even though Dimitar claims he’s innocent, taking a misdemeanor plea gets him home fast. Besides, the misdemeanor route saves a lot of court time and is easy on the city coffers. But according to the paperwork, Rizzo went straight for grand theft.”

  “Why? What does Rizzo have against OTs?”

  Thomas saw his hazy reflection in the window and thought that when he shrugged his shoulders it looked like fog rising from a riverbank and settling back down again. Still, the two toughs watched him, whispered, and pointed. A woman in the seat directly in front of the pair pulled out her cell phone and snapped a picture of Thomas.

  “I suppose we could do some digging, find out where Rizzo’s hate comes from. But that isn’t going to matter. At least not right now. Not for this case. What matters is attacking the evidence as soon as possible, and digging into this supposed witness. Dimitar’s case has been fast-tracked because of pressure from Rizzo. We have an initial appearance next week.”

  “We can go for a continuance, since we just signed on, but Dimitar wants to go home. He’s going to support a quick trial. We could request another bail hearing, I suppose. Try to get him home that way.” Evelyn ran her fingers through her short red hair.

  Thomas thought it shimmered like liquid copper in the sunlight that streamed through the bus’s windows. Did she know that he was staring at her? Did she know that she was beautiful?

  “Or we could give this our full attention and plow ahead. The evidence is light. We haven’t had a chance to look at the witness yet.”

  “Javor thinks his brother will be staring down a dozen years if we can’t break the evidence. A dozen years.” She whistled. “That’s a lot of time for some pints of blood.… blood that I’m certain Dimitar didn’t take. You can just tell. Our client really is innocent. A lie detector test? That’d help, wouldn’t it? Not admissible in court, but it could help. Unfortunately, our client doesn’t have a beating heart.”

  The bus rounded a corner a little too quickly, and Evelyn grabbed the edge of her seat with one hand and hugged her briefcase close with the other. The troll laid on the horn, stuck his head out the window, and hollered: “Get your cab out of the way or I’ll eat you!” Then everything settled back down.

  “You know, there was a case I read about recently. Right in our backyard. A one-time executive with the Haight-Ashbury Free Clinics got seven years in prison on a grand theft charge. He defrauded the nonprofit out of nearly eight hundred thousand. He pled it out, two felony counts of grand theft, a half dozen counts of tax evasion, agreed to repay all the money, plus back taxes and fines all totaling about a million. It was basically well-organized embezzlement. Seven years for about a million dollars, and Rizzo is going for a dozen years with our vampire client for a few pints of blood.”

  “I like the sound of that,” Evelyn said. “Not the dozen years, the ‘our client’ part.”

  They got off at the stop in front of the Glide Memorial Church.

  “Not the best neighborhood,” Evelyn mused. “But the Tenderloin somehow looks safer in the daylight.”

  They hadn’t walked a dozen yards before Thomas realized the toughs had gotten off at the same stop. The swarthy-looking pair sprinted past them, jumped in front of Evelyn, and the stockier one pulled out a sap and slapped it against his hand.

  “That case you was jawing about on the bus,” he began, thwacking the sap rhythmically. “You need to be dropping it, pretty lady. Like right now.”

  “Or you aren’t going to stay pretty for much longer,” the other growled. “You don’t need to be defending no damn vampire. Let him rot in jail for a while. Healthier for you.”

  “Yeah. Healthier.” The sap beat out a faster meter. “Unless you want to see if you can end up a ghost like your partner there. I’d hate to have to ruin that Cover Girl look you got going.”

  If Thomas were living he knew he would’ve felt the blood rush to his face, his heart pump in a combination of fear and ire, and he would have stepped between Evelyn and the thugs. His chivalry had not abandoned him, and so he placed himself in front of her, manifesting as visibly as possible and putting on his best terrifying face.

  The thugs looked to be in their mid- to late-twenties, heavy stubble on their faces, dark eyes. Perhaps they were brothers. They were both wearing jeans and black jackets. They laughed and stepped through him, the stocky one raised the sap and then instantly was driven back on his rump. Evelyn had kicked him in the gut.

  “I’m tired of this!” she hollered, bringing her foot up again in a roundhouse move and connecting with the second man, her heel driving into the flesh of his thigh. He didn’t drop, but the blow staggered him.

  Thomas floated above the trio, keening like a banshee to attract attention, hopefully of a passing cop. There was nothing he could do physically. He felt useless.

  “I’m tired of running,” Evelyn spat and she swung her briefcase at the stocky fellow who was trying to get up. The edge of the case caught him in the jaw and his head snapped back and hit the sidewalk. He groaned.

  She followed through, and Thomas knew if he was living he’d be gulping in air in surprise. She slammed her left foot down on the hand holding the sap, placed her right foot on his stomach in an effort to keep him down, and swung the briefcase in an arc to keep the thinner thug back.

  “Done being nice, lady!” The thinner thug reached into a side pocket and pulled out a knife.

  Without pause, Evelyn pushed off the man on the ground and used the briefcase like a shield, gripping it with both hands and slamming it against the thin one, knocking the knife out of his hand just as the blade had snapped open. “Yeah, well I’m done being threatened!”

  “H-h-hey!” the thin guy sputtered. “We’re just giving you a warning.” He skittered back as she swung the briefcase again. “Just being polite.”

  “Polite, my ass! And no one tells me what case I can or can’t take!”

  Thomas was shocked by her language. He saw that her face was red—no doubt a mix of anger and exertion. He knew she was an avid runner, but he was unaware she knew self-defense. He
was proud of her, a little worried, but pride was winning out. There were people on the sidewalk across the street, and Thomas keened to get their attention. “The police,” he shouted. “Call the police!” They stared a moment, then kept walking. “The police!”

  There were more people coming out the Glide Memorial Church behind them, and he saw one woman with an ear bud phone, tapping it and talking furiously. Another man was on a cell phone, and a third was holding a cell phone up and taking pictures with it. Two in the group were cheering Evelyn on.

  The stocky thug had finally managed to get up. Shoulder to shoulder now, the pair faced Evelyn, crouching, ready. Thomas’s attention was divided between Evelyn and the people coming out of the church … a minister in the group now, judging by the dark clothes and collar. He rushed toward Evelyn, shouting and waving. The half dozen parishioners followed, one thickset woman pumping her arm in the air and hollering: “Let’s get them!”

  Evelyn dropped her briefcase, bent at the knees, spun, and caught the stocky thug in the knee with another side kick. “And as for a warning … I’ll give you a warning! Leave me alone!”

  “Women!” The thin man made a move to bend and retrieve his knife, but she kicked out again.

  “Let’s get out of here, Chuma. Now!” The thickset man glanced at his sap on the sidewalk and apparently decided to leave it. “C’mon, Chuma.”

  The two whirled, feet pounding over the cement. A handful of people—tourists judging by their attire and cameras—were heading toward the church. The fleeing men barreled into them, knocking three to the sidewalk before continuing their mad dash. They were out of sight moments before Thomas heard a siren.

  The parishioners surrounded Evelyn and questions buzzed.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Wow, you’re hot!” This from a teenage boy, who was giving her an appreciative up and down.

  The minister picked up her briefcase and handed it to her. “Are you hurt?”

  “Hurt?” The woman who’d been pumping her fist shoved in close. “She ain’t hurt, Reverend, she’s awesome. What’s your name, honey? I blog for The Recorder. I’d like to interview you.”