Bleeders

by Anthony Bruno

  The pale yellow sheets and the marigold print comforter were soaked in blood. A clear plastic tube clogged with coagulated blood was uncoiled between her legs, one end starting at her chest under the flap of her unbuttoned dress. There was more blood on the bed than one would have thought a trim woman on the smallish side would have had in her, but Trisha knew from experience that the human body—even a small body—holds a lot and it spreads fast and wide though cotton fabric.

  Detective Pete Warwick of the NYPD Homicide Unit stood to the side of the bed, arms crossed, head cocked. He was Trisha’s liaison with the police, which meant he was her babysitter. She was on loan from the FBI to give the police a detailed profile of the unsub, the unknown subject. She liked Pete, but he was the most uncop-like cop she’d ever met, a hipster cop, if there was such a thing, from his blasé, snarky attitude to his black peg-legged trousers. Around 30, she guessed, with coal-black hair and a receding hairline, and every once in a while he even wore black Chuck Taylors with his black suits and skinny black ties, which all looked weird on his six-foot, 200-pound cop body. Could they have been paired because she was considered something of an oddball herself, and the brass figured she should have an equally odd cop to keep her company? Whatever the reason, she’d stopped pondering it. Pete was a good guy and they got along just fine.

  “Was the body touched?” she asked him. “Is this how the first responders found her?”

  “God, are you boring,” he said, pushing his black horn-rimmed glasses up his pudgy nose. “At every crime scene, you say the same thing.”

  “And I supposed you freestyle it every time you get a new vic?”

  “Improvisation has its benefits.”

  “Yeah, right.” She zeroed in on the blood smears on the dead woman’s chest and neck. “Time of death? Any idea?”

  “Wellllll… 24 hours ago, give or take. Blood’s pretty crusty around the wound.”

  She frowned at him. If this was Drac’s work, the wound would be on her chest under her clothes. “I thought you said the body hadn’t been touched.”

  “I peeked. Just a little. Used a pen to lift her dress. That’s all.”

  She shot him an annoyed expression and looked at his hands to make sure he was at least wearing latex gloves. Thankfully he was. Pete was a smartass but no dummy.

  “Same weapon?” she asked.

  “Yup.”

  “So who found her?”

  “The maid. Around one, one-thirty this afternoon, she said. She took one look and ran into the bathroom to throw up. There’s proof of that around the toilet rim if you want to see.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. Why so long to find her boss?”

  “Yesterday was her day off, and this morning she had a problem with the lady who watches her kid. She’d left a voice-mail message saying she’d get here as soon as she could. We tracked down the babysitter. It all checks out.”

  Trisha stared at the body but avoided the face. When the queasy feeling in her stomach passed, she’d examine it closely.

  “The maid seems nice,” Pete said. “Dominican. She was majorly spooked, though. Said this was the kind of stuff bad Haitians do on the other side of her island—voodoo stuff. Said she thought the killer might still be here, so she locked herself in the can for a couple of hours. Her 911 was logged in at four-fifteen.”

  “And she didn’t touch the body?”

  Pete shook his head. “Said she didn’t go near it. We couldn’t even get her to come back in here to confirm it was her employer.”

  “I can understand that.” Trisha remembered feeling the same way when her mother’s body had been found.

  “‘Scuse me.” A crime-scene tech with a digital camera nudged Trisha aside and angled in on the victim’s face. A short guy with stringy hair down over his collar, he leaned over Ms. Thayer’s torso to set up his shot.

  “Don’t lean on the bed, Bob,” Pete said. “The feds are watching.” He cocked an eyebrow at Trisha.

  “Thanks,” she said sarcastically.

  The tech sneered. “Twelve years on this job and I haven’t messed up a crime scene yet, detective.” He raised the camera to his eye and took a picture.

  The flash illuminated Ms. Thayer’s bloodless complexion, accentuating her pale, purple-white color. The color of death. Trisha shut her eyes, feeling a rising tide of panic. Her mother had been the same color. She forced herself to open her eyes and sneaked a glance at Pete, wondering if he’d noticed her discomfort. This was their second crime scene together, but he hadn’t said anything so far.

  As Bob continued to take photos, Trisha took out a small digital voice recorder and started taking notes, saying the date, name of the victim, and crime scene address. Concentrating on the routine details of her job helped control her fears. She paused and looked at the body, the whole body, before she continued. She put her personal issues aside and got to work even though in the back of her mind every serial-killer case she worked on resonated with her mother’s murder. A case still unsolved. While still in high school, she had decided to dedicate her life to catching the monsters who did things like this. It was her revenge.

  “Female, late forties/early fifties,” she spoke into the recorder. “Body supine in bed. Extensive bleed out. Head on pillows, facing up and to victim’s left. Eyes closed—post-mortem or pre-mortem yet to be determined. Body clothed but dress and slip ripped in front. Breasts and genitals covered. Posture not consistent with sexual assault but appears to be staged. Unsub apparently covered breasts with torn dress after the assault. Hands positioned palms down. Ligature wounds on both wrists and both ankles, around neck and around mouth.”

  She stopped and looked at Pete. “Were the ligatures found? Rope, wire, stockings, anything?”

  Pete shook his head. “Nada.”

  “Drac’s a neat little boy,” Bob said. “He cleans up after himself.”

  “Security video? I assume this building has a system.”

  “Yeah, but it’s an old one,” Pete said. “Very grainy from what I saw. We’ll have someone go through it.”

  Trisha stepped around the bed to get a better look at Ms. Thayer’s neck. She switched on the recorder. “Extensive bruising and abrasions on throat and around the mouth, indicating that the victim was gagged,” she continued. “Scratch marks near throat ligature wound. Probably self-inflicted in attempt to prevent strangulation.”

  She paused and turned to Pete again. “Make sure they check her fingernails for tissue. And her eyes for petechial hemorrhaging.”

  “The ME checks for everything—you know that—but it looks like he bled her to death. Just like the others.”

  She frowned at him. “You can never take anything for granted with a serial murderer. What you think is obvious is just subjective observation and basically worthless to the investigation. With these kind of killers, their reasons are always personal and they often don’t make sense to anyone but themselves.”

  “Because of their secret fantasies?”

  Trisha gave him a half smile. “Hey, you’ve been paying attention. That’s it exactly.”

  “I’m learning from the master. You study the crime scene and pick up details that tell you stuff about the killer and what drives him.”

  “Very good. Care to give it a shot?”

  Pete puckered his lips as he stared down at the vic. “Okay, let’s see… Her eyes. The killer most likely closed them after she died so I’m guessing that must mean something. Respect, remorse, something like that.”

  “Good. Keep going.”

  “Okay, he covered her breasts. Is he, like, modest or something? Or is he sorry he ripped her dress open and he’s making up for it?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. He did stage the body, which we’ve seen in Drac’s other work, but not always in the same way. My gut tells me he’s p
utting his victims in what he considers a relaxed position. I think he’s trying to recreate something in his fantasy.”

  Bob stopped snapping photos to listen. “That’s your thing, right. That’s what I read in the paper. You’ve got a gift for figuring out serial killers’ creepy fantasies. You figure out what turns him on, and that helps you trap him. Right?”

  “Well, yeah, sort of. That’s the Cliff Notes version. In reality it’s more complicated.” She wished that paper had never mentioned her. Was there anybody in New York who hadn’t read that article? “Okay, Pete,” she said, getting back to the body, “why do I care about petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes?”

  “Well, we can see from the ligature marks that he had her by the neck, but the hemorrhaging in the eyeballs will show if she died by strangulation.”

  “Right. And why is that important?”

  “It would tell us if she died before or after he bled her.”

  “And why is that significant?”

  “Well, duh. That tells us if he’s escalating. We haven’t be able to determine for sure if Drac kills them first, then bleeds them, or just subdues them and bleeds them while they’re still alive.”

  “Right,” she said. “But if he hasn’t been bleeding them to death, we’ve got trouble. As you said, it would show that he’s escalating—in other words, prolonging death and torturing the victim. It means he’s getting more confident. He’s gotten good at this and he knows it. He’s perfecting his technique.”

  Bob the tech hung on Trisha’s every word.

  Trisha continued, “I’d say he spent some time with this woman. He’s reliving his fantasy. He’s relishing it. Wallowing in it. This is his whole motivation. It’s what gets his rocks off.”

  “Even though he doesn’t rape his victims?” Bob asked.

  Trisha shook her head. “It’s not about sex. Not the way normal people think about sex. It’s about control and obsession. And turning the fantasy in his head into something he can touch, smell, taste.”

  “Taste?” Bob looked disgusted. “Really?”

  “You never know. He’s doing something to get the blood flow started. Otherwise they’d just bleed internally. He might be sucking on the tube to get it started, though we’ve yet to find traces of his saliva.”

  “You mean, like siphoning gas?” Bob said.

  “Could be. But it all depends on what his fantasy is. If we can figure that out, we’ll know a lot more about him.”

  “Glad that’s not my job.”

  No, she thought, it’s all mine.

  She took a closer look at the raw marks on the wrists and ankles, then looked at the curtains, searching for pull strings, thinking Drac might have used those for his purposes. But these curtains had long plastic rods, not strings. She studied the two night-table lamps and their white pleated shades. They were both on so obviously Drac hadn’t cut the electrical cords and used them. She studied the marks and took note of how wide they were. Looked like they’d been made by something wider than electrical wire.

  “Have someone check the bureaus and closets for belts, bras, scarves, any item that could have been used to bind her,” Trisha said. “Look for traces of skin, blood, hair, lint, whatever. Drac might have borrowed his ligatures and put them back. When the maid calms down, get her to look around and see if anything is missing.”

  “You think he took a souvenir?” Pete said.

  “He might have, something to remember the experience. But that’s not what I’m thinking. I want to know if he came prepared or if he improvised with things he found here.”

  “That makes a difference?” Bob asked.

  “Big difference. If he uses things he finds at the crime scene, he’s what we call a disorganized killer. But if he comes prepared, he’s an organized killer.”

  Bob looked puzzled. “Meaning what?”

  “A disorganized killer is haphazard, his method sloppy. He makes mistakes and in theory should be easier to catch. But an organized killer is just that, organized. He brings the tools he needs and doesn’t leave them behind. He cleans up after himself. His kills aren’t hit and run, they’re surgical strikes. And that makes him harder to find.”

  “But not impossible.” A male voice entering the room.

  Trisha recognized it immediately. Her supervisor here in New York, Special Agent Barry Krieger.

  Krieger walked in with brisk steps and shined shoes. He wore the standard FBI uniform—dark suit, white shirt, and a conservative print tie in a muted color, in this case a non-flattering pea green. He had curly brown hair flecked with gray, which he wore short to control the curls. His brows had a sympathetic back slant, but it wasn’t an image he liked to project so he made up for it with a curt, sometimes abrasive manner.

  “Agent McCleery,” he said with a quick nod. “Detective Warwick.” He ignored Bob and the other two techs who basically ignored him and went about their business.

  He gave Ms. Thayer a quick once over. “Mr. Drac?” he said.

  “Certainly looks like it,” Pete said.

  Krieger frowned at Trisha. He had expected her to answer.

  “Same type of wound?”

  “Seems to be,” Pete said.

  “May I see?”

  No! Trish thought in a panic. She wasn’t ready to look.

  But Pete was already lifting the left side of Ms. Thayer’s torn dress with a pen, exposing a wound just like Drac’s other victims’. The plastic tube was attached to a needle protruding from the skin under the breastbone. Except for a little crust around the puncture, no sign of bleeding on her chest. Trisha didn’t need an autopsy report to know that it was a spinal needle. A needle long enough to pierce the heart and wash the world in crimson.

  Trisha forced herself to look.

  “Any progress with your profile, McCleery?”

  When she didn’t answer immediately, he took a step toward her. “Agent McCleery. I asked how you’re doing with the profile.”

  She looked him in the eye, grateful for the opportunity to look away from the body. “I’m still working on it.”

  “How long will it take? This is Drac’s third.”

  “That we know of.”

  “My point exactly. So how many more women have to die before you get a profile together?”

  The nasty remark hit like a slap, but she knew it was all for Pete’s benefit. Pete caught Trisha’s eye and gave her a sympathetic look. Krieger always put on the macho routine when he was with other law-enforcement professionals.

  She lowered her voice. “Can I talk to you? In private?” She walked toward the bathroom.

  “You can cover the wound,” Krieger said to Pete as he followed her.

  “No problem,” Pete said with a snarky edge that was lost on Krieger.

  Once inside the bathroom, Trisha closed the door partway. She faced her boss and could see the back of his head in the mirror over the sink. “That comment wasn’t necessary.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

  “Yes, you did. This wasn’t the first time.”

  “Look, I’m stressed. We’re all stressed. The Assistant Director hounds me about this case twice day. I’m constantly getting calls from headquarters wanting to know if we’re any closer to having a profile. That’s what happens when the victims are rich and well-connected. So where are you with the this thing?”

  “Still gathering information, trying to get a feel for this guy.”

  “Oh, right, your famous intuition.”

  “Are you making fun? Thirty-three captures based on my ‘intuition.’ Thirty-one convictions.”

  “But what about this one? That’s what I care about.”

  “I’m giving it my best, but sometimes it just takes time.”

  “Well, schedul
e another séance or whatever the hell you do and put it in gear.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He held up his palms. “Sorry, sorry. That was uncalled for.”

  She glared at him, tempted to rip him a new one, but he was staring at her with that puppy-dog look on his face, gazing into her eyes.

  “What?” she said.

  “You. That’s what?”

  “Oh, please. Will you just cool it with that?”

  “Why? What’s wrong with me?”

  “I told you before. Personal policy: I do not date guys in the Bureau.”

  “When this case is over, I’ll be here in New York and you’ll be somewhere else, doing your profile thing. It wouldn’t be awkward. We could try it out. You know, long distance. If you wanted to.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Come on. Just let me take you to dinner.”

  “Read my lips. No.”

  “You are harsh.”

  “Look, your lady’s-man rep is no secret, and I don’t want to be just another notch on your belt.”

  “Ouch.” He tossed her a flirty grin as if this were foreplay.

  “Let’s keep it professional. Okay, Barry?”

  “No, it’s not okay.”

  “What?”

  “I never take no for an answer.” He kept grinning.

  She couldn’t believe this Bozo. He just didn’t get it.

  “Just dinner,” he said. “I know this great little sushi place with private tatami rooms—”

  “I hate sushi.”

  “Italian. You like Italian? Everybody likes Italian. We can go up to Rao’s in East Harlem. Famous place. A lot of celebs hang out there. The owner knows me.”