Bleeders

by Anthony Bruno

  She closed the door and locked the deadbolt, then reached into the kitchen and switched on another light. A hanging bulb with a red pie-plate shade hung over a small pine table. The appliances were small, white, and cheap, brands he’d never heard of, and the floor was more of the same varnished plywood. The place was depressing. It was what he imagined Soviet housing would have been like under Communist rule. She should be happy he’d be taking her away from all this.

  “You want something to drink? I have beer. And some wine… I think.”

  “Sure. A beer.”

  “PBR okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  Pabst Blue Ribbon, hipster beer, he thought. He didn’t really want anything to drink, but he wanted a little time to get the lay of the land, find out where the bedroom was and if anyone could see in through the windows.

  She pulled out two cans out of the refrigerator and handed him one.

  “Thanks,” he said and popped the tab.

  “Hey, got one of those for me?”

  Lassiter turned toward the unexpected voice, his senses on high alert. A man stepped out of the gloom in one of the rooms off the foyer. He was shaped like a bear on its hind legs, heavyset with a week’s worth of beard on his round fleshy face. He wore a white undershirt, brown corduroys, and scuffed black work boots.

  “I fell asleep on the couch,” he said, scratching his tangled brown hair. He twisted his blubbery lips into a smile and extended his hand. “How ya doin’, buddy?”

  Lassiter froze. Who the hell was this? And what was he doing here?

  “This is my brother Dave,” Robin said. “Dave, this is Gene.”

  Lassiter forced himself to act as if nothing was wrong and shook the man’s sweaty hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said, feeling a migraine coming on. He wanted her by herself. Why didn’t she tell him on the way over that her brother was here? He would never have come if he’d know about Dave.

  “Here you go,” she said and tossed her brother a beer.

  Dave popped the top and took a long guzzle, his Adam’s apple bouncing. “Ahhhh!” he said with satisfaction when he took the can away from his lips.

  Lassiter took a closer look at him. He didn’t look anything like her. She had small features and a thin nose. His nose was a flattened splat, and his eyes were large and brown. They didn’t look at all related. Of course, one of them might have been adopted. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Dave was here, and Lassiter didn’t want him here.

  Dave turned on a pole lamp in the living room. A flat-screen TV was the only modern item in the room. The oriental rug was worn to the canvas backing in some places, and the furniture—sofa, tuxedo armchair, metal folding chair, coffee table, and low cabinet for the television—all looked battered and forlorn. Thrift shop acquisitions, Lassiter assumed. A black solid-body electric guitar was propped in a corner.

  “Hey, sit down and get comfortable,” Dave said. He snatched a bedroom pillow off the sofa and tossed it in a corner, scattering dust balls.

  Lassiter glanced at Robin standing in the kitchen doorway, then glanced into the third room off the foyer, the bedroom. An unmade full-size bed. Dark wood headboard with vertical spindles.

  Dave pointed at the sofa. “C’mon, have a seat.” He pulled up the folding chair, sat down, and crossed his leg over his knee, holding onto his ankle. His hands were meaty.

  Lassiter heard the rustle of cellophane behind him.

  “I got taco chips. Want some?” Robin held out an open bag of Doritos. She slipped past Lassiter and plopped down on the couch. “Don’t just stand there,” she said, biting into a chip. “Sit down.” She patted the place next to her.

  Her headboard was perfect for tying up wrists. But Dave—what was he going to do about him? Send him out for something? Maybe knock him out? He tried to think, but the sight of Robin on the couch was too distracting. He wanted her, and he wanted her right now.

  He sat down next to her, sinking deep into broken springs.

  “That’s better,” she said and clinked his beer can. “Cheers!”

  Dave reached over with his can and clunked theirs. “Bottoms up!”

  They all drank. It was Lassiter’s first taste of the slightly sweet brew. Dave guzzled the rest of his can, crushed it, and heaved it toward the kitchen, but it hit the doorframe and bounced back into the living room. “Ooops,” he said with a husky laugh. He got out of his chair and picked up the can. “Hey, you ready for another one?” He pointed at Lassiter’s beer.

  “No, I’m good.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Be right back.” He went to the kitchen to get himself another beer.

  Robin tossed the Doritos onto the coffee table. “You okay?” She started rubbing his thigh, her voice a sultry whisper. “What can I do for you? Tell me.”

  He was confused. Her neck was inches away, creamy and inviting. But her brother was here. Why was she coming on to him with her brother here?

  Her hand slid to his crotch. She turned sideways and threw her leg over his. “What can I do for you, baby? Tell me. What?” He couldn’t decide if her wolf eyes were tempting or taunting him. The demons shrieked and soared.

  “No,” he said, “I—”

  “Hey! What the hell!” Dave stomped into the room with a fresh beer. His brows crossed as he glared at Lassiter. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? That’s my freaking sister!”

  “I’m not doing anything—”

  “The hell you are!” He dropped the can and lunged over the coffee table, smashing his forearm against Lassiter’s throat, putting all his weight on it.

  Lassiter sank deeper into the couch. He tried to wiggle free, but he was trapped.

  “Hold him still,” Robin said. She reached behind Lassiter, feeling his back pocket. “Where’s your wallet, sweetie? Let’s make this easy, okay?”

  Lassiter’s eyes shot open. He struggled harder and threw an elbow at her.

  She snarled at Dave. “I said hold him still, damn it!”

  “I’m doing it,” he grunted, straddling Lassiter’s lap and gripping his elbows. “Go ahead. I got him.”

  The way they talked Lassiter was sure they’d done this before. They weren’t brother and sister. They were scam artists. She had lured him here so they could rob him.

  Lassiter strained to get Dave off him, but the man weighed a ton. Lassiter couldn’t budge.

  Robin wedged her hand into the cushions behind him, going for his other back pocket.

  “Don’t forget his cell.” Dave’s sour breath was in his face. “Don’t want you calling 911 on us, my friend.”

  “Hey, what the hell is this?” Robin sounded annoyed. She dug her fingers under his shirt and tugged at the tube.

  “No!” Lassiter shouted. “Leave that alone!”

  But it was too late. She yanked it out and held it like a rubber snake. “What is this?” She made a face. “You don’t wear one of those pee bags, do you? Yuck!” She looked to Dave. “He’s gonna make a mess.”

  Lassiter grunted as he fought to get free. He couldn’t form words. He could barely breathe with Dave on top of him.

  “What the hell is this?” she said, staring at the tube.

  “Forget about that. Just find his wallet.”

  She held the needle between her fingers, and Lassiter could see that the plastic cap had come off. Dave’s face was inches away, his breath making him sick.

  “What is this?” she kept saying.

  Lassiter wrenched one arm free and snatched the needle out of Robin’s fingers.

  “Hey!” she yelled. “What the—?”

  “Aaaaghh!” Dave’s high-pitched shriek as Lassiter plunged the needle into his eye. Dave sat back hard on the coffee table, Lassiter follow
ing his momentum, pressing the needle farther into his eye, his knuckle grinding into the socket.

  “Dave!” Robin jumped off the couch and went to him, and the compassion in her voice convinced Lassiter that they were lovers not siblings. It was all a ruse.

  The coffee table collapsed under Dave’s weight with a splintering crash. Lassiter held onto the needle as Dave fell, letting his descent pull it out. His scream rose an octave as he writhed on the floor, clutching his face in both hands.

  “You son of a bitch!” Robin lunged at Lassiter, fingers curved like claws, but Lassiter stopped her with a sharp backfist to the face. She yowled and cupped her hands over her nose, blood spilling through her fingers. “Dave!” she cried. “Dave!”

  Dave scrambled to his feet, one hand covering his eye, scowling in fury.

  But Lassiter was already on his feet. He grabbed the first thing he spotted, the electric guitar, and wielding it like an ax, bashed Dave over the head. Dave dropped to his knees, and Lassiter followed up with a sideways chop. He heard something crack—either the guitar or Dave’s skull. Dave toppled onto his side and banged into the TV table, the flat screen falling on top of him.

  “Nooooo!” Robin lunged again. Mad animal eyes in a blood-smeared mask. “No—!”

  Lassiter raised the guitar and hammered her over the head. She fell back onto the couch. He hit her again.

  “Bitch!” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Bitch!”

  Her face was turned away, buried in cushions. Breathing hard, he stared down at her. He leaned closer and heard barely audible moaning. Her dark hair was slick with blood.

  He stood up straight and listened to the silence, eyes wide. Dave was motionless on the floor, curled up on his side. Lassiter wiped the neck of the guitar on his shirttail, then dropped it on top of Dave. He found his beer can on the floor and wiped that down, too.

  Silence caressed him like soft pillows. His pounding heart calmed down, the beat becoming slow and even. The spinal needle with the tube still attached was on the rug. He picked it up and examined it. He then grabbed Robin by the wrist and pulled her off the couch. She moaned in protest, but she was so limp she seemed boneless.

  “Come on, Robin,” he whispered as he dragged her out of the room. “Time to be Natalie.”

  Chapter 15

  Pete hovered over the body, jotting down notes is a small spiral pad, while Trisha stood in the middle of the room, arms folded, frowning. Was this Drac’s work or a copycat’s? She wasn’t sure yet. She stared at the dead woman in the bed as she mentally sorted her first impressions, comparing them to what she already knew about Drac’s behavior. It was like playing chess in her head.

  The victim was on her back, wrists tied with bras, ankles with belts—most likely her own possessions. The killer apparently hadn’t brought anything to tie her up. Drac usually brought his own ligatures.

  Her dark hair was tangled and matted with dried blood, her eyes barely open, just slits. The autopsy would pinpoint the source of the blood, but Trisha was pretty certain it was blunt force trauma to the head. She’d seen this kind of attack dozens of times. But not with Drac.

  “Hey, take a look at this.” Pete pointed at the victim’s left arm tied the headboard with a black bra. Track marks inside her elbow. The skin looked as if it had been peppered with birdshot. “I don’t think this is Drac,” he said. “Junkies are way too low rent for him. I bet this is a copycat. Just what we need.”

  Trisha stared at the track marks and said nothing. She was still making up her mind.

  “Do we have security video?”

  Pete shook his head. “Not that kind of building. Of course, the video we got from the swanky buildings hasn’t been much help so far.”

  Trisha focused on the victim’s chest. Her black top had been ripped open in front, and a spinal needle protruded from her chest, but unlike Drac’s other victims, there was very little blood in the tube or on the bed. This one hadn’t bled out. The end of the tube dangling off the side of the mattress was ragged. She squatted to get a closer look. It was hard to tell for sure, but the end might have been bitten off.

  “Let’s make sure the techs analyze the tube for saliva.”

  Pete rolled his eyes. “You know they always do. But if they find something, then we’ll know it’s not Drac. He always cleans up after himself.”

  “We might get lucky this time. Maybe he was rushed and got sloppy.”

  Trisha imagined the killer sucking on the tube to get the blood flow going, but the woman was already dead from head trauma. Her heart wasn’t pumping so he couldn’t get the blood to move. He got frustrated and sucked harder, then realized he might have gotten some spit in the tube. Maybe in a panic he bit off the end and took the piece with him. It was a plausible scenario, but she wasn’t married to it. She needed more evidence.

  A female detective came to the doorway, a short black woman with a very serious face. Her white blouse was buttoned at the neck, her black blazer buttoned as well. She held an open notepad. “We canvassed the building,” she said. “The girl in the apartment directly below said she sort of knew the female victim. Said her name was Robin, but the driver’s license in the purse we found in the kitchen says her name is Ruth Savitzsky. It’s a California license.”

  Pete jerked his thumb at the wall that separated the bedroom from the living room. “What about the male vic?”

  “No ID on his person. We’re still looking.” Pete frowned, but the detective continued. “We ran checks on ‘Ruth Savitzsky’ and ‘Robin Savitzsky.’ Multiple arrests for prostitution and solicitation. San Francisco, Nashville, Orlando, and here. Two for resisting arrest, one for creating a public nuisance, and one for possession of heroin. She escaped in transit to her arraignment on the drug charge in Nashville.”

  “Heroin in weight?”

  The officer shook her head. “No.”

  Pete looked at her track marks. “Personal use. I guess that’s pretty obvious.”

  “On six of those arrests she was taken in with a David Roger Pollard, age 44.” The detective nodded toward the living room. “It’s possible Pollard is the male vic. We’re waiting on mugs from Nashville and San Fran.”

  “You have any particulars on the Pollard arrests?” Trisha said.

  The detective read from her notes. “He was charged twice with pandering, once for resisting arrest. He was pimping his girlfriend.” A look of disgust passed over her face as if she smelled something rotten.

  “Turning tricks for drug money,” Pete said. “How did they ever think of that?”

  The female detective didn’t react to his sarcasm, her expression returning to stony neutrality.

  “Let me know as soon as we have a photo of Pollard,” Pete said.

  She nodded and walked into the foyer where a sudden camera flash lit her back. The techs had already taken care of this room. They were working in the living room now.

  Assistant Chief Colleen Franco poked her head into the room.

  Oh, it must be my lucky day, Trisha thought.

  Franco walked up to the bed, one hand clasping the other wrist as she looked down at the dead woman, her head bowed as if she were at a wake. Trisha noticed that she’d had a dye job recently because her roots weren’t showing. Her hair was tied back in a neat chignon, a very feminine hairstyle that clashed with her mannish gray pinstripe pants suit.

  She rolled her eyes toward Trisha. “Friday?”

  “Yes. You’ll have it by Friday. Don’t worry.”

  “I am worried. I’m worried because you’re wasting your time here. It’s obvious that Drac didn’t do this one. This is a copy cat.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But we can’t ignore any possibility.”

  Franco exhaled impatiently. “This is why I hate dealing with the feds. It’s always factory-made, by-the-book cra
p with you people.” She pinched her thumb and forefinger together. “I’m this far from recommending that you be taken off this case. I don’t need profilers wasting our time with intellectual exercises. I need investigators out on the street.”

  “You need both,” Trisha said.

  “Excuse me?” The Assistant Chief wasn’t used to back talk.

  “And right now you need me more than ever.”

  Franco crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “You think pretty highly of yourself, Agent McCleery.”

  “Look, I’m not interested in getting into a pissing contest with you. This is Drac’s work.” Trisha was finally in the zone. She could sense Drac’s presence. “He was here. I can feel it.”

  “Feelings don’t stand up in court, McCleery. Or don’t they teach you that at the FBI?”

  Trisha ignored the remark. “Drac is shifting. Up until now he’s been an organized killer. He made sure he got his victims alone. He brought the ligatures he needed to bind them. He gagged them. He spent time with them. He watched them bleed out.”

  “My point exactly,” Franco said, her voice getting shrill. “He obviously didn’t do this one. It’s not his style.” She turned to Pete. “From what I understand these people were drug addicts. Are we considering the possibility that this was retaliation for a drug deal gone bad? Any thoughts on that, Detective? Or have you completely gone over to the dark side?”

  His face turned red. “We’re considering every angle, Assistant Chief. We’re following standard procedure.”

  “NYPD procedure, I hope. Not FBI voodoo procedure.”

  “Yes.” His was voice tight. “Department procedure.”

  “Excuse me,” Trisha cut in. “May I continue with the point I was making?”

  “Oh, by all means, Agent McCleery.” Franco’s words dripped with sarcasm. “You’ve got me on the edge of my seat.”

  “As I was saying, Drac has been an organized killer until now. But for this one he was disorganized. Something upset his pattern. Maybe he didn’t anticipate finding the man here.”