by Hal Bodner
Chris physically ticked off the points on his fingers once again, his brow furrowed as he silently mouthed the salient facts he’d wanted to recite. He visibly brightened when he got to his pinkie.
“Ah, yes! Five: As far as we can tell so far, none of us know him, but we’re still checking.”
“None of us?” Becky began, and then asked tentatively, “How many of ‘us’ are there?”
“Quite a few,” Chris replied. “I’m not going to tell you exactly who or where they are except in general terms when necessary. I may be forced to trust you with my life. They’ll have to make their own decisions about that if it’s ever necessary. Think of it as being like coming out of the closet.” He looked at her sternly. “I hope you’ll respect that.”
Becky nodded.
“There’s a married couple who live near here. They owe me some favors.” He smiled wryly. “They’re Jewish. A friend and I helped them get away from the Nazis with something more than their lives. They’re going to trace our records back and see if they can find any male vampires whose final fates weren’t recorded. Even if the rest of us don’t know him, there’s a shot that he’s still alive—a recluse or in hiding for some reason.”
“Then we might be able to tell exactly who he is?”
“Probably not,” Chris cautioned. “There have been several times in human history where your kind were much too concerned with destroying my kind as a matter of principle than with bothering to keep track of who it was exactly that they killed.”
Becky looked more than a little uncomfortable.
“Fortunately, the Church keeps scrupulous records of almost everything. We had someone at the Vatican for a while. He worked in the library there. So our records are more complete than if we had to start researching from scratch. We may even be able to get a description. That’ll help if our killer’s using another name.”
“The Vatican?”
“Does that surprise you?” Chris asked. “I’ve known three vampire priests in my time. And one rabbi. In fact, one of the priests is still alive. He’s a journalist now. Somewhere in Florida, I think.”
“So what can we expect?”
“A list of names. I’ll send them off to my friend in New York. One of her hobbies is keeping track of our family tree, so to speak. She’ll probably be able to narrow it down even more. Hopefully, we’ll be able to tell who it is from that. And if I should happen to run into him around town, I’ll know what he is right away, but he’ll be able to tell what I am too. That is, if he doesn’t know I’m here already.”
“Then what?”
“That depends.” Chris’s brow furrowed with deep concern.
“On what?” Becky prompted.
“Ordinarily,” Chris began slowly, “we’d deal with him ourselves. We call it ‘putting someone down’ and I’m sorry to say that I’ve had more experience with it than most. But in this case, it may be more difficult.”
“Why?”
“Your killer may have some very specific reasons for his recent actions.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Did you read your own autopsy reports?”
“Of course I did,” Becky snapped, impatiently. “Stop asking me questions like I’m twelve. Get to the point.”
“Sorry. I thought it was obvious.” He motioned for her to pass him the file.
“Your last victim. The headless horseman. The head was intentionally delivered to City Hall. That’s a pretty brazen thing to do.”
“So?” she asked. “Most serial killers get overconfident at some point. They’re convinced they can’t be caught. That’s usually when they make a mistake.”
“This one won’t make a mistake. That head he dropped off was a calculated challenge. I’ll bet he’s seen me already without my knowing it.”
“What makes you say that?”
“That head on your city managers desk was recently removed from the neck of a vampire. In fact, since it didn’t disintegrate, I’d say he’d been newly made.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Monday-night West Hollywood city council meeting proved, as usual, to be a debacle. After several hours of closed-session debate, the council had elected, over Pamela Burman’s strenuously vocal objections, to proceed with the Halloween parade in slightly less than three weeks’ time. Already, orange and black banners decorated Santa Monica Boulevard and signs were going up on almost every telephone pole informing the community that parking would be prohibited on the main thoroughfare from dusk on Friday through the morning of Sunday, November 1.
Despite the murders, the chamber of commerce was estimating that more than 150,000 people would flood West Hollywood’s streets on Saturday night to watch the procession of costumed witches, ghosts, and bearded young men in ball gowns and high heels showing off the fruits of months of painstaking labor with sewing machines, staples, and glue. This year the Chamber of Commerce had managed to coordinate a series of carts, wagons, and stalls to sell food, drink, clothing, jewelry, and knickknacks to the gathered throngs along the median strip.
Pamela Burman had alternately spent her time reluctantly issuing orders in connection with the upcoming Halloween festivities and figuratively beating her head against the wall during fruitless meetings with Clive Anderson and Becky O’Brien.
She’d almost come to blows with Daniel Eversleigh. The idiot refused to listen to reason! It was typical of Eversleigh, Pam thought, to assume, since West Hollywood had momentarily cancelled its subscription to the corpse-of-the-night club, that the murderer had merely, in the words of Eversleigh, “gone away.”
“Yeah, right,” Burman had growled during the public portion of the meeting at West Hollywood Park Hall. “What’d he do, Daniel? Take a fucking trip to Tahiti?”
She’d stood up and slammed the Council table as the attending reporters delightedly licked their pencils and readied their recorders and video cameras in preparation for a knock-down, drag out fight between Burman and Eversleigh. The mayor stood in turn, one hand resting on the council table, the other thrust out, pointing accusingly at Burman. The pose was calculated to evoke one struck by Errol Flynn in a particularly dramatic moment of Captain Blood.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Burman snapped. “You think a fucking serial killer takes two weeks’ paid vacation?”
This prompted Eversleigh to launch into a fifteen-minute speech about the inappropriate use of foul language by city officials in front of the public and the media. He was a magnificent orator, his rich rounded tones carrying easily through the auditorium, his gestures were expansive, dramatic, commanding; Burman slowly turned purple.
She was even more enraged by the fact that, although strong allusions were made as to the identity of “the perpetrator of public obscenity” Eversleigh never once mentioned Burman by name. She’d tried to interrupt several times, but Carlos, who was coincidentally subbing in for the regular council staff person, had wisely pretended to trip over one of the many cables littering the floor between the council table and the audio system, thereby cutting off Burman’s microphone.
Burman, realizing her mike was dead, had stormed off the stage and had rooted about in the floor cables until she managed to reconnect herself. Then, in a burst of malicious spite, she pulled Eversleigh’s plug. Clutching the connector firmly in hand, she remounted the steps to the stage and tapped her own microphone with one orange lacquered nail.
“Is this on?” she demanded, and as Eversleigh attempted to shout her down, she leaned forward and yelled into the mike. “I said is this fucking thing on?”
The audience, including the assembled media, began to spontaneously applaud her. Their city manager was in rare form and they were certain this council meeting would go down in West Hollywood history. Cell phones snapped open with audible clicks as the spectators called their friends, spouses, and neighbors with instructions to “Turn on City Channel! She’s at it again and it’s gonna be a good one!”
The r
est of the four members of the city council, respectively (A) found fascinating moral and ethical implications in the suddenly intriguing minutes of last week’s Council Meeting, (B) found fascinating moral and ethical implications in the suddenly intriguing patterns of the acoustic tiles on the ceiling, (C) wished fervently that certain other members of the municipal government could be convinced to take their next vacation in the company of the absent killer, and (D) found fascinating implications, neither moral nor ethical, in the intriguing bulge in the front of the slacks worn by the moderately attractive male reporter from the Los Angeles Times.
Burman continued just loudly enough for the microphone to pick up, “Why anyone would vote for a man who wanted to ban the Coppertone Baby as pornography, I’ll never know.” The audience cheered anew at this reference to one of Eversleigh’s rare failed attempts at municipal legislation.
Burman fixed the cheering crowd with an icily disgusted stare. “But looking at the other idiots gathered in this room,” she continued, “I’d be willing to make a guess.” Now the room was filled with good-natured boos and hisses. Burman was being true to form and the audience was loving every minute of it.
“Can’t you people see?” she shouted. “This lunatic is still out there! Do you have any idea what could happen if we don’t cancel that goddamned parade?”
There were more boos from the homosexuals in the audience as the Halloween parade was generally considered a queer event and oft referred to as “Faggot Christmas” by the local gay and lesbian community.
“You all may not give a shit about your safety, but I do!” she snapped. The boos turned once again to cheers which rose in volume as Burman spoke into the mike without meaning to. “We are the only goddamned city in the country with a peanut gallery at council meetings!”
Finally, the commotion died down and Burman went on, her tone fervent, pleading. “Look everyone,” she said, “just give me one chance. One chance and I’d invite that murdering bastard over to my place for a one-on-one session. I’d let that sonofabitch know we don’t tolerate that kind of crap in my town! Then I’d get in line to be the first to pull the goddamned switch on the fucking electric chair and fry the bastard!”
Shouts of “Way to go, Pam!” and “Let ’em have it!” rang through the auditorium.
“But I can’t do that,” she went on, her eyes filling with tears of anger. “And until someone can, our streets are not safe. We must cancel the parade. Don’t you see the risk we’re taking?”
“What risks?” This was from Edward Larsen of the Gazette. “National media coverage?”
“Oh, fuck the press,” Pamela said, and as the reporters’ pencils and pens suddenly increased their activity, she added wearily, “Don’t forget to quote me accurately on that one.”
She turned back to Larsen. “Ed, I’ve known you for almost forty years. Couldn’t stand you for almost thirty of ’em and barely tolerated you for the other ten. But I need your help. This town thrives on two industries: entertainment and tourism. You all know that. Since that moron porn producer opened his mouth about his lover’s murder, hotel and restaurant grosses have dropped almost forty percent from last year.”
“Why Pam!” said Larsen from his seat in mock surprise. “You sound like the mayor in Jaws who wanted to hide the shark attacks from the summer swimmers.”
“Cut the crap, you simpering bitch,” Burman shot back as the audience began to raise a chant of “Pam-e-la, Pam-e-la!”
“You too!” she yelled, quieting the crowd. “Ed, if I wanted to hide this from the tourists, would I be trying to scratch Halloween? Come on. Try using what few brain cells God gave you.” As she paused for thought, the room fell silent. “Ladies and gentlemen and…er…others,” she said, “I just don’t know if we can withstand the effect of another murder being committed during Halloween weekend. If we somehow don’t catch this guy, and someone gets killed during the parade, do you think anyone’s gonna show up for Gay Pride? How about the Labor Day citywide picnic? The Street Festival? Maybe we could throw a free concert during Lesbian Visibility Week. The lesbians seem to be the only ones the killer’s not interested in!”
“Neither am I!” shouted a male voice from the audience. There were some shocked gasps of outrage and not a few giggles.
Burman pointed toward the offender. “Clive? Get that asshole out of my council hall, willya? I don’t give a shit whether it’s constitutional or not. Just do it.”
Clive looked up from where he had been attempting to remain invisible at the foot of the stage.
“Uh, Pam?” he began but she cut him off.
“Make sure you use a dyke cop to throw him out,” she added. Once again cheers and whistles of approval filled the hall.
Clive reluctantly moved toward the offender, hoping he could diplomatically talk him into leaving quietly. As he approached, he noticed three or four rather muscular women moving in on the same target. They reached the heckler first and Clive sighed in relief at not having to participate in the removal process. He quickened his pace and caught up with one of the women whom he recognized as the others escorted the man out through the door. Clive tapped her on the arm. “Gently, Darlene. OK?” he said.
The woman grinned. “We just want to give him a good scare. No violence. Scout’s honor.” She closed the door as she left.
The debate up on stage continued. Clive was later to reflect that the council meeting was a fitting beginning to an altogether miserable week.
On Wednesday, Clive had received the final FBI report detailing the habits of serial killers throughout the nation, but it was unhelpful. He had conjectured that the killer was a recent arrival to West Hollywood and hoped that the police of some other state might have some clues resulting from similar murders committed elsewhere. Nothing in the report confirmed his theory. The closest thing to the city’s current problems had occurred in Georgia in 1937 and, after four murders, the killings had mysteriously ceased, never to resume.
The state reports from Sacramento were equally baffling. There had been a series of similar murders, sporadically spanning almost 150 years, suddenly ceasing around thirty years ago.
Clive’s thought processes were beginning to meander down trails that he would prefer remain unvisited. Disturbing memories from his Louisiana childhood were trying to surface, but Clive kept pushing them back down firmly. There were certain things which, for the purposes of his continued sanity as a rational man, he simply refused to think about.
Nevertheless, he’d been broad-minded enough to consult scores of experts in aberrant psychology and several specialists in the occult. Although all were most helpful in propounding theory after theory, none could offer any concrete course of action.
To add to his problems, the head that had been dropped at Burman’s office had been accidentally left with the biological and infectious waste in Becky’s lab. It had been carted off by the waste disposal company and incinerated. Becky apologized shamefully and formally reprimanded her laboratory assistants, but the damage had been done.
Further complications arose on Thursday when Clive’s report to the city council included the alarming fact that an autopsy file had mysteriously vanished. Becky had assured him that it had probably only been misplaced and it would be found in a matter of days. She had combed her office for it twice but Clive had still been faced with the embarrassment of having to explain its absence to Eversleigh and the other officials. Amidst murmurings of incompetence, Clive had bravely defended Becky and was relieved to report the fortuitous reappearance of the file on Friday morning. Unbeknownst to Clive, Becky had taken the time to quietly alter it after first subtly checking to make sure that her friend at UCLA had not kept copies of her fax detailing the odd saliva samples.
Thursday was also the day when Becky managed to introduce Chris to both Burman and Clive under the guise of his being not only her closest friend from medical school but also the celebrated author of books dealing with the psychology of certain types of seria
l killers. At the meeting, Becky had watched, barely managing to disguise her amusement, as her two fellow public servants listened, disbelieving at first and then with growing interest, as Chris deftly pulled the proverbial wool over their eyes. He spoke intelligently and convincingly about hemoglobin and ferric deficiencies which, coupled with an aberrant psychosis and a latent schizophrenic disorder, could give rise to a homicidal mania based on infantile role-playing.
Burman and Clive listened, glassy-eyed, floored by the stream of technical jargon emanating from Chris and highly impressed with his seemingly endless store of knowledge. Even Becky was almost taken in at one point by the erudition of her friend and wondered if there were some aspects of psychology or medical knowledge, hitherto undiscovered by mortal man, that were known to the vampires. However, as Chris confessed to her later that evening, he’d simply been making it up as he went along.
Having listened carefully to Becky’s reports of Clive’s frustration with the other experts, Chris had carefully refrained from suggesting anything proactive. Thus, he was labeled a crackpot by Burman, albeit an interesting one, and Clive simply classified him as one more ivory-tower consultant.
But contrary to Clive’s and Burman’s opinions of him, Chris had been far from useless, even if his activities had yet to bear fruit. He’d called Hanna and Gustav’s two friends in San Diego and Las Vegas and imposed upon them to try and locate and contact all known vampires on the West Coast. Barbara Rice, a young woman who’d been a slave prior to the American Civil War, panicked and fled to stay with friends the Dominican Republic. Chris couldn’t blame her. Though Barbara tried desperately to live unobtrusively and to remain innocuous, she’d had several bad experiences in the early 1960s. Having foolishly purchased a home in a predominantly white middle class neighborhood in Alabama a quarter of a century before, a series of run-ins with white racist groups had finally forced her west to Las Vegas, causing her to abandon her home. Decades later she still hadn’t recovered from the scars of her experiences, and the thought of discovery filled her with terror.
