Bite Club

by Hal Bodner

  Becky sighed. “I’ve only got the strength to go through this once. Call Pamela, but don’t say anything. Just get her here and I’ll tell you both at the same time.”

  Clive picked up the phone and called the city manager, keeping close watch on Becky as if she were an escaped lunatic, calm for now but capable of freaking out at any moment.

  While they were waiting, Becky refused to talk despite Clive’s questions.

  “Look, Clive, I’ve just spent a morning that’s been a cross between a day at Disneyland and a visit to Camarillo Mental Hospital. Let’s wait for Pam, OK?” She sat, exhausted, in a chair. “Do you have any donuts?” she asked hopefully.

  Clive handed his secretary a huge handful of change and ordered her to round up some cake or candy from the machines in the officers’ lounge. Within minutes, she came in with a couple of packaged Danish, several candy bars and a few packets of mixed nuts. Burman arrived less than ten minutes later as Becky was polishing off the second of three Almond Joys after having sent every available cashew, walnut, and almond on to Providence.

  “What’s so goddamned important?” she demanded, entering the room with a flurry of lime-green silk. “I’ve got a meeting with the Chamber this afternoon on this cockamamie Halloween thing tonight and Saturday and...”

  “Becky’s found our killer.”

  Burman stopped her carefully prepared tirade, surprise rapidly giving way to relief. “Thank God,” she breathed.

  “I didn’t say I’ve found him, Clive. I said I know who he is.” She tossed the photo onto Clive’s desk. “The name is Rex Castillian.”

  “Castillian? Right,” said Clive, picking up the telephone. Becky leaned forward quickly and hung the phone up, taking the photo back from Clive.

  “What are you doing?”

  “There’s something we’ve got to discuss first.”

  “Look,” said Clive, “If you’ve violated this guy’s constitutional rights or something, I don’t want to hear it. Let the public defender come up with it on his own.”

  “It’s nothing like that.”

  “Well, what is it?” Burman was getting annoyed.

  “I have to swear both of you to absolute secrecy before you get anything out of me other than that photo and his name. Without my help, I can practically guarantee you’re not gonna be able to find him or find out anything else about him. I’m willing to tell you almost everything I know, but I’m going to have to ask you not to press me on anything I can’t or won’t answer.”

  Burman glared. “How would you like to be locked up for a couple of months for withholding evidence? I’ll make sure Clive gives you all the bread and water you want. You’ll be looking like Donna Reed in, let’s say, five years.”

  “Fine,” Becky stood up, carefully placing the remaining half of a cherry Danish on Clive’s desk, and held her arms out in front of her toward him.

  “Huh?” he asked.

  “Cuff me. Take me away and lock me up.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “Absolutely.”

  The other two stood poised in a tableau of uncertainty.

  “Uh, Becky,” Clive said, “we not only want to catch this guy, we want to put him away. We can’t do that if we can’t make a case to the D.A.”

  “Trust me, Clive,” she replied, calmly resuming her assault on the Danish, “You’ll never have to.”

  “I have had enough of this! If you think-”

  “Stifle it, Pam,” said Clive.

  “How dare you-”

  “I said, shut up!” Clive’s voice was forceful, commanding. Burman, never having been spoken to by him in that way before, promptly quieted. In a more even tone, he continued. “Which do you want more, Pam? Catching this guy or yelling at Becky? I for one trust her, and for the time being I’m willing to listen.” He sat behind his desk. “Before we go any further, there are a few things I have to know.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Did you do anything illegal yourself?”

  “No, nothing that could get anyone in trouble. Look Clive, I’m telling you. We can stop the killings. But this guy will never stand trial.”

  “Why not?”

  “To stop him, we’ll have to kill him.”

  Clive smiled tolerantly. “Becky, this is America. We can’t just go around killing people who break the law, no matter how heinous their crimes are. Here,” he added, handing her his handkerchief so that she could wipe her now chocolate- and cherry-covered hands.

  “If you don’t kill him, you won’t stop him.” Becky paused, carefully licking the remains of the Danish and the candy from her fingers before she used the hanky. She handed it back to him, took a deep breath, and then plunged in. “Actually, I’m hoping we can kill him.”

  Clive was uneasy. “You’re not going to start with that Dracula crap again.”

  Becky reached down and threw the autopsy files on his desk.

  Clive picked them up, puzzled. “What are these?”

  “My reports.”

  “I’ve seen them already.”

  “No. You’ve seen the ones I dummied up when things got critical. These are the real ones.”

  “You did what?” Burman was astounded. The blood rushed to her cheeks and she opened her mouth to launch into another tirade but, she quickly quieted at Clive’s stern glance and pointedly cleared throat.

  Clive forced his eyebrows up toward his hairline and began to read. After a moment, he closed the file and looked earnestly across the desk at Becky.

  “You obviously know what’s in here. What if I were to say you needed a very long vacation?”

  “I’d say that I’ve saved samples of everything and we’d better get a second opinion. I hope that’s not necessary. As you can see, the fewer people who know about this, the better.”

  “What’s in there?” Pamela wanted to know. Clive tossed her the file. She glanced at it briefly then threw it back on Clive’s desk with annoyance. “Do I look like a frigging doctor? I don’t understand this shit!”

  “Becky seems to be trying to tell us that our killer isn’t human.”

  “That’s it!” Burman stood up. “You,” she said, pointing at Becky, “are crazy! And you,” she pointed at Clive, “need your head examined for even considering this shit!”

  “I’m telling you I have saliva samples, Pamela. They’re not human.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell us that two weeks ago?” Burman demanded. “We could’ve had NASA out here already, rounding up all the little green men in town for questioning.”

  “I had my reasons.”

  “You’re protecting someone,” Clive’s eyes widened, the explanation for her actions becoming clear.

  “Yes,” Becky said quietly. She looked into Clive’s eyes, “But not the killer. I swear.”

  Clive’s gaze held hers for a long moment. Finally, he started with an additional epiphany of some kind.

  “You can’t mean...” he started to say. “Not...” He sank back more deeply into his chair with a tired sigh. “No wonder...” he said to himself, momentarily forgetting the presence of Pamela and Becky. Then, a look of vague discomfort crossed his face and he abandoned whatever it was he had been about to say and turned to address Burman. “I believe her.”

  “Oh, great.”

  “As long as I’m Captain of this station, Pamela,” he said strictly, “you will do what I say. Got that?”

  Burman started to protest.

  “Or I will have you arrested. Is that clear?”

  Something must have told the city manager that Clive was serious. Her mouth opened and shut several times, as if she were gasping for air, until she finally swallowed her comments and meekly sat back down.

  “Now that that’s finished,” said Clive, “why don’t you tell us the whole story?”

  Becky started speaking, filling them in on the events of the past several weeks. Several times during her recital, Burman threw up her hands, snorting in disgust and disbelief. Clive, h
owever, was determined to hear everything the coroner had to say, and each time he forced Burman to be quiet and listen.

  Becky was careful not to reveal too many details. She refrained from discussing Chris’s nature by passing him off as a modern-day Van Helsing. Since Burman continued to be adamant in her scorn of the notion of vampires existing, it never occurred to her to ask any uncomfortable questions. Clive merely listened with an expression implying he was reserving his comments.

  Becky continued with her story. She left Scotty out altogether and rearranged the details of the fight in the morgue so that only she and Troy had been present. She covered the kidnapping in great detail but concocted a little white lie, telling them Chris had been so grief-stricken that she’d had to give him a heavy sedative, thereby explaining why he would be unavailable to help them out until at least early evening. It was at this point that Clive confirmed Becky’s suspicion that he had seen through the weaknesses in her story and had deduced exactly who, and quite possibly, what, she was protecting.

  He shook his head sadly and said, “Jesus, O’Brien. Can’t you ever find a normal guy to go out with? I knew your taste in men was pretty awful, but this...”

  Becky finally finished and sat, waiting for their reactions.

  “This is great,” said Burman. “If the press gets hold of a story like this, I can just see the headlines: Medical Examiner Muffs Melee with Monster in Morgue.”

  “The press is not gonna hear anything about this. Understand?” Clive was firm.

  “How can you sit here and listen to this shit?” Burman asked.

  Clive carefully shifted some papers on his desk so that the edges were lined up horizontally with each other. He slowly rearranged his in-box and pen holders until all was tidy and to his satisfaction. Finished, he leaned back in his chair and, to the amazement of his colleagues, actually propped his feet up on the desk, wrinkling and disarranging his neatly ordered papers and files.

  “Becky,” he said, “go out to my secretary and get me a cigarette. Get yourself some more candy if there’s any left.”

  “You don’t smoke.”

  “Not in ten years. Just do it.”

  Becky returned in a moment with the cigarette and a lighter. Clive lit up and inhaled, coughing once. With his second drag, his face relaxed with pleasure.

  “Do you know how illegal it is to be smoking on City Property?” Burman bristled. “I think Eversleigh made it a capital offense last year. The punishment is gluing your lips to an exhaust pipe.”

  “Would you like some coffee, Pamela?” The Captain ignored her comment and smiled pleasantly.

  “What Pamela would like,” said Burman irritably, “is a nice stiff drink.”

  Clive smiled. “Compliments of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department.” He pulled an unopened bottle of scotch and a plastic cup out of his bottom desk drawer and poured Burman a healthy slug while she watched in shock.

  “If you’re drinking on city time...” she began with a threatening tone.

  “Can it, Pam. It’s purely medicinal.”

  “Yeah. Right. Sure.” She downed the liquor in one gulp, grimaced, coughed, and held out the cup to be refilled.

  Becky couldn’t resist. “Drinking on city time, Pam?”

  “Becky...” Clive warned.

  “Sorry.” She stifled a small giggle and tried to look serious again.

  Clive sat, quietly smoking, and thought for a minute.

  “Let me tell you both a story,” he said, finally, and looked around for an ashtray. Becky passed him the wastebasket.

  “Another story? Oh, great! Just what we need,” Burman sniffed. “Wait, don’t tell me. It’s a fairy tale, right?”

  “A fairy tale? In this town, you’d be surprised?” Becky asked glibly.

  “No. Not a fairy tale. A true tale.” Clive cut them off before they could start in on each other again. “I’ll be frank. I’ve spent the last three weeks trying to ignore the evidence that was right in front of me.” He grimaced. “Trying to bury old memories, I guess. But this...” He slapped the file. “This changes things, doesn’t it?”

  Neither one answered him, so he went on.

  “You both know I’m originally from Louisiana?” They nodded. “When I was a little boy, long before we moved here, I lived for a summer with my granny outside of New Orleans. Way outside New Orleans.” He smiled. “In fact, she lived in the swamps.”

  “I can’t imagine you living in a swamp. What’d granny do? Own a dry cleaner?” Burman snorted.

  “As a matter of fact, she sold moonshine. Very good moonshine, I recall.”

  Even Burman couldn’t help matching Clive’s grin.

  “Oh, my granny was quite a lady, she was. She was also something of a wise woman. All her neighbors, and the nearest lived a few miles away, would come to granny’s for herbs and love potions and such, not to mention the booze.”

  Slowly, Clive’s voice became softer, more rhythmic with a gentle cadence that betrayed his Louisiana upbringing.

  “It was Granny’s last summer—she died before fall.” Clive shuddered briefly. “I learned a lot from that woman.”

  “Love potions?” asked Burman, sarcastically.

  “Mostly willow bark and dandelion root. Granny had no secrets from me. I recall her telling me that if you make a lot of mumbo-jumbo and wear the right kind of wild costume, folks’ll believe just about anything. Just make sure you don’t give ’em anything harmful and their minds’ll do the rest. Come to think of it,” he said, looking at Pamela’s outfit, “Granny used to dress a lot like you.”

  Burman was speechless at the insult coming from the normally deferential Clive.

  “But Granny warned me about other things. Things that don’t have anything to do with willow bark. Dark things.” Clive became grim.

  “Little footprints in the mud of the bayou, too small to be human. Will-o’-the-wisps floating out over the river. Tracks changing from man to animal and back again. I can still remember the last time...no, I am not gonna talk about that! Suffice it to say I believe that there are more things out there than we know of.”

  He fixed his attention on Burman. “I may be just a superstitious old fool, but Becky isn’t. I’ve known her for nigh on five years now and I’ve never met anyone more levelheaded or more professional in medicine. Then again, there’s that pile of dust with human bone, the coffins, the condition of the victims. I’m sorry, Pam. That’s two to one. I think you’ve been outvoted.”

  Clive finished the cigarette, wistfully examining the glowing butt before crushing it out on the sole of his foot. He dropped it into the wastebasket.

  “You say it’s a vampire out there? I don’t want to believe you, but I’ll take the chance—after I’ve seen those samples and had one of your assistants run ’em again.” He paused, “I don’t know what your religious beliefs are, Becky O’Brien, but you’d best say a prayer for the soul of my granny. If it weren’t for her, I’d have half a mind to start measuring you for one of those little white jackets.”

  He gently plucked the photo from Becky’s grasp.

  “In the meantime, I’m going to have this copied and posted. If we do catch this guy alive, you and him are both going to have a lot of explaining to do.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Troy woke up disoriented—and cramped. The disorientation was caused primarily because he found himself hanging in midair, slowly swaying from side to side in what the dim lighting revealed to be some kind of vertical air shaft. A series of gears and wheels gently whirled into action several feet above his head; a variety of cables hung down, past his bound body to disappear into the darkness below.

  The cramping was due to his hands being firmly tied behind his back and because both his legs were lashed together with heavy rope. He was suspended in a crude harness, constructed of the same rope and attached to something above him that was hidden in the murky darkness.

  By far the most irritating aspect of his captivity
, however, was the large, foul-smelling rag that had been stuffed into his mouth and secured with electrical tape. Troy was therefore unable to talk – a situation he found intolerable – and he was limited to expressing his outrage at being trussed like a housefly in a spider’s web via a series of very low grunts.

  Above him, the gears and wheels increased their motion with a grinding clash, the resulting high-pitched whir drowning out the loudest of his attempts to cry for help through the gag. The cables began moving, alternately lengthening and shortening. Below him he sensed movement; a large object approached with a rush of air and a slight scraping sound.

  Troy looked down, his eyes widening in fear as something moved toward him, inexorably closer and closer. Suddenly the gears and cables ceased their activity and the object halted about thirty feet below, just within the limit of Troy’s sight. He started to breathe a sigh of relief, quickly withdrawn as several seconds later the object came toward him once again.

  Fearful he was about to be crushed, he tensed his stomach muscles and drew his bound legs close into his chest. The object halted with several feet to spare and Troy was able to relax once again, his feet dangling just inches above the flat top of the behemoth below. Then the object began to descend.

  It was at this point that Troy made two interesting discoveries. First he realized he was hanging at the top of an elevator shaft. Second, if he were willing to put a little more pressure on his already aching shoulders, he could stretch his feet just far enough for the ropes wrapped around them to make contact with one of the cables. Tightening his tummy again, he carefully lifted his legs and positioned them so that the elevator cables’ motion would, hopefully, begin to saw through his bonds. For the first time in half a century, Troy Raleigh began to pray.

  Pamela Burman’s drive home was not a pleasant one. Several times she’d been cut off by other cars in the after-work traffic, and once, a mentally deficient woman had made an illegal left turn and risked reducing Burman’s front bumper to scrap. Burman dutifully noted the license plate numbers of each of the moron motorists on a pad she kept on top of the dashboard for that specific purpose and smiled, anticipating the sweetness of her revenge when the unsuspecting drivers opened their mail to discover citations.