The Vampire Shrink (40 page)

Finally, Lieutenant Bullock emerged from my office and motioned to the ever-patient detective who'd continued to rephrase his questions in ways he thought might elicit additional information from me. They shared an animated whispered conversation.

The detective ambled over to the officers still questioning Midnight and Ronald. Lieutenant Bullock approached me, frowning.

“I'd like a private word, Dr. Knight. Is there a lounge area or break room on this floor?”

I'd prepared myself for many possible opening lines from her, but that one took me completely by surprise, which must have been written all over my face.

“There's a small lounge area inside the women's restroom. Will that do?” I pointed past the elevators.

She launched herself down the hallway, indicating that I should follow.

When we reached the restroom door she paused, pivoted, and called to a uniformed officer standing in the hall, “Greenfield!” She beckoned him over with a peremptory hand gesture, then pointed to the floor at her feet. “Stand here. No one comes in.”

We waited while the officer dutifully stationed himself outside the bathroom.

Lieutenant Bullock pushed open the door, held it while I entered, and surveyed the small lounge area.

My curiosity had morphed into nervousness when she'd assigned the officer to stand guard at the door. At least that was what it appeared he was doing. She hadn't mentioned it specifically, but if no one could come in, it wasn't likely I could leave without obstruction either.

“Sit,” she ordered, pointing to a red leather couch.

I sat. The dried blood on the seat of my pants crunched like cardboard.

She paced in front of me for a few seconds, her hands clasped in back, then stopped. She assumed a military-style stance, feet so many inches apart, shoulders rigid.

The situation forced me totally out of my depth and out of my comfort zone. I had absolutely no idea what we were doing in the women's bathroom or why she'd taken me aside. I wasn't sure where to look, so I focused on her sturdy black shoes.

When she finally spoke, her voice quiet, I met her eyes. “This is awkward for me because it flies in the face of everything I believe in. Not only am I about to give police information to a civilian, but I also intend to raise an issue that will sound crazy and might reflect poorly on me as a law enforcement professional. Although, being a psychologist, I suspect you're used to having people tell you questionable stories.” She was silent again for a few seconds, then loudly cleared her throat. “Stevens has been spinning some wild yarns about vampires, or ‘wannabes,' as he calls them. He says there's quite a community of them here in the central Denver area. He's got some bizarre theories, but he keeps the details to himself because he thinks I won't believe him. What he doesn't know is that I've been following the same trail of deaths that he has, and I've come to similar outrageous conclusions.”

She believes in vampires? No way.

“If he's keeping his theories to himself, how do you know what conclusions he's reached?”

She lifted her chin. “Let's just say I stumbled upon his notebook one day when he was downtown using the computer and eyeballed enough pages to get the drift. I've also overheard enough of his strange telephone conversations to whet my appetite for more information.”

“So basically you're saying that you read his private papers?”

She made a swatting-away-a-fly hand motion. “Don't go there. The bottom line is that he believes there are actually such creatures as vampires, and, insane as it sounds, the evidence I've seen supports it. Stevens thinks my interest in this case is due to the fact that my friend was the first Denver victim, and he's right—Webster's murder does play into it. But that's not where it started for me.”

“Where did it start?”

She crossed her arms in front of her chest.

Hmmm, arm crossing. She feels the need to defend herself. Interesting.

“I was a cop in New York City ten years ago when these murders began to pop up. Long story short, I found my partner's body drained of blood and riddled with pairs of puncture wounds. The perpetrator was never apprehended. The victim in your office was killed by the same method as all ninety-six others. He was drained of blood.”

“Ninety-six others?” I blurted, and sat up straighter. “I haven't heard anything about
ninety-six
murders. You said on the news there were five bodies, and there was no mention of the cause of death.”

“Yeah.” She nodded. “Ninety-six altogether—ninety-seven now, twenty-seven of them in Denver. We haven't released that information to the public—I'm sure you can appreciate how the average citizen might react to finding out there's a serial killer who somehow removes the victims' blood while they're still alive. But there's another piece to this sick puzzle, and that's what I want to talk to you about.”

“Me? I've already told the detective everything I know.”

She pulled a small chair from the corner, set it in front of me, and sat. She leaned back and rested one ankle on the opposite knee.

“Let's just call this a consultation between a law enforcement professional and a psychological expert. A psychological expert who calls herself ‘the Vampire Psychologist.'”

I realized I'd scooted up to the edge of the couch cushion and forced myself to slide back. All the muscles in my neck were tight, and I rotated them in an attempt to relieve the pressure.

“Okay, we're having a professional consultation. Go on.”

She studied me, her face blank. I wondered if she played poker, because no one would be able to read her if she didn't want to be read. “Remember I said that all the bodies had been drained of blood? In almost all the cases there wasn't a drop of the victims' blood to be found at the scene. Out of the ninety-seven cases, only two bodies were covered with blood. The first was the body of Emerald Addison, and the second, the young man lying on your office floor.”

She cocked her head, put both feet flat on the carpet, and leaned forward. “Any thoughts about another thing both those murders have in common?”

I didn't care for the direction the conversation was taking. “You're saying that I'm the common denominator?”

“Very good, Doctor. But that's not the really interesting part. The blood found all over Emerald Addison wasn't hers. I'm not sure if I could even call it human.”

“Are you saying she was covered in animal blood?”

She stood, replaced the chair in the corner, and began pacing again. “That's what we initially thought. Whatever the bloodlike substance is, it doesn't have the necessary ingredients to be classified as mammalian. I'd be willing to wager that the blood all over the victim in your office isn't his. I think we'll discover it's a match to what we found in the Addison case.”

I rose and paced in the square she hadn't claimed, making “I don't know” gestures with my hands. “I don't understand. Where would the blood come from if not from the victim or an animal?”

“Well, Doctor, that's where you come in. As a psychologist, give me your professional opinion about why a killer might leave his own blood, or some synthetic liquid that looks like blood, at the scene of his crimes.”

I paused and thought for a moment. “It would be symbolic. Metaphorical. If it only happened in two of the ninety-seven cases, then something about those two cases was more personal for the killer. There was a reason for the killer to either spill his own blood or give that impression. Maybe something religious …”

My voice froze in midsentence, and I stared at Lieutenant Bullock. I tried to wrap my mind around the notion of Brother Luther as the murderer of ninety-seven people. The same Brother Luther I had initially written off as a harmless windbag. But if Brother Luther was the murderer, what about the bodies being drained of blood? That fit more with a vampire than a religious fanatic.

Maybe Brother Luther had a partner who was a vampire.

No. His telephone rants all centered on his hatred of vampires. None of it made any sense.

Frowning, Lieutenant Bullock stepped in front of me.

“What? Why did you stop talking? Did you think of something?”

“Yes.” I sighed. “I think you and Special Agent Stevens and I need to get together right now for a serious talk. I want to tell you about some phone messages I've been receiving, and you and Alan have to come clean with each other.”

She narrowed her eyes and studied me for a few seconds, then bounded toward the exit. “This way.”

CHAPTER 22

T
he next few hours were madness.

While I was in the bathroom with Lieutenant Bullock, the police had sealed off my entire office building.

I didn't have to imagine the reactions of the other occupants to the news that their Monday morning schedules had been completely disrupted, because they informed me personally in no uncertain terms.

The normally sedate building manager had bolted up the stairway before the police blocked it off, and he was livid. He blustered over to me, shook his head emphatically, and wagged his index finger in the air. “This won't do, Dr. Knight. Everyone is very upset. This is the second time in a week the police have been called to your office. This is a reputable building and I have other tenants to consider. I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to terminate your lease and ask you to vacate immediately. I haven't been allowed inside your office yet, but from what I've been able to determine, the space is no longer in the same condition as when you rented it. I hope for your sake that your insurance is up to date and sufficient.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but the words died in my throat. He was right on all counts. I just stared at his red face, watched the veins pulse on his forehead as he launched into the second act of his diatribe, and felt very sorry for myself.

Two weeks ago I was a successful, respected psychologist with a calm, predictable life. Things might have been boring, but they were sane. No vampires, religious zealots, quest-obsessed FBI agents, mausoleums, dead bodies, or ruined offices. Why couldn't I have taken up yoga or belly dancing? Something that didn't come with an outrageous dry-cleaning bill?

“Are you the building manager?” Lieutenant Bullock barked from a few feet away as she marched toward us.

He pursed his lips.

She handed him a business card. “If you have complaints about the way this investigation has been handled, please register them at this phone number. Dr. Knight was simply being a law-abiding citizen, reporting a crime. I think you might want to consult your attorney about the legality of evicting her.”

She turned her attention to me, placed her hand on my upper arm, and eased me away from the trembling manager. “Please come this way, Dr. Knight—some of the clients you had scheduled for this morning are waiting downstairs. One of the officers will walk down with you.”

I didn't know which amazed me more: her lecture to the building manager, his barely repressed rage, or the fact that she was being nice to me.

After giving an explanation to my anxious clients, telling them I'd call to reschedule as soon as I had a new location and facilitating several mini– therapy sessions to ease their immediate concerns, I contacted the rest of the clients I'd scheduled for the afternoon to fill them in on the situation.

In the middle of making those calls, I thought about the two new vampire clients on my schedule for that night. I had no way of contacting them. They'd only left messages on my voice mail informing me of their intention to come.

Maybe I should drop by the Crypt and leave a message for Devereux. Who knew if the place was even open during the daytime?

That would have to wait until later. First, I needed to go back upstairs to check on Midnight and Ronald.

They'd been thoroughly and persistently questioned and now had the dazed appearance of abandoned puppies waiting to be rescued.

Since their interrogation was complete for the moment, Lieutenant Bullock arranged for them to be taken home. I accompanied the couple downstairs and suggested we meet at my home the next day.

They both nodded, and Midnight gave me a quick hug.

As they drove away in the backseat of the black-and-white, Lieutenant Bullock and Alan entered the lobby. He'd retrieved my burgundy purse and matching briefcase from the hallway and had draped the long strap of the purse over his shoulder. He rested his hand on the top of the bag as if carrying a purse was a normal, everyday thing. Observing the nonchalance with which he carried the fashion accessory made me chuckle for the first time in hours.

An eternity later, I sat in my living room, stretched out in my incredibly comfortable oversize chair, my lower body attired in the finest orange police-issue pants, the latest in paper footwear dangling from my toes. I thought about the events of the last few hours.