The Vampire Shrink(32)
Author: Lynda Hilburn

I left them huddled together long enough to retrieve my purse and fetch my cell phone. The expression on their trau­matized, young faces was heart-wrenching, and I wished they'd been late for their appointment. That I'd been able to meet them out in the hall instead of involving them in more psychotic madness.

But, ruminating about what should have been didn't do any of us any good. I joined them and rested my hand on Midnight's arm.

"I'm sorry, Midnight. But the police are going to want to talk to you and Ronald since you knew Eric. Why don't you sit down and relax until they arrive?"

They both nodded and lowered themselves to the floor.

I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes, taking a moment to sort out my emotions.

Oddly though, instead of feeling frightened or upset, I felt calm. I'd been making the assumption that all of the ter­rible things that had happened—Emerald Addison's death, my kidnapping and everything else—had something to do with the vampire-wannabe community. I'd finally started to believe there were supernatural forces at work. And it was clear that somehow the vampire stuff was involved. But it was almost a relief to come to the realization I had a garden-variety psychopath on my hands. No doubt this serial killer had abusive childhood experiences, linked with religiously instigated guilt and shame. I'd hazard to guess he wasn't fond of women either. Classic. Textbook. A mentally defec­tive, wounded child acting out in the most hideous ways.

Now, that was something I knew how to deal with.

And how convenient that he seemed to have taken a per­sonal interest in me.

I walked down by the elevator and dialed 911 on my cell phone. I explained there5d been a death in my office and re­turned to the other end of the hallway where Midnight and Ronald sat, standing nearby to wait for the police to arrive.

The calm before the storm.

I glanced down and noticed my clothes were trashed. Again.

Having my cream-colored pantsuit covered in blood was a miserable reminder of the night I spent in the mausoleum. But since I didn't have any spare clothes to change into, I had little choice but to ignore the psychic flashbacks and distract myself by thinking about ways the police could use me as bait to catch the killer.

By the time they arrived, I'd concocted some creative and audacious scenarios, in which Super Psychologist would save the day.

I heard the dings of the elevators just before the doors opened, and I instinctively moved a few steps in that direction.

A dozen uniform officers swarmed out, followed by a forensics unit. From the tail end, preceded by heavy footsteps, came a familiar voice.

"Well, well. Dr. Knight. We meet again."

Lieutenant Bullock strolled over to me in the hallway, clasped her hands behind her and walked around me in a circle. The edges of her mouth were quirked in a grim sort of smile. She raised her eyebrows when she noticed the large, messy bloodstain on the back of my pants.

"Up to your ass in blood once more, eh? Or, should I say twice more, since I last saw you? I heard about the cemetery deal, and your influential friend making sure you didn't have to go through normal channels. Oh, yes. Why so surprised? I make a point of keeping track of 'interesting' people. And you, Dr. Knight, strike me as very . . . 'interesting'. Funny, how often death follows you around."

She ran her fingers through her short, graying hair and shifted her attention to Midnight, then Ronald, then me.

She pointed at the couple huddled on the floor.

"I'll send some officers to begin their interviews and to get preliminary details from you. Then, after I do my job inside, I'll be back."

Her smile brightened. "I'm going to handle your state­ment. Personally."

She took a couple of steps toward my waiting room door, then partially turned, her face devoid of emotion.

"Don't go anywhere."

She pivoted and strode into my office, barking out orders to the officers already inside.

Surprise in his voice, Ronald said, "Wow, that police­woman doesn't like you, Dr. Knight. What did you do to piss her off?"

I almost responded by saying "What do you think I did to piss her off?" but caught myself before giving the automatic therapy reply.

Instead, I shrugged. "I honestly don't know. Something about me bothered her from the first moment she laid eyes on me. Maybe I remind her of someone else."

"Or maybe she knew you in a past life?"

I turned to the voice and was grateful and relieved to see Alan approaching.

He covered the short distance quickly and put his arm around my shoulders.

"I couldn't believe my ears when I heard the address of the homicide on my radio. What happened? Did one of your clients go berserk?"

"No. Someone broke in, destroyed my office."

He tightened his grip on my shoulders. "Well, your trusty FBI agent is always here for you. Who died?"

The shoulder resting against him relaxed. "A friend of Midnight's. A boy. One of the other vampire apprentices."

"This is a vampire thing?" He unceremoniously dropped his arm, leaped away, sprinted off into my office and left me with my mouth hanging open.

Well. So much for being here for me.

I sighed and backed up against the wall to wait for what­ever Lieutenant Bullock had in store.

True to her word, she sent officers out to interview Midnight and Ronald and a detective to talk to me.

The detective politely asked questions that I only had one answer for: I don't know. With each similar response from me, his eyebrows inched closer to his hairline.

I couldn't blame him for being skeptical. This was the third police interrogation I'd participated in during the past week, and even I had trouble believing that I had no worth­while information to share.

How had I managed to involve myself in so many sit­uations where I appeared to be a chess piece being moved around on some cosmic board by unseen hands?

Somebody obviously had delivered the blood-covered material in the manila envelope. All I did was open it and make the report to the police. To the best of my knowledge, I hadn't purposefully lost my memory, strolled away from The Crypt and crawled into a disgusting mausoleum to take a nap in an occupied coffin. And, unless I've been abducted by aliens, causing me to have missed time, all I did this morning was come to my office.

But, I realized my protestations of unaware innocence might be wearing pretty thin for the authorities right about then.

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

The detective nodded and 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 I'm sure was written all over my face.

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

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

When we reached the restroom door she paused, pivoted and called to a uniform officer standing in the hall.

"Greenfield!" She motioned to him then pointed to the floor at her feet. "Here. No one comes in."

We waited while the officer stationed himself outside the bathroom.

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

My curiosity 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 get out 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 back.

I was totally out of my depth. And 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.

I met her eyes when she finally spoke, her voice quiet.

"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, as 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. But 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."

I shrugged. "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 using the computer down­town, and eyeballed enough pages to get the drift. Plus, I'd overheard enough of his strange telephone conversations to whet my appetite for more information."

I raised my eyebrows. "So, you're fundamentally 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 the evidence supports it.

"Stevens thinks my interest in this case is due to the fact that my friend was one of the first Denver victims, and he's right. Webster's murder does play into it. But that's not where it started for me."

She brought her arms up and crossed them in front of her chest.

"I was a street cop in New York ten years ago when these murders began to pop. Long story short, I found my partner's body drained of blood. 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."

I blurted out, "Ninety-six others? I haven't heard any­thing about ninety-six murders. The news said there were five bodies. And there was no mention of the cause of death."

She nodded. "Ninety-six all together, twenty-six in Den­ver. Twenty-seven now. 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 of this sick puzzle, and that's what I want to talk to you about."

I pointed to myself. "Me? I've already told the detective everything I know."

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

"Let's just call this a professional consultation between a law enforcement expert 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 and shoulders 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 victim's blood to be found at the scene. Out of the ninety-six 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 on the carpet and leaned forward.

"Any thoughts about the one thing both those murders have in common?"

I didn't care for the direction of the conversation.

"You're saying that I'm the common denominator?'"

She nodded. "Very good, doctor. But that's not the 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 paced again.

"That's what we initially thought. But whatever the blood-like substance is, it doesn't have the necessary ingredi­ents to be classified as mammal at all.

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 CI don't know' gestures with my hands.

"I don't understand. Where would the blood come from if not from the victim?'

"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?"