Kiss of Death (2 page)

I look up the hill. “Maybe it's around the next bend.”

“Sloan said they're in a clearing off the trail, but that we'd be able to see them from the main path.”

I nod and we keep moving upward. My heart rate increases slightly and I can feel my fatigued muscles working on the steep incline. On either side of the trail are smaller shrubs scattered amongst the trees. There are also several cacti dotted around the patches of vegetation. The path is obvious; however, it wouldn't be that hard to move off the trail and through the denser brush.

Finally, at the next corner, I hear voices. It's still hard to work out how far away they are, with the wind and mountain slope carrying the sound and distorting distance, but we're close.

Both the victim and killer, or killers, probably came up this path. There's only one way up, unless they hiked in from the neighboring Will Rogers State Park to the east or Topanga State Park from the north. But it's much more likely they parked on the street somewhere, jumped the park's nighttime barrier and made their way to the trail. The park is only open from sunrise to sunset, but I doubt the security is heavy.

“Who found the body?” I ask.

“One of the park rangers. They had a call at nine this morning from a resident who overlooks the park. He spotted what looked like torches around midnight last
night and then lights again just after two. Called it in this morning.”

I look around for any houses that might have a good view. From here there are only a few houses in the distance to the east, too far away to see much.

Rosen's starting to puff. “The ranger didn't think much of it, but decided to check it out anyway. It was about ten when he found the body.”

Rosen called me around eleven, so things moved pretty quickly. An LAPD officer would have come down immediately to secure the scene and wait for the homicide detectives, Forensics and crime-scene photographers. The specialists would have arrived about 10:30 a.m., and the forensic pathologist from the coroner's office probably only just beat us.

Within a few minutes I can see another row of houses in the distance—one of these homes must be our witness's. I look around, taking in the surrounding area more closely. To the south is the ocean, and to the north, east and west are hills, some of which are claimed only by nature, while other slopes hold large residences or clusters of smaller houses. The views would be magnificent and I imagine it's prime real estate. Certainly nothing I would ever be able to afford on a government salary. So, the witness saw into this clearing, saw activity, but did he see anything that will help us further? All the houses are too far away for the naked eye, but if the resident has binoculars or a telescope, he may have seen much more than I glimpsed in last night's dream.

We round another bend and run into a hive of activity. Most are uniformed police officers from the LAPD, but I can also make out the forensic pathologist Belinda Frost from the coroner's office and a few plainclothes officers. Only one female in plainclothes, presumably Sloan.

In her mid to late fifties, she wears her graying hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. She's about fifteen to
twenty kilograms overweight, and well-defined lines across her brow, eyes and around her lips help me peg her age. She wears a well-cut navy suit, with pants that flare slightly at the ankle. The suit's color brings out bright blue eyes and naturally rosy cheeks.

Rosen strides over to her. “Detective Sloan, nice to see you again.”

“You, too, Agent Rosen.”

Rosen introduces me.

“Ah, yeah. My head girl.” She taps her head.

“That's me.” I smile and take her outstretched hand.

She gives me two firm pumps. “Thanks for coming out so quickly.”

“Thanks for calling us in.”

She gives me a forced smile. While some law-enforcement officers jump at the chance to get a helping hand from the FBI, others avoid us like the plague. Sloan requested Bureau involvement but it doesn't look like she's exactly overjoyed by our presence. She's probably just covering all bases.

“So…there's our gal.” She steps to one side giving us a view of the body next to Frost's crouching figure. The victim looks to be in her late teens or early twenties and is slim but curvy—a fact accentuated by her nakedness.

Frost turns around. “Hi. It's…Anderson, right?” She and I met at a conference six months ago.

“Yup. Agent Sophie Anderson.” She's several feet away, so we give each other a nod rather than going in for a handshake.

“And good to see you, Agent Rosen. Out in the field, huh?”

Rosen shrugs. “Well, it was a nice day, and this case sounded intriguing.”

Frost nods. “It is.”

I move closer. “Any chance it's just a simple snakebite?”

“Unlikely.” Frost stands up. “Snakes usually leave residual venom around the wound. I swabbed the area and my preliminary tests were clear. I'll run full tests back in the lab to be sure, but at this stage it doesn't look like we're looking at a snake.”

“Was there any saliva?” Is DNA too much to ask for?

She shakes her head. “No saliva showed up under ALS, but we might get something from deeper inside the wound.”

Whether the murder was premeditated or an impulsive act, the killer may have had the good sense to wipe the girl's wound clean of saliva—assuming she was, indeed, bitten as the fanglike puncture marks might suggest. Still, we might find something he missed, hiding in a crevice of the wound.

“Any sign of sexual assault?” Rosen asks.

“Rape kit was positive for semen, but at a guess I'd say we're looking at consensual sex. No bruising or tearing. And no restraint marks.”

I nod, but I know it's inconclusive. Rape comes in all shapes and sizes and just because her body doesn't show signs of violent or rough sex, doesn't mean it was consensual. A gun or knife to the head—or some other threat of violence—usually ensures the victim doesn't struggle.

“Any defensive wounds?”

Frost squats back down and picks up the dead woman's arm with a gloved hand. “We've got a few scratches on her arms, hands and face, but if she ran along this trail or in this area they're probably from the tree branches rather than an attacker.”

Last night's dream comes flashing back. The victim was running all right, with branches hitting her face despite her attempts to shield herself.

“I should be able to confirm that under the microscope. There'll be particles of wood or leaves.”

I squat down next to her. “And cause of death?”

“Not sure at this stage.”

I peer more closely at the neck wound. The two puncture marks are perfectly cylindrical and very neat, with no obvious tearing of the surrounding skin. However, the skin is red, and looks almost like a small hickey—like someone sucked on the wound. “Could it be blood loss? If we are dealing with someone from this vampire group, that's likely, yes?”

Frost screws up her face. “She looks a little pale but if she died of blood loss it's going to be a tricky one to prove.”

“Really?”

“There's no way to test at autopsy how much blood is in the body and we've only got a few drops here.” She points to roughly six drops of blood next to the body.

I'm surprised, but when I think about it I've never worked a case of blood loss where the surrounding area wasn't covered in blood. And the experts always specify how much blood was lost at the scene, from which they can conclude blood loss as the cause of death.

Sloan bends down next to the corpse, too. “Someone sure has made it look like a vampire, though.”

“Not necessarily
look.
” I scan the rest of the victim's body. “There are people who truly believe they are vampires. That they need blood to survive.”

While it's possible someone wants us to
think
we've got a vampire on our hands and is recreating that scene, it's also possible that we're dealing with people who believe they are modern-day vampires. If that's the case the murder and crime scene hasn't been purposely staged, the killer has just murdered the victim in what he'd consider a “natural” way. And psychologically there's a big difference, especially in terms of a profile.

I stand up again. “Time of death?”

“Based on her liver temp and the current outside temperature, between one and four.”

Frost would have inserted a metal probe through the skin and into the victim's liver to get the all-important core body temperature. While some forensic pathologists prefer to take the rectal temperature so they're not piercing the skin and organs, obviously Frost is in the liver-temperature camp.

“That time ties in with our caller.” Sloan pulls herself to standing with some effort.

“What did the witness see?” I ask her.

“Lights, like torches, moving, and then later on a circle of smaller lights. I haven't been to interview him yet, but he's next on my list.”

I flick the ring on my little finger. “Sure does sound ritualistic.”

“Yup. Why do you think I called you in?” Her response is a little terse.

I look around at the scene. “What else have you got?”

“The ranger who found her is over there.” Sloan nods at a tall bearded man in his early thirties. “He was careful with the crime scene, careful trekking in and out, and we've managed to find quite a few distinct footprints nearer to the body.”

“Any idea how many sets?”

“Too early to tell. But apparently this clearing is a common stopover point for walkers. It'll be hard to tell if the prints are from last night or earlier in the week.”

“Any in a circle?”

She shrugs. “We'll know more in an hour or two.”

“You ID'd the girl?” Rosen bends down to take a closer look at her face.

“Yes. Sherry Taylor.” Sloan leans over the body. “There was an APB put out for her earlier today. She's twenty
years old, and lived in Brentwood with her parents, who reported her missing this morning.”

I chew on my bottom lip. “You've done the death knock?”

She sighs and nods. “Just got back. The parents were too distraught to talk, so I'm giving them an hour or two before we start questioning them. I'm hoping they'll give us the formal ID this evening or early tomorrow. But I did take a head shot for them. It's their girl, all right.”

“I'd like to sit in on any meetings you have with them, if that's okay, Detective. I need to know as much as possible about Sherry.”

She nods. “I know the drill, Anderson.”

“Great.”

I take another look at the body, noticing her nakedness in every sense of the word—no makeup and no nail polish, which is unusual for a young woman. Did the killer or killers remove these things? It might tie in with the sacrifice angle—she had to be pure.

Sloan moves us away from the body.

“Ever seen anything like this before?” I ask her.

“No. I've seen a lot of bizarre things in my time, but nothing that implicates vampires. You?”

“My vampire viewing's limited to
Buffy.
”

She gives a brief chuckle before letting out a heavy sigh. “The vampire mythology has always held a sense of intrigue, but it's everywhere now.”

I nod. “And vampires are part of our consciousness from an early age. Even
Sesame Street
has The Count.”

“Humph…I never thought of that.” She looks back at the body. “Young women like Sherry…they think vampires are cool.”

I stare at the body, too. “I bet Sherry Taylor didn't think it was cool when she was running for her life.”

Sunday, 12:30 p.m.

O
ur caller lives on El Medio Avenue, overlooking both Topanga State Park and Temescal Gateway Park. Sloan and I pay him a visit together, leaving the crime-scene techs and Sloan's partner, Detective Carey, to finish processing the scene. Rosen also leaves, opting to go back to the office and finish some paperwork, and Frost will be heading off with the body soon, too. Every forensic pathologist is different, but an hour or so at the scene is plenty for most.

Sloan and I take my car, and I turn off Sunset onto El Medio Avenue. The incline starts immediately, and within less than half a mile we're on the crest of a large hill. From the road, the houses seem like larger suburban blocks, and their impressive views are hidden behind their bulk. It'd be nice to have a state park in your backyard. Especially so close to downtown L.A.

“What do you think one of these would go for?”

Sloan lets out a whistle. “Dunno…not exactly in my budget.” She peers out the window for a second look. “You'd have to be talking five to ten million, maybe more.”

“Ouch.”

“Uh-huh.” She pauses, looking at the street numbers. “We're almost there. Third house on the right.”

I pull into the curb outside number 922.

Sloan unbuckles her seat belt. “We're looking for Mr. Heeler.”

The house is a gray weatherboard, with white easels and window frames. It's set back from the road a little more than some of the other houses, with a large concrete driveway leading to a double garage under the main residence. We walk along the driveway, up the two porch steps and knock on the white door.

A man in his late fifties answers. “Yes?” With one word, one breath, the stench of stale alcohol hits me. Great.

“This is Agent Anderson, and I'm Detective Sloan from the LAPD.” We both show our IDs.

“Of course.” He gives them a cursory glance with bloodshot eyes. “I'm Andrew Heeler. Please come in.”

Heeler is wearing khaki pants, a black shirt and bare feet. His graying hair is short, accentuating his round face and dark brown eyes. He takes us past a staircase and a living room on the right, into a large kitchen and open-plan space that looks out onto a deck…and the park.

“Wow,” I say. “What a view.”

He stops and looks out the windows. “Yes. It's magnificent.” He sighs. “Except when kids are fooling around down there.”

“The people you saw were young?” Sloan asks.

“I don't know. I'm just assuming.” He turns around to us. “Tea, coffee?”

Sloan and I both accept the offer of a coffee.

“Take a seat if you like.” Heeler motions toward a large black leather couch.

Once we're both sitting, Sloan asks Heeler how long he's lived here.

“Over fifteen years now.”

We start off with idle chitchat, ready to move to the more serious questions as soon as is polite and strategic. There's no reason why Mr. Heeler would be on edge, but it doesn't do any harm to make sure he feels at ease despite the official presence.

Sloan leans back into the couch. “You married, Mr. Heeler? Kids?”

“Widowed.” He flicks the brewer on and comes over to sit opposite us. “And I've got one son who's twenty-five.”

I eye the telescope on the deck. “You're a star-gazer?”

“Sometimes, yes. Although it only tends to be a couple of times a month these days. Just laziness, I guess.”

I smile. “Is that what you were doing last night?”

A few beats of silence go by before he responds. “Yeah.” He seems uncertain, like he's trying to piece the events together. “I think it was around midnight…I went out to use the telescope, but then the lights in the park caught my attention.”

“Can you take us through exactly what you saw, Mr. Heeler?” Sloan asks.

“Um.” He stares out the window. “I went out to have a look at the stars—” he points toward the balcony “—and was adjusting my telescope's position when I saw something out the corner of my eye.” He waves his left hand off to the side. “There were about six or seven lights.” Another pause. “Looked like torches. They were moving. I went to take a closer look, but it was too dark, despite the full moon. All I could see were lights and shapes…figures.”

“Your telescope looks pretty powerful, Mr. Heeler,” I say. “You couldn't see any more detail?” The telescope is very thick, and my understanding is that the larger the diameter the more magnification.

“Oh, I wasn't looking with my telescope. It's far too powerful for that. I got out my binoculars.” He moves back into the kitchen. “I can't believe…” He pauses midsentence, a cupboard door open and one coffee mug in his hand. “I can't believe a girl was murdered.” He shakes his head and gets another two coffee cups out. “I thought it was kids, fooling around. I never thought…”

“Of course, Mr. Heeler. We understand.”

We wait in silence for a few minutes while he organizes the coffee and then heads back over to us.

Sloan takes the cup he hands her. “So could you see if the figures were male or female?”

He hands me my coffee. “No. Too dark, too far away.” He starts to sit down but then bounces back up. “Sorry, cream and sugar?”

“Cream for me,” I reply.

“Both for me.”

He places his cup on the coffee table and grabs a bowl of sugar and some milk from the kitchen, putting them both out on the table. “Where was I?”

Sloan empties a heaped teaspoon into her coffee and stirs. “You couldn't see if the figures were male or female. It was too dark, too far away.”

“Ah, yes.” He takes a sip of coffee. “I figured there was no point calling the police just for some kids playing around in the park. I gave up on the stars because of the cloud cover, but finished my drink on the deck before coming back inside to watch TV.”

“What were you drinking last night, Mr. Heeler?”

Sloan's question seems to take him by surprise. Eventually he tells us it was vodka.

Sloan leaves it for the time being. “You told the park ranger that you saw a circle of lights?”

“Yeah, that's right. I fell asleep on the couch and woke up around quarter after two. When I was locking the bal
cony door I saw the lights. I actually think it was candles rather than torches the second time.”

Candles? A circle of candles is an instant, striking visual.

He stares at his coffee, mesmerized. “Although I was half asleep at that point.”

We have to ask ourselves the question a defense lawyer would ask Heeler if we put him on the stand—half asleep or in a drunken stupor?

He takes another sip of coffee. “This morning I started thinking about the lights and decided maybe I should call the park and let them know.” He shakes his head. “But I didn't think it was serious. I thought maybe there'd be beer bottles or other trash that the rangers might want to clean up.”

Sloan gives him a nod. “Mind if we have a look from your deck?”

“Sure.”

The view is even more spectacular when we make our way out, with an expanse of trees and greenery stretching for miles. Just looking at the valley makes me take a deep breath—clean air in L.A. At least, it feels clean.

“That's where I saw the lights.” Heeler points down, right about where I'd expect our crime scene to be from this angle. Maybe he wasn't that drunk after all.

“Have you got those binoculars, Mr. Heeler?” Sloan asks. “I'd like to see what you saw.”

“Sure,” he says and heads inside.

Sloan leans on the deck railing, facing me. “What do you make of him?”

I wince. “Not exactly the most reliable witness.”

“Did he fall asleep on the couch or pass out?”

“He has got the spot about right, though.” I point to the area.

“True.” Sloan pauses. “If it was a circle of lights, what do you think that means? For the investigation?”

I raise my eyebrows. “I'm sure we've come to the same conclusions…some sort of a ritual or sacrifice. Could be that Sherry was in the center of that circle, dying or dead when Mr. Heeler saw the lights—candles or not.”

Sloan is silent but gives a small nod. I know she's at least entertaining this possibility, otherwise she wouldn't have requested a Bureau profiler.

A minute or so later, Heeler returns with the binoculars. He holds them out, not sure who to pass them to.

Sloan tips her head to one side. “You go.”

I take the binoculars and scan the terrain, looking for the crime scene. Within less than ten seconds I've found it, but I can see what Heeler means. While I can see there are people moving around and I'd be able to count them and even determine their gender, if it was dark that would be impossible. Even assuming they were holding torches or candles. “It's a good view, a good vantage point, but in the dark…” I hand the binoculars to Sloan.

She focuses them on the scene. “I see what you mean. It was a full moon last night, but lots of cloud cover.”

Back inside, Sloan asks Heeler if he's ever seen anything suspicious before.

He shakes his head. “Not like that. I know the park is closed from dusk to dawn, but people do get in. Occasionally I might hear something—people yelling, that sort of thing. I imagine it's frequently underage drinkers…maybe teenagers looking to have sex?” He turns the last part into a question.

“Yes, that's right, Mr. Heeler,” Sloan answers. “The park rangers often find empty bottles, but mostly around the entrance, not this deep into the park. And they have also interrupted a few…passionate moments.” She drains the rest of her coffee. “I think that's it.” She looks to me for confirmation.

I nod and we head for the door.

At the door, Sloan turns back to Heeler. “There is one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“How much do you think you drank last night, Mr. Heeler?”

He looks at his feet and kicks the ground. “I did see something.”

“You admitted to being half asleep and under the influence. How can you be sure you saw a circle and candles last night?” Sloan's pushing him, like a lawyer would.

Leaning one hand on the door frame he stares at the ground. “I guess…I guess I can't be one hundred percent sure, can I?” It didn't take much for Heeler to cave.

We both thank him for his time.

Back in the car, I start the engine. “Doesn't look too good.”

Sloan shakes her head. “He'd be hopeless in court, and that's if
we
buy his story.”

“He was obviously a little drunk last night, but he did pick the right spot.”

“Mmm…” Sloan's not convinced. “His call did lead to the body, but I think a healthy amount of skepticism is warranted about the other details.”

Sloan may not believe Heeler, but I do. After all, I have the added benefit of last night's dream. I have to assume I was Sherry, running away from multiple perps and I definitely saw lights and vampire fangs.

“Let's say he's right.” I pull the wheel hard and U-turn, heading back down El Medio Avenue toward Sunset Boulevard. I'd programmed the Taylors' address into my navigation system before we left the park, so now I follow the directions to their Brentwood house. “He thought there were about seven or eight torches, so that could be the number of perps we're dealing with. And that could tie in with this group, After Dark.”

“Do you think After Dark could be a cult?”

“Maybe. It'll be interesting to see the dynamics. Is it a cult or just a group of like-minded individuals? Did the cops who worked the trespass case interview any of the other members besides the two they caught? Or get some other names, even?”

“They got the leader's, one Anton Ward. Someone should have sent that stuff across to Rosen. You didn't get it?”

“Sorry, yeah. I haven't had a chance to look through it yet. It's on the backseat.”

“The two offenders were Larry Davidson and Walter Riley of WestHo. They were fined for trespassing, but that was the end of it. The investigating officers flagged the possible wider vampire angle but felt that both Davidson and Riley were harmless, and there's nothing illegal about ‘being' a vampire. The two admitted to being part of a group called After Dark, run by Anton Ward, but stuck to their original story—that they were in the park alone.”

“Even though the ranger saw other people running off?”

Sloan nods. “Yup.”

“So they were protecting the group. Either of their own volition or under orders.”

“Yeah.” Sloan's thoughtful. “A single leader makes it more likely it's a cult, yes?”

“Not necessarily. While one of the characteristics of new religious movements is an enigmatic leader who has complete control over his followers, most everyday groups have some sort of leadership hierarchy. A school has a principal, a board of directors has a chairman and even a group of hobbyists will have one main person who directs the action.”

Sloan turns to me. “We're hardly talking schools, corporations or hobbies here, Anderson.”

“I know. The cult angle is a definite possibility.”

Silence for a beat before Sloan says, “Even if After Dark is a cult, it doesn't mean they're involved in anything illegal, let alone murder.”

I stop at traffic lights on Sunset. “Point taken. And I have to admit I don't know much about the vampire subculture, although I know it's associated with the Goth culture.”

“Me, neither. Nightlife in L.A. is always interesting.” She smiles. “According to the files, Davidson and Riley had been to a Goth nightclub before they were arrested.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Maybe we should check it out…check out their nightclub scene.” I stifle a smile, imagining Sloan and I dressed like we are now and flashing our badges at a Goth club.

Sloan smoothes down the fabric on her pants. “I know we've got the so-called fang marks, but I'm more interested in her love life as a starting point.”