Krewe of Hunters 3 Sacred Evil (23 page)

“How did he ingest it?” Whitney asked.

“With a cup of coffee, probably. Or a glass of water, maybe even a glass of juice.” Sullivan shook his head. “Here’s the real problem with the drug, of course. It erases memory. Sometimes, in rape cases, the women remember snatches of events, or maybe something like a one-frame picture of where they were. In some cases, the victims remember nothing at all. People have died from overdoses, so we’re lucky Captain Tyler is alive.”

“It was planned that Captain Tyler be alive,” Jude said thoughtfully. “Dr. Sullivan, would you see that he gets some lunch and some rest? And I have to make some kind of arrangements for him. I don’t want Captain Tyler back on the streets, and I don’t want him back at the home. I—”

“Hey, don’t fret on that,” Dr. Sullivan said. “I’ll bring him home for the night.” He grimaced. “My mother is in town. She needs someone to hover over other than me.”

“That’s above and beyond,” Jude said. “I can find another shelter. I can even bring him in to the hospital for observation. I have a neighbor—”

“He’ll be fine with me,” Sullivan assured him. “Honestly. I like the old codger. Who knows, maybe Mom will like him, too. She’s driving me insane, that’s for sure. I’m not expecting him to have any recall, but in case he does, I’ll know how to talk him through whatever memory may come back up, and I’ll contact you the second that I do.”

“That’s great, then, thank you. I want to drop the coat off at my office, but I want to check up on the skeletal remains as well.”

“Ah, yes! I heard about the find,” Dr. Sullivan said. “We’ve got bags here.”

The remains from the House of Spiritualism were in an autopsy room, lined up one after another. The remnants of clothing had been carefully bagged and tagged.

The bones looked lonely on the tables, sad and white, the empty-socket eyes seeming to stare out into space, like props at a movie set or a Halloween scare event. But they were real.

Fullbright was there when they arrived. “Wouldn’t give up the supervision on this!” he assured them. “We’ve found plenty of nicks on the bones, and I’d bet a year’s pay that they were all nearly beheaded. Jack the Ripper strangled his victims. I believe that these women were awake and aware when their throats were slit. But we’ve only begun the work. We’ll know more when we’ve had more time.”

Jude looked at Whitney; she appeared ashen.

“You okay?” he asked her softly.

She nodded, but something in the room was still disturbing her.

“Have you estimated the age of the bones?” Jude asked.

“Well, the clothing patterns and remnants—even stained and such by fluids—definitely appear to be late Victorian,” Fullbright said. “We’ve estimated the age of most of the victims to be late teens to early twenties. Some have very bad teeth, which would suggest that they had been poor, immigrants perhaps. Sadly, yes! The refuse of life of that pitiable time.” He shook his head. “Killing them was easy. I don’t know if they were even missed with more than a passing thought. Come tomorrow, and I’ll be able to give you a closer age estimate and even race, maybe nationality, of most of them. Well—” he glanced over at the forensic anthropologists, busily working “—I and my comrades of this adventure will be able to tell you much more tomorrow.”

“Hey, are you really all right?” he asked Whitney as they left the building. “I can get you back to Blair House. I become obsessed, but I don’t have the right to drag you along with me all day. In fact, I really don’t have the right to separate you from your team at all.”

“Oh, no, I’m glad to be with you, and I’m perfectly fine,” she said. She looked ahead as they walked. “It was just…the skulls. The jaws on some were disarticulated from the skulls, and it looked as if they were staring at some horror.”

“Yeah,” he said huskily. “I can take you back to Blair House.”

“No. I want to work this,” she said firmly.

She was such a proud little thing, and her stature, the way she carried her body, gave her a presence that wasn’t due to her size. He couldn’t help feeling as they walked that he wanted to shield her from the unpleasantness at hand. He reminded himself that she was an agent.

That didn’t stop them from being people. It didn’t stop him from that growing feeling that they were meant to be together. So she had annoyed him at first, but that initial annoyance had turned into something else quickly. He wouldn’t have been human, he’d have had to have been a eunuch, not to feel a sizzle of instant awareness when she was near. Awareness quickly became realized as basic desire, and he was a fool to keep needing her around him.

But he did. And he couldn’t even say that she wasn’t good with him, working the case, because she was.

And, hell, he was a cop. He had strength of purpose, damn it. He could force himself to a steel-willed control.

His dreams were his own, even his dreams of hot, carnal, naked passion. She didn’t need to know that he kept imagining her naked.

Twenty minutes later, they had the coat delivered to and registered into the lab; Jude made sure it was in the hands of Judith Garner, who was still, along with her crew, wrangling the evidence gathered from both the Broadway and the Bowery sites.

Jude was fairly certain by then that he had himself—and his wandering mind—in check.

He told Whitney that he wanted to check in with Hannah, and they did so. “I don’t have anything new yet,” she told him. “But I started on background checks yesterday, and Jake Mallory and I divided the work—we have hundreds of names to go through. I’ve got the programs situated to spit out all kinds of concurrences, similarities, mental defects, sealed juvenile records, you name it. We’re working on anyone even remotely connected with the film, and with Blair House, and the House of Spiritualism.”

“And,” Jude reminded her, “anyone who has worked in a slaughterhouse, in an autopsy room, with medicine and anatomy in any way. And anyone who knows something about law enforcement, evidence, what we can really find and what we can’t find.”

“Of course!” Hannah said. She started counting off on her fingers, “The killer knows how to get around detection, the killer knows where certain body organs are, the killer apparently knows the city and the system.” She sighed. “That could be a lot of New Yorkers.”

“Concentrate on the limo drivers and the principals in the movie first—and look up everything you can find on Samuel Vintner, retired cop, dial-a-guard.”

“I already did,” Hannah said. “And you know I would have let you know immediately if I’d found anything on him. No college degree, and he passed the police academy as a C student, I guess you’d say. He was on a beat—in Brooklyn—for twenty years, and retired. He never came near the morgue, the best I can find. He never worked in a grocery store as a butcher, much less in a slaughterhouse. Detective Sayer’s people interviewed his wife, and she said that he was home in time for dinner, just like he was supposed to be, and he wasn’t covered in blood.” Hannah paused, looking at the two of them. “You guys are a mess. You slept in those clothes, after digging all day. Ugh.” She grinned suddenly. “I should have made you get up when I left last night, but you were so cute sleeping. And I’m guessing you’re not getting a lot of sleep these days.” She wrinkled her nose. “But, if you’re representing the NYPD and the bureau, you might just want to take showers!”

“Soon, Hannah, I promise,” Jude told her. “What about Angus Avery? He may be our man.”

She nodded. “I did a background on him right away, Jude,” she said, sounding hurt. “He went to NYU, and then to the University of Southern California. He has all kinds of writing and directing credits. As far as information I can track goes, he has never worked in the medical field, or in groceries—as a butcher, or in a slaughterhouse. He grew up in the Village, though, so, I would assume he knows Lower Manhattan well. Oh, he wrote the story—the screenplay—for
O’Leary’s.
And it was considered a coup for him when he was able to hire Sherry Blanco for the leading role.”

“Just Sherry? What about Bobby Walden?” Whitney asked.

“Well, they both have confidentiality clauses in their contracts,” Hannah said, her eyes rolling. “I think Bobby got even more money because Sherry agreed to be in the film when she found out that Bobby was her costar. He’d been slipping, you know. That turkey called
A Slice of Christmas?
I mean, come on, a Christmas slasher film? Anyway, Bobby is still stardust, I guess. Must be all the action flicks he did.

“Sherry’s a little different. She went to UCLA for one year, and then she was hired for a music-video show, and she has been working nonstop since then. She never even had to wash a dish or bartend—her parents were putting her through. Bobby Walden was a child prodigy, and was already on the kids’ channels by the time he was eighteen…tutors on set and all that stuff.”

“Dig deeper,” Jude said.

She might have been upset, but she was looking past him—at Whitney. He wasn’t sure what kind of expression Whitney had given her, but it caused Hannah to smile.

“Your wish is my command. Go. Go get cleaned up!”

“Can’t yet,” Whitney told her. “We’re on our way to the shelter for the veterans of foreign wars.”

“Why? What happened?” Hannah asked.

“Someone drugged, kidnapped and deserted Captain Tyler,” Jude explained. “And I need to get my car—can you give us a ride?”

E
llis Sayer had already arrived at the veterans’ home and was questioning patients and workers in one of the employee lounges. As Whitney listened to Jude speak with the desk clerk, she heard the conversation recede as if she’d moved to a distant place. She felt her heart break as she looked around; no one deserved the finest the American public could give more than the men and women who served in the military. She knew that they—just as she had—signed a contract with their branch of service, one that explained that they were putting their lives on the line. Every police officer, every National Guardsman and woman, every person in law enforcement, as well as in the military, knew that they put their lives on the line.

But none did so with the expectation of facing enemy fire in the way that these soldiers had.

At first, she thought that the hallways were just busy. Then, with a chill sweeping over her, she realized that she was seeing the
dead.

She swallowed hard, frozen at first.

It had started in the autopsy room. She had looked at the bones on the tables, and she had imagined them rising and acquiring surreal bodies out of the air that surrounded them. She had seen the gaping mouths, opened in horrendous screams that she thought she could hear.

And now, it was worse…

They walked by her sadly; soldiers who had made it home, but not made it back to health. Men minus arms and legs, limping along on prosthetic legs, or with metal and rubber extensions where arms had once been attached to their bodies. There were those who were pale and gaunt, and had evidently died from organ damage that just couldn’t be repaired, or diseases that just couldn’t be cured. This was not really a hospital; it was a shelter that offered medical aid.

One man in particular stopped and stared at her. Whitney stared back, and realized that he knew that she saw him, and was surprised. She saluted him.

“Whitney?” Jude said and she started. “The night manager for C Wing is in with Ellis now.”

“Of course.”

She followed Jude down a long hallway. He apparently knew where he was going, because he only paused once, looking at the doors around them. He opened one and walked in.

A heavyset woman was seated at a table, wringing a handkerchief in her hands. She stopped speaking when Jude and Whitney entered, eyeing them worriedly.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Dean, continue,” Ellis said, looking at Jude and Whitney. He grimaced. “They’re my colleagues.”

“Well, all right.” Mrs. Dean took a deep breath. “I saw Captain Tyler at nine o’clock—that’s our basic bedtime here. But, of course, our soldiers and sailors are not forced to go to sleep then. Medications have been given out. Dinner is long over, and it’s quiet time. I checked in on him because he’s such a sweet man. And I think he was going to adapt okay. A doctor saw him yesterday, and he was waiting for some test results before starting on a medication regime. I gave him a mild sedative, just to sleep—an ibuprofen with an added sleep aid, doctor’s orders. It wouldn’t have knocked him out, and it wouldn’t have done anything to his memory. And I was at the desk all night, except that if I wasn’t, Mary was there.” She gasped suddenly. “Except when the alarm went off in Admiral Clift’s room. We both went running—he’s one of the World War II vets, quite old and frail, and we both rushed in.”

“What was wrong with Admiral Clift?” Jude asked.

A look of realization came over Mrs. Dean’s face. “Oh, no,” she said. “Nothing.” She fumbled with her handkerchief. “That’s when someone got to Captain Tyler!”

“Do you know why no one was notified this morning that Captain Tyler was gone?” Jude asked.

“Probably because you’re not required to check out. Well, of course, we expect the courtesy of being told when our vets are leaving. We have only so many beds, and we’re trying to create a place where they can find homes and receive medical help without actually living in a nursing facility. Like assisted living, with a better quality of life,” she explained.

“Captain Tyler was brought in by the police. We should have been notified,” Ellis Sayer said crossly.

Mrs. Dean was upset, but she was also defensive. “You’ll have to speak to the day crew about the morning. I have no idea why no one was notified!”

Whitney stepped in then, smiling. “Mrs. Dean, could you show us Captain Tyler’s room?”

“Of course, dear, of course.”

Jude looked at Ellis, who grimaced. “Sorry,” he murmured.

Whitney had longed for Angela’s talent—a real ability to wait, to simply be there, sympathetically, in touch on a different plane, and allow the dead needing help or closure to see that she might see them, and come to her. Now, with the dead suddenly so apparent to her, filling the hallways, she felt a sense of overwhelming unease; she had never thought that she would see so many, so suddenly…so many…

She nearly walked into a member of the living, believing that he was one of the dead.

“Excuse me!” she told an older man. He was in uniform, and though frail, his physical health seemed to be fine. He lifted his hat to her.

“It’s all right, young woman, it’s all right. A lovely young woman may walk into me anytime,” he said, and moved on around them. “Heading to bingo, Mrs. Dean!” he said. He paused and looked back at Whitney. “Marnie! Would you like to come to bingo with me?”

Mrs. Dean whispered, “That’s Major Radison. He thinks you’re his daughter, Marnie. Just tell him that you have to go to work.”

“I’d love to come!” Whitney said. “I’m so sorry that I have to go to work.”

“Next time, sweetheart. Plan to come on a bingo night when you can stay!” he said.

“We offer many group activities here,” Mrs. Dean murmured. “Major Radison is another of our World War II veterans. His daughter, Marnie, died last year, and her family lives out in Arizona, so they’re not here often. Sad, truly. For him, the Alzheimer’s is a blessing. He doesn’t know that she died.”

She pushed open a door to a cheerful room. The bed was even made and decorated with a pretty quilt. The other furnishings offered utility with grace. There was a desk as well as a dresser, and on a counter at the back, a microwave.

“Very nice,” Whitney murmured.

Jude, she noticed, had paid little heed to the room. He had gone to the window. He didn’t touch it, but looked at the mechanism. “We’re on the ground floor,” he noted.

“Yes, we have many rooms on the ground floor,” Mrs. Dean said.

“Ellis—”

“Yeah, forensics on the window,” Ellis said. “I’ve already called—should be a team here soon. Gloves?”

He offered a pair to Jude, and Jude accepted them, and struggled briefly to get them on his long-fingered hands. He opened the window and stuck his head out. “Footprints, too, the ground is soft, they might find something. And the parking lot is just about fifty feet away,” he said. He turned. “Who is on the morning shift?” he asked Mrs. Dean.

“Gertrude, but she’s gone home now,” Mrs. Dean said.

Jude looked at Ellis. “We’ll need—”

“I know. I’ll get over to see Gertrude.”

Jude appeared frustrated but resigned. “All right, Mrs. Dean, thank you for your time. No one has touched anything in this room since Captain Tyler was here?”

“The cleaning crew comes in from 7:00 a.m. through 4:00 p.m. every day,” Mrs. Dean told them. “But we received Detective Sayer’s call, and we were able to stop them before they came in the room.”

“So, it was left like this, with the bed made?” Jude asked.

“Just as you see it,” Mrs. Dean agreed.

Jude flashed Ellis a look of gratitude and Ellis Sayer nodded. “I’ve already been in here. There were no glasses, cups or anything else. And the crime scene unit will dust all the furniture.”

“Mrs. Dean, you didn’t see anyone here last night that shouldn’t have been here, or anything unusual?”

“No, nothing… I didn’t even think the alarm was unusual until you asked, and we knew that Captain Tyler was gone. Thank God that he’s all right, but then he has been living on the streets a very long time—he does know his way around, bless him,” she said.

Whitney set a hand on her shoulder. “This is a home, not a fortress or a prison, and I can see that you try very hard to make the veterans happy.”

“But I should have…I should have been aware. We take precautions with our senile guests, and certainly, with those suffering from brain damage. I should have thought about that alarm and—”

“Mrs. Dean, if you should think of anything, or hear anything, please notify me right away,” Jude said, handing her a card.

“Of course,” she agreed.

She turned and walked out of the room. They followed.

Major Radison hadn’t gone to bingo. He was still standing in the foyer, smiling, as he looked at the pictures of the administrators. “Major Radison, bingo is about to begin,” Mrs. Dean reminded him.

The elderly man looked at Whitney and smiled again. “Marnie, are you coming?”

She was about to make a polite response when she saw the first ghost who had seemed to recognize her in the hallway. He was frowning, watching her. Slowly, he pointed a finger at Major Radison.

Whitney frowned in turn, but then she wondered if the ghost was trying to help her.

“Major, before you go, did you hear or see anything unusual last night?” Whitney asked him.

“Miss,” Mrs. Dean said softly, “the man suffers from Alzheimer’s. I’m afraid that he can’t help you.”

“Shh,” Jude said softly. “Whitney?”

“Major?” Whitney prompted.

“Why, come to think of it, child…” Major Radison said thoughtfully. “Someone walked into my room with a cup and said that I needed my medicine. But then he looked at me, and said he had the wrong room, he was very sorry,” the major said.

“Was he—a nurse?” Whitney asked.

“Well, a most unusual nurse, if you ask me. He was wearing some kind of ridiculous cloak—in a hospital! It’s not even cold in the hospital. And he had a big hat—he looked like something out of an old-time movie! Ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous!” Major Radison said, shaking his head with confusion and disgust.

“I told you that he couldn’t help you!” Mrs. Dean said.

“Major, I’m going to send a sketch artist to see you,” Jude said. “Do you think he could help you draw the man you saw?”

“Why, of course!” the major told him, apparently quite happy to be of service. He turned to Mrs. Dean. “I know what I saw,” he said with quiet dignity.

“Or, better yet, if you’re willing, I’ll send an officer to pick you up and bring you downtown. I’d like to have you look at some pictures as well, and see if you recognize anyone.”

“I am willing, sir, always to serve my country!” He bowed to Whitney. “But, it must be tomorrow morning, sir! You see, now, I am on to bingo!”

“What if I sent out the artist tonight, but had you picked up to come down to the station in the morning?” Jude asked.

“I shall be happy to assist, after bingo,” Major Radison said.

With a clipped bow, he left them.

“Thank you, Mrs. Dean,” Jude said. Then he smiled at Whitney and opened the door for her.

Whitney turned back to see the ghost soldier who had pointed to the major when they’d been about to leave.

He saluted her gravely. She didn’t give a damn what anyone thought; she saluted in return, and then stepped on out the front door, and into the gray mist of a fog-filled twilight.

Little felt as good as the hot shower Jude took when he reached his apartment at last. He scrubbed thoroughly, and the water seemed uplifting, allowing him to believe that they would sift through the haystack and find the truth. As Agent Mulder from the
X-Files
always said,
The truth was out there.
He’d been a fan of the show; seeking the truth about aliens was more entertaining than that sought in the mind of a human psychopath.

Sometimes, it did seem that the truth was hidden in a vast galaxy, but he had hope that Major Radison did have moments of pure lucidity, and that he could give them some kind of picture of the man who had come to drug and kidnap Captain Tyler.

Emerging from the shower, he longed to forget the case.

He knew that he could not. Jude had no problem believing that, whether he suffered from Alzheimer’s or not, Major Radison still met the killer entering the wrong room. Somehow, he had known about Tyler, and decided that the homeless veteran would make a good scapegoat. Except that something about the situation was disturbing.

If the killer was playing Jack the Ripper, they knew damn well he wasn’t done.

He felt refreshed, and yet restless.

And at odds.

He worked fine alone. When he was off, he knew how to play alone, or enjoy time with his father, friends, or even heading out for the night, when there were those times he’d meet a woman, and they’d wind up spending the night. Since his last fiasco, however, he’d determined to keep it casual, and not out of vindictiveness or bitterness. He knew cops who had good marriages. He knew more cops—especially detectives—who had broken marriages. Better to keep his distance.

He deserved a break, and he knew he had the right to take it. And that he wasn’t a one-man island—the NYPD didn’t work that way. But there were too many threads unraveling; he was almost certain that the blood discovered via Luminol at the site would prove that the first two women had been attacked there, at the pentagram, just as the others had been attacked before them more than a century earlier. He’d be lucky to get test results tomorrow from the crime scene unit techs working on the blood and trace at the site, and from those working on trace from the limos he’d asked to be inspected. Still, he was restless; he wanted to get into the killer’s mind.

And, tonight, he didn’t want to be alone. He didn’t want to pull out his jazz or blues collections, and didn’t want to wander the streets, or watch sports in one of his favorite bars. He didn’t even want to drop in on his father—who was wonderful at helping him sort out his mind.

He wanted to return to Blair House.