The Blood Detail (Vigil) (4 page)

Need to Know

Three case files were waiting for me in the bullpen conference room, collected in sienna brown folders, spread out side by side across the hard Formica table. I shuffled to my left and closed the blinds, which opened out into the bullpen proper, and took a seat behind my reading material. I started with the first folder, flipping it open and sliding the other two out of the way.

The case number was BG-0001301. It pertained to one James Parsons, a local slaughterhouse owner, and an apparent not-so upstanding member of the walking undead. The Detail, as it was referred to in the typewritten report, caught wind of his odiousness through a surprise admission during a balls-out Robbery-Homicide interrogation.

Detective Terrence Koi had been working a series of gangland disappearances, which everyone, including the families, naturally assumed were murders. During questioning, one of the prime suspects gave up his gang’s latest body disposal method, along with his personal complicity in the killings. It seemed that sometime in the previous eighteen months word had gotten around that a certain slaughterhouse was willing to get rid of human remains at no charge, just as long as the bodies were fresh. The suspect’s compatriots saw an opportunity, and went a little wild with the gangland retribution, taking out a sizable chunk of the opposition. The murderous twit Koi had in custody had become scared for his own safety, not because of his fellow gang members, but from the strange behavior of the friendly-neighborhood slaughterhouse owner. According to the gang-banger, the man had threatening eyes and blood in his mouth. He was quite certain “this dude” had been eating the bodies they had brought to him.

Being a Saturday, a non-work day at the slaughterhouse, the wrath of the LAPD descended upon the Westside home of James Parsons. Surprised by the sudden appearance of the authorities, Mr. Parsons, a paunchy, balding bachelor, decided to burn his house down and make an escape through a tunnel he’d dug from his garage to a house three doors down which he also owned, under an assumed name. A swift call to the fire department kept the blaze from getting too out of hand, but by the time the investigating officers discovered the tunnel and the other house, Parsons was in the wind. The Detail got involved because of what was found in this other house—bedrooms filled with bodies, all in the process of being drained of their blood. These peculiarities were flagged, and the Detail was given jurisdiction over the case—although the report did not say who or what had determined this, only that a handoff had happened, without incident.

Bethany Ganna and Erik Brancawitz were the group detectives assigned. They worked cooperatively with Koi and his partner, staking out the slaughterhouse, which Parsons returned to like a moronic salmon seven days later. They cornered him in the basement of the building and he again attempted to set the location ablaze, this time to no avail. To subdue the super strong Parsons, Ganna and Brancawitz excused Koi’s team and utilized newly issued veterinary-style tranquilizing rifles, tagging the struggling man in the neck and the chest. It took four more direct hits to his torso to bring Parsons down. As he fought the sleep effects of the high-dosage narcotic, the suspect broke through several walls along the ground floor of his business.

Following the description of the somewhat dramatic apprehension, the remainder of the case notes had been redacted with a black marker pen. The lines were fresh, too. The pages had a half-chemical, half-licorice smell about them, which only meant one thing—I was only allowed to know so much, even though loose ends remained. What happened to Parsons after his detention? What did Robbery-Homicide know about the true nature of this man they’d begun to refer to as ‘The Bleeder’? I pondered the possibility of such crimes and associations existing, and yet somehow the Detail remained a relatively unknown organization. The chances of that happening seemed remote to me, but I had been in the dark until Jessup, so these people obviously knew how to cover their tracks. I went to the next file.

Case BG-0001304 had been a homegrown Detail extravaganza from the beginning. Douglass and Racine worked this one, prompted by an informant they referred to in their report as FANCYPANTS—always typed out in full capital letters. FANCYPANTS had called in from a Pasadena pay phone on March the twelfth and informed Racine of a rogue fellow night owl who had left the Underground and was trolling vulnerable high schools for blood. The name the informant gave them was Delilah Theressi, and she was operating in and around the city of Glendale, the last this person had heard. His description of her was red-headed, beautiful, and voluptuous. The informant then claimed he had his own people out looking for her, but she’d be hard to detect in the vicinity of a high school due to how young she looked herself—fifteen or sixteen was the best approximation he could give. Racine pressed him on this particular matter, insisting on knowing Theressi’s actual age. FANCYPANTS did not know that for sure, but he had been aware of Theressi since the 20s, but had only become close to her in the last couple of decades. Racine made special note of this, suggesting that the informant might have an emotional attachment to the woman, and it’d be preferable if the Detail caught up with her first. That last bit ended up being wishful thinking on his part. It took six months before the Detail received any kind of hit on this young/old woman. From everything I read in the report, they’d pressed hard too, going as far as checking the backgrounds of student transfers from every valley high school. But Theressi was too sly for that. Why actually attend school when you could just pretend to?

Since she had left the Underground, Theressi had become friendly with a group of post-pubescent teenage boys. In exchange for daily doses of bloodletting, which she couched as a hot and kinky fetish, Theressi would have intercourse with each of the eight friends until they’d worn themselves out. They came back often, and brought additional willing victims. This adorable little scam came to a screeching halt when a parent discovered a deep puncture mark on her son’s neck and phoned the police, telling them that some young slut had been drinking her boy’s blood like it was going out of style. The reported assault went straight to the Detail. Douglass and Racine met the boy in question, and when he could not remember the girl’s exact address, he agreed to take them to the place he kept calling her parents’ apartment. On their way to the location, and free of Mommy’s influence, the boy explained to the detectives how sweet the girl was. All the boys liked her, a lot. She treated them as something special. “It was true love,” he said. “Real love.” I restrained my urge to vomit, and kept reading.

The detectives and the boy arrived and made the apartment right away—it was on the second story, two doors from the end. Racine got out to watch over the place while Douglass took the kid home. When he got back, a Tactical team was in place. They all agreed it was safest to move in immediately because school was still in session and Theressi would most likely be on her own. They went door to door and removed everyone from the surrounding apartments, just to be safe. The Tac team went in from the front.

The apartment was dark, and at first there was no sign of the suspect. But as they were moving to the first bedroom, a “stunningly attractive redhead” strolled out into the hall wearing only a pair of yellow panties. This distracted the officers just long enough for her to pounce, ping-ponging along the side of the wall and killing two of the men outright, and knocking another two unconscious. She raced into the living room where Racine and Douglass were waiting for her, their tranquilizer rifles in position to fire. She was quick according to their notations, the quickest of the subjects they’d ever encountered. She dodged every shot and bounced off the ceiling, coming down in a crouch on top of Douglass. She was about to tear into him when Racine came up from behind and shot her twice in the back with the tranqs. She swung wildly and knocked him down, pulling out the needles and resetting her rage on him. Douglass took no chances, scrambling onto his haunches and pulling out his traditional sidearm. He gave her one last warning, and when she did not respond—and with his partner’s life in danger—he pulled the trigger, shooting her in the temple. She fell over, DOA. Like before, this was the end of the report, the remainder of the pages blacked out. I was fine with it, though. I’d read enough.

In the third folder I found the Danny Ray Jessup file, up to date enough to include a few rough notes on his failed attempt to break in through my garage door. The initial tip-off about Jessup also sprang from the informant FANCYPANTS. He called in the same manner, but from an alternative Pasadena location. This time out, he came off as extremely concerned about Jessup, whom he described as the most “ancient” resident of the Underground and a giant man with one hell of a temper. Sometimes Jessup responded to young women, FANCYPANTS said, as a way to help subdue him. He liked blondes in particular. Despite what the informant calls a gentle southern drawl, no one in this Underground wanted anything to do with Jessup, primarily because of the way he took care of himself—which was not at all. The informant was convinced that the constant isolation is what pushed the guy over the edge, and that is something he had been warning Douglass and Racine about it. He said one more thing: “Sooner or later, we all lose it.” The statement struck me as important, although I couldn’t have explained why. The rest of the information pertained to searches, all of which were useless until Angie and I stumbled across the murder of Kara Tia Manning. Reading her name felt like a blow from a sledgehammer. All the time I had spent thinking about her, this was the first time I had read or been given her actual name. I had been isolated from the case right off, so there is no way I could have known. According to the file, her identity still hadn’t been released to the public.

I closed everything up. I knew what I was going to do. I’d known before I had asked to be allowed into the loop. But when you had the kind of leverage I had, it’d be stupid not to do some due diligence first.

I pushed my chair back and exited the conference room, leaving the files where they were. A middle-aged receptionist was positioned nearby, a pleasant woman who had escorted me in. I told her I was done with the files and she could retrieve them. I then asked her if Captain Castellano was in his office. She said that he was, so I thanked her and tromped my way over to his door. When I got there, I could see him through the glass. His head was buried in his computer screen, which meant I needed to knock first. He looked up when I did, and motioned me in.

“Not exactly light reading, was it?” he said as I made my way toward him.

I brought myself to a stop a few inches from the lip of his desk, clicking my heels and locking my hands behind my back. “Let me say this, sir. I’m still unconvinced that these people are vampires, not in any mythological sense. But they are dangerous, that’s indisputable. And they need to be brought down. In the two cases I was privy to, I have to say, you people did a decent job doing that.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“I don’t give praise easily.”

“I wouldn’t imagine that you would.” His eyes squinted. “Do you have any other questions?”

“Several. Let’s start with how long the Detail has been in operation?”

“Five years. I have been in command the entire time.”

“And how long have the Feds been involved?”

“Sixteen months. They came to us and provided this building. Before that, we had a couple of smallish offices in Santa Monica.” I was suspicious about any and all Federal involvement, and I think Castellano could tell because he attempted to cover right away. “I’ve been told they assist us only because we have a mutual interest. But that said, I don’t hear much from Washington most of the time. We only have one liaison officer on site. His name is Special Agent Jerome Parker. If you stick around and help us out, I’m sure you’ll be meeting him. He’s pleasant enough.” Castellano held out his hands and did a little half-shrug. “He hasn’t pissed me off so far.”

He was trying to win me over, and he kind of had.

“This question may seem strange,” I said. “But are you aware of who I really am?”

“Yes. You are Grant McMartin’s long-lost daughter. Special Agent Parker informed me of this fact a few hours ago. I was just scanning through a few of your father’s many public exploits. My condolences on your loss, by the way.”

“Thank you. But right now I’m more concerned about what the FBI thinks about my presence on this case. Before I came west, I was definitely persona non grata with my father and his minions.”

Castellano leaned forward so nonchalantly, his limbs could have been made of rubber. “I personally I have heard no objection to your participation,” he said. “And I wouldn’t give a damn if I had. This is my team, and I pick my own players.”

I could tell he believed what he was saying, but you cannot give the Feds an inch. And after accepting the building we were in, and whatever other fancy toys they’d provided, the Captain had already given up quite a bit.

“One last thing,” I said. “If my assistance is significant in any way, I’d like to be kept on here full time.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Castellano said, tapping his finger energetically. “So, does that mean you’re in?”

I could feel the pain in my wrist flare up, but that wasn’t about to stop me. “You bet. I’m most definitely in.”

Alone

I spent the rest of the day sleeping on a couch.

I awoke sometime after five. Douglass was shaking me, gibbering on and on about how we needed to get our butts into gear before the sun went down. Forgoing the impulse to slap the shit out of him, I sat up, scratched the skin beneath my bra strap, and yawned.

“The van is waiting,” he said before helping me to my feet and escorting me out of whatever office I had been stashed into.

I knew exactly where we were headed, but I didn’t see the point. Jessup had already tried to get inside my condo, and he was stopped by the presence of the Detail’s goon squad. Even a dimwitted brute like him could figure out it was too risky to come back when there was a possibility someone would still be standing guard. But Castellano and company insisted. There was a process they went through on these things, and one of the first steps was to lull the subject into a feeling of self-satisfiedness, whatever that means. I’d have thought just catching the freak was the most important thing, but apparently I was wrong. For a group like the Detail, secrecy was priority number one—first, last, and always.

While I was sleeping, a tech team had been busy transforming my home. Cameras and other devious forms of surveillance equipment had been situated in nearly every conceivable location. I didn’t learn about any of it until I was in the van, seconds from being let out, in the midst of Douglass’ final spiel. He was pummeling me with instruction after instruction, reminding me of everything that needed to be taken into account over the course of the evening. The Detail itself was remaining close by. They’d appropriated the buildings on both sides of me, and two more at the front and back gates. Once I went inside, I was to go about my normal activities, as if nothing else was going on. A secondary phone system had been installed in the kitchen and in my bedroom. Douglass said I’d recognize the devices right away—they were both red and placed next to my generic store-bought phones. If I needed to contact anyone in ‘our group’, I was to use that line. Someone would always be on the other end for me. If there were any suspicious noises, I was to call in at once, no hesitations. According to Douglass, there was no such thing as a mistake or a false hit. I let him simmer for a moment after he was done, staring at him blankly to let him know his Mr. Cool act had no effect on me whatsoever.

“May I get out now,” I said, pushing him aside with the back of my bandaged hand.

“Do you understand everything I’ve told you?”

Half out of the vehicle, I peered back at him. “Do you think I’m retarded or something?”

“No.”

“Then I understand. Nothing you said was that earth-shattering.” I reached over and slammed the door on him. The van surged ahead, leaving me in front of the concrete path which wound up to my swanky new front door. The sun above me had just begun to dim. After all of Douglass’ grousing, there had been no reason to hurry. We’d arrived in plenty of time.

I swept inside and locked the deadbolt behind me. Dragging myself to the kitchen, I found nothing out of place, no trace at all that workmen had turned the place into a virtual fortress. Even the television was still on, blasting out the news, just like I had left it.

My stomach growled, which reminded me to eat. I hadn’t done so since Angie and I hit a drive-thru after we’d been suspended. I feared there wouldn’t be much for me in the fridge, but when I opened it, I found just the opposite. The shelves were filled with fresh fruits and vegetables. A loaf of bread was stowed in there as well, the wheat kind I always bought for myself—and stacks of sliced sandwich meat of every variety. Clearly, a couple of creepos had been digging through my trash to see what I liked. I didn’t think about that for very long; I was too hungry to give a crap. I made myself a big sandwich—a ham and turkey concoction—and wolfed it down standing at the counter. I finished swallowing and filled a glass of water from an inset dispenser on the fridge, and snagged a red apple for good measure. I turned off the lights and the television and went upstairs to shower and change.

Halfway up the steps, the phone rang. I wasn’t sure if it was one of the new red ones or not, so I hustled into my room. The two phones were so close together on my nightstand, I wasn’t positive which one was clamoring at me. But since the trilling was familiar, I figured it was my home line. I set down the apple and the water and picked up the receiver. The tan cord was twisted into knots and dragged the bottom half of the phone with it as I brought the damn thing to my face.

“Hello,” I said as I attempted to stretch out the kinked-up cord.

“Gracie, it’s me Angie.” My partner’s voice was hushed, unsure of herself. “Are you sleeping?”

“Not currently. I’ve been sleeping all day, though.”

“Me, too,” she said.

I finally gave up on the cord and let it do whatever it was going to do. I fell back onto my unmade bed. “What lazy bastards we are. It’s not like something big happened to us last night or anything.”

Angie tried to laugh, but she didn’t sound that enthused. “Do you wanna do something tonight?”

I was forced to lie to her without a single second of preparation. “I can’t. The evil stepmother and baby brother are in town, and I have been shanghaied into dinner. Sorry about that. I know it sucks being alone right now.” Angie had only just broken up with her live-in girlfriend, which was all secret and hush-hush, so she was on her own in a way that she wasn’t really used to. It made me hate myself for lying to her. She was a fucking great friend.

“Wait a minute,” she said. “Did you just tell me you agreed to have dinner with your stepmother? You hate her. Why would you do that?”

Good question, I thought. “She just showed up at my door with Grant Jr. and I couldn’t say no, not to him.”

“I bet you wish you could go back to being incognito again, huh? I think you liked living family-free.”

“It was ideal while it lasted.” On my dresser, directly across from me, I saw what looked like a rifle laid out in front of the mirror. I didn’t tend to leave that sort of thing sitting around, so it sure wasn’t mine. I kept on talking. “Nothing lasts forever, sadly. Sometimes your hand is forced, and you just have to be social.”

“Do you want to get lunch tomorrow? I can pick you up.”

“Sounds good.” I sat up and slid off the front of the bed. “But I’ll have to get back to you. I need to make sure Deanna hasn’t made further plans.” I approached the dresser. There was a note with the rifle. The cord was keeping me from getting close enough to read it.

“I’ll call you in the morning to check in. You have yourself a good time tonight,” Angie said with a snicker.

“Smart ass. I’ll talk to you later.” I pressed the bottom button on the receiver and tossed the phone back in the direction of the bed. I could hear it plop twice on top of the covers.

As I examined the rifle more closely, I could see that it was of the dart-firing variety. The note, written in block letters, read: THERE’S A HANDGUN VERSION IN THE KNIFE DRAWER IN THE KITCHEN. YOU NEVER KNOW. ONE OF THESE MIGHT COME IN HANDY. I picked up the long-necked firearm and checked it, making sure I understood how the darts were loaded. Once I got a handle on the piece, I put it back down.

I stood in front of the mirror and unfurled my bandages. One wrist was feeling fairly decent, but the bad one still ached. Ready to shower, I slipped my t-shirt over my head, only remembering the surveillance cameras as I was wadding the garment into a ball. I stared at the walls, searching for where the peepers might be looking in. I saw no sign of anything. Fortunately, I had never been that modest. I stripped down to my bare skin and flipped the bird on both fingers, spinning around in a slow, 360º circle. Then and only then, did I make my way to the shower.