by Peter Hartog
I stole a glance at Deacon. He hadn’t moved.
“In addition, there was no evidence of sexual abuse,” Stentstrom pointed out. “In fact, Miss Mallery never participated in any sexual activity, in the Biblical sense that is.”
He stared longingly at the corpse, titillated by his own revelation. I shuddered.
“I also did not find hair, tissue or clothing fragments on her person, under her fingernails, or anywhere else that were foreign, or out of place, excluding extraneous and common detritus from the alleyway in which she was found.”
Stentstrom withdrew the white sheet covering the rest of her body. I sucked in a sharp breath.
“Other injuries of note are fractures to five digits of the right hand, fractures of radiocarpal joint of right hand, broken radiocarpal joint and torn palmar, dorsal radiocarpal, ulnar, and radial collateral ligaments of left hand.”
“Her hands were crushed,” Deacon murmured.
“Someone or something of superior-than-human strength gripped both of her hands and squeezed sufficiently to cause that level of trauma,” Stentstrom bubbled with enthusiasm.
I frowned.
“When you say no trace of blood, that’s because she bled out, right?” I asked.
“No, Detective Holliday,” he stated, staring at me unblinking and full of intensity. “My examination of Miss Mallery’s body showed there was no trace of blood, red and white blood cells, or any blood-related material of a molecular nature on, or within, her body anywhere. Hence, lividity and rigor mortis did not occur, because the factors were not present.”
“Then why isn’t her corpse a dried-out husk?” I asked, incredulous. “Don’t the dead cells remain for a while before decomposition? She looks perfectly…normal, I guess, the way a corpse should look a day after death.”
“The matter of a complete absence of blood in this human body is, by itself, a medical impossibility,” Stentstrom enthused. “There are always trace elements remaining. I extracted several tissue samples from a variety of organs. Under the microscope, all of them showed an absence of blood down to a cellular level.”
He rubbed his hands together, ardent bulbous eyes about to pop out of his skull.
“Without the presence of blood and associated nutrients the cells carry, tissue, organs, external epidermis, body hair, fingernail, and toenails eventually die. She should not look like a well-preserved corpse, and I have no scientific explanation for it!”
“But you got a suspicion, Doc,” Deacon stated, giving me a pointed look.
“I do, Mr. Kole,” he replied, narrowing his eyes. He raised the finger of his right hand with a flourish. “Gentlemen, the only explanation congruent with the evidence is vampirism!”
I expected to hear the eerie chords of an organ flare up followed by a lightning flash and boom of thunder. The only other thing missing was maniacal laughter, and some caped figure lurking in the shadows.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I scoffed. “You, the medical examiner, the objectivist, a man of science with decades of learning, are saying a vampire killed this girl?”
“No, the severe trauma to her neck killed Miss Mallery,” Stentstrom explained patiently as if I was a five-year-old. “Vampirism in nature is quite real, gentlemen. Bats, lampreys, moths, and other insects, for example. And lest we not forget how difficult it is for blood to be digested and processed, let alone be the sole substance for something to subsist upon.
“Consider the variables involved. When the skin is perforated, blood flows, and becomes extant on the wound. From the reports provided by the attending officers at the scene, there was no spray against the alley walls or on the ground. Neither her clothes, nor her body, held any traces of blood. The moment her blood was released, it was not allowed to splatter, or otherwise escape.
“The entry wound is consistent with a severe laceration.” He traced his fingers along the gaping mess. “The affected area was so thoroughly damaged that it could have hidden an original entry wound. A vampire could have inserted its fangs, fed, and then torn out the flesh once satiated.”
I exchanged an exasperated look with Deacon.
“She could’ve been brought to the alley,” the Confederate offered. “Vanessa could’ve already been dead.”
“That is an intriguing possibility, Mr. Kole,” Stentstrom replied. “However, the eyewitnesses claim the assailant had fangs. They also said her blood dissolved into its skin. How did it get there in the first place, and with Miss Mallery’s body in tow? I cannot imagine it carried her on the Metro in plain view of anyone. And it does not explain how every trace of her blood was removed. I do not know anything in nature capable of doing that.”
Nodding, I crossed my arms, my mouth set in a grim line.
“Thank you, Doctor.” I removed my gloves, then shook Stentstrom’s hand.
“Not so fast, Detective,” he said, a strange catch to his voice. “There’s one other thing. Other than the wound, Miss Mallery is perfect.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I did not detect a single blemish on her,” he gestured with a slow wave of his hand. “No scars, no previously broken bones or prior trauma, no moles or other birthmarks of any kind. In fact, she was in perfect health before she died.”
“So?” Deacon stated. “There’re plenty of people who ain’t never suffered an injury in their lives.”
“Quite true, Mr. Kole,” the medical examiner smiled. “But human skin sustains damage simply from being in sunlight. Freckles, spots, any sort of discoloration on the flesh would become apparent at some point. That is not the case here.”
“What does it mean?” I asked, staring at the victim’s red hair.
“I have no idea!” he replied with glee. “But I plan on finding out!”
I nodded. “Well, as soon as you do, please contact me immediately.”
“Of course, Detective,” he said, but his wide eyes remained fixated on the corpse.
Back in the pod, I instructed EVI to transport us to Water Street, and the murder scene. The pod lurched into motion, cutting a smooth arc along the ‘way as it rose above the streets heading toward Lower Manhattan. The fog obscured much at this height, although I knew the East River was off to our left. The pod accelerated quickly, skirting the edge of East Village heading toward the crime scene.
“What’d your Insight tell you?” Deacon asked.
I collapsed in one of the passenger chairs and let out a slow breath.
“It doesn’t work on corpses.” I rested both hands in my lap to study them. My fingernails needed clipping. “There’s no life to observe.”
That was a bald-faced lie, but I had no interest in explaining that to Deacon. It felt juvenile, but I liked keeping secrets too.
“Besides, Stentstrom loves a mystery. He’ll take several more looks at the body in case he missed anything.”
I moved to the far end of the pod and activated the beverage dispenser.
“Coffee?” I offered, but he declined.
My mug filled with a dark brown stream of steaming liquid ambrosia. I plucked it from the dispenser and returned to my chair. Deacon withdrew a small battered metal case from his jeans pocket.
“Hand-rolled, and specially-grown in Birmingham,” he said pleasantly, passing me a cigarette. “The way God intended.”
It looked unfiltered and nasty.
“No thanks,” I shuddered, handing it back.
“Suit yourself,” he replied, then ignited it from a small, hand-held lighter.
“Smoking is not permitted in this vehicle,” EVI proclaimed.
Deacon made a rude gesture and continued puffing happily. The pod’s interior billowed with acrid smoke.
During our ride, EVI informed me that the victim’s holo-phone carrier had sustained a cyberattack the night before. I frowned at that. The timing was damned inconvenient. These days cyberattacks weren’t uncommon. As the trappings of modern life became more dependent on technology, so did the danger of
being too reliant on it. Consequently, cyberterrorists and hackers became bolder and more sophisticated. In a world that ran on holo-tech and clouds, cyber-terrorism and counter cyber-terrorism had become an Olympic sport. Still, a data breach meant getting Mallery’s phone records anytime soon was remote.
“EVI, tell them it’s part of a homicide investigation, and to get me that information ASAP.”
“Of course, Detective. Vanessa Mallery’s medical and dental history, education, family, known associates and associations are now available for your review. I also have the composite from the sketch artist based on the eyewitnesses’ description.”
“Okay, give it me.”
For the next twenty minutes I examined the information EVI provided, the images flashing before my eyes as if I were seeing them on an actual holo-screen. The composite was a vague blob that could’ve been anyone. I glanced over to Deacon who was on his phone, but I focused my attention on the virtual flow, and couldn’t hear his conversation.
I chewed on the information for a while, sipping at my coffee in silence.
“EVI, where’s the preliminary forensics report from CSI?”
“Captain Mahoney did not authorize the Crime Scene Investigation team to investigate the scene. The task force to which you have been assigned, called Special Crimes Unit, or SCU, relies on the forensic expertise of its own members to complete that assignment.”
“Why?”
“Per Captain Mahoney’s orders, the task force shall rely on its own forensic expertise,” she repeated.
“Sonofabitch,” I grunted.
“What’s that?” Deacon asked.
“No CSI guys?” I glared at him.
Deacon’s grin infuriated me.
“Think of it this way, Holliday. If there ain’t nobody in your department knows what we’re doing, the less red tape gets in the way.”
“Bullshit. I told the two of you I used the Insight judiciously because of its effects.”
“I ain’t telling you to use it. That’s on you. Bill didn’t say it, but SCU’s under a tight budget. Between the earpieces, badge, and gun, that’s all he can afford right now.”
“So how the fuck am I supposed to get paid? Believe it or not, I’ve got bills, and they don’t get paid by themselves.”
He chuckled, dashing the cigarette on the control console. The dead butt lay next to a circular black ash mark.
“Beats the fuck out of me.” Deacon lit another one, took a long drag, then blew out a cloud of white.
“Great,” I grumbled. “Who were you talking with just now?”
“Our consultant. She’s meeting us at the crime scene.”
“What’s her name?” I was skeptical. I’d never worked with a consultant before, and the thought of babysitting one coupled with the data breach and lack of funding really pissed me off.
“Doctor Besim Saranda,” he said simply, as if her name was explanation enough.
“Never heard of her,” I replied. “What kind of doctor is she?”
“Biology,” Deacon smiled.
I stared.
“Biology. You’re kidding, right?”
Deacon chuckled.
“She’s also a popular musician,” he continued amiably. “Sings that coffeehouse, Eurotrash-horseshit that’s so popular with college kids. You might like it, though.”
“And she’s meeting us at the crime scene,” I repeated, holding out for a better explanation.
“Yep.”
“And you don’t see anything wrong with this?”
“Nope.”
“Okay, then.” I rubbed my jaw. “I’ll skip the usual questions and just ask this: what does she bring to the table?”
“She’s got a unique perspective.”
“Arriving at Water Street,” EVI announced. “Outside temperature is forty-one degrees, with rain and winds out of the south-to-southeast. Umbrellas have been provided for your use, Detective.”
A small panel near the hatchway slid open revealing several umbrella handles. As the pod came to a halt, I grabbed one and headed out. A brisk breeze swept us, catching the top of my umbrella as it attempted to carry it, and me, away. Fine mist veiled the buildings above the third floor, painting an impression that the world ended at its edge.
Massive skyscrapers loomed to either side like silent steel monoliths, faceless and implacable. Despite the rain, a steady flow of foot and vehicle traffic trundled along. The asphalt jungle’s cacophony bellowed and squawked, hissed and spat. It was background noise to me, a vibrant reminder of the ebb and flow of life in the big city.
The alleyway was shrouded in layers of yellow police holo-tape. A miserable, waterlogged officer stood in the lee of a building. I slipped my new SCU badge onto my belt.
“Detective Tom Holliday,” I said, walking up. “This is Deacon Kole. We’re with Special Crimes.”
The officer was a solid-looking kid who introduced himself as Grissom. He glanced between the two of us, then shivered beneath his poncho. He appeared to have the makings of a bad cold.
“Yessir. Been told to expect you. Your, uh, consultant is already here.”
The kid glanced toward the alley, an inscrutable look on his face.
“Why don’t you grab a cup of coffee and dry off for a bit?” I suggested. “We’ll be here for a while.”
Grissom nodded his thanks and stomped down the block in search of shelter.
Deacon and I strode down the alleyway. It was one of those long breezeways between buildings, wide enough for foot traffic, but not enough for vehicles. Large puddles dotted the ground in places. Small piles of trash littered spots here and there. It stank, but no more than usual. Both sound and the breeze died to a dull roar once we were buffered by the buildings.
About midway along I saw a slim figure kneeling on the ground. At our approach, she stood and turned to greet us.
The first thing I noticed was her height. She was well over six feet tall.
The second, her complete disregard for the elements.
And the third, she was a Vellan.
Chapter 6
Another side effect of the nukes had to do with spatial frequencies shifting on Earth that created the doorway the Vellans used to pass from their universe to ours. Apparently, there are an infinite number of these parallel dimensions, too.
Yeah, I don’t get it, either.
Anyway, they’d also suffered from wars that had devastated their world. To avoid extinction, the Vellans came here. Our Earth was chosen because they’d discovered our reactivated Nexus nodes. Turns out their tech runs on the same energy, tapping into the Nexus nodes and converting the magical energy into recyclable fuel. The Vellans provided to all the enclaves the blueprints to build these machines, in exchange for peaceful asylum on our world. They also taught us how to fabricate spell-forged steel, a blended compound infused with magic to create an alloy far stronger and more durable than any man-made metal.
Once everyone overcame the initial shock of meeting interdimensional aliens, we stowed the guns—within easy reach—and it was business as usual. Relations with the newcomers improved to the cautious friendship of this particular meeting. Unfortunately, bigotry and ignorance remained two of humanity’s least favorable traits. Difference, be it skin color, religion, or pointed ears still scared stupid people, and there were a few enclaves who wouldn’t allow the Vellans inside their borders without an armed escort. One guess which of the American enclaves fell into that category.
In a short amount of time, the Vellans learned all of our languages, and spent decades acclimating to our world. Although geneticists determined early on the two races couldn’t reproduce, that didn’t stop us from getting better acquainted. I’m told sex with a Vellan is quite the sensory experience, if you can stay conscious for it.
However, none of that explained why there was one at my crime scene.
She towered over me. Almond-shaped, gray eyes, wider than a human’s, framed an oval face with delicate features and a
thin mouth. A colorful bandana clung to her head from the constant rain. She wore an unbuttoned black longshoreman’s coat over a blue peasant top and ruffled patterned skirt that reached her ankles. Open-toed sandals covered feet whose toes were adorned with small silver and gold rings. Her toenails and fingernails alternated between red and orange polish.
I was hard-pressed to call the Vellan attractive, but she wasn’t ugly either. And then there was the makeup. Her face was covered in it, as if caked on by some stoned bricklayer. It sloughed off her face in viscous, colored rivulets. Even her hair was dyed a dark color, the ink staining a ring around her scalp where the bandana ended.
Now that was interesting. Every cop studied Vellan culture back at the Academy to better understand our interdimensional friends. It helped with any disputes involving them, although I’d never heard of a Vellan breaking any of our laws.
Theirs was a caste system, a hereditary lifestyle that included occupation, social status, economic wealth, you name it. Hair color was one key component of determining societal rank, and they were forbidden to alter its natural pigmentation.
Was she trying to hide the fact that she was Vellan?
Oh, no, that wasn’t weird.
“Detective Holliday.” She approached me, extending her hand in greeting. It was a very human expression. “I am Besim Saranda. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Despite a thick accent, her voice was musical, every word trembling with elements of tone and rhythm.
I gripped her larger hand in response. The handshake was firm, and I was surprised at her strength. She examined me dispassionately as if I were one of Stentstrom’s tissue samples. I shot a furtive glance at Deacon. He squatted beneath the large canopy ECPD had set up last night to study the ground.
“Doctor Saranda,” I acknowledged.
“Please, call me Besim.” She offered me a demure smile, the ghastly expression resembling melted wax. “Rarely do I employ the title.”