Again, she slammed on her brakes. She did a U-turn and pulled over, facing back the way she’d come. She hadn’t gone far and could still see the mouth of the dead-end street where she found Schaefer’s car. She waited.
A minute later, she saw a flash of silver. The Camaro emerged from the street and rocketed in the other direction.
He’s speeding, Randall realized—and smiled. That’s wonderful.
Activating her overheads, she dropped her cruiser into gear and gave chase.
She pursued him a tenth of a mile—long enough to reach for the radio mike—before Schaefer apparently thought better of it and pulled over. They were still within the residential neighborhood. Randall thought she saw a curtain move in a house window as someone peeked out.
She switched on her spotlight and shined it directly at the driver to blind his rear vision. Schaefer’s hair was close-cropped and black. She picked up the mike to her cruiser’s public address system and spoke through the speakers mounted on her roof: “Put your vehicle into ‘park’ and turn off the engine.”
A moment later, the brake lights turned off as Schaefer did as he was told.
By the book, she reminded herself. She typed on the CAD, radioing in that she’d made a traffic stop. The bulletin included the Camaro’s license plate number, number of occupants, and her location. If someone at dispatch raised an eyebrow at this mundane bit of police work in the midst of the general orders about UPA hunting, they could get bent.
In her head, however, she was already composing her report in case this went somewhere. She’d been in this neighborhood because . . . why? Searching for UPAs by herself? Investigating a tip that Nick Schaefer lived around here? She couldn’t reveal how she illegally stole his mail; she would have to work on that one. Anyway, she was traveling through here when she saw Schaefer’s vehicle. She made a pretextual traffic stop regarding his low-hanging muffler, then . . .
She sighed. Dammit.
She climbed out of her car.
As she approached from the driver’s side, she peered into the car’s interior, assuring herself that there were no surprises. For his part, Schaefer was being a good boy and keeping his hands on the top of his steering wheel. He even had his seatbelt on.
She touched the left-rear corner of the Camaro’s trunk with her bare fingers as she passed. It was an old patrolman’s habit taught by the Fraternal Order of Police that had risen to the level of superstition. Supposedly, if she were killed during the stop and the suspect’s vehicle was later recaptured, investigators would know to dust that area for her fingerprints to prove she’d been near the car. Randall had never heard if the practice ever made a difference, but it was one of those things that always made her feel better. Another was resting her hand on the gun at her hip.
As she stopped at the driver’s door and motioned for him to lower his window, Randall imagined she felt a bigfoot’s gaze on her back. She scanned her surroundings. The neighborhood was still dark and quiet except for the whirr of summer insects in the trees.
I need to take him someplace safer if I’m going to question him.
“Yes?” Nick Schaefer said once his window was down. He wore a navy blue suit with a maroon tie, as if he were headed off to a date at a posh Georgetown restaurant.
“You were speeding, and you have a low muffler. I need to see your license and registration.”
“Don’t you have better things to do?” he said, but handed them over.
Randall glanced at the items in the glare of the cruiser’s lights, but she was growing more conscious of her surroundings. The insect sounds had dropped off. Both the license and registration listed his address as the abandoned lot on Monument Drive.
“You’re not a patrol officer.” He eyed the badge that hung from the lariat around her neck. “Where’s your uniform?”
She handed the items back. “I’m a detective, Mr. Schaefer. I’ve been looking for you.”
He stared at her, his mouth opening and shutting. Randall supposed it was an expression of shock, but the odd lines spanning his cheeks made it look more like the mannerism of a ventriloquist’s dummy.
At last, he said, “How did you find me?”
“That’s an interesting question. Why didn’t you want to be found?”
Schaefer glanced down the road in front of him, as if contemplating escape.
Randall said, “I need to ask you some questions about the Frederica Wolford disappearance. Will you cooperate with me?”
“I already told the police everything I know.”
“Yes, but I have some follow-up questions. I’d like you to accompany me to the station. You can leave your car here and ride with me.”
“I’d rather not unless you’re placing me under arrest.”
Her frustration growing, Randall opened her mouth to say that could be arranged—but at that moment a UPA burst out of a yard just ahead of them. It landed in the middle of the street on all fours. Randall took a step backward and drew her gun.
Stupid! I’m out in the open. I’ve bought it this time.
But then the shadows on both sides of the street erupted with gunfire. The bigfoot staggered, tail spasming. Blood spurted from innumerable holes up and down its hairy body. There was a second volley before it fell over.
Randall held her fire, amazed, as black-clad SWAT members broke cover. They rushed the animal, still pointing their weapons. A black van and a Humvee screeched onto the street at full speed and parked nearby, where they disgorged more men. Someone shouted something Randall couldn’t make out, and the officers relaxed. A couple of them whooped and pumped their fists.
Throughout this, Randall kept an eye on the fertility scientist, making sure he didn’t try to take advantage of the commotion to drive off. But he didn’t move. He remained in his seat and watched the spectacle with a strange impassivity.
Randall reholstered her weapon as one of the SWAT members approached. Take control of the situation, she thought. “I thought I knew all the tactical members on our force. I’m Detective Randall, McLean station.”
The young man in the bulletproof vest was holding his assault rifle at port arms. He ignored her outstretched palm. “PFC Richards, ma’am. I’m up here from Augusta County. The Commonwealth sent us in from all over.” He nodded at the man in the Camaro. “Can I assist you with somethin’?”
Randall reminded herself to relax. “Depends. This man is violating the new curfew. I may have to detain him for his own protection.”
Schaefer sputtered, “What are you talking about? I have rights. I have . . .”
The SWAT officer started to speak, but he hesitated when Randall winked at him. They both knew that for the time being, the curfew only called for verbal warnings. “Um . . . yes, ma’am.”
“This is an outrage,” Schaefer said. “I don’t know what you think you’re—”
“Be quiet,” Randall said. “Now you can either come as my guest or as my prisoner. Which is it going to be?”
Schaefer paused. He dropped his gaze. “Your guest.”
Randall thanked the SWAT member, who nodded and walked off. “Then lock up your car and come with me, sir.”
Schaefer did as he was told.
✽ ✽ ✽
They headed slowly toward the station. Nicolae Schaefer sat in the back of the cruiser behind the Plexiglas barrier that separated the front from back. They could still talk through its numerous swiss-cheese holes. At the moment, however, Schaefer wasn’t talking, and that suited Randall just fine. She wanted to conduct the interview at the station, where she could watch him face-to-face and read his body language. She also needed this time to frame her questions in her mind and to come up with what she’d say to someone like Sergeant Lively if asked what she was doing.
It felt damn good just having him here, locked in the back of a cruiser. This was better than she’d hoped.
She planned to interview him in the conference area in the office wing, by the window. Schaefer wasn’t under ar
rest, after all, and the relaxed setting would put him at ease. But how to start? The direct, no-nonsense approach, following through on the tone she set back on the street? Or friendly: give him coffee, spend ten minutes chatting with him, asking him generally what he thought about the bigfoot epidemic and the—
“So how long is this going to take?” Schaefer said.
Randall glanced at him in the rearview mirror. She had switched on the dim dome light that was designed so those in the front could keep an eye on prisoners. Despite his words, Schaefer looked relaxed. That irritated her.
“You in a hurry to go someplace?” she said.
“That’s none of your business.”
So much for the friendly approach.
“I find it singular that you wish to question me about a dead woman about whom I’ve already given a statement. Shouldn’t you be out hunting the animals instead?”
Randall didn’t want to start the interview yet, but she knew if she ignored him now that he might not be as talkative later. “All right, I’ll be honest with you. This does relate to the animals. Are you aware of how they operate?”
“Yes, yes, yes . . .”
“They rape women, who get pregnant and give birth a week later to more creatures. When Ms. Wolford’s body was found, she’d just given birth to one of them.”
“None of which is of my fault,” Schaefer said.
“I’m not saying it is, but you have to admit that these monsters have an M.O. that fits somewhat into your field.”
“Madam, please don’t equate sexual assault with reproductive science.”
Randall ignored him. “Then there’s the fact that you’re not totally clean in all your affairs, are you?”
“What are you blabbering about, ‘clean’?”
“For starters, you have that little mail-laundering operation going on from that vacant land on Monument Drive. What’s that all about?”
Schaefer was silent for a moment, then said, “I don’t have to answer any more questions from you. Let me out of this car.”
“Oh, not on your life. To let you out now would be willfully endangering a member of the public by exposing him to the bigfoot threat.” She glanced at him in the mirror, but his expression was unreadable. “Plus the fact that there’s still a variety of charges I can detain you on—everything from violating the curfew, to speeding, to improperly registering your address.”
Schaefer gazed languidly out the window. “I don’t respond to threats.”
“The fact you’re sitting here proves that you do.”
Schaefer’s expression darkened.
Whoops, maybe I pushed that one too far.
“You can’t do this to me. You’re violating my civil rights. I warn you: in time, I’ll have your badge.”
Now it was Randall’s turn to look away. She concentrated on the road, electing to take the long way back so she would have more time. He’s right. He’s going to have my badge. This is exactly what I was afraid of.
The awful thought crossed her mind that maybe he really didn’t have anything to do with all this. Maybe he was only a small-time hoodlum, involved in a type of organized crime that was completely unrelated. Shit.
But then . . .
Wait a minute.
Randall pulled the car over onto the shoulder of the road they were traveling. There was no other traffic. She unbuckled her belt and turned around in her seat so she could face him through the Plexiglas screen. Schaefer blinked at this change.
“Tell me something,” she said. “I mentioned earlier that Ms. Wolford’s body showed she’d given birth to a creature. . . .”
“Yes? And?”
“And all you said in response is that it’s not your fault.”
“That’s called brevity, detective. It avoids the necessity of restating the obvious over and over, as you’re now doing.”
Randall shook her head and laughed.
“I fail to see what’s so amusing.”
She sobered and looked him in the eye. “How did you know that Frederica Wolford was dead?”
Schaefer hesitated. “Because she was a missing person. I think that’s obvious.”
“No, it’s not obvious at all. MPs sometimes turn up alive and well.”
“Well—”
“And her body wasn’t even found until a few days ago.”
Schaefer shifted in his seat. He unnecessarily straightened his tie. He glanced at his door, perhaps just now noticing that he didn’t have a handle to unlatch. “Why are we having this discussion? You’re the one who told me she’s dead. Just now.”
“No. You said you find it ‘singular’ that I wish to question you about a dead woman. You already knew.”
“Well . . . I misunderstood you. I thought you were referring to someone else.”
Randall shook her head. “Try again.”
“This is preposterous. I must have read it in the paper or seen it on the news. Why are you interrogating me? I haven’t been charged with anything.”
Randall just smiled. “Frederica Wolford was a minor—a runaway, actually. We’ve been holding off on public disclosure of her name until we can notify her parents. And as far as I know, we haven’t found them yet. There haven’t been any news reports about her.”
They stared at each other for a long, silent moment, long enough for Randall to worry about bigfoots sneaking up on them again.
“Let me out of here,” Schaefer said.
“No.”
“I’ll sue you for unlawful imprisonment.”
“And I’ll charge you with homicide in the first degree and with being an accessory to every other bigfoot crime we know about.”
Schaefer sucked in his breath.
“Goddammit, if you know anything about what happened to that girl and how it could be linked to these attacks, then you better start cooperating with me. Or I promise you this is the most luxurious prison you’ll ever see.”
A beat passed, then Schaefer exhaled and looked away. His jaw spasmed as he clenched his teeth. When he spoke, it was in a small, petulant voice. “I assure you that my contact with her was totally professional and innocent. I’m not responsible for what happened. And if I were, then it was unintentional.”
“So you did see her. How many times? What happened?”
Something appeared to break down inside the man. He straightened his tie again, then glanced at his hands before looking back up at her. “Why should I care what I say to you? This is all inadmissible in court.”
Randall thought he was wrong, but she didn’t debate the point. “Did you have any contact with the girl or not?”
“Twice. But I didn’t rape or kill her.”
“Under what circumstances?”
He swallowed, then it came out in a rush. “About two months ago, I ran the advertisement soliciting for experimental volunteers. I was designing a therapy for ovarian cancer. Frederica came in, signed the consent forms—lied to me about her age, as it turns out—and filled out questionnaires about her medical history. She also gave a blood sample for a pre-screening pregnancy test. I wanted to make sure my test subjects weren’t pregnant.”
Randall could hardly breathe. She wished she was taping this. She nodded for him to continue.
Schaefer gazed out the window. The orange light of a streetlamp fell across his angular features. “It turned out she was indeed pregnant, but she didn’t know it. I informed her of this during her second visit to my office. She was distraught—said she couldn’t afford to raise a child—and asked me to give her an abortion. I replied that that was a service I could provide if she wished, but I asked her to first consider another proposal. There was a second, private experiment I wanted to conduct, one that was illegal. But I felt strongly about it, and I wanted her to volunteer—for the right price, of course.”
“What kind of an experiment?”
Schaefer’s voice became thick with emotion. “Genetic engineering.”
Randall gave a nervous chuckle. “
You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I don’t kid about the betterment of the human race, madam. For ages, man has sought to improve himself, to rise above his station and become more like the gods. It’s only now within the past century that we have the technological means to make it so. And yet visionaries are persecuted, hunted . . .”
“All right, all right, already.”
“Other men, my betters, had failed approaches. Joseph DeJarnette of Staunton sterilized the insane so they couldn’t breed. Adolph Hitler, morally flawed though his methods were, had similar goals when he exterminated the Jews.”
“Wait a minute—wait a minute.” Randall held up her hand. “Hitler? You mean . . .” Something clicked in her mind. “That’s why you have the German POW sign on your property. You’re an admirer of Hitler, aren’t you?” Holy shit, she thought. This guy’s for real.
Schaefer lifted his chin and addressed her down the line of his nose. “Condemn the sin, but not the sinner. Fault the means, but not the goals. I assure you, I am not a neo-Nazi, but I’m intelligent enough to recognize the latent value of their intentions. I’m not a supporter of eugenics, although I certainly could be in light of our ability now to genetically screen embryos. No, eugenics is a flawed science. The only way to improve our race is through the transgenic modification of the human genome.”
Randall couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “So how—” She shook her head. “Just go on. What happened next?”
“Frederica was a perfect candidate for my experiment: young, healthy, pregnant, and single.”
“And poor and desperate. Is that right?”
He answered by relaxing into his seat and folding his hands in his lap. He smiled. “I exploit opportunities when they’re presented. You’re no different.”
“Please.”
“May I continue?”
“All right, just tell me what you did to her.”
“I injected her uterus with a specially formulated serum.”
Blood Born Page 24