Vampire Detective Midnight

by J. C. Andrijeski

  “I can smell the metal slug,” he explained. “Smells different than blood.”

  Morley grimaced.

  Turning away, he muttered something in Russian, sipping at his coffee.

  Nick pretended not to notice the grimace, or the Russian, or that both things were aimed at him.

  Stepping back into the main part of the alley, he went back to walking the scene. Using his eyes now, as much as his nose, he carefully skirted the pools of blood and smaller chunks of flesh to keep it off his shoes.

  He frowned down at the next body he encountered, a male, adding,

  “I don’t think you’ll find much DNA from the killers, not even with them having screwed around with the one body.”

  He motioned behind him vaguely, in the direction of the dumpster.

  “This looks to me like a professional hit. At the very least, these are smarter than average killers. They wore gloves—real ones, the kind we use. That, or they’ve had their fingerprints professionally removed. I don’t smell hair or skin fragments. I don’t see any shoeprints, so they must have known to wear flatteners. That, or they had someone come clean up, but I don’t see any evidence of a blower.”

  Nick motioned towards the walls, where the blood-spatter remained intact.

  “See that? That’s natural blood spray,” he said. “A blower would have pitted all of that with dirt, and fucked up the pattern. I don’t see any of that here.”

  He saw Morley and the younger detective follow his pointing fingers.

  The younger one scowled, as if annoyed he hadn’t noticed that yet, or, more likely, annoyed a vampire noticed it before him.

  Nick blew that off, too.

  “No,” he continued, frowning. “It’s more likely they didn’t leave tracks to begin with. I would bet on expensive, untraceable flatteners, possibly full-prosthetics and blood patches, professional level non-residue gloves, at least one antique gun… maybe an old school sniper rifle, or even a shotgun…”

  Again, he motioned vaguely in the direction of the dumpster.

  “…the plasmas all look like close-contact hits, maybe after they had them cornered in the alley, or maybe after they felled some of them long-distance, using the antique rifle. It’s the only reason I can think of for someone to use one of those… it’s why I wondered if it was a sniper. Unless they’re just attached to that particular weapon for some reason.”

  Thinking about this, Nick shrugged.

  “The slugs will tell you for sure,” he added. “…In terms of the weapon. Whatever the exact scenario, I’d look for pros. Which means either some kind of militia—maybe a political one, given the wealth class of the victims—or someone hired them. I don’t know of any amateurs who could do that to a body and not leave more physical traces of themselves.”

  Again, Nick motioned vaguely at the dumpster.

  “Most amateurs are idiots,” he added, unnecessarily, given who he was with. “They stick around, touch things, step in things, leave bits and pieces of themselves everywhere. I don’t see any stupid here. Plus, what they did to the woman in the dumpster, it was thorough. Which means they knew how to disguise her ident, and came here planning to do it.”

  Nick exhaled, still thinking.

  The exhale was more show than need, since he didn’t have to breathe.

  He’d learned a long time ago, the more he could imitate human mannerisms and body functions, the more humans tended to relax around him. They probably didn’t even notice he was doing it, but some part of them reacted to it anyway, animal-to-animal.

  Of course, he learned some of that back in the early days.

  Back then, it was more of an aid in hunting.

  Now he used it to reassure his human coworkers that he wasn’t actively thinking about eating them. He did it to reassure them they had something in common, that he wasn’t so different from them… that he wasn’t about to eat them.

  Exhaling again, he added,

  “Given where it is, and the exposure risk, it was likely a fast job, in and out. They didn’t make chit-chat with the victims prior to the kill, or—”

  “But why?” the younger detective asked.

  Nick recognized him from his first day on the job, two weeks back, when he’d been first introduced to his new precinct.

  His remembered his name, even.

  Damon Jordan.

  Like Morley, he was dark-skinned, what used to be called black or “African-American.” He was about thirty years younger than the senior detective, though. This was the first time Nick had dealt with him on an actual case.

  They’d mostly farmed him out to smaller jobs these first few weeks, probably to check him out since he was new.

  “Why?” Jordan asked again. “Any idea of motive? What was the point of this?”

  Jordan had been the one talking about blood-whores before.

  Nick gave him another glance, looking over the man’s muscular, broad-shouldered form. He looked like a fighter, like he spent a fair bit of time in the ring. He was young for a Detective II. He must have a decent mind on him, even if he was a racist fuck.

  “How would I know?” Nick said mildly. “I just got here. Right now, I can tell you what I’m telling you. No tracks. Four killers, three males, one female. Probably three plasmas, and at least one antique combustion weapon, firing ammunition that used to be considered armor-piercing… although it wouldn’t do much to the organic shielding we have now.”

  Exhaling again, if only to try to put them more at ease, he added,

  “I’d guess a semi-modified assault rifle, probably something late 21st Century. That, or a shotgun, like I said. Something with some kick. Definitely not a handgun. Six victims, as we can all now plainly see, four female, two male. And there was an eleventh person who was here, who stepped in the blood…”

  He pointed at the track he’d seen.

  “…Male. Young. Maybe early twenties… at most. I can smell him, but I don’t think he was involved in the killing. He’s the only signature out here that left traces of himself everywhere. My guess is, he stumbled on the scene afterwards, walked around in it, maybe in shock, then bolted. If an anonymous tip brought you here, it was probably him. You’ll want to run him down, though. If only to eliminate his DNA and other trace evidence from the scene.”

  Jordan stared at him with dark brown eyes.

  They shimmered at Nick while he watched, almost in an amphibious way. That shimmer briefly illuminated a ring around the edge of the iris, a narrow line of pale blue.

  Enhanced eyes. How had he missed that?

  Those couldn’t have been cheap.

  “You telling me how to do my job, Midnight?” Jordan said.

  Nick held his stare.

  He knew his vampire eyes would unnerve the other man.

  It was their instinct to be afraid of him… just as it was his instinct to view them as food. He didn’t usually pull dick moves around that fact, but this time, he used it without thought.

  “I’m giving you suggestions,” he said. “Midnights are consultants. I’m assuming you want my opinion, or I wouldn’t fucking be here—”

  “Yeah, yeah, okay.” The other waved him off in annoyance, looking away from Nick’s eyes even as he clenched his jaw. “Whatever, man. And you’re sure this ‘contaminant’ wasn’t with the killers?”

  Nick shrugged. “Reasonably sure, yeah. He smells more recent. Not a lot more recent… but maybe a few hours after.”

  Thinking, Nick glanced up and down the narrow alley.

  Something still bugged him about the smell of all that blood.

  Worse, it was making him aggressive.

  Even as he thought it, he scowled at Jordan.

  “…Unless you had another cop in here,” he said. “Did you have another cop in here, Jordan? Someone too stupid to know not to fuck with a multiple homicide scene?”

  The detective scowled back at him, his enhanced eyes growing hard.

  “You sure this asshole was human, Mi
dnight?” Jordan retorted.

  “I’m sure he wasn’t vampire, Damon,” he said. “Want me to explain how our blood smells different than yours? I can tell you… yours smells a lot better.”

  Jordan’s pale-blue ringed eyes grew cold as metal.

  Nick didn’t flinch, but continued to hold his gaze.

  That time, however, he found himself regretting his words, at least a little.

  He was too new here to be picking fights, especially given how he’d ended up in New York in the first place. They’d have every reason to distrust him here. He was an involuntary transfer, sent over by his superior officers in L.A., who essentially “sold” him—sold his government contract, at least—to get him out of their hair.

  No doubt, all the detectives here knew his history.

  They knew he was essentially booted for being a problem.

  He wasn’t doing himself any favors, acting like an arrogant prick. He wasn’t doing himself any favors projecting their worst stereotype of a vampire, either.

  He needed to feed.

  It was putting him in a foul mood.

  That, and all this fucking blood…

  Nick frowned, staring around at the alley floor.

  It hit him again.

  There was something wrong with this blood.

  It smelled too fucking good.

  It smelled way too fucking good.

  That couldn’t all be Nick’s hunger.

  “Anyway, that’s what I can tell you so far,” he said, making his voice deliberately casual. “Without knowing who the victims are, or what brought them to this alley, it’s pretty hard to speculate on motive, but…”

  Nick hesitated then, realizing something.

  Frowning, he stepped closer to the pools of blood.

  Nose wrinkling, he crouched down so he could smell it from closer, even though the scent was overpowering, even from a lot further away. Taking a few full whiffs, he felt his fangs begin to extend in earnest.

  That time, he couldn’t pull it back.

  A flush of heat hit his gut and chest, burning in his throat. It was intense enough, he almost got hard, but he’d gotten pretty good at squelching that reaction, too.

  He stood up at once.

  Really, he lurched back.

  It happened so fast, that smell and his reaction to it, Nick forgot to modulate his body’s natural reflexes to accommodate the people around him. He was up and moving in a heartbeat, darting back in pure instinct, without slowing his movements at all.

  He moved fast enough to make the humans around him freeze.

  Instantly, they turned into prey.

  Ignoring them, and ignoring their deer-in-headlights reactions to how he’d just moved, Nick backed away from the pool of blood with a scowl.

  He backed away from the human detectives and tech team, too.

  “They’re hybrids,” he said, emotion reaching his voice.

  He turned around, staring at the humans sharing the alley with him.

  The stared back at him, faces blank, eyes holding flickers of fear.

  Frustrated, wanting to smash through that frozen prey look, Nick let his voice turn into a harder growl.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” Nick said. “Did you hear me? They’re all fucking hybrids.”

  When they still didn’t speak, he averted his gaze with a scowl. His eyes returned to the alley. Staring around at all of that blood, it sank in what it really represented.

  Once it had, he couldn’t help but feel sick.

  Chapter 2

  The First Sign

  Nick had intended to leave, right after he gave his initial summary. He’d meant to give them the bare bones, then just leave.

  Once he discerned the race of the victims, he found himself lingering, for reasons he couldn’t fully explain to himself.

  No one told him to leave.

  Then again, no one asked him to stay, either.

  Morley ended up being the first to break the silence after Nick told them what the victims were.

  “Did you say hybrids?” The older detective blinked, then frowned, still staring at him. “The victims?”

  Nick nodded without looking at him, grimacing as he stared at the lake of blood. He couldn’t stop seeing it differently now that he knew what it contained.

  He fought the reaction off his face. He knew he mostly failed.

  “Yeah,” he said, gruff. “I think all of them are. Were.”

  “All of them were hybrids?” Jordan said, speaking up from behind Morley. “All six? Are you sure?”

  Nick turned, staring at the other male. “I’m pretty fucking sure, yeah.”

  Seeing something in his eyes, Jordan backed down. The anger in the human’s eyes dissipated, shifting into something closer to fear.

  Looking at him, it occurred to Nick that his irises had probably turned bright red—right around the time his fangs extended.

  Right around the time he ID’d the hybrid blood.

  Ignoring Jordan’s reaction with an effort, Nick attempted to reassure Morley, who he more or less liked. As far as bosses went, and humans, Morley seemed to be okay.

  But the older detective wasn’t looking at him anymore.

  Morley was staring down at the blood.

  “Jesus.” He whistled under his breath. “Six hybrids? And they just happened to be hanging out in this alley at the same time? That can’t be a coincidence.”

  “No,” Nick agreed. “It can’t.” Pausing, he added, “The woman in the dumpster. She had a human tat. The barcode was cut or burned off, but the ‘H’ sign was still there. Are any of the others wearing the marks? Have you scanned their ident-tats yet?”

  Jordan shifted his attention off Nick. His face and neck remained flushed, either in embarrassment or fear or both, but he’d regained control over his expression.

  He also seemed focused back on the job. He was staring at the blood with the rest of them, latex gloves on his hands, hands on his hips.

  Now he shook his head to Nick’s question.

  “None of them had the mark for hybrid, I know that. They all had human tats. Pureblood. We’re running the IDs now with Gertrude.”

  Gertrude was the artificial intelligence that ran most of the bureaucratic functions of the NYPD. Nick didn’t know where the name came from. Probably someone’s idea of a joke, unless it was named after the aunt of one of the AI’s programmers.

  Nick nodded to Jordan’s words, but the frown remained on his face.

  “Yeah,” he said, when the silence stretched. “Well, I guess make sure the medical records weren’t falsified under whatever Gertrude turns up. And yeah… make sure I’m right. About the hybrid thing. If they were all hybrids, and all of them are unreg’d, living under fake IDs, I’m guessing you have your motive. Part of one, anyway.”

  Jordan and Morley exchanged looks.

  The female tech, who was still photographing the blood, stared only at Nick.

  The three techs over by the dumpster stared at Nick, too.

  Still fighting to get the cloying smell of hybrid out of his nose, Nick didn’t look at any of them. He stared down at the blood, unable to remove the grimace from his face.

  If these hybrids had human tats, that was more evidence they had money.

  That, or someone sponsoring them had money.

  Fake idents were no joke these days.

  They took serious connections, people able and willing to pull strings, to procure fake documentation that would actually pass the verification process. To maintain a fake blood ident over time, they needed someone on the inside to alter the databases in the main registration banks, not to mention enough connections at a high enough level to get the street-level grunts to look the other way in random spot-checks.

  That meant medical records, birth records, blood records, blood patches for random street and travel checks, fake fingerprints and usually fake X-rays.

  The internal organs of hybrids rarely matched up closely enough to a full-bloode
d human’s for them to pass through most check-points. Blood could be dealt with using fingertip patches, but only at the older checkpoints. The newer blood-draws were trickier to fool, but even so, generally-speaking, blood was the easy part.

  Internal organs? Those were trickier.

  Some of the newer checkpoint machines even had booths that scanned for organ placement, along with DNA strand checks on hair or skin. There were organic vests that could fool the machines, but those were damned expensive too, not to mention illegal to own, so only available on the darkest threads in the network.

  Whoever these hybrids were, chances were, they didn’t do a lot of traveling, at least not via commercial carriers.

  What traveling they did, it was likely on private jets.

  Nick was still staring at the ground when one of the techs by the dumpster spoke up.

  “Hey! Could you come over here…” He looked at Nick, fumbling, maybe unwilling to use the moniker “Midnight,” or maybe just uneasy about addressing him at all. “…Mr. Midnight,” he finally settled on. “You should look at this, while you’re here.”

  Glancing at Morley and Jordan, Nick began moving in the direction of the tech, careful to keep his footsteps slow and human-like.

  He heard, felt, and smelled Jordan and Morley following him.

  As soon as they got within a few feet of the tech, Nick saw where he was pointing.

  Something had been painted there, on the wall.

  It must have been exposed when they shifted the chrome dumpster. It didn’t look like normal graffiti, even the more artistic varieties.

  It looked like a painting.

  Like a real painting.

  Frowning, Nick stepped closer, studying the part he could see, which turned out to be a detailed depiction of a masked form, holding an antique-looking shotgun. It looked like an old Remington 870, like something Nick might have had in a black and white, years ago.

  So… not a sniper rifle.

  “What the fuck is that?” Morley said from behind him.

  Nick shook his head, still staring at the painting.

  “I don’t know,” he muttered.

  “A confession?”