Dark Changeling

by Margaret Carter

  “Stop a minute,” Sylvia said. “Maybe he wants a ride.”

  “You can't be serious. He's only a child.”

  “I'm going to check him out anyway. If he's old enough to be interested, he's old enough.”

  “Didn't you get all you needed last night?”

  “Oh, Roger, don't be so stuffy.” She unlatched her door and leaned out, as he resignedly put on the brakes. The boy stood up and took a couple of steps in their direction. “Need a lift?” Sylvia called.

  He bent over to peer past Sylvia at Roger. “Uh—sure, that'd be cool.”

  She scooted over. “Well, get in. This is my Uncle Roger, and I'm Sylvia.”

  Uncle? Sylvia must have decided to drop her age a few years.

  “Thanks, man,” the boy said, leaning forward again to address Roger. “Name's Rico.” Raindrops beaded his hair. He wore a T-shirt, slashed off at mid-chest, with a picture of the rock group Kiss. If the outfit was an attempt to look tough, it hadn't succeeded. His curly, over-long black hair and delicate features made him look more like Hawthorne's Marble Faun than an extra fromWest Side Story.

  “Where are you headed, Rico?” Sylvia brushed his finger-tips lightly with hers.

  “Home. My cousin picked up a girl and ditched me. I have to catch the T.”

  “No problem, we'll drop you at the station,” she said.

  Taking the hint, Roger put the Citroen in gear, circled around to a southbound street, and headed toward Faneuil Hall while Sylvia had her way with their passenger. The musk of arousal tinged the boy's sweat. By the time they'd reached the subway entrance, Roger's head throbbed from clenching his jaws. The combined aromas of blood and sexual excitement in the confines of the car formed an irritant he still hadn't learned to deal with.

  When Sylvia brought the boy out of trance, he said, “You're something else. How about giving me your phone number?”

  “I'm too old for you,” she said, her right hand still playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

  “Don't go putting me on! Couldn't be more than a couple of years’ difference!”

  Giving Sylvia a sidelong glance, Roger realized that dressed as she was, in jeans, a halter, and sandals, she did indeed look no older than eighteen, rather than her actual late twenties.

  “How old are you, Rico?” she asked.

  “Seventeen.”

  Small for his age,thought Roger.Probably something of a misfit in his subculture.

  When Sylvia showed no sign of yielding, Rico persisted, “Come on, who cares about a year or two? I never ran into anybody like you before. You make me think of that poem, you know, ‘She walks in beauty, like the night.’ I'm not trying to lay any big moves on you. We could meet in the park and, you know, ride the swan boats, or whatever.”

  Quoting Byron? Definitely a misfit.

  Sylvia laughed, “All right, I give up. I don't go out in the daytime much, but you can visit me tomorrow night.” She delved into her purse on the floor, tore a sheet off the notepad, and scribbled her address.

  Rico glanced at it, shoved it into his side pocket, whooped, “All right!” and jumped out of the car, slamming the door on the way. Roger noticed that his legs wobbled as he meandered toward the MTA station.

  Following Roger's gaze, Sylvia said, “Quit worrying. I didn't drink that much. It's the energy drain. He'll be fine in a couple of hours.”

  A car honked behind them. Shifting into gear and driving away, Roger glared at her in speechless indignation. Impulsive though she was, he'd never known her to do anything this foolish.

  “If I'd been alone with Rico,” she said, “I'd have let him come. But I knew that would annoy you. Oh, well, maybe next time.” She licked her lips.

  “'Annoy’ is hardly the word!”

  She refastened her seat belt with a sensual undulation of her hips. “You disapprove,” she mocked. “You think I'm greedy, immoral, reckless, and a total airhead.”

  “I wouldn't use such unprofessional language, but I do think you've set yourself up for trouble. How could you even consider giving a victim access to your home? What has got into you?”

  She leaned back, hands clasped behind her head. “I think I'm drunk.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Because it's outside your uptight experience?” she said. “You can't imagine how refreshing that was—how different from older men. As for taking them home, don't you ever do that?”

  “It wouldn't be safe.”

  “Why not? You just make them forget afterwards. And in your own place you can relax, create the proper atmosphere.”

  “Atmosphere?”

  “Candles, music, maybe satin sheets or an embroidered quilt or other special decorations. Look, you know a feeding isn't complete without emotional satisfaction. You have to plan for that. Grabbing a quickie in a car or an alley isn't always enough.”

  He shook his head.Might as well try to deliver a moral lecture to a cat. "Sylvia, you're a shameless hedonist.”

  “Now you're catching on.” She didn't attempt to justify herself further. On the way home she gazed out the window and sang an obscure Elton John song about a wistful revenant named Lady Samantha.

  Chapter 6

  The next day on his lunch hour, Roger caught a cab for the short trip between his office and the Charles Street Jail. The antiquated gray building with its barred windows bore a depressing resemblance to a medieval fortress. As always, Roger braced himself before he stepped inside, but no amount of preparation really cushioned the shock.

  When he entered the vast central atrium with its seven-story-high ceiling, a torrent of noise crashed over him. From the multi-leveled tiers of cells, the cacophony of hundreds of voices bounced off the bare walls. The racket seemed to drill straight into the center of his skull. Odors of urine, vomit, and disin-fectant oozed from the very walls.

  Still worse, the emotional atmosphere made him feel suffocated—so much anger and fear packed into such an overcrowded space. The negative emanations from prisoners and staff alike clotted around him like smog on a hot, windless day. Behind the thunderous din of too-loud voices, he heard a man alternately sobbing and cursing, someone else pounding on a wall in monotonous cadence. He forced his breathing to a slow, even rhythm.

  A guard showed him to the cubicle where he would interview the suspect. The walls, wood on the bottom and glass at the top, didn't reach all the way to the ceiling. To Roger's hypersensitive ears, the noise was hardly muffled at all.I've done this before and survived the ordeal, he reminded himself with a hint of sarcasm.So I may as well quit whining andconcentrate on the job. He took a seat and waited several minutes, until he heard two pairs of footsteps approaching the door. The prisoner's feet shuffled, to the rattle of the ankle chains that shackled him.

  Roger took out a notepad and pen. Thanks to his eidetic memory, he could have functioned without notes, but he thought it best to keep a written record, just as he did with his own patients. The guard guided the prisoner, handcuffed as well as shackled, to a chair across the small table from Roger. Clad in the blue-gray prison coverall, the suspect slumped into the chair and stared at nothing, his cuffed hands motionless in his lap. The guard stepped outside and shut the door, remaining there with his back turned.

  Roger's first reaction mingled disappointment and relief. This lean, middle-aged man of average height, with brown hair turning gray at the temples, didn't resemble Sylvia. Albert Warren had sun-weathered skin and brown eyes. Moreover, his aura showed none of the electric violet-blue streaks that distinguished hers. Nor did the odor of his sour breath and sweat-stained clothes bring to mind Sylvia's crisp, metallic scent.

  Roger suppressed a smile, realizing how close he'd come to believing Sylvia's fantasy of a vampire race. The man not only looked nothing like a vampire; he didn't look like a murderer, either. Appearances meant little, of course. Psychopathic killers didn't bear any obvious stigmata, even to the eyes of an empath.

  Pulling his straight-backed chair closer to
the table, Roger said, “Mr. Warren, I'm Dr. Darvell. Do you know why I'm here?”

  The man raised his head, gazing over Roger's shoulder instead of meeting his eyes. “To find out if I'm crazy.” He sounded unconcerned about the prospect.

  “I wouldn't put it quite that way. I've been retained by the District Attorney to assess your mental condition. There are a few things I need to make sure you understand before we begin.”

  Warren gazed at him without response.

  “First, this interview is not confidential. I may pass on any-thing you tell me to the prosecution or to investigating officers. Do you understand?”

  A slow nod.

  “Although I'm interviewing you on behalf of the prosecution, my testimony won't necessarily hurt your case. It may also help your case or have no effect one way or the other.”

  He waited for Warren to acknowledge the statement with another nod. The man wasn't simply maintaining a stoic mask; he projected no emotion at all.

  “You aren't legally required to answer my questions,” Roger said, “but if you don't, I'll make note of that fact and include it in my report. Do you understand?”

  “Sure. I don't mind answering questions. But I already told those detectives all about it.”

  “I need to hear the story directly from you. First, though, do you know where you are?”

  Warren looked faintly puzzled at the question. “In jail. Charles Street.”

  “Do you know today's date?”

  “August twenty-something. I kinda lost track.”

  “What is the year?”

  Throwing Roger an “I may be crazy but I'm not stupid” look, the prisoner said, “1979.”

  Oriented to time and place,Roger noted.Now, down to business. "Mr. Warren, can you explain why you turned yourself in to the police?”

  “Like I told them,” said the man in a flat tone. “I killed those girls. I need to be locked up.” He raised his hands in a half-hearted gesture, and the cuffs clinked as he let them fall back to his lap.

  “Why did you suddenly make that decision at this particular time?”

  “I been thinking about it, that's all. It's not right, me running around loose.” He didn't meet Roger's eyes as he spoke. He radiated no guilt; in fact, he still projected no feeling whatever. He sounded like an amateur actor reciting an imperfectly learned script.Tranquilized? No, Roger had asked the assistant D.A. about medication, and none had been prescribed. The absence of sedation made the emotional flatness more puzzling.

  Roger regarded the patient with a puzzled frown. Lack of affect characterized sociopaths, but Warren didn't feel like other specimens of that class Roger had examined. He tried a different angle. “Can you tell me why you killed the women? What did you want from them?”

  “I don't know. Felt like I had to.” Nothing seethed behind that statement. No suppressed compulsion fighting to break out.

  “Did you hate the victims?”

  Warren reacted to that—mild confusion. “No. Heck, I didn't even know them.”

  “Was there sexual feeling associated with them?” Normally Roger wouldn't approach that question head-on so early; this man baffled him, driving him to provoke some positive response.

  “I don't think so. Don't remember.”

  Roger stood up. This line of attack wasn't getting anywhere. “Mr. Warren, I want to try something that may help me understand you better—and may help you get out of here. You want that, don't you?”

  Alarm flickered in the brown eyes. “No! It's safe here.”

  Safe from what? Roger's professional antennae quivered. Safe from his own guilty impulses? Or from some outside force he imagined to be forcing him into the violent acts? “Mr. Warren, I want to hypnotize you. Will you cooperate?”

  A shrug. No resistance, at least.

  Roger used hypnosis more than most therapists, for the technique suited his peculiar talents. No subject could lie to him for long. Now he stood up, moved to Warren's side, and laid a hand lightly on the prisoner's shoulder. “Look at me, please.” Roger needed no glittering object as a focal point to compel the subject's concentration. His gaze and touch did the work.

  Warren raised his eyes to Roger's. Instantly his apathy dissolved into an open-mouthed stare of panic. His heart racing, he tried to squirm out of Roger's grasp. Both of Roger's hands tightened on the man's shoulders and wrestled him to stillness. Choked with terror, Warren struggled to emit a cry for help.

  Staring him down, Roger said in a low voice, “You will be quiet. You will not scream. You'll answer when I speak to you, and that's all. Understand?”

  A jerky nod. Soothed by the circular strokes of Roger's thumbs on his collarbone, the man's heartbeat and breathing gradually slowed. “I'm not going to hurt you. You're safe here, remember? Now, what are you afraid of?”

  “Your eyes,” the man whispered.

  The air in Roger's lungs turned icy. “What about them?”

  “Like his. Red—they glow—” Warren paused to gulp a breath. “He told me to forget—”

  “NowI tell you to remember,” Roger said. “Who is ‘he'?”

  “Grabbed me one night at work,” said Warren. “He bit me—here.” The man raised both arms in a vague wave, pointing with his chin toward the left one. “Told me I killed those girls, and I better give myself up. Explained to me how each one died, so I wouldn't get mixed up when I told the cops.”

  “This man ordered you to confess to the murders?”

  Another nod. “Then told me to forget he'd talked to me.”

  “He made you believe you'd actually done it.” Roger fixed Warren's attention with a steady gaze. “You didn't kill anyone. You are innocent. You'll forget the details of what this man did to you, but you will remember that.” Would he? A single hypnotic session didn't always do the trick. At least Roger had the truth on his side; restoring true memory had to be easier and more reliable than imposing a false memory. “When the police learn that you're innocent, they'll release you.”

  Fear leaped in the man's eyes again. “No—he'll kill me for this.”

  “The criminal will be arrested, Mr. Warren. You'll be safe.” Roger tightened his mesmeric grip. “Tell me who this man is. What is his name?”

  Warren's mouth twisted as if trying not to vomit. At last the words spewed out. “Neil—Sandor.”

  “One of your co-workers?”

  “Yes.” Warren let out a shuddering breath and closed his eyes.

  “Tell me about him.”

  “Janitor—works nights. I never ran into him much until he—” Warren gulped and shivered. Roger lightly stroked the man's shoulders to calm him.

  Nights, eh? Could this be Sylvia's ‘vampire'?The mention of “red eyes” made the hypothesis plausible. “What does he look like?”

  “Red hair, beard, kind of scruffy. Real tall.”

  “How tall, compared to me?”

  Warren craned his neck to look up at Roger. “About the same. Maybe a little bigger.” He started trembling again and whined, “Don't let them send me home. He's out there—he'll kill me—”

  “That's up to the police and your attorney,” Roger said. He lulled Warren into trance once more. “Remember, you didn't kill those victims. You are innocent. Forget what Sandor did to you. You don't have to be afraid.”

  Finally the prisoner sank back into slack-jawed passivity. Roger had heard enough. He knocked on the door for the guard to return Warren to his cell.

  During the cab ride back to his office, Roger's brain simmered with the implications of the interview.Maybe Sylvia really does know the killer; maybe he's related to her. An extended family with an exotic set of powers and weaknesses? In the office, he telephoned O'Toole as promised.

  “I'll be sending the usual written report to the District Attorney, of course,” said. “I need to talk to you about the case right away, though. In my opinion, Mr. Warren isn't competent to assist in his own defense. However, I also believe he's not your murderer.”

 
; O'Toole's voice sounded like a bulldog's growl. “Hell—we're back to square one?”

  “Not at all,” Roger said. “He gave me some information you may find useful, which I'd rather not go into over the phone. Can you drop by my office later today?”

  “Sure, if that works better for you.” The detective sounded puzzled, no doubt wondering why Roger didn't just deliver his “information” without further ado.

  The main reason was to ensure that O'Toole believed in Sandor's guilt and would push for an immediate arrest. For that, face-to-face application of hypnotic influence was necessary. “How about five o'clock,” Roger said, “right after my last patient?”

  O'Toole agreed. When he showed up at five, to the unex-pressed curiosity of both Dr. Lloyd and the receptionist, Roger led the Lieutenant directly into his office.

  As soon as the door was safely shut, Roger said, “Mr. Warren is covering for someone I believe to be the real perpetrator, a man by the name of Neil Sandor who works on the custodial staff at M.I.T.”

  “Man, that was fast work!” O'Toole's grin faded as he con-sidered the implications. “You telling me Warren's an accessory? The two of them in a serial murder conspiracy?”

  “No, Warren isn't an accomplice. He needs therapy, not punishment. I suspect psychotropic drugs may have been used to convince him of his own guilt.” That explanation would work better than opening a discussion of whether hypnosis could make a person act against his own best interests.

  “You seem damn sure of all this.” O'Toole stood up, took a few paces across the limited floor space, and jingled the change in his pockets. “So you think Warren isn't the killer. But couldn't accusing Sandor be another fantasy he dreamed up? Oh, hell, at least it's a lead.”

  “My intuition suggests that this time Warren is telling the truth.” He caught O'Toole's eyes and administered a firm psychic shove. “If you check out the two men's work schedules, I have a feeling that Sandor's hours will dovetail with the times of the murders better than Warren's.”

  “It's worth a try.” He still sounded dubious.

  “I'm certain of it,” Roger said, increasing the mental pressure. “How soon can you get a warrant? You'll want to bring the man in for questioning before he gets suspicious and bolts.”