Krewe of Hunters, Volume 1: Phantom Evil ; Heart of Evil ; Sacred Evil ; The Evil Inside

by Heather Graham

  “Could someone fix documentation?” he asked.

  She looked at him with a dry grin. “People can doctor just about anything.”

  Jude nodded thoughtfully. “This is crazy, though. I guess Ellis wasn’t supposed to have found the guy on the street that quickly.” He sighed. “With any luck, we can find out who drugged Tyler.”

  “With any luck,” Whitney agreed. They both knew that the personnel at the veterans’ hospital would be underpaid, understaffed and overwhelmed.

  Jude hoped that maybe a security camera of some kind had actually worked. As he mulled that over, Dr. Sullivan came out to speak with them.

  “You’ve something for me?” Jude asked.

  “Oh, yes, your Captain Tyler was drugged.”

  “With what, how and when?” Jude asked him.

  “GHB,” Dr. Sullivan said, “Gamma-hydroxybutyric acid. Essentially, it’s a date-rape drug.”

  “I know what it is,” Jude said softly. “Easy to mix up a batch…you don’t even have to be a chemistry major.”

  The doctor shrugged. “The government tries to control it, and it’s on the same lists as LSD and heroin. But, as you said, anyone can mix up a batch in his or her kitchen.”

  “How did he ingest it?” Whitney asked.

  “With a cup of coffee, probably. Or a glass of water, maybe even a glass of juice.” Sullivan shook his head. “Here’s the real problem with the drug, of course. It erases memory. Sometimes, in rape cases, the women remember snatches of events, or maybe something like a one-frame picture of where they were. In some cases, the victims remember nothing at all. People have died from overdoses, so we’re lucky Captain Tyler is alive.”

  “It was planned that Captain Tyler be alive,” Jude said thoughtfully. “Dr. Sullivan, would you see that he gets some lunch and some rest? And I have to make some kind of arrangements for him. I don’t want Captain Tyler back on the streets, and I don’t want him back at the home. I—”

  “Hey, don’t fret on that,” Dr. Sullivan said. “I’ll bring him home for the night.” He grimaced. “My mother is in town. She needs someone to hover over other than me.”

  “That’s above and beyond,” Jude said. “I can find another shelter. I can even bring him in to the hospital for observation. I have a neighbor—”

  “He’ll be fine with me,” Sullivan assured him. “Honestly. I like the old codger. Who knows, maybe Mom will like him, too. She’s driving me insane, that’s for sure. I’m not expecting him to have any recall, but in case he does, I’ll know how to talk him through whatever memory may come back up, and I’ll contact you the second that I do.”

  “That’s great, then, thank you. I want to drop the coat off at my office, but I want to check up on the skeletal remains as well.”

  “Ah, yes! I heard about the find,” Dr. Sullivan said. “We’ve got bags here.”

  The remains from the House of Spiritualism were in an autopsy room, lined up one after another. The remnants of clothing had been carefully bagged and tagged.

  The bones looked lonely on the tables, sad and white, the empty-socket eyes seeming to stare out into space, like props at a movie set or a Halloween scare event. But they were real.

  Fullbright was there when they arrived. “Wouldn’t give up the supervision on this!” he assured them. “We’ve found plenty of nicks on the bones, and I’d bet a year’s pay that they were all nearly beheaded. Jack the Ripper strangled his victims. I believe that these women were awake and aware when their throats were slit. But we’ve only begun the work. We’ll know more when we’ve had more time.”

  Jude looked at Whitney; she appeared ashen.

  “You okay?” he asked her softly.

  She nodded, but something in the room was still disturbing her.

  “Have you estimated the age of the bones?” Jude asked.

  “Well, the clothing patterns and remnants—even stained and such by fluids—definitely appear to be late Victorian,” Fullbright said. “We’ve estimated the age of most of the victims to be late teens to early twenties. Some have very bad teeth, which would suggest that they had been poor, immigrants perhaps. Sadly, yes! The refuse of life of that pitiable time.” He shook his head. “Killing them was easy. I don’t know if they were even missed with more than a passing thought. Come tomorrow, and I’ll be able to give you a closer age estimate and even race, maybe nationality, of most of them. Well—” he glanced over at the forensic anthropologists, busily working “—I and my comrades of this adventure will be able to tell you much more tomorrow.”

  “Hey, are you really all right?” he asked Whitney as they left the building. “I can get you back to Blair House. I become obsessed, but I don’t have the right to drag you along with me all day. In fact, I really don’t have the right to separate you from your team at all.”

  “Oh, no, I’m glad to be with you, and I’m perfectly fine,” she said. She looked ahead as they walked. “It was just…the skulls. The jaws on some were disarticulated from the skulls, and it looked as if they were staring at some horror.”

  “Yeah,” he said huskily. “I can take you back to Blair House.”

  “No. I want to work this,” she said firmly.

  She was such a proud little thing, and her stature, the way she carried her body, gave her a presence that wasn’t due to her size. He couldn’t help feeling as they walked that he wanted to shield her from the unpleasantness at hand. He reminded himself that she was an agent.

  That didn’t stop them from being people. It didn’t stop him from that growing feeling that they were meant to be together. So she had annoyed him at first, but that initial annoyance had turned into something else quickly. He wouldn’t have been human, he’d have had to have been a eunuch, not to feel a sizzle of instant awareness when she was near. Awareness quickly became realized as basic desire, and he was a fool to keep needing her around him.

  But he did. And he couldn’t even say that she wasn’t good with him, working the case, because she was.

  And, hell, he was a cop. He had strength of purpose, damn it. He could force himself to a steel-willed control.

  His dreams were his own, even his dreams of hot, carnal, naked passion. She didn’t need to know that he kept imagining her naked.

  Twenty minutes later, they had the coat delivered to and registered into the lab; Jude made sure it was in the hands of Judith Garner, who was still, along with her crew, wrangling the evidence gathered from both the Broadway and the Bowery sites.

  Jude was fairly certain by then that he had himself—and his wandering mind—in check.

  He told Whitney that he wanted to check in with Hannah, and they did so. “I don’t have anything new yet,” she told him. “But I started on background checks yesterday, and Jake Mallory and I divided the work—we have hundreds of names to go through. I’ve got the programs situated to spit out all kinds of concurrences, similarities, mental defects, sealed juvenile records, you name it. We’re working on anyone even remotely connected with the film, and with Blair House, and the House of Spiritualism.”

  “And,” Jude reminded her, “anyone who has worked in a slaughterhouse, in an autopsy room, with medicine and anatomy in any way. And anyone who knows something about law enforcement, evidence, what we can really find and what we can’t find.”

  “Of course!” Hannah said. She started counting off on her fingers, “The killer knows how to get around detection, the killer knows where certain body organs are, the killer apparently knows the city and the system.” She sighed. “That could be a lot of New Yorkers.”

  “Concentrate on the limo drivers and the principals in the movie first—and look up everything you can find on Samuel Vintner, retired cop, dial-a-guard.”

  “I already did,” Hannah said. “And you know I would have let you know immediately if I’d found anything on him. No college degree, and he passed the police academy as a C student, I guess you’d say. He was on a beat—in Brooklyn—for twenty years, and retired. He never c
ame near the morgue, the best I can find. He never worked in a grocery store as a butcher, much less in a slaughterhouse. Detective Sayer’s people interviewed his wife, and she said that he was home in time for dinner, just like he was supposed to be, and he wasn’t covered in blood.” Hannah paused, looking at the two of them. “You guys are a mess. You slept in those clothes, after digging all day. Ugh.” She grinned suddenly. “I should have made you get up when I left last night, but you were so cute sleeping. And I’m guessing you’re not getting a lot of sleep these days.” She wrinkled her nose. “But, if you’re representing the NYPD and the bureau, you might just want to take showers!”

  “Soon, Hannah, I promise,” Jude told her. “What about Angus Avery? He may be our man.”

  She nodded. “I did a background on him right away, Jude,” she said, sounding hurt. “He went to NYU, and then to the University of Southern California. He has all kinds of writing and directing credits. As far as information I can track goes, he has never worked in the medical field, or in groceries—as a butcher, or in a slaughterhouse. He grew up in the Village, though, so, I would assume he knows Lower Manhattan well. Oh, he wrote the story—the screenplay—for O’Leary’s. And it was considered a coup for him when he was able to hire Sherry Blanco for the leading role.”

  “Just Sherry? What about Bobby Walden?” Whitney asked.

  “Well, they both have confidentiality clauses in their contracts,” Hannah said, her eyes rolling. “I think Bobby got even more money because Sherry agreed to be in the film when she found out that Bobby was her costar. He’d been slipping, you know. That turkey called A Slice of Christmas? I mean, come on, a Christmas slasher film? Anyway, Bobby is still stardust, I guess. Must be all the action flicks he did.

  “Sherry’s a little different. She went to UCLA for one year, and then she was hired for a music-video show, and she has been working nonstop since then. She never even had to wash a dish or bartend—her parents were putting her through. Bobby Walden was a child prodigy, and was already on the kids’ channels by the time he was eighteen…tutors on set and all that stuff.”

  “Dig deeper,” Jude said.

  She might have been upset, but she was looking past him—at Whitney. He wasn’t sure what kind of expression Whitney had given her, but it caused Hannah to smile.

  “Your wish is my command. Go. Go get cleaned up!”

  “Can’t yet,” Whitney told her. “We’re on our way to the shelter for the veterans of foreign wars.”

  “Why? What happened?” Hannah asked.

  “Someone drugged, kidnapped and deserted Captain Tyler,” Jude explained. “And I need to get my car—can you give us a ride?”

  12

  Ellis Sayer had already arrived at the veterans’ home and was questioning patients and workers in one of the employee lounges. As Whitney listened to Jude speak with the desk clerk, she heard the conversation recede as if she’d moved to a distant place. She felt her heart break as she looked around; no one deserved the finest the American public could give more than the men and women who served in the military. She knew that they—just as she had—signed a contract with their branch of service, one that explained that they were putting their lives on the line. Every police officer, every National Guardsman and woman, every person in law enforcement, as well as in the military, knew that they put their lives on the line.

  But none did so with the expectation of facing enemy fire in the way that these soldiers had.

  At first, she thought that the hallways were just busy. Then, with a chill sweeping over her, she realized that she was seeing the dead.

  She swallowed hard, frozen at first.

  It had started in the autopsy room. She had looked at the bones on the tables, and she had imagined them rising and acquiring surreal bodies out of the air that surrounded them. She had seen the gaping mouths, opened in horrendous screams that she thought she could hear.

  And now, it was worse…

  They walked by her sadly; soldiers who had made it home, but not made it back to health. Men minus arms and legs, limping along on prosthetic legs, or with metal and rubber extensions where arms had once been attached to their bodies. There were those who were pale and gaunt, and had evidently died from organ damage that just couldn’t be repaired, or diseases that just couldn’t be cured. This was not really a hospital; it was a shelter that offered medical aid.

  One man in particular stopped and stared at her. Whitney stared back, and realized that he knew that she saw him, and was surprised. She saluted him.

  “Whitney?” Jude said and she started. “The night manager for C Wing is in with Ellis now.”

  “Of course.”

  She followed Jude down a long hallway. He apparently knew where he was going, because he only paused once, looking at the doors around them. He opened one and walked in.

  A heavyset woman was seated at a table, wringing a handkerchief in her hands. She stopped speaking when Jude and Whitney entered, eyeing them worriedly.

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Dean, continue,” Ellis said, looking at Jude and Whitney. He grimaced. “They’re my colleagues.”

  “Well, all right.” Mrs. Dean took a deep breath. “I saw Captain Tyler at nine o’clock—that’s our basic bedtime here. But, of course, our soldiers and sailors are not forced to go to sleep then. Medications have been given out. Dinner is long over, and it’s quiet time. I checked in on him because he’s such a sweet man. And I think he was going to adapt okay. A doctor saw him yesterday, and he was waiting for some test results before starting on a medication regime. I gave him a mild sedative, just to sleep—an ibuprofen with an added sleep aid, doctor’s orders. It wouldn’t have knocked him out, and it wouldn’t have done anything to his memory. And I was at the desk all night, except that if I wasn’t, Mary was there.” She gasped suddenly. “Except when the alarm went off in Admiral Clift’s room. We both went running—he’s one of the World War II vets, quite old and frail, and we both rushed in.”

  “What was wrong with Admiral Clift?” Jude asked.

  A look of realization came over Mrs. Dean’s face. “Oh, no,” she said. “Nothing.” She fumbled with her handkerchief. “That’s when someone got to Captain Tyler!”

  “Do you know why no one was notified this morning that Captain Tyler was gone?” Jude asked.

  “Probably because you’re not required to check out. Well, of course, we expect the courtesy of being told when our vets are leaving. We have only so many beds, and we’re trying to create a place where they can find homes and receive medical help without actually living in a nursing facility. Like assisted living, with a better quality of life,” she explained.

  “Captain Tyler was brought in by the police. We should have been notified,” Ellis Sayer said crossly.

  Mrs. Dean was upset, but she was also defensive. “You’ll have to speak to the day crew about the morning. I have no idea why no one was notified!”

  Whitney stepped in then, smiling. “Mrs. Dean, could you show us Captain Tyler’s room?”

  “Of course, dear, of course.”

  Jude looked at Ellis, who grimaced. “Sorry,” he murmured.

  Whitney had longed for Angela’s talent—a real ability to wait, to simply be there, sympathetically, in touch on a different plane, and allow the dead needing help or closure to see that she might see them, and come to her. Now, with the dead suddenly so apparent to her, filling the hallways, she felt a sense of overwhelming unease; she had never thought that she would see so many, so suddenly…so many…

  She nearly walked into a member of the living, believing that he was one of the dead.

  “Excuse me!” she told an older man. He was in uniform, and though frail, his physical health seemed to be fine. He lifted his hat to her.

  “It’s all right, young woman, it’s all right. A lovely young woman may walk into me anytime,” he said, and moved on around them. “Heading to bingo, Mrs. Dean!” he said. He paused and looked back at Whitney. “Marnie! Would yo
u like to come to bingo with me?”

  Mrs. Dean whispered, “That’s Major Radison. He thinks you’re his daughter, Marnie. Just tell him that you have to go to work.”

  “I’d love to come!” Whitney said. “I’m so sorry that I have to go to work.”

  “Next time, sweetheart. Plan to come on a bingo night when you can stay!” he said.

  “We offer many group activities here,” Mrs. Dean murmured. “Major Radison is another of our World War II veterans. His daughter, Marnie, died last year, and her family lives out in Arizona, so they’re not here often. Sad, truly. For him, the Alzheimer’s is a blessing. He doesn’t know that she died.”

  She pushed open a door to a cheerful room. The bed was even made and decorated with a pretty quilt. The other furnishings offered utility with grace. There was a desk as well as a dresser, and on a counter at the back, a microwave.

  “Very nice,” Whitney murmured.

  Jude, she noticed, had paid little heed to the room. He had gone to the window. He didn’t touch it, but looked at the mechanism. “We’re on the ground floor,” he noted.

  “Yes, we have many rooms on the ground floor,” Mrs. Dean said.

  “Ellis—”

  “Yeah, forensics on the window,” Ellis said. “I’ve already called—should be a team here soon. Gloves?”

  He offered a pair to Jude, and Jude accepted them, and struggled briefly to get them on his long-fingered hands. He opened the window and stuck his head out. “Footprints, too, the ground is soft, they might find something. And the parking lot is just about fifty feet away,” he said. He turned. “Who is on the morning shift?” he asked Mrs. Dean.

  “Gertrude, but she’s gone home now,” Mrs. Dean said.

  Jude looked at Ellis. “We’ll need—”