Blood Crimes

by Dave Zeltserman

  “I want results.”

  “We all do, sir. We all do.”

  Metcalf stopped for a moment to run his thumb along the full length of his scar.

  “Maybe I’ve been working you too hard,” he said. “Maybe all of you need a break. Some rest and relaxation.”

  “That would be helpful,” Dr. Chabot conceded cautiously.

  “It would give all of you a chance to clear your heads.”

  “Sometimes that is what is most important in solving this type of problem,” Dr. Chabot agreed, nodding. “Yes, a chance to take a step back, to catch one’s breath. Many times that leads to fresh, innovative thinking.”

  “In your case why don’t we arrange a visit with your family.”

  Dr. Chabot licked his lips, his head involuntarily nodding up and down as if he were a bobble-head doll.

  “Then it’s settled,” Metcalf said. “I’ll bring them here for you. Their accommodations will be up front. There should be several openings in the cattle pens soon.”

  Dr. Chabot’s mouth dropped.

  “Please no…”

  “Isn’t this what you’ve been asking for?”

  “Please not that. Please, no…”

  “I thought this is what you’ve been sniveling about for the last six months.”

  “Please, I beg of you. Not that. Not my family.”

  “But you keep asking for it…”

  “Not another word from me. I promise.”

  A shadow fell over Metcalf’s eyes leaving them deader than they were.

  “I’ve given you and your team everything you’ve asked for.”

  “You have,” Dr. Chabot agreed.

  “Computers, centrifuges, fluorescent microscopes—”

  “True, true.”

  “Incubators, cell harvesters… I can’t even pronounce the names of half the shit you’ve had me buy. But everything you’ve asked for I bought.”

  “That is all true. Although…”

  “What?”

  “I could use a confocal microscope. And I’d like to upgrade our flow cytometer.”

  Metcalf lowered his head into his hand so he could rub his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He shook his head. “How much is this going to cost?” he asked in a soft whisper.

  “What?”

  “How much!”

  “Oh. Not much. No more than two hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Two hundred thousand…”

  “If we buy it used.”

  Metcalf stood rigid for a long moment before removing his hand from his face. His eyes pale blue ice as he looked at his lead scientist.

  “Alright,” he said. “Fine. Write me down the model numbers, I’ll order it. But I need results.”

  “You will get them. Eventually we will crack this.”

  “You’re not listening to me. I need results. Now.”

  “We’re doing everything we can.”

  Metcalf waved Dr. Chabot closer with his index finger. When the immunologist got off his chair, Metcalf took hold of the doctor by his skull and pulled him towards him so he could talk with his mouth inches from the doctor’s ear.

  “You need to listen carefully to what I’m saying. When I tell you I want results now that is exactly what I mean. In one month I want to be able to enjoy a steak dinner.”

  “B-But it’s not that simple. We can’t solve these digestive issues until we better understand the virus. It’s all tied together, you see. The virus—somehow it feeds on the digested blood. No other virus acts this way. And just as it does that, it similarly prohibits the generation of any digestive enzymes. More than just that it actively attacks and destroys any artificial enzymes that may be entered into the digestive system. It is as if it doesn’t want any competition for the digested blood. It’s quite amazing, really. We will solve this, but only after we successfully model and understand this virus better. Patience is of utmost importance.”

  Metcalf let go of the doctor, who fell back into his chair and nearly toppled over before righting himself. Rubbing his eyes and then staring bug-eyed at Dr. Chabot, Metcalf asked him what else he needed.

  “Nothing else right now, no.”

  “How about more test subjects?”

  “Not now, no.” Dr. Chabot rubbed a hand across his lips, his expression turning queasy. “When we do I’ll let you know.”

  Metcalf continued to stare bug-eyed at his lead scientist. “I’m losing confidence in you and your team,” he said finally.

  Dr. Chabot shrugged, showing an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, what more can I say?”

  “You’d better say something because if I don’t have confidence in you and your team, then I might as well start over and build a new one from scratch.”

  “What do you want me to say?” Dr. Chabot asked, an urgency creeping into his voice. The other scientists in the room were looking over at them and paying attention to their conversation.

  “All I know is you need to say something to help rebuild my confidence. Maybe there’s someone out there who could make a difference?”

  Dr. Chabot squeezed his eyes shut. A pained expression screwed up his turtle-like face. His complexion changed from waxy to an ashen gray.

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” he said.

  “How about Dr. Ravi Panjubar,” one of the other scientists volunteered.

  Metcalf stared hard at his lead scientist. A vein had started to beat along his right eye.

  “Well?” he asked.

  Dr. Chabot nodded, his face now a mask of pure agony.

  “Dr. Ravi Panjubar could be of help,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “He is doing exciting work in the use of nanotechnology to alter the DNA structure in mice. Yes, he could be of help to the team.”

  “Significant help?”

  Dr. Chabot nodded.

  “Where is he?”

  “Stanford.”

  “No one closer? Maybe someone at USC or UCLA doing similar work?”

  Dr. Chabot looked away. “Just him.”

  Metcalf clapped the scientist on the shoulder and nearly knocked him out of his chair.

  “Alright then,” Metcalf said with a cheerful smile. “If it’s just him then it’s him you’re going to get. And for Chrissakes quit fretting. Think of it this way, you’re giving him the opportunity of a lifetime. Isn’t that what you scientists are all about? Challenges? None bigger than this one. Someday he’ll be thanking you.”

  Dr. Chabot nodded dismally and turned back to his computer screen.

  Chapter 3

  Don Hayes was glad he was packing some serious firepower. He’d never been to Kansas City before and didn’t know what to expect, but the neighborhood he ended up in was as bad as any back home in Brooklyn. Half the store fronts were boarded up, and the ones still in operation were either bars, tattoo parlors or pawnshops. Scattered along the sidewalks were an equal mix of the homeless, derelicts, drug addicts and street toughs. One of the derelicts he drove past was too busy shooing away imaginary flies to bother looking at him, but the other people he passed made sure to give him a long predatory-type stare—especially the street toughs as they sized him up and tried to decide whether he was worth the risk to carjack. Fortunately, so far none of them decided he was. Also, fortunately, as a licensed PI from the state of New York, he had a permit to carry a concealed weapon, and weighing down the inside of his sports jacket was a Smith & Wesson 9mm pistol. He patted the bulge lining his jacket and breathed a little easier. He also had under his seat a police blackjack from his days on the force—an eleven inch piece of weighted spring steel covered in leather. If anyone tried reaching into his car he was prepared, but still, he didn’t want trouble. Around this neighborhood that was all he could smell.

  At the next street corner he slowed down enough to read the street sign, then pulled over and parked next to a vacant store front. After getting out of the car, he gave a quick look around. A couple of street toughs were eyeing him from a few storefr
onts down but stayed where they were. Either they sensed he was armed or simply decided to wait for easier prey.

  Hayes unfolded the fax he had received from the Kansas City Sentinel two days earlier to make sure he had the right address, then walked down the side street he had parked near and searched for the alleyway where a local crack and meth dealer, Devon Wilkerson, was found with his throat torn out and most of his blood drained. He stopped for a moment to squint at the sun and then to wipe a handkerchief along the back of his neck. Damn it was muggy here. Hot as hell too, like a steam bath. Ten minutes outside of the air-conditioning of his car and he was already sweating.

  Up ahead a homeless man was picking through a dumpster and loading trash into a shopping cart. Even in the oppressive heat, the man wore several layers of clothing under a winter jacket. Hayes walked up to him and pointed a thumb towards the alley they were standing next to and asked if that was where Wilkerson was murdered.

  The homeless man’s eyes looked foggy. “Whazzot,” he croaked out.

  Hayes didn’t know if this was meant as a question or statement. He tried again, talking slower. “The drug dealer who was murdered around here. Was it in this alley?” Hayes said. He consulted a notepad. “The man who was murdered was big, over six and a half feet. African-American. Had his throat cut open. He was found dead ten days ago in an alley off this street.”

  The homeless man shrugged noncommittally, his eyes clouded and glassy. No question he was on something.

  “Dunno.”

  Hayes pulled a ten-dollar bill from his wallet. The bill was snatched from his hands. Hayes watched as the homeless man folded it carefully and placed it in a pocket inside his jacket lining. He nodded and pointed down the alley. Flecks of dirt or bugs or something flew off his hair as he did this.

  “Vampires,” he said.

  “What do you mean vampires?”

  “Vampires done it. Drank his blood. Kilt him.”

  “Did you see anything?”

  “No no yo. Not me. Saw nothin’. Sayin’ nothin’ more.”

  The homeless man grabbed his shopping cart and pushed it away. He looked back at Hayes a few times until he was satisfied the PI wasn’t following him. Hayes watched as the man turned the corner and disappeared from sight, then glanced at his notes again and walked to the end of the alley. Outside of several trash cans there wasn’t much else there. Any signs of the murder had been cleaned up. Hayes spotted a sewer grate under one of the trash cans. He had done a weather lookup on Yahoo and knew it had rained heavily the morning before the body was discovered—intense thunderstorms was how they put it. That probably had more to do with the alley being cleaned of blood than anything else.

  Hayes stood silently trying to envision what would’ve brought Wilkerson to the alley. He could’ve been chased down it, but more likely was lured to the spot. He closed his eyes and tried to feel any vibes from the murder site and imagine what happened that night. From his photos the victim was a scary looking sonofabitch. Six foot six, two hundred and thirty pounds, with a long string of arrests for drug dealing and violent assaults, but no convictions. Hayes had a rough idea what the police were thinking—that the murder was over territory and that a competing dealer was trying to grab Wilkerson’s slice of the trade. Hayes had a different idea of the murder, but then again, he was looking at it from a different angle. The local police didn’t know what he knew. That this wasn’t an isolated incident. That there was a serial killer crisscrossing the country killing a lot of bad guys like Wilkerson.

  Hayes sighed and headed back to his car. In all good conscience, he should go to the FBI with what he suspected but it wasn’t as if he had anything concrete, just a growing folder of circumstantial evidence. Maybe it wasn’t quite ethical, but he was under no legal obligation to report unproven hunches. Also there was the complication that his client was paying him a lot of money—twice his going rate, to work this case fulltime, along with a promise of a hundred-grand bonus if he found the guy she wanted found. When she hired him she insisted that he keep his investigation confidential, that anything he found would be reported only to her. He agreed to her demands. She wasn’t the kind of woman he could say no to. Just thinking of her got his heart pumping. Serena Jones. Jesus, she was something…

  Not that he could say she was beautiful. No, that wouldn’t be the right way to describe her, not with this weird cat-like look about her and with how thin and lean she was with almost no tits. But damn was she sexy. Partly it was those green eyes of hers, partly it was the way she dressed in skintight leather, but mostly it was that she seemed to ooze sexuality. It was as if it came off her like perfume. Just the way she looked at him would make him hard—not that he would ever have a chance to do anything about it; she was well out of his league. But a guy could dream, couldn’t he?

  He returned to his car and retrieved his case folder and also the police blackjack from under the driver’s seat. He slipped the sap into his belt so that it was hidden by his shirt. He still had several hours before he was going to be meeting the police detectives investigating Wilkerson’s murder, and this area seemed as good a place as any to start interviewing witnesses. He kept a wary eye on the street toughs who were hanging around the neighborhood, as they did him, and went from bar to bar showing Wilkerson’s picture along with two sketches that he had. The first sketch was one that Serena had helped him make of the man she wanted found. The physical resemblance between Serena and “Jim” was strong enough that Hayes thought they had to be related, maybe even brother and sister. Both were athletic, almost unnaturally lean, with the same cat-like quality to their features and uniquely shaped faces. Serena insisted that they weren’t related, and further that she had no idea what Jim’s last name was. She was also tightlipped about her connection to Jim and why she wanted him found. Hayes didn’t push it, but he was going by the theory that they were of the same blood.

  At the fourth bar Hayes tried, the bartender recognized Wilkerson’s picture.

  “He’s the dude killed in an alley a few blocks from here, right?” the bartender asked.

  “Yeah. Did you know him?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did he ever come in here?”

  The bartender smiled vaguely showing off some badly nicotine-stained teeth. “Can’t remember.”

  He started to walk away, but made it slow. When Hayes put twenty dollars on the bar, the bartender’s face screwed up into a pained expression as if he were trying to pull an obscure piece of trivia from his brain. When Hayes added another twenty, the bartender collected the money and told him that he remembered seeing Wilkerson around.

  “How about ten or so days ago?”

  A glint showed in the bartender’s eyes. “You mean the night he was killed?”

  “Yeah.”

  He thought about it and shrugged.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “He could’ve been, but I can’t remember when I saw him last. He wasn’t the type of guy I wanted to pay attention to.”

  “This is where he did business?”

  “I couldn’t tell you about that.”

  At that hour there were only a half dozen customers distributed along the bar and tables. The bartender waved over the lone waitress; a very skinny redhead in her early twenties wearing a short miniskirt and sleeveless blouse that was tied off midway up her stomach. The waitress looked like she was single-handedly keeping the local tattoo parlors in business with a couple of dozen tattoos on her neck, arms and ankles, and probably places Hayes wasn’t privileged to see. She also had almost as many visible piercings as ink. The bartender showed her Wilkerson’s picture and asked when she last remembered seeing him.

  “That’s the dead guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know.” She scrunched up her face while she gave the matter some thought. “Maybe two weeks ago?” she said.

  Hayes showed them his sketch of Jim. Neither of them remembered seeing him. The waitress promised Hayes that if that guy wer
e ever in there she’d remember seeing him. “I’d be all over him,” she said. “Fuck, he’s hot looking.”

  Hayes couldn’t help smiling. A hot-looking serial killer. Great. The same women who wouldn’t give him the time of day find this guy hot-looking. Of course, he was in his late forties while this “hot-looking” serial killer was about fifteen years younger, but it had always been this way. He showed both of them his other sketch. This one was of a women in her early twenties with large brown eyes, high cheekbones and a gauntness to her face. In the picture she was a blonde, but Hayes suspected that wasn’t her true hair color and that she frequently wore different colored wigs. The drawing was of an extraordinarily beautiful woman and, like this waitress, was someone who favored hot-looking serial killers over solid but average-looking PIs.

  The bartender nodded. “I remember her. But she wasn’t a blonde.” He winked at the waitress. “She was a redhead like Chelsea.”

  “In a pig’s eye,” the waitress said. “She was wearing a wig.”

  “You saw her also?”

  “Yeah, I saw her. The way she was dressed I thought she was a hooker, but she was too good-looking for that. I couldn’t understand what someone like her was doing here. Not our typical lady customer. Her hair was a fake. Definitely. I remember her eyebrows being a dark brown. I wanted to tell some of the guys drooling over her that there was only one natural redhead in the place.”

  The bartender leered at her. “Bullshit,” he said. “Chelsea, you’re a dye job if I ever saw one.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Prove me wrong then. Easy enough for you to do.”

  “How many times do I have to say it, Ossie. Fuck you.”

  The bartender got a laugh out of that.

  Hayes brought them back to the subject at hand. “How close does she look to this sketch?”

  “Damn close,” the bartender said.

  “Outside of the hair, yeah, that’s her,” the waitress agreed.

  “Either of you remember her being here with Devon Wilkerson?”

  They both gave him blank stares.