Butts studied the report, frowning, the pockmarks on his forehead merging into a single deep crevice. “Okay,” he admitted, “you got me. That’s what it says here. So unless this is some kind of practical joke”—he glanced at Lee—“accordin’ to this, we got someone who likes to drain victims of their blood.”
“Or most of it,” Chuck corrected.
“Whatever,” Butts said. Heaving his thick body from the chair, he lumbered over to the desk and slapped the lab report down on it. “What we got here is some kinda high-tech vampire—right, Doc?” he asked Lee.
Lee looked at Chuck, who raised a single eyebrow. That could mean many things, as he knew from their days as roommates at Princeton, but this time he figured it meant he should humor the detective, whose scowling face resembled a grumpy English bulldog. Lee rested his lean body on the front of Chuck’s desk and ran a hand through his curly black hair.
“The method of killing is bizarre enough that we have to consider the possibility this is the work of a—”
“Yeah, Doc, I know—a serial offender,” Butts interrupted. “Other wise, you wouldn’t even be here—right ?”
“Right,” Chuck said.
Lee Campbell was the only full-time criminal profiler on the NYPD. This unique position was both an asset and a liability. He didn’t carry a gun or a badge, and was essentially a civilian employee, albeit one who dealt with the most dangerous of criminals. Some of the beat cops didn’t think much of him or his position on the force, while others, like Detective Butts, respected him, even if that respect was tinged with condescension.
“Where was she found?” Lee asked.
“Van Cortlandt Park,” Chuck said. “Not far from Woodlawn—Gun Hill Road. Any significance to that, you think?”
Lee shook his head. “Too early to tell.”
“Okay, let’s have it,” Butts said. “Whadda we got here?”
Lee picked up one of the crime scene photos and studied it. The girl lay on her back, face peaceful, arms at her sides. There were no obvious signs of assault—she might appear to be napping if it weren’t for the grey pallor of her skin. She was young—too young—with soft brown hair and a sweet, angelic face. She looked to be about seventeen, but he caught himself hoping she was older. What a desultory thought, he mused—she was dead now, so what did it matter? She wore an odd costume—at least that’s what it looked like, though Halloween was almost two months away.
He perched on the other captain’s chair and spread the photos out on Chuck’s desk. The victim wore a thick leather corset over a tiny silk skirt. The corset was festooned with half a dozen little metal flywheels and gears, like something from the interior of an old machine. On her head was a pair of leather goggles, and on her feet were ankle-high lace-up boots. The whole outfit gave the impression of Victorian fashion gone awry.
“What’s with the getup?” Butts said, poking his head over Lee’s shoulder.
“That’s steampunk fashion,” said Chuck.
Butts picked at something between his teeth with his thumb and forefinger. “What’s that?”
Chuck opened the door and called out into the hall.
“Sergeant Ruggles, can you come in here, please?”
He barely had time to turn around before his ever-attentive sergeant appeared at the door, pressed and polished as a new penny.
Ever since Ruggles had taken over as Morton’s desk sergeant, Lee noticed that things at the station house ran more smoothly. Telephone calls were returned promptly, the duty roster was met with less griping, and—most important—his old friend seemed more relaxed, better rested, and happier. Not that happiness was a liqueur Chuck Morton allowed himself very often. He was a creature of duty, and had been ever since Lee had known him. But Lee was grateful for Ruggles, and thought Morton was too, even if he would never allow himself to show it.
Ruggles stood at attention, the morning sun gleaming on his shiny pink head. He couldn’t be older than thirty, yet he was bald as a piglet. His small blue eyes shone brightly in his bullet-shaped face.
“Yes, sir?” he said, his accent pure North Country—England, not New York state. “What can I do for you?”
“Tell Detective Butts and Dr. Campbell about steampunk,” Chuck said.
“Very good, sir.” He turned to Butts and Lee. “Well, you see, sir, it’s a recent variation on cyberpunk. It started out as a literary movement of science fiction and fantasy, and has its own set of aesthetics. They’re all into Victorian clothing by way of Jules Verne and H. G. Wells—that kind of thing.”
Butts scratched his chin. “Why ‘steam’?”
“The stories take place in an era when steam power is still widely used, sir,” Ruggles replied, “but they tend to have fantastical or science fiction storylines. They have their own music, too, and there’s a theme of rebellious outsiders—that’s the ‘punk’ element, you see.”
“Jeez,” Butts said. “How do you know all this?”
The ruddy hue of Ruggles’s face deepened. “Well, you see, sir, I, uh—”
“It’s all right, Ruggles—you can tell them,” Chuck coaxed.
“I played in a steampunk band myself, you see, sir—back home.”
“In England?” Lee asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“What was it called?” Butts said.
Ruggles bit his lip.
“Go on,” said Chuck, with a little smile, obviously enjoying his sergeant’s discomfort. “What was the name of the band, Ruggles?”
Ruggles cleared his throat. “The Dastardly Gentlemen.”
Butts stifled a cough. “Really?”
“Yes, sir,” Ruggles said miserably, staring at his polished black shoes.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Chuck said, releasing him from his torment. “That’s all for now.”
“Very good, sir,” Ruggles replied, and fled.
“So,” said Lee, “this outfit means the victim is a steampunk fan?”
“Or at least she’s tryin’ to be,” Butts remarked.
“Why do you mean ‘trying’?” asked Chuck.
Butts poured himself a cup of coffee from the white Krups machine. He heaped in two large spoonfuls of sugar and stirred thoughtfully. “There’s somethin’ about her that doesn’t ring true. Can’t quite put my finger on it. Like she’s just pretending or something, you know?”
“That’s interesting,” said Lee. “So maybe she’s a newcomer to the scene?”
“Yeah, somethin’ like that. I dunno,” Butts said, taking a large gulp of coffee. “Ow—that’s hot,” he said, fanning his mouth.
“I’d be inclined to trust your instincts, Detective,” Morton remarked.
“I think I know what he means,” Lee said, leaning in toward the photo. “Everything she’s wearing looks brand new—like she bought it just for the occasion.”
“Yeah—you’re right,” Butts agreed. “That’s it! Hey, we make a good team, Doc.”
Lee smiled. This was their third case together. After an initially rocky start, he had developed a fondness for the chubby detective, and had to admit they did work well together.
“How did he get the blood out of her?” Lee asked. “I don’t see any sign of trauma.”
“There was a small puncture wound in her right arm.”
“Jeez,” Butts said. “What kind of damn vampire takes blood out of a vic’s arm?”
“Someone who really wanted her blood,” Chuck remarked. He turned to Lee. “What do you make of it?”
“Well, obviously he’s got access to the technology to do this.”
“I coulda told you that,” Butts said, yawning. “Sorry,” he said, looking sheepish. “Wife and I were up late cleaning last night—we got in-laws comin’ ... uh, on Wednesday.”
Lee knew what he meant, and why he was having trouble saying it. It was the first anniversary of the attack on the World Trade Center. In New York City, everyone’s emotions were still raw—and a year later, the ruins at Ground Zero had only recently
stopped smoldering. Thousands of families were facing the fact that they would never know exactly how their loved ones died, or what had become of their remains. Most of the victims—the ones who weren’t incinerated—lay beneath piles of debris, twisted metal, shattered glass, and rubble. The cleanup operation continued, slowly, laboriously, as workers picked bits of bone and clothing from the almost unimaginable layers of crumbled steel and concrete, all that was left of the once-proud towers.
Ceremonies and concerts were taking place all over the five boroughs. Lee wasn’t looking forward to going through the emotional wringer of reliving that terrible day, and he didn’t imagine Butts was either. Like many people in the tristate area, the detective had known someone who perished in the conflagration—a young woman who had gone to SUNY Purchase with his son. A finance major, she had been working at Cantor Fitzgerald, the investment bank that sustained more losses than any other company.
Chuck cleared his throat. “Okay, so the UNSUB has some kind of medical background, then?”
Lee shook his head. “Not necessarily. He might—but he could just as easily be a lab technician, or—”
“A med school dropout,” Butts said.
“That counts as a medical background,” said Chuck.
“Actually, I was going to say veterinary assistant,” Lee continued. “But I guess that counts as a medical background too.”
“Could he learn to do this on the Internet?” asked Butts.
“Maybe,” Lee answered. “Who did the postmortem?” he asked Chuck.
“Russell Kim.”
Kim was one of the best pathologists in the medical examiner’s office, a model of thoroughness and efficiency.
“We should talk to him,” Butts remarked.
“I agree,” said Lee.
“But meanwhile, is there anything you can tell me about his—psychology, his motivation?” Chuck asked him.
“Well, I’d say it’s a fantasy he’s played out over many times in his head, probably for years.”
“But never acted on—”
“Until now.”
“So,” Butts said, “that begs the question: why now?”
“Exactly,” Lee agreed.
On the windowsill, the fly ceased its buzzing and lay in a stupor. Its feeble effort to live had at last given way to the inexorable, sweet pull of death.
CHAPTER THREE
He would have her. He would have her—just as he had all the others, with their sweet, milky skin, juicy with youth and hope—and blood. The viscous liquid he needed to complete his dark desires, to live through them, with them, by them. Of course no one understood—how could they?—but that didn’t make his need any less pressing, his desire any less strong.
And the more he had, the more he wanted—needed.
Davey put on the CD as he prepared to drink from the beaker he had stored carefully in the refrigerator. He sank into the red satin chair and listened to the singer’s smooth baritone, with his impeccable British consonants. He had heard the song a dozen times, and yet each time he found something new to admire. The pounding bass line matched his own heartbeat, and the metal guitar strings vibrated in his soul, his body resonating as though it too were an instrument in service of the song:
The youth that time destroyed can live in me again
But I require blood—the time is coming when
I’ll come to you at night, as the owl hoots at the moon
I’ll be by your side to watch you as you swoon
Don’t be afraid, my love—open up your arms
Welcome death’s embrace, and save me with your charms
Salvation will be mine—I stand upon your door
Science will ensure we’ll be together forever more
The song was so sad, and yet so true—it pierced his heart like the swift, sharp blow of a dagger. He leaned back in the chair and drank. The taste was bitter, metallic, but he welcomed it. He could feel his body absorbing the energy of his victim, her vital life force, and as he drained the remainder of the liquid, he felt himself becoming one with her.
CHAPTER FOUR
The victim’s brother had already been interviewed by the original detective assigned to the case, but, after reading the case notes, Lee and Butts wanted to speak with him themselves. A meeting was arranged for later that day at the precinct house, after his classes at Hunter College. According to the case notes, he was a math and physics major.
Francois Nugent was a cocky kid, but it was all a pose to hide his insecurity. He was also too smart for his own good. He showed up at the station house fifteen minutes late, the arrogant swing of his narrow shoulders only emphasizing his youth and vulnerability. He wore a leather vest over a pressed white shirt, straight old-fashioned-looking trousers, and patent leather shoes—a subdued version of the steampunk look. With his square wire-rimmed glasses and slicked-back hair, he suggested a Russian literature student or an apprentice to an accounting firm, circa 1890. Instead of the ubiquitous student knapsack, he carried a leather satchel; on it was a button that read, TESLA WAS RIGHT.
Detective Butts thrust out a broad hand. “Detective Leonard Butts, Homicide. This here is my colleague, Dr. Lee Campbell.”
The boy stared at Lee. “You’re the profiler. I read about you in the paper.”
“That’s great,” Butts remarked, gesturing to a chair. “Mind if we get down to business?”
Nugent took the chair Butts offered, but continued to stare at Lee. “Are you going to help find my sister’s killer?”
“That’s the idea,” Butts said. “Now, if you don’t mind—”
The boy’s lower lip quivered and he took a deep, shuddering breath. “Do you think it’s someone she knew?”
“We think he met her at that club,” Lee said.
Francois Nugent slammed his fist down on the table. The sudden outburst of rage was startling. “Damn! I got there late—she was gone by the time I—”
“Look,” Butts interrupted. “You mind if we ask the questions? The sooner we get some answers, the sooner we track down the sicko who did this.”
Nugent looked up at him, startled. “Yeah—whatever,” he said, gazing out the window, his mood abruptly sulky. Lee glared at Butts, but the detective pointedly ignored him.
“Okay,” Butts said. “Now, it says in the case notes that you’d been to this club before, but she—”
“It was her first time.” He spat the words out bitterly. “I’d been trying to get Candy to come with me for months, and she finally agreed. Her first goddamn time,” he said softly, the anger leaking out of him, replaced by a bewilderment Lee recognized only too well. Fate had reserved a special corner of hell for everyone, he thought, and this boy was just coming face-to-face with this truth. As his life tumbled down around him, the only thing he could respond with was existential puzzlement, the universal response to evil or great misfortune. Lee knew every stage of that journey. Sometimes he thought he was finished with it and had come out the other side, and sometimes the blackness of despair descended so viciously it took his breath away.
“So she wasn’t into this—this ‘scene’ before?” Butts said.
Nugent looked at him, pity layered with contempt. “No, she wasn’t into steampunk, if that’s what you mean.”
“Right,” Butts said.
He might appear clueless to this boy, Lee thought, but he knew Butts was sniffing around like a bird dog on a scent. It might take time, but he would get what he wanted. Butts’s nose for evidence was good, and Lee always suspected he put on the awkward act to put witnesses at ease. Then he would zero in for the kill when they least expected it.
“What about your parents?” Butts asked. “Do they approve of this—hobby of yours?”
Francois rolled his eyes. “First of all, it’s a lifestyle, not a ‘hobby,’ and secondly, they don’t even know about it.” He kicked at the table leg with the tip of his polished leather shoe. “They don’t even know about Candy yet.”
“Why not
?”
“They’re somewhere in Kenya—no one’s been able to reach them.”
“What are they doin’ there?”
“They’re defending some rare tiger from poachers or something ... I don’t know. Or fighting to save orphans. They love orphans. Christ,” he said, his fists tightening until his knuckles turned white. “They’re off protecting some kids they don’t even know, halfway around the world, but they can’t be bothered to look after their own—” He broke off and stared at the ground again, his eyes hard. “Sorry—what were you saying?”
“Oh, nothin’ much—just asking about your parents.”
“Like I said, Maman and Papa are off doing good works in faraway lands. I’ll have them call you when they return.” He snorted. “Some homecoming that will be.”
“I take it you don’t like your parents very much?” Lee said.
Francois picked at one of the brass buttons on his vest. “I don’t dislike them. I just think they should be here while Candy’s still—was still so young.”
“Who looked after you when they were away?”
“Flossie.” He looked at Lee and Butts as if expecting a reaction. “I know—that’s her name, right? Flossie. Like something out of the damn Bobbsey Twins. Except her last name is O’Carney—Flossie O’Carney, from County Cork. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”
“Is she your—” Butts appeared to be searching for the right word.
“She’s our nanny,” Francois broke in. “Though she’s really more of a surrogate parent. She’s completely devastated. I think the news hit her harder than it will Maman and Papa.”
“Why do you call them that?” Lee asked.
“Our dad is French, and our mom—well, let’s just say she has her pretensions. That’s what we’ve always called them.”
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