Night Blood

by James M. Thompson

  Clark slapped Matt on the back. “Okay. How about we go inside and see how much of your mother’s buffet we can put away before we start the game again?”

  Eight

  Monday morning, Matt was just coming out of his lecture when he saw Sheldon Silver and Samantha Scott walking down the hall.

  “Hey, guys,” he called, “wait up.”

  They stopped and turned. As Matt walked up to them, he heard Shelly whisper to Samantha, “Matt Carter.” This, of course, crushed him. He had no trouble remembering her name. Evidently, she’d made more of an impression on him than he had on her.

  “Matt, I hear you and I have been summoned to see the chief of detectives over at police headquarters,” said Shelly. “You want to ride with me? Then we can have lunch together.”

  “Sure, Shelly,” Matt said, noticing that Samantha wasn’t paying the slightest attention to the conversation. She was standing there, looking bored, tapping her foot and staring out the window.

  “By the way, how much did you win in the poker game Saturday night?” Shelly asked.

  Matt smiled, thinking there were no secrets in the Medical Center, where gossip is as common as white coats. “Well, I managed to come away with a few more sheckels than I went in with.”

  Shelly grinned and put his arm around Matt’s shoulders as they walked down the hall. “Good, then you can treat Sam and me to lunch.”

  Matt had to admit that even in the face of her obvious disinterest, that made his heart jump. He’d been trying to get up the courage to ask her out and now Shelly had done it for him. Of course, the fact that she was going out to eat with him didn’t exactly seem to set her heart on fire. In fact, she yawned, daintily covering it with the back of a perfectly formed hand.

  In the car on the way downtown, Matt said to Shelly, “Tell me what you know about Chief Damon Clark.”

  Shelly thought for a moment. “He’s independently wealthy. His father was in on the ground floor at Compaq Computers and took all of his bonuses in stock options.” He cut his eyes over at Matt. “And you know what that stock has done in the past fifteen years.”

  Matt nodded, thinking that explained the clothes and gold lighter.

  Shelly continued, “I also hear that since his appointment, the men in the detective division have started to dress better and use less profanity, and the public image of the police department has improved dramatically. It’s also said that the changes are more the result of the men imitating him than him ordering the changes. He’s a master of manipulation of the press and has become something of a celebrity in Houston society, a fact he promotes rather than discourages.” Shelly shrugged, “He’s probably got political aspirations, but who doesn’t downtown?”

  Matt smiled, then sobered as he remembered the way Clark had grilled him Saturday night. “Say, Shelly, what are you going to tell Clark about the autopsy on the homicide?”

  Shelly arched one eyebrow as he glanced over at Matt. “Why, the truth, Matthew, the truth.” Then he looked over at Samantha to get her reaction.

  Her lips turned up in what could have been a smile, or a smirk. “Well, whatever his background, he’s still a detective in the Houston Police Department, and I doubt he’s a whole lot different from his predecessors,” she said, her disdain for the local police evident.

  Matt smiled to himself, thinking of the man he had played poker with, and decided to let Shelly and Samantha see for themselves how wrong they were.

  The three of them entered the squad room at police headquarters and looked around for someone to help them. Everyone was busy, and no one seemed aware of their presence. The room was remarkably like the squad rooms seen in detective movies—mass confusion. Men and women in plainclothes were bent over phones, all talking loudly, trying to overcome the constant din. Others were escorting prisoners in handcuffs back and forth for questioning and to take statements. In spite of the prohibition against smoking in Houston’s public buildings, smoke hung in the air like ground fog and every desk seemed to sport an overflowing ashtray. Evidently it wasn’t an ordinance high on the police department’s list of priorities for enforcement. The place was like a madhouse, with the inmates in control of the asylum.

  Finally, Matt saw a familiar face and led Shelly and Samantha over to a desk in the corner of the room. Shooter looked up from the phone and waved at them, then, after a few more words, hung up.

  Shelly stuck out his hand and introduced himself. “I’m Dr. Sheldon Silver.” He turned and put his arm on Samantha’s shoulder. “And this is my associate, Dr. Samantha Scott. Your chief of detectives, a Mr. Damon Clark, asked us to drop by and have a word with him.”

  “Hi ya, Doctors. I’m Shooter Kowolski, Damon’s second in command.”

  As they shook hands, Shelly must have noticed Shooter examining his Hawaiian shirt and Levis. “Yeah, I know, I hear it all the time,” he said out of the blue.

  Shooter wrinkled his brow. “Hear what, Doc?”

  “That I don’t look like a doctor, and, by the way, I take that as a compliment.”

  Shooter grinned and glanced at Samantha, who was dressed in a red short-sleeve blouse over a navy blue skirt that just reached her knees and matching blue high-heeled shoes. “Neither does your associate,” Shooter said with obvious approval.

  This drew a frown from Samantha, which Shooter ignored as he led the way to a door marked DAMON CLARK, CHIEF OF DETECTIVES.

  As they entered the office, they found Damon Clark standing at the window looking out at the Houston skyline. He was wearing a suit that probably cost more than most detectives made in a month and had his hands clasped behind his back, deep in thought.

  Shelly looked around at the office and gave a low whistle, nudging Samantha and Matt with his elbow so they would notice. The room was furnished with a heavy, maroon leather couch and matching chairs, and a Louis XIV desk. The walls were hung with Picasso, Renoir, and Chagall prints.

  Clark came around the desk to greet them, his hand outstretched. Shelly seemed even more impressed by the man than he had been by the office, while Samantha continued with her bored expression, not letting on what she thought. Matt knew from their previous talk that she had expected the typical potbellied, cigar-smoking, cynical police detective like those she had dealt with in the past. Instead, they were faced with a young black man who appeared to have stepped from the pages of GQ.

  Clark’s accent, when he spoke, was pure Harvard, with none of the Texas drawl that those who lived in Houston had come to expect.

  “Hello, Dr. Silver, Dr. Scott, Matt. Can I offer you all some coffee, or perhaps some espresso?”

  Shelly raised his eyebrows. Clark must have done his homework. No one had introduced Samantha but he knew her name. “Yes, I’ll have some espresso, if it’s not too much trouble,” Shelly said.

  Clark looked at Matt, who said, “I’ll have a Diet Coke.”

  Sam smiled, losing her sour expression for the first time. “I’ll have a regular Coke, please.” Evidently, Matt thought, Clark made a favorable impression on her.

  Clark glanced at Shooter, grimaced at his yellow and green plaid jacket, bright green tie, and lime green pants, and inclined his head in a silent order for him to get the coffee and Cokes.

  After Shooter left to get the drinks, Samantha asked, “Excuse me, Chief, but isn’t Shooter a rather . . . ah, provocative name for a police officer?”

  Clark laughed. “Yes, it probably is, but not in the way you think.” He measured Samantha for a moment with his eyes. When he looked over at Matt, he just shrugged, grinning to show that he hadn’t told her the story of how Shooter got his nickname.

  “Well, I guess he won’t mind if I tell you. He got the nickname while still a patrolman in his rookie year.” Clark paused to take a cigarette from a gold case on his desk and lit it with his gold Dunhill lighter.

  As he exhaled, he continued. “Kowolski and his partner had been called to answer an armed robbery at a liquor store. As they piled out of the pat
rol car, a young black male came running out of the store waving a shotgun. Kowolski grabbed for his service revolver, and in pulling it out of his holster, shot himself in the foot.”

  Samantha’s mouth dropped open and she started to smile at the mental image Clark’s story evoked.

  Clark smiled too. “No, the wound wasn’t serious, but he lost the little toe on his right foot. However, the gunshot so frightened the robber that he threw down his shotgun and raised his hands, shouting ‘Don’t shoot, I give up.’ While Kowolski was in the hospital, someone”—and here Clark cut his eyes pointedly at Matt—“put up a sign that said ‘hooter Kowolski,’ and the name stuck. They also tacked a poster on the wall that said ‘That was a great bust, Shooter, but it looks like you’ll only be good for nine more before you run out of toes.’ ”

  The group was still chuckling over the story when Shooter entered with a tray bearing two espressos and the Cokes. He arched an eyebrow and looked suspiciously at Clark, who turned and winked at Samantha, causing them all to begin laughing again.

  After they finished their drinks, the talk became more businesslike, and Clark asked Shelly about the results of the autopsy on the girl with the slashed throat.

  Shelly took an envelope out of the back pocket of his jeans and tossed it on the desk in front of Clark. “That’s the official report, Damon.” He leaned forward and put his arms on the desk. “Now, do you want to know what I really think happened?”

  Clark looked over at Samantha, then back at Matt, who shook his head to show he had no idea what Shelly was talking about. Clark picked up the envelope and weighed it in his hand for a moment, before tossing it aside as he made his decision. “Yes, please. And give it to me straight, in language cops can understand.”

  “Okay,” Shelly said, leaning back in his chair. “The actual cause of death is simple: loss of enough blood through the throat and vaginal wounds to cause shock and eventually cardiac arrest. The interesting part is that we think the throat wound was made with a human mouth, and that the killer sucked the blood out of her body and presumably consumed it.”

  Shooter whispered, “Jesus,” and looked at Matt to see if he agreed. He found Matt with his mouth open, staring at Shelly as if he had lost his mind. At the autopsy, Matt knew that Sam and Shelly felt the perpetrator had chewed and bitten the girl’s neck—not all that unusual in violent rape-murder cases. His speculation that the killer had drunk the blood was news to Matt, however.

  Clark stared at Shelly thoughtfully, then turned to Samantha. “And do you agree with Dr. Silver, Dr. Scott?”

  Samantha nodded.

  “And what makes you think that?”

  She looked over at Shelly, who nodded for her to answer. “There were human bite marks on the edges of the wound, and the body lost more of its blood volume than it could have pumped out on its own before the heart stopped. From the investigating officer’s report, very little of the blood was spilled on or near the body, so the killer must have drunk it.”

  Clark shook his head, turning back to Shelly. “Dr. Silver, surely you can think of other reasons for these findings than stating that the perpetrator drank the blood.”

  Shelly said, “Chief, this is a little hard to explain to a layman, so bear with me and I’ll try to tell you what has led me to that conclusion. Okay?”

  Clark nodded and plucked another cigarette out of his case and lit it, his eyes never leaving Shelly.

  Shelly stood and began to pace as he lectured. “In the first place, when someone bleeds to death, there is a lot, I mean a lot of blood scattered around. The human body holds about seven to eight pints of blood, which looks like even more when spread out on the ground. When the wound is in the throat, with all its arteries, the blood is sprayed out under considerable force. The blood tends to get all over the victim—on their clothes, in their hair, and generally they are covered with it from head to toe. Even if their clothes are removed and the body is moved, there is still plenty of evidence of massive amounts of blood having been spilt.”

  Shooter interrupted, “Excuse me, Doctor, but what if the body is washed off? Can you still find the blood?”

  Shelly smiled and shook his head. “Well, Shooter . . . Can I call you Shooter?” When the detective nodded, Shelly continued. “Of course, if a body is scrubbed and the hair washed, it is immensely harder to find the blood, and special chemical tests must be done, but even then it is still possible.”

  Samantha, with a thoughtful expression on her face, interrupted. “Was there any evidence that this body had been washed, Chief?”

  “No, of course not,” Clark said. “She still had on her clothes, and the body did have some blood on it, just not much. Please continue Dr.” He shot another look at Shooter. “We won’t interrupt again.”

  Shelly stopped pacing long enough to pour himself another cup of espresso from the decanter on the tray. “Now where was I . . . ? Oh yes, when a person has a massive loss of blood, the blood pressure falls rapidly, and the heart, trying to maintain the pressure, beats harder and faster.” He paused to see if the men were following him. “However, with further loss of blood, the blood that supplies and nourishes the heart also begins to diminish. Soon, under the increased stress of working harder, and the stress of less blood supply, the heart fails and stops pumping, thus causing death by cardiac arrest.”

  Matt was beginning to see where Shelly was headed, when Clark snapped his fingers and said, “I see what you mean. The heart stops before all the blood in the body can be pumped out.”

  Shelly said, “You’re amazingly perceptive, Chief . . .”

  Clark held out his hand. “But I don’t see what that has to do with . . .”

  Shelly cleared his throat. “Okay, Damon, here’s what we have. We have a body with a throat wound, and evidence death was caused by massive loss of blood. However, there is no sign of the blood either on the body, or at the scene of the crime.”

  Clark opened his mouth to speak, but Shelly continued without giving him a chance to say anything. “Chief, that’s not all. During the autopsy, we examined the body minutely, and there was no blood at all in the body. None!”

  Shooter, with an apologetic look at his boss, said, “But you said that the heart couldn’t pump all the blood out before it died.”

  Good for you, Shooter, Matt thought, you’ve cut right to the chase.

  Shelly put his coffee cup down with a thud. “Exactly, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. The woman didn’t die from passive hemorrhage. That would have been too slow and some blood would have been left in the body. We—” He looked at Matt for a moment, then said, “That is, my assistant Dr. Samantha Scott and I, feel that the victim’s blood was sucked from her body, and so rapidly that the body was completely depleted of blood at the time of death.”

  Clark rose and walked over to his window and stood there looking out with his back to the room. Matt noted he was unconsciously opening and closing his lighter. He knew the chief was trying to decide whether to believe Shelly or not . . . whether he and Samantha were nutcases or just some ivory tower doctors trying to be amateur detectives.

  While Clark was thinking, Matt took the opportunity to ask, “Shelly, isn’t it possible that the killing took place somewhere else, and the body was dumped later? That would explain the absence of blood at the site where the body was found.”

  Shelly smiled, showing he was not at all offended at Matt’s questioning his findings. Spreading his hands, he said, “Sure, Matt, anything’s possible at this point. After all, pathologists aren’t psychic. But from the lack of blood on the clothes and in the hair, and because there was less blood remaining in the body than I would expect from simple exsanguination, it’s my opinion that we’re dealing with something more here than a rape that got out of hand. The violence of the wounds, the teeth marks . . .” He shook his head, as if trying to find the right words to explain his feelings.

  Samantha was at no such loss for words. She immediately piped up with, “The t
otality of the evidence indicates to us that we’re dealing with a psychopathic killer here, one who completely lost control. In that scenario, it’s easier to believe the killer drank the blood in a frenzy rather than cleaning the body and transporting it to a distant site to dump it. That would take more organization and planning than killers of this type usually possess.”

  Shelly looked up and spoke to Clark’s back, “I don’t blame you.”

  Clark turned. “Huh?”

  “For what you’re thinking. Are they crazy or is there really something kinky about this case?”

  Clark rubbed his chin, a speculative glint in his eye. “Well?”

  Shelly stood and shrugged. “I can’t answer that for you, Chief. That’s a decision you’ll have to make for yourself.” He turned and shook Shooter’s hand. “It was nice meeting you, Shooter.” Then he waved at Clark as they left the room. “You too, Chief.”

  Matt was lost in thought as they walked down the corridor, and had to ask Shelly to repeat his question. “What, I didn’t hear you?”

  “I said, what do you think about our theory?”

  “Shelly, I don’t know what to think. I do know that if you’re right, we’re going to see more young ladies like the one we worked on Saturday.”

  Samantha put a hand on Matt’s arm and stopped him. “Why, what makes you say that, Matt?”

  “Think about it. Whether this guy is psychotic and lost control, or the killing was for some blood ritual, he’s not going to stop with one.” He hesitated, then continued, “Besides, from what I could see of the wounds, he liked what he did, and I don’t see him giving up that kind of thrill after one taste.”

  Nine

  I sat slumped in my room feeling every one of my two hundred years. My work for the day was done, and I had a few moments to myself. Alone with my thoughts, I realized the killing of the other hunter had depressed me, causing me to reflect on my own immortality and the Sickness that my kind risked with every feeding.