by David Lee
She carried a metal lunch box with a noirish crime fighter emblazoned on the top. When he’d asked, “how do you get jeans to fit like that?” she’d replied, “I try on a thousand pairs till I find my perfection,” and he knew she told the truth, “Then I purchase all of them.”
“Times must be tough, you packing a lunch like us working stiffs,” he said, as she crossed over to the table. “Who’s that,” he asked, pointing at the lunch box. Opening the top she replied, “It’s the masked avenger; here, baked them myself,” and, setting it down at the feet of the closest corpse, she opened it revealing neat rows of oatmeal chocolate chip cookies with crushed nuts sprinkled across the tops.
Helping himself to a cookie, Izanagi munched for a moment. “These are good, makes me wish for more mysteriously dead bodies.”
Arabella stood at the side watching, years of experience told her the show was coming.
“First, I get this,” he spun theatrically and bowed with his arm out, introducing the side by side examination tables, “And then, like magic, you appear.”
Ignoring his theatrics she said, “What is so baffling about these two that the County is willing to pay me to schlep here and make sure you do your job correctly?”
Without a word, Izanagi slid between the tables and, like a magician at the big moment, dramatically pulled both sheets simultaneously to reveal two bare torsos. “Husband and wife. Notice anything, any little similarities that jump right out?”
Arabella walked around the tables visually inspecting the bodies. “Massive trauma to the neck at the carotid artery, throats appear punctured, with multiple lacerations around the neck and chest and shoulder but you don’t need me to find the obvious. What is that?” She asked, pointing at objects protruding from the bodies.
Laughing, Izanagi pulled on surgical gloves. “Those are shards from the front window, a great big metal glass thing, industrial quality. It exploded inward; glass imbedded in them, the floor, the furniture, hell, glass was stuck into the wall on the other side of the room. If I didn’t know better, I’d think a bomb went off outside that window.”
“What do the police think? Who’s in charge of the case?”
“Sheriff has it, Gunderson, thinks wolves did it.”
“Gunderson? Wolves?” stupefied at the concept.
“Yep, wolves swam out to the island, the storm broke the window and the wolves walked in and surprised them, opportunistic sport killers, he says.”
“Gunderson?” Pulling latex gloves from a box she prepped, ready to assist as she had so many times before.
“You don’t need those, just want to show you one thing then you are out of here.”
“Gunderson, if I’d known I would have stayed home,” she moaned. “Publicity?”
“Of course, TV, radio, interviews, wearing his generalissimo uniform. Yep, he’s out hunting the wolves right now.”
“If you turned out the lights Gunderson couldn’t find his own dick.”
Izanagi giggled when she said dick. “That may be true, so look at what I have to show you.”
Izanagi turned to Alan’s corpse and elongated the neck by grabbing a fistful of hair, much the way his killer had done, and rotating the head back so that the neck bowed. “Tell me what you see, Arabella,” he instructed.
She bent in and examined the neck; a quick glance told her the story: the carotid had been punctured by two long canines. Most interesting was the surrounding damage; whoever had done this had chewed on the necks. Without saying anything Arabella turned to the other body. “Her?” she questioned.
“The same, although not quite as savage; probably somewhat sated by the time he got to her,” he replied, “Would you like to see?”
“Please, she will want to know.”
Izanagi repeated the procedure using Joyce’s ponytail for leverage. Again, Arabella’s inspection was brief. She stood looking at the two bodies. Izanagi, apparently unconcerned, said, “Would you like some lunch?”
“Thank you,” she replied, “I’m famished.”
From a small refrigerator Izanagi retrieved a bento box and, looking at Arabella, held up one finger then two.
“Two please,” she replied.
They sat at the desk, he delicately feeding himself tuna sashimi with rice and vegetables while she demurely sucked blood out of the bag through the straw he’d thoughtfully provided. “That thing really cost over a thousand dollars?” he asked, pointing his chopsticks at her bag.
“Yes, isn’t it marvelous.”
“What specimens will you need?” he asked.
“Some heart tissue would be nice, a blood sample from both of them and all the blood you can spare, if you have any,” she replied starting in on the second bag.
“Have you been feeding? You look a little pale, which for you is not a good thing.”
“No, I’ve been in the lab pretty much round the clock. The only reason I took this job was to see you. I’m not taking any private work at the moment.”
“Anything promising? Should I come down and give you a hand?”
“You know how it goes. Whenever I think I’m getting somewhere, I’m unable to replicate the results. I think I’m onto something at a cellular level but it doesn’t translate to a complex organism.”
“When I got your message I scrounged all the fresh blood I could, it’s in the fridge next to the meatloaf.”
“Thank you,” she said, a rare smile on her face, “Your professional opinion please, what do you think caused this?”
“Not an animal, messy but not messy enough” he replied.
“Mechanical device?” she asked, methodically eliminating possibilities.
Going to Alan’s table he gently twisted the neck to highlight the ravaged neck and artery. “You know those big forks people get out when they want to carve the turkey, something like that, think a giant sewing machine with a big two tined fork jabbing away with plenty of ripping and tearing.”
“Thanksgiving will be extra special from now on; the bird comes out, the fork goes in, charming.”
“Something like that to puncture the neck and artery; see the holes go all the way through, but there’s all this surrounding damage, like someone decided to chew on them a little bit.” Turning the neck, “See, but why would two people watch someone walk up the beach, climb their stairs, cross the deck, break through the front window and get stabbed in the neck with a meat fork without running away or resisting?”
“Why indeed,” she replied.
Returning to his desk, he chased the remaining grains of rice around the bottom of the box, determined to consume every calorie he’d purchased, while she turned the bag up, draining the second bag of blood.
“Did I mention that the front door was unlocked and whoever it was could have walked in without busting that window, which, according to the manufacturer, is unbreakable?”
“Wolves don’t know how to open doors.”
“You and Gunderson should get along real well on this one, real well.”
“What will you say in your report?” she asked.
“This one gets the facts, all of them, meticulous report, including the incredible lack of debris under the fingernails of two people who were allegedly attacked by a wolf, the almost total lack of blood in their bodies, and a careful analysis and discussion concerning the neck and artery damage, which no one will ever see again because of the incisions I will make in the course of my autopsy, incisions that will obliterate the credible physical evidence supporting the inevitable conclusion.”
“Which is?” she prodded.
“Oh, that is quite clear. These two unfortunates were attacked and killed by a Vampire, a Vampire who was aggressive, vicious and very, very hungry. Famished, I would say.”
After a moment she said, “I agree.”
“And, this Vampire actually fed upon the victims, a shocking breach of Vampiric morality and law.”
“Whoever did this is deranged,” she replied.
“
Care to comment on identity.”
“Too soon to tell, but this could be bad.”
“No, Arabella, this is bad, it is bad right now.”
“It’s good this landed on you.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
They finished their lunch, each absorbed in their own thoughts, Izanagi thinking of the report he would draft, a report that would withstand scrutiny yet not lead anyone to the truth; Arabella that the past had returned, that she needed to visit the site and see for herself, that she had an unpleasant report to her unpleasant employer.
Finished, she retrieved her bag. Walking back she picked up her lunchbox asking, “Want these, I baked them for you?” He looked at the neat rows of cookies saying, “Sure, those will help my diet.” She emptied out the cookies onto his desktop after putting a sheet of paper down as a napkin. Crossing back to the exam tables, she put the tissue samples into the box, then crossed to the fridge and retrieved the blood, which went into the box. Last, she held the lunch box under the ice dispenser, filling it up.
“Most people use an ice chest,” grimaced Izanagi, shoving another cookie into his mouth.
Putting on her jacket, Arabella turned to him, picked up her lunchbox, held it out and said, “This matches my outfit.”
“Best dressed assassin ten years running.”
Laughing, she waved and headed for the door.
“Arabella, I’ve never seen one quite like this.”
“I know,” she said, “This might get worse.”
“An insane Vampire on the loose, there is something worse?”
“An insane Vampire with a bunch of insane friends.”
“Go home and get your sword,” he said.
“I might just do that,” she said.
Several years ago, when Izanagi had achieved the highest rank at the dojo, he’d given her a short sword as a memento of the occasion. The present was extravagant, and more so when she realized he’d had the sword smith incorporate silver into the steel, providing the weapon with a lethal shock devastating to Vampire flesh.
“Arabella, you call me once you’ve looked at the tissue and blood. I want to know whatever you find. Anything and everything, I want to know.”
“Of course,” she replied, “and I’d appreciate it very much if you’d let Gunderson know I’ll be dropping by to take a look.”
“Of course,” Izanagi said to the door swinging shut, “of course.”
CHAPTER 3
The last time she had been in the library of the mansion on Queen Anne Hill was the horrid evening when the Queen decided to drop Oliver into the Sea rather than cut off his dear, beautiful head and burn it, as Arabella had counseled. Now, the Queen sat in the same wing chair in the same corner in the same gloom while Arabella paced before the bay windows overlooking fashionable West Highland Drive. Heavily covered in dark burgundy velvet drapes, the old-fashioned roller shades were three quarters down the windows so that only a shadow of the Saturday morning drizzle lit the room.
“Why did you go to the Island?” the Queen asked, continuing the casual conversation she’d started as soon as Petru had ushered her in. They’d covered the autopsy and Dr. Izanagi’s findings and concerns; she’d described the wounds on the necks and the signs of feeding and the lack of blood in the corpses. In deference to her friendship with Izanagi, she’d skipped his concerns about the psychological condition of the perpetrator. No use stoking the Queen’s latent and lurking sense of paranoia. “A lack,” Arabella added, “the police explained by the severity of the attack and the copious blood on the floor and the furniture and walls and even the ceiling where the murders occurred. Something,” she murmured in what she hoped was a reassuring tone, “that should divert any fanciful suspicions of creatures of the night.”
“Why,” the Queen snapped, “why would anyone think of us; is there something else, something you haven’t mentioned, a little secret that you have?” “What do you think, Petru, is she keeping secrets from us; does she know something she’s not telling us?” bringing him into the conversation like maybe he had an opinion and, if he did, that she cared what it was.
“No, I was thinking more about the current culture’s fascination with creatures of the night and particularly the Vampyra,” giving it the old world Russian pronunciation that the Queen preferred, “and I don’t want the press to pick it up and start in.” The only thing the Queen hated more than Hollywood’s current fascination with Vampires was the thought of the lurid press picking up on the case, nicknaming it the Vampire Murders and gabbling about it every night on the news.
Sinking back into the chair so that her voice came out of the dark, she picked up their conversation where it had left off. “The facts,” she said in her most reasonable voice, “suggest that the attacker was not there only to feed but for the joy of death. Was there semen present?” she asked, angling for the deranged sex killer solution.
“No, no semen, nothing to indicate that either had been penetrated or molested in any way. Izanagi checked them both,” said Arabella, “it wasn’t an attack of sexual deviation,” squelching that line of inquiry.
“Just the necks and the violence and the lack of physical evidence; no DNA, no fingerprints and, most curious, no tracks on the floor with all that blood. Makes you wonder how he, it must have been a he, got around without traipsing through the blood and leaving footprints all over.” Out of the shadows of the wing chair the Queen’s crimson eyes focused on her.
Arabella stood still, merely reporting, just the facts, no editorial comment from her, thank you, and gazed back. Creepy Petru stood over against the wall watching as he had for centuries, no longer a part of the conversation, only present in case a spot of violence became necessary.
He stood, quiet and cadaverous, watching every step she took as she resumed pacing past the windows on the path of polished wood between the cream Aubusson rug and the silk covered walls, turned left and walked by him as he stood at attention like a retainer from the 15th century, which, in fact, he was. “You smell like a potato; still sleeping in the dirt?” she whispered as she went by, traversing the path in front of him past the doorway.
“And that silly twit Gunderson, what did he have to say at the Island, anything new to add, more facts, more theories, any witnesses?” inquired the Queen politely, like she was asking about the well being of distant relatives. The wing chair was an enormous thing, almost loveseat wide. It was covered in what could charitably be described as a paisley design of purples and violets with pink in the pattern.
Stopping to answer, Arabella got a clear view and was able to confirm her suspicion the old bat was wearing a perfectly preserved pink 1950’s Chanel suit. A la Jackie Kennedy, she’d topped it with the matching pillbox hat.
“He was more interested in why I was there, wanted to know what it was I thought I’d find since in his eyes I’m a glorified lab tech. It’s only because Izanagi called and I work for the Prosecuting attorney that he let me in. Even then he followed me around like I might steal the silver.”
“And what did you find in your examination of the scene?” the Queen asked, as Arabella cut diagonally across the room so as not to walk behind her and incite Petru to mayhem to redress the insult to his mistress.
“Was it a wolf, as Gunderson thinks?” asked her Royal Highness, the complete and absolute ruler and arbiter of all things concerning the happenings and business of the Northwest Clan of Vampires.
“No, it wasn’t a wolf,” replied Arabella, “I believe it was one of us,” calmly, as if they were discussing something besides home grown treason. Now it’s in the open and we will get to wherever she is going, thought Arabella, relieved that the finish line was in sight.
“How did you get to the island, did you fly?” Her changing course made Arabella nervous and Petru started muffling about, sensing an uptick in the anxiety level.
“I chartered a boat,” she said, remembering the dislocation when she chugged over the spot and reached down the fift
een hundred feet to the bottom of the sea where a certain electricity should have been, but wasn’t.
“You chartered a boat and steered a course that wandered a bit from a straight line to the Island, a course you hadn’t been on for a hundred and twenty years, to a spot that only you and I and Petru know. I wonder why, why would you do that? Did you already suspect something or were you visiting an old friend?” mused the Queen, curious like a loving aunt asking about your recent vacation rather than a paranoid tyrant snuffling about for plots in the pantry.
“I only wonder because it seems a leap for you to immediately go to that spot, that particular place. Don’t you agree, Petru? Seems odd to us that you would go there.”
If Petru thought it was odd he didn’t say, standing still and staying quiet like the Queen preferred.
“He’s not there”, replied Arabella, angling about to keep the fidgeting Petru visible in the corner of her vision.
“Did you dive in, did you swim down and find the vault, did you see for yourself? Well did you?” hissed the Queen, suddenly standing in the center of the room and looking not at all like your dotty old aunty but like one of the most powerful Vampires that you’d never want to see, and certainly not be standing next to if she decided to make a statement.
Lurching back with an involuntary step, she felt the old Queen’s power circling her neck like frozen rope, “I couldn’t feel him; I reached down and searched, but I couldn’t find him. I don’t think he’s there,” Arabella squeaked through a throat constricted by a raging power.
“Not there, not there. More likely there but dead, but please continue,” the Queen ordered. “Tell us more about your holiday, it sounds so fun, a sea voyage, visiting an architectural masterpiece, pleasant conversation with the Chief of Police, a private island. Makes one want to get out more. How long has it been since we’ve had a vacation, Petru? Maybe we should plan something.”