Succulent Prey

by Wrath James White

  "Yeah, but anybody with shoes like that has to have a job and that means somebody would miss her if she was gone. And the only recent missing person we have matching someone of that height and body type is the librarian."

  "Height and body type? We don't even know if that was a woman yet. And how could you tel if she was big or smal with half her flesh missing?"

  "The leg. Some slim model type wouldn't have a leg that thick. And she was stil wearing those Kenneth Cole pumps, which would lead me to believe it was probably a woman."

  "You know as wel as I do that that's no safe assumption in this town."

  The phone rang and they both reached for it at the same time. Montgomery got to it first.

  "Detective Montgomery here. Yeah?

  Final y! What did you find? And did you get a match? Damn. Okay. I'l be by to pick up the report later. Thanks for the cal."

  "What? Was that the lab? What did they say?"

  "They matched the librarian's dental records to the corpse."

  "I knew it!"

  "And they also confirmed the presence of saliva in some of her wounds. Those were human teeth marks. In case there was any doubt, we've definitely got a serial kil er on our hands."

  "Not a serial kil er. Not according to the FBI. He won't be classified as a serial kil er until he kil s three more people. Right now al we have is a homicidal sexual predator with one victim."

  "You got any doubt that there are more victims out there or that there wil be?" Montgomery sighed. "Nope. You're right."

  "I guess we need to take a trip back to the col ege?"

  "We need to talk to that kid they were al talking about. That Joseph Miles.

  Everyone we spoke to said he'd probably kil ed her and that was before we even knew she was dead."

  "That's just because they think the kid's weird. He's probably just one of those death metal gothic freaks that like to act dangerous and mysterious to impress girls."

  "Yeah, that could be. But that's probably what the cops in Columbine thought about those Trench Coat Mafia kids before they went on their murder spree. For some of those kids it's more than just a fashion. Some of them real y are disturbed."

  Chapter Thirty

  Professor John Locke had spent al morning answering questions from the police about his student, Joseph Miles.

  "You say he was obsessed with serial kil ers? How could you tel? I mean, this is a course about serial kil ers. One could say the same thing about you or anyone else who attends your class." Detective Montgomery was a large, athleticlooking black man with a short

  Afro and sideburns. He wore a midlength leather coat and dark sunglasses that he had a habit of tilting down to the tip of his nose when he spoke so he could look over the top of them directly into your eyes. He looked like something from a seventies blaxploitation film, a poor man's Shaft. His eyes were deadly serious, though, and he spoke in clear, crisp tones like a newscaster or a politician and not the slang drawl you would have expected looking at his haircut.

  His partner was a middle-aged Spanishlooking guy who wore a pin-striped suit that looked like someone had fried a hamburger on it. What hair remained on his balding cranium was pul ed back into a ponytail barely the length of a thumb. He looked more like a mafioso than a cop. He didn't shake hands or introduce himself when they walked in but immediately walked over to the bookcases on the wal and began scanning the titles.

  Professor Locke fol owed the greasylooking detective with his eyes while he answered Detective Montgomery's questions.

  "So what made this kid any different from the rest of you?" the detective continued.

  "Joseph took it al very personal. Whenever you suggested that these people were just crazy or evil he became very defensive, even hostile. He had a theory that there was a virus that creates signature sex murderers."

  "And what did you think of that?"

  "It's ridiculous. But I didn't want to discourage the boy so I told him to continue researching it and if he could find proof of his theory I'd give him an A for the year."

  "Perhaps he was doing research when he kil ed that librarian?" Detective Volario asked, seeming to take interest in the conversation for the first time. The professor glared at him and shook his head in annoyance as if he were speaking to an ignorant and petulant child.

  "That's a rather extreme supposition. People don't kil to get good grades.

  They kil because of severe psychological problems."

  You mean he's crazy?"

  "Not legal y, no. At least, there's no way I could know that without testing him. But even if he's innocent, and please remember that he very wel may be, I stil wouldn't turn my back on him. He's got a lot of problems."

  "You act like we're planning on lynching him or something," Detective Volario said with a sneer. He was holding a large volume titled A Criminal History of Mankind. "You read al these books, Professor?"

  "No other reason to have them," Professor Locke replied.

  "I guess it's no wonder that you attracted one of these monsters to you then." The professor ignored him. "Do you have any other questions, Detectives?"

  "Just one more. Did you do any experiments to test out his theory, that he had some kind of serial kil er virus?"

  "No. If he had come to me with a more apodictic theory I would have given it more credibility, but what he was proposing was just plain ludicrous."

  "Apodictic? What does that mean? I dropped out of col ege, Professor. You're going to have to speak a little more simplistic for me."

  Professor Locke crossed his arms over his chest and smiled.

  "It means demonstrably true."

  "Yet he claimed to be the living proof of the theory?"

  "But at the time I didn't know he was talking about himself. I assumed it was just general speculation."

  Detective Montgomery stepped closer to the professor until his breath was in the man's face.

  "That's funny, Professor, because al the students we spoke to said it was quite clear that he was referring to himself when he spoke about this virus theory.

  Even you said he took it al very personal. So you didn't bother to do any research at al to see if maybe he was suffering from some curable il ness?

  You didn't bother to contact the police or even a psychiatrist or a virologist? I mean, you're a prominent criminologist, a psychologist, a former FBI profiler who's worked on dozens of cases. If you had cal ed us up and told us you had a student in your class that you suspected might be a kil er we would have taken it seriously."

  "But how the hel could I have known for sure?"

  "It was your job to know. That's how you made your living when you were with the FBI, right? Tel ing al us ignorant locals how to spot kil ers? Yet, you let one sit right in front of you every day without saying a peep to anyone and without trying to get him any help. You just let him get sicker and sicker until he eventual y murdered someone?"

  "You don't know that it was him."

  "But you do. Don't you? I can see it al over your face. You know it was him. You know you fucked up. And right now you're probably thinking of how this fuckup is going to affect your reputation and your career.

  Detective Volario stepped up beside his partner. "My partner's right. You fucked up big time. If I was you, I'd do everything I could to help us catch this guy and restore your reputation before this gets out. `Kil er Student of Noted FBI Profiler.'

  That's a headline you don't want."

  "I've got an apodictic theory, Professor. I believe this student of yours is going to kil a lot more people."

  Detective Volario picked up a book from the shelves. The title on the spine was the same as the title of the course,

  Abnormal Psychiatry: Serial Kil ers and Why They Do It.

  "Is this your book? It has your name on it. You wrote this, right?"

  "Yes, I wrote it."

  "Wow. I bet this is real y going to fuck up your sales."

  The professor opened his mouth to reply but nothin
g came out but a helpless squeak. The detectives scowled contemptuously and shook their heads in disgust before turning their backs on him and walking out the door, dropping their cards on his desk as they exited. The detectives had just left when the phone rang. Professor Locke didn't recognize the voice immediately.

  "Professor Locke?"

  "Yes, and who am I speaking to?"

  "It's true! My theory is true!"

  "Who is this, please?"

  "It's me, Joseph. Joseph Miles. Your student? Remember I had a theory that serial kil ers suffer from a transmittable disease like lycanthropy?"

  "Do you realize that you are the prime suspect in a murder, Joseph? The police are looking for you in connection with the death of the campus librarian. They found her body in an apartment building downtown after it burned to the ground. There are witnesses who say that you lived there. The cops have been al over campus interviewing students who say you were obsessed with vampirism and cannibalism. Apparently the victim was mutilated or disfigured in some way that further links her to you. Your picture has been in the newspaper. They're convinced that you did it."

  "I know, I know. But listen, I think we're real y onto something here!"

  "We? I want no part of this. I'm cal ing the police as soon as you hang up!"

  "You don't understand, Professor. I'm sick! I contracted this disease when I was a kid. I was kidnapped by a child kil er and I survived. Only, he passed his curse to me. Now I've passed it on to someone else!" His rambling sounded almost delighted.

  "What are you talking about, Joseph?

  Where are you? You need to turn yourself in."

  "I can't. Don't you see? If I'm right and the disease is transmittable then there's a cure and I think I've found it!"

  "Joseph, you are sick."

  "Professor, you have to listen to me. There's this girl that-1-bit-"

  "You bit someone! Oh my God, Joseph!"

  "Yeah, but I didn't kil her. Anyway, last night she took a bite of human flesh and loved it! She has the hunger now just like me! I passed on the virus. That proves my theory! Which means that al I have to do is track it back to the original host, the carrier, and I can put an end to it for good. I can cure us both and probably others that he's infected."

  "Listen, Joseph, the fact that your girlfriend took a bite out of someone and got off on it is not proof of a virus but only proof that you've passed your fantasy to someone else and probably screwed this girl's head up pretty badly. She identifies with you so she's sharing your delusion. It's a common occurrence in kil ers. Many of them work in pairs, from Leopold and Loeb to the Hil side

  Stranglers and even Bonnie and Clyde.

  There've been many cases of serial kil ers using their wives or girlfriends to lure prey. They feel helpless and trapped and so they begin to side with their abuser, to identify with them, even going so far as becoming their accomplices in future murders. It's a defense mechanism, nothing more. Gary

  Heidnick used a girl to lure other girls to his basement to be tortured, raped, and murdered. Without him she'd have never harmed anyone and once he was locked up she never hurt anyone again.

  Joseph? Joseph, are you stil there?" The solemn whine of the dial tone abraded his eardrums. He slowly lowered the phone back into its cradle, then picked it up again and dialed the

  Centers for Disease Control. He had some research to do.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  After spending nearly an hour in traffic trying to cross the Bay Bridge during rush hour, Detectives Montgomery and

  Volario pul ed up in front of the modest upper-middle-class home of Lionel and

  Virginia Miles, Joseph Miles's parents. The elder Miles had worked as a construction superintendent for one of the largest homebuilders in America for the last twenty-five years until his recent retirement, and his home had been built by the same company. It was two stories high with a dash stucco finish painted a solemn gray, with decorative stone around the doorway and on the courtyard wal s. An ornate iron gate hung at the entrance. The door was a sturdy handcarved oak that must have cost wel over two thousand dol ars, but he'd likely purchased it at a sizeable company discount.

  Detective Volario put on his most endearing smile and knocked on the front door. His warm, friendly smile hit a brick wal. Lionel Miles opened the door and stared down at him as if he were a particularly annoying parasite in need of a good swatting.

  It was readily apparent where Joseph

  Miles had acquired his height. His father towered over the two detectives. Even with his potbel y and graying hair he looked as if he could give the two of them more than they could handle. His arms were thick with muscles hardened by years of hard labor and his chest was broad. He looked like a professional wrestler or an old-time blacksmith. His face was like a piece of worn leather.

  "What the hel do you want?"

  "Sir, my name is Detective Volario and this is Detective Montgomery. We need to ask you a few questions about your son."

  A scowl creased his face. "Wel, I haven't heard from the boy since he went off to col ege." He began to close the door. Montgomery placed a hand on the door and held it open. The old man pushed against it but the detective held it firm.

  "We stil need to talk with you. It'l only take a moment. Do you mind if we come in?" Montgomery stuck a foot in the doorway but the old man moved to block him from entering.

  The large black detective and the even larger old man stared eye to eye for a long, tense moment. The air bristled with hostility. Lionel Miles had to have been in his midfifties but he was no less formidable for his years. Veins stood out in his neck and forearms as his body tensed. His eyes bore down on the detective, sizing him up, then suddenly the old man wilted. He turned and stalked back into the house, leaving the front door open.

  "So, what do you want to know about my boy?"

  The detectives looked at each other and let out a deep sigh of relief. For a moment there they were sure they were going to wind up going toe-to-toe with the big guy, and they weren't exactly confident how such a battle would have turned out.

  "Your son may be a material witness in a murder and we need to locate him." The old man's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You mean he's a suspect, don't you?"

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Why else would two detectives show up on my doorstep wil ing to take me down to find out if the kid is hiding in here or something?"

  "We weren't going to-"

  "Save it. We both know you were."

  "Al right, so is the kid here?"

  "I told you before. I haven't heard from him since he left for col ege. We ain't real close."

  "Then you won't mind if we search the house?" Volario asked, turning to look around the room.

  The living room was sparsely furnished but clean. There was a fifty-two-inch flatscreen TV tucked into a built-in wal unit, along with a surround-sound stereo system and DVD player. Across from that was a leather couch and a plush leather recliner. There were few pictures in the room. No family portraits. Not a single picture of their son. Not so much as a wedding photo. Knives adorned the wal s, though. A samurai sword, a British saber, a Scottish broadsword, an Indian Ghurka. Montgomery took it al in without a word.

  "Now if you want to search the place, you'd better get a warrant. Either that or you're going to have to knock me down."

  "Relax, big fel a. Just a few more questions and we re on our way.

  "You've got my attention. So go ahead and ask."

  "You don't seem very surprised that we're here. Any reason you think your son might be involved in something like this?"

  "Something like what? You haven't told me what you think he's done yet."

  "We found a librarian from his school murdered. Mutilated and sexual y assaulted. He was the last person seen with her before she disappeared."

  The detectives were shocked by the expression that burst onto the old man's face. His chest swel ed up and it was obvious that he was struggling to suppress a
smile. At first Montgomery was perplexed. Then he realized what he was seeing on the man's face. It was pride.

  "No, Officers. There's no reason I would think my boy would be capable of something like that. Joe's soft. He used to wet the bed when he was a kid. He ain't no kil er. Don't let al those muscles fool you. His momma spoiled that kid rotten. I'm surprised he ain't turn out to be one of them faggots you see run-nin' al over town, kissin' and holdin' hands. Now if you excuse me, the missus'l be home from the market anytime now and she's not real fond of visitors."

  "Wel, thanks for your cooperation," Volario replied with a look of disappointment.

  The detectives walked out of the house and were not surprised when the door slammed shut behind them.

  "Man, that guy was creepy as hel. Maybe we should be looking at him for this? Did you see al the knives and shit on his wal s?" Volario's eyes were wide and he was breathing hard. His hands shook as he raised a cigarette to his lips and groped in his pockets for his lighter. He looked as if he'd just been in a gunfight.

  "If Joseph Miles is our guy, then I can certainly see where he got it from," Montgomery added, looking over his shoulder.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  The Tacoma skyline fil ed the windshield as Joe rol ed into town with Alicia curled up in the front seat, looking wel fed and content just as the first nine-to-fivers were beginning to scramble from the nest to catch the early worm. Joe stopped the van at a gas station and ran in to get directions to the psychiatric hospital.

  "You visiting someone or checking in?" asked the long-haired, flannel-shirted, grunge-rock reject who worked the cash register. He had beautiful greenish blue eyes like seawater. Joe wondered how those vibrant orbs would taste and those vibrant orbs would taste and imagined sucking them out of his skul like boiled oysters. The boy waited for a response to his little witticism and seemed to grow nervous when Joe merely continued to stare into his eyes.

  "Uh, okay, yeah. The hospital's down past the airport heading toward the center of town. You can't miss it." Joe smiled, turned, and walked back out to his van.