Bite Club

by Hal Bodner

  “What about a sportsman’s knife? You know, something specialized for hunting or fishing? They manufacture all sorts of things.” Clive looked up in time to see Becky chomping into one of the donuts. “Try not to get sugar all over the carpet,” he admonished mildly, knowing it was hopeless.

  “Sorry,” Becky replied, and promptly bit down into the donut again, predictably spraying sugar and crumbs everywhere.

  “No traces of oil in the wound,” she mumbled, chewing lustily. “Those babies need to be oiled to prevent rust.”

  “So where are we?” he asked.

  “That’s the million dollar question, ain’t it?” said Becky flippantly around another mouthful of donut.

  “This is not funny,” said Clive sternly.

  Becky swallowed and became serious. “I know,” she said gently, “Serial killers never are. But it looks like that’s what we’ve got. One more and I’ll be sure.”

  “Now, I hope you’re being funny.”

  “I’m not,” she replied. “No matter what we do we’re not gonna catch this guy until enough bodies start to pile up and he gets cocky and makes a mistake.”

  “Believe me. I know,” he moaned. The trickles of sweat had just turned into a river.

  “I got a scarier thought,” Becky said.

  “What’s that?”

  “How long are we going to be able to keep this quiet?”

  “I have no idea,” he said. “But for now, not a word to anyone. Not to the mayor, not to the city manager – God forbid! Not the city council and especially not the press. No one. Got that?”

  Becky mimed zipping her lips shut, leaving a smear of cherry candy in the powdered sugar remaining on her face that, to Clive, looked alarmingly like blood.

  That afternoon, back at her office, Becky wracked her brains trying to recall where she’d heard about a similar series of murders. It had been while she was living in Philadelphia. But it wasn’t anything with which she’d been directly involved. That, she would have remembered instantly.

  Wait a minute, she thought. Dimly, a mental image was coming to her. She’d read something that seemed familiar; she could almost see the page in her mind’s eye. Something about blood. Something that happened in another country. Where the hell had she been when she read it? It was sometime during medical school—she knew that. But somehow she didn’t think it was anything she’d read for a class. She’d always been able to remember the contents of her textbooks with uncanny accuracy. No, this was from something else entirely.

  She couldn’t remember. But she knew someone who would. Momentarily forgetting Clive’s demand for secrecy, she picked up the telephone and, dialing from memory, called a number in Philadelphia.

  The phone rang three times and she heard the machine pick up, the familiar recorded voice coming onto the line.

  “Chris? It’s me, Becky. God, how come you’re never home when I call? Anyway, I’ve got a problem out here. Do you remember something from school about a serial killer? It might have been from that abnormal psych course we audited together. I think it was in Europe—the killer, not the course. Something about some psycho draining his victims’ blood.”

  She paused for a gulp of pineapple soda, and the act of lifting the bottle to her lips caused her mind to make the first connection. “Drinking!” she exclaimed. “The son of a bitch drank it! Boy,” she continued happily, momentarily forgetting that she was still speaking into the telephone, “sometimes I amaze myself.”

  There was a polite knock on her office door, and after a second Ty walked in bearing a large steaming coffee mug full of something that caused Becky’s nose to twitch with pleasure.

  “Swiss mocha,” he whispered, his almond eyes crinkling with good humor as he gently placed the mug next to Becky’s elbow. “Sugar-free.”

  “You’re a love,” she told him and, eyes closed with pleasurable anticipation. She took her first sip. Her tingling taste buds caused the memory of a luscious Austrian Bittersweet Chocolate Torte she’d once had to come into her mind. She froze, blinking, as she made the final connection.

  “Germany!” she exclaimed, startling Ty with her outburst. “Of course! Your book! That Dusseldorf guy!” She caught herself, waved Ty’s questioning look aside and spoke into the receiver again.

  “Never mind, I got it. Call me tonight. I’ll be in.” She hung up and grabbed Ty by the arm.

  “Tell Sara to mind the phones. Let’s go!” She rushed toward the door.

  “Where to?” Ty asked. Although he was used to Becky’s rather eccentric way of running the morgue, such a burst of hurried physical activity on the part of his boss was unusual.

  “Next door,” Becky told him. “To the library.”

  “What for?”

  “The Dusseldorf Vampire,” she said, impatiently. “My copy is at home.”

  “The what?” Ty paled, slightly. He glanced nervously over his shoulder in the direction of the autopsy room.

  “Oh, for cryin’ out loud,” Becky said. “Aren’t you shaming your samurai ancestors, or something, being such a wimp? The guy’s been dead for fifty years.”

  Ty crossed his arms, hiding his hands in the sleeves of his lab coat. Bowing deeply from the waist and affecting a burlesque Chinese accent, he intoned, “Honorable ancestors not warriors. Honorable ancestors hide in cellars. Wait for war to pass. Honorable ancestors make sure they stay alive so humble assistant can be here today.”

  Becky couldn’t help grinning. “C’mon. I’ll buy you lunch at Chef Ming’s after we’re through.”

  A look of mock outrage crossed Ty’s face. “Offering Chinese food to a Japanese-American is politically incorrect,” he told her.

  “Sorry.”

  Once again, Ty bowed. “Humble assistant will be taken to nice restaurant. American restaurant.”

  “Oh god,” Becky moaned, “Not I.H.O.P again!” She paused and reconsidered. “On the other hand, their chocolate chip pancakes...” Her voice trailed off as a look of bliss washed across her face. Ty had to call her name twice before she snapped back to attention and pulled him out of the office and down the hall.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Christopher Driscoll stood in the living room of his partially refurbished Philadelphia townhouse, staring at the answering machine. Chris was a rather handsome, although nondescript looking, young man of about medium height, looking to be in his late twenties. His only really distinguishing feature was a head of thick, rich, chestnut-brown hair that he wore slightly longer than the current fashion and that sometimes, when he was in one of his more nostalgic moods, he gathered together in a small pigtail tied by a short black ribbon.

  Chris was attractive enough so that people didn’t totally ignore him but not nearly so arresting that he’d stand out in a crowd. For the most part, that suited Chris fine; he didn’t particularly care to draw attention to himself. Of course, whenever he was with Troy, heads would swivel, but that was something to which he’d long ago resigned himself.

  Troy thought him the very incarnation of the god Apollo, but Chris had never understood why. His body was well muscled and toned, his shoulders broad and his waist, thankfully, perpetually slim—he had the body of a natural athlete. Fortunately, as he’d often told himself, his ancestors had passed him some very good genes.

  Over the years, he’d carefully developed the ability to be present in a room full of people, almost unnoticed, quietly watching. As strange as he could sometimes be, the only outward sign of his oddity was this unusual trait of seeming to be always slightly distracted, mind miles off somewhere, no matter how intently he might be concentrating on something close at hand.

  At the moment, Chris was standing almost motionless, features marred by a frown of concern as he tapped the replay button and rewound the tape to listen to Becky’s message once again. His hair, which normally glistened with a healthy shine, was dull and lifeless, probably due to the large amount of pale blue paint covering both it and a large portion of his forehead and cheeks.
The only sound accompanying Becky’s disembodied voice was the occasional plop of paint as it dripped from the brush, forgotten in his left hand, onto the polished hardwood of the living room floor.

  Chris’s gaze was firmly fixed somewhere in the distance, his lips pursed tightly together. The few people who knew him well would have instantly realized there was something about what he was hearing that he didn’t like. No, he didn’t like it at all. Even though he’d known Becky for almost two decades and she was one of the few living people who he could honestly call a friend, she was beginning to make mental connections that could become rather uncomfortable.

  He recalled the first time he’d seen her. At regularly occurring periods of his life, more and more frequently as he grew older, Chris became bored. After moping about lethargically for a while, he would seize upon some new project and throw himself wholeheartedly into it until he’d inevitably reach another plateau of ennui and abandon his latest fad in favor of something that might prove more interesting. The current refurbishment obsession was a prime example—its only unusual distinguishing feature being that it had lasted almost three years; normally his projects rarely broke the two-month mark. The last time he’d stayed with anything for so long was when, almost twenty years ago, he’d decided to enter medical school. That one had lasted slightly longer than two years.

  He recalled with a smile the first evening of his second-year histology class. The class was already under way; the ancient professor had been droning on for fifteen minutes, establishing the rules and regulations to which he demanded his pupils adhere, one of which concerned the instructor’s intense dislike of tardiness.

  The professor, one Dr. Gruenfeld, had then proceeded to randomly grill his new students on the information contained in the first two chapters of the textbook. Since it was the first day of class, no one had bothered to take seriously the posted roster sheets requiring that the material be read in advance. Gruenfeld seemed to take great delight in forcing one after another terrified student to rise to his feet to be shamed by his ignorance as Gruenfeld fired question after question, unwilling to settle for an “I don’t know” or an “I’m sorry. I didn’t read it.”

  Gruenfeld had just completed the evisceration of the fourth or fifth embarrassed student, reducing the poor girl to tears when the double doors at the rear of the lecture hall slammed open and a heavyset young woman with frizzy brown hair waddled in, both arms laden with books, a roomy leather purse slung over one shoulder and a large cinnamon bun clenched between her teeth. Silence descended over the assembled class as the woman bumped into people while murmuring repeated apologies around her mouthful of pastry, forced her way down a row of seats past several students, and plopped heavily into the empty seat next to Chris.

  She dropped the books on the table in front of her, thunked the purse on the floor with a sigh of relief, and took a huge bite of the cinnamon bun, before depositing it next to her books where a puddle of partially melted caramel, spice and nuts began to form on the table. She pulled a notebook from her bag, took out a pen, and, oblivious to the many pairs of eyes focused in her direction, looked up expectantly and waited for the lecture to proceed.

  “You! Miss...?” called Gruenfeld from the front of the room.

  The young woman looked around, making sure she was the one being addressed. “Me?”

  “Yes, you,” said Gruenfeld testily. “Do you have a name?”

  The young woman looked uncomfortable, but only slightly so. Chris felt bad for her, anticipating the verbal bludgeoning she was about to receive, and smiled reassuringly, hoping to give her encouragement. She returned the smile with a dazzling one of her own.

  “Uh, Rebecca O’Brien,” she said, partially to Chris and partially to the professor. “But everyone calls me Becky.”

  “Very well, Miss O’Brien. I assume, since you saw fit to attend my class late…”

  “Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” Becky interrupted, not seeming all that sorry at all. “I stopped to get something to eat. Not that I really need it,” she said, patting her middle. The class giggled nervously and Gruenfeld turned beet red with anger. The young woman, in turn, grabbed the cinnamon bun and took another bite.

  “In my class, Ms. O’Brien,” he began with undisguised venom, “We arrive on time, we do not eat during lectures, we do not interrupt, and we rise to our feet when addressing the instructor! Is that clear?”

  “Oh, I suppose so,” sighed Becky. She reached down to the floor and rummaged about in her gigantic purse and finally removing a handful of tattered paper napkins. Thrusting the napkins and the partially eaten snack at Chris, who took them from her in surprise, she said, “Do me a favor and wrap this?” Then, she hauled herself to her feet and stood waiting.

  “As I was saying Miss O’Brien, since you found it unnecessary to arrive at my class on time, I assume that you find no need for explanation or discussion of the material contained in the first two chapters of the text.”

  Becky nodded. “That’s right,” she replied innocently.

  Gruenfeld’s jaw dropped at what he assumed was her arrogance. He recovered quickly and with a look of self-contentment, he began to grill her mercilessly on obscure points contained in the reading material. With growing astonishment, Chris, Gruenfeld and the rest of the class listened as Becky O’Brien effortlessly answered every one of the professor’s queries.

  Despite Gruenfeld’s rising frustration at being thwarted in his attempts to embarrass the young woman, Becky’s responses were always polite; she seemed to be oblivious to the waves of anger emanating from the podium. Chris was amazed; O’Brien managed to avoid appearing obnoxious or as if she were showing off. Instead, like a small child, each answer was delivered in a tone suggesting she was eager to please, to gain the professor’s approval.

  Her answers were phrased in such a guileless, offhand manner that Gruenfeld became even more determined to best her. At one point, after a particularly difficult query, Becky prefaced her answer with, “I thought you said the first two chapters, sir? I think that’s in chapter five.” She then proceeded to give him the information he wanted. Gruenfeld looked ready to explode.

  After each answer, Chris noticed, Becky would turn her head slightly and give Chris a repeat view of her charming smile. He found himself unable not to return it with one of his own. Gruenfeld noticed too and, desperate to regain face with his class, he commented nastily, “Ms. O’Brien? Are we attending medical school to develop a career in medicine? Or are we actively seeking a husband by flirting with the young man seated next to you?”

  For the first time, Becky seemed lost for words. An awkward silence descended over the class as the girl’s face reddened.

  Chris had had enough. In his lifetime he’d seen more than his share of bullies. He had an intense dislike for those in positions of power who were given to the abuse of others. His initial sympathy for Becky O’Brien had quickly changed during the interrogation to an admiration of the young lady. He’d refrained from intervening earlier because she seemed to be holding her own against the onslaught. However, now Gruenfeld was attacking her personally, which Chris found to be ill-mannered and without cause. He stood.

  “Excuse me, Doctor Gruenfeld,” he began.

  Gruenfeld stopped, taken aback that a student should be so bold as to speak without first being recognized.

  “I just felt I had to compliment Miss O’Brien on her obvious understanding of the material.” Becky blushed even more deeply. “I’d also like to add, so there is no doubt as to the reason for Ms. O’Brien’s presence in medical school, that I am a homosexual and have no interest in marrying anyone other than my current husband.”

  The color drained from Gruenfeld’s face.

  “I apologize for responding to your question by divulging such personal information about myself,” Chris continued. “But since your attack on Ms. O’Brien had moved off the subject of histology and onto a personal level, I thought it appropriate.”

  Chris
gently put a hand onto Becky’s shoulder and gently pushed her back into her seat while resuming his own.

  “I believe Ms. O’Brien has answered enough questions for one day, don’t you?” he added casually.

  Gruenfeld looked at Chris in a way designed to be intimidating, but Chris refused to be cowed. Meeting Gruenfeld’s look with a steely gaze of his own, he suggested mildly, “Perhaps we’ve all answered enough questions for today?”

  To the astonishment of the rest of the class, Gruenfeld, with a vacant expression, simply turned and walked out of the lecture hall. The other students looked at each other in confusion for a moment, not knowing whether to stay or go. Chris made the decision for them.

  He stood up and, excusing himself, reached across Becky’s area of the table and gathered up her books. Taking up his own possessions, he moved to the end of the row. He turned back to look at her.

  “Are you coming?” he asked.

  “Where?” she asked in confusion.

  “To the registrar’s office. We’re dropping the class.”

  “But...” she began.

  “You mean you want to stay here and listen to that pompous windbag for the next four months? Don’t forget your...ah...thing,” he added as Becky scurried to gather the rest of her belongings, snatching up the wrapped cinnamon bun at his reminder.

  “But you can’t just drop a course in med school,” Becky had protested, waddling as fast as she could after Chris, who was striding up the center aisle of the lecture hall toward the door. “They’ll flunk you for the year!”

  Chris frowned in thought, looking boyishly attractive, as Becky much later admitted to him in a moment of candor. “I suppose,” he’d begun, “Dropping medical school altogether is out of the question?”

  She nodded in enthusiastic agreement.

  “I didn’t mean for you.” Chris smiled his odd little closed-mouth smile. “You seem to be well on your way to becoming the next Surgeon General.”