by Ward Parker
Fred Affird spoke to the medical examiner, a portly man who was sweating already in the morning warmth. Affird knelt beside the body and looked it over briefly. He scowled when he stood and walked over to the officers.
“Detective,” Matt said, “has the mayor been notified?”
As usual, Affird ignored him.
Matt rattled off questions about the “vampire killer.” And, as usual, when Affird did finally look at him through his mirror shades, he only smiled without answering anything.
“I thought we had a good relationship, detective.”
“It would be much better if you’d just leave me alone and wait for the press release from the department,” Affird said.
“But what about transparency and accountability?” Matt said, without hiding his sarcasm.
“I’m accountable to the chief, that’s it. And I’m certainly not accountable to reporters.”
At least he talked to me this time, Matt thought.
After Bernie got home, he turned on the TV to the morning news as he ate a bowl of cereal in his dingy studio apartment. He shoveled the generic-brand sugared flakes into his mouth at his small table, inches from the twenty-four-inch monitor. Below the closed curtains, the window-unit air conditioner chugged desperately. The news anchors gushed breathlessly.
It turned out it was the mayor’s daughter who had been found murdered on the beach. She looked young and hot in the photo they showed. Bernie wondered what she had been doing on the beach at night.
After he tossed the empty bowl into the sink, he fired up his clunky computer and went to the Jellyfish Beach Journal website. An article about the murder had just been posted. It was straightforward and laid out the same basic facts he had heard on TV. But it already had a few reader comments attached below it. One of them wondered if the body had neck punctures and if it had been drained of blood.
Most people would laugh at such speculation. Not those who worked at Squid Tower.
He replayed in his mind the night’s migration of residents’ cars in and out of the tower’s parking garage and rolling past his guardhouse, wondering if any of the occupants had been responsible. None of the residents looked like savage killers. They looked like his grandparents, except their complexions were whiter and their eyes tended to glow red. He couldn’t imagine them dining on anything other than raccoons, rabbits, possums, and stray pets. Maybe, just maybe, on the occasional homeless person. And there were just as many residents who didn’t hunt at all and relied instead on the nightly visits of the Blood Bus. He realized he had begun to feel protective of these people whose gate he guarded.
But he remembered Schwartz exiting the gate, pausing to fix a hate-filled glare upon him. Bernie had to do something to improve their relationship. Before Schwartz gave in to his instincts and killed him.
Had Schwartz returned to the property in time to kill the woman?
5
Not in My Backyard
Missy was feeding her two gray tabbies, Brenda and Bubba, when her doorbell rang.
It was Affird. He had tracked down where she lived.
“Sorry to bother you, Ms. Mindle. I needed to ask you a few more questions.”
She didn’t like the feeling of being investigated when she had done nothing wrong. She didn’t like the man, either. He was tall and lanky with thick, black hair going gray, a hollow, pockmarked face, and he was wearing sunglasses despite the fact it was dark out. His khaki trousers and navy-blue polo shirt with the department logo hung loosely from his bony frame. The shirt was tucked in, making his holster quite conspicuous jutting out from his hip.
“I’m rather busy right now.”
“No problem, I respect your time.” He had inserted himself into the doorway so she couldn’t close the door without pushing him out of the way, made more difficult by the fact Florida hurricane codes require exterior doors to open outwards. “This won’t take long.”
Missy sighed. “Go on.”
“Another person was murdered last night, on the beach in front of Squid Tower.”
“Oh no, that’s horrible.”
“I need you to try again to remember if you’ve seen any strange behavior by the residents.”
“No, I haven’t. The people who live here are old retirees. Why would you suspect one of them?”
“I’m not saying I do. I want to rule it out, though. And it’s too much of a coincidence that there have been so many incidences at or near the property.”
“Near? How near?”
“Easy walking distance,” he said.
“Well, there are several other buildings within ‘easy walking distance,’ including a convenience store and an ice cream shop. And why would a murderer kill people right in his backyard?”
“It happens all the time. Murderers are impulsive. Especially serial killers. Very few of them make careful plans beforehand.”
“Have you checked out the other buildings in the area?” Missy asked.
“I have, including the retail property. Right now I’m talking to you about Squid Tower. Why is the place so deserted during the daytime?”
“The seniors don’t like being out when it’s hot.”
He frowned. “That doesn’t seem to be the case with seniors in the neighboring buildings. Even in cooler weather, I’ve seen Squid Tower residents outside only at night. Why is that?”
“They’re avoiding melanoma? You’d have to ask them. I don’t know their habits. I just give them health screenings.”
“I sense antagonism in your tone,” he said.
“Detective, I’ll let you know the instant there’s anything suspicious,” she said, signaling she wanted to close the door. “May I get back now to my to-do list?”
“Of course. Thank you for your time.” He smiled without the least trace of sincerity and backed out of the doorway.
She peeked out the window and watched him get in an unmarked SUV and drive away. Then she checked the local news app on her phone and learned the mayor’s daughter was found murdered on the beach. The story didn’t mention Squid Tower, but Affird said that was where the most recent victim was found. She suddenly had a stress headache.
She wondered if someone at Squid Tower truly was the murderer. If so, maybe she should reconsider her job. She doubted that was the case. But even if they were innocent, the residents—her patients—were at grave risk of being revealed as vampires with Affird snooping into their lives. It meant, at the very least, they would have to abandon their condos and flee to other cities. At worst, it meant they might be murdered by law enforcement or vigilantes.
How could she help them? Should she try to find the real killer? The idea seemed ridiculous. She was a nurse, not a sleuth. She didn’t have the knowledge or the personality to hunt down a murderer. Besides, the police were already working on it. Once the police found the actual culprit, the residents of Squid Tower would be safe.
Her rationalization didn’t make her headache go away.
“All in favor?”
All seven men and women seated at the folded table raised their hands and responded in the affirmative. All were vampires. At one point, both humans and vampires shared residency at Squid Tower. Somehow, the vampires kept their secret through it all until the human population aged out or passed away, but the vampires took over the homeowners association board long before that. Missy was the only human in the room tonight.
“The special assessment for crypt cleaning passes,” board president Agnes, a tiny, wizened bleach-blonde at the center of the table said in a raspy accent that was vaguely European but impossible to place. “Now on to open discussion. Does anyone have any matters to bring before the board?”
Schwartz, sitting at the table with the board, raised his hand.
“I do. The gate guard on weeknights—I want to get him fired.”
“Is he a vampire?” a male board member asked.
“Nope,” Schwartz said. “But more important, he’s a major idiot. An incompetent loser.”<
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“Perhaps you are unaware,” said the raspy-voiced president, “but it’s almost impossible to hire a vampire for that position. No vampire young enough to hold the job would want to spend his or her waking hours sitting in a tiny booth unable to go out and hunt. What able-bodied vampire would want to just sit around for hours on end reacting to others and not instigating action?”
Murmurs of agreement spread through the room.
“Does he know about us?” the male board member asked.
“According to Rudy at the security company, he doesn’t,” Agnes said. “So his being an idiot is actually in our favor.”
“I don’t care,” Schwartz said. “He left a big oil stain on my parking spot.”
“It’s not your spot,” another board member said. “It’s a handicapped spot and you just took it as your own.”
“I happen to have mobility issues,” Schwartz said.
“You don’t on the pickleball court.”
“Leo, if you park there you’d better have a handicapped permit,” Agnes said. “Let’s move on. Any other issues?”
“Is the association going to pay to clean the oil stain?”
“Next topic,” Agnes said in a tone that shut Schwartz up.
Missy stood from her folding chair at the back of the sparse audience.
“I would like to alert the board about a potential legal issue,” she said.
“Go ahead,” the bleach-blonde president croaked.
“A police detective has been poking around here. He said people have gone missing or been found murdered on the beach nearby. In fact, someone was found just this morning.”
“I heard about that,” Agnes said.
“The detective seems to believe a resident here is responsible.”
An awkward silence as people exchanged worried and quizzical glances.
“Just a heads-up,” Missy said.
“I wish to remind everyone the condominium bylaws expressly forbid hunting or killing on or near the property. Discretion is demanded of everyone,” the president said. “We have a nice existence here at Squid Tower. Let’s not mess it up and expose us all by acting selfishly. Please spread the word to your neighbors.”
“What if none of us is responsible?” Schwartz asked. “We’re not the only predators in the food chain. What about the werewolves next door?”
“Doesn’t matter,” the president snapped at him. “We still have to behave responsibly and avoid attention.”
She motioned for adjournment and the board agreed. They and the audience began to disperse, to enjoy the remaining hours before dawn. Some went to change for the water aerobics class or to soak up some moonlight on the beach. The hardcore canasta players headed for the card room. And a large contingent flocked to the pickleball courts.
But a few stragglers lingered in whispered conversations. The numbers dwindled until two groups remained: Schwartz and two other men, and, on the other end of the board table, Agnes and three women. Both groups whispered and gesticulated passionately, although, as vampires, they could probably hear what the other group was whispering. Missy felt hostility and mutual distrust simmering in the air between the two groups.
Politics, she thought. Who needs that crap? At least she warned them about Affird. It was all she could do.
When Missy got home, she made a pot of tea and fed Brenda and Bubba. Turning on the local morning news, it was quickly apparent the big story still was the murder of the mayor’s daughter. They abruptly cut to live coverage of a news conference.
It was a fairly typical affair. But since Jellyfish Beach was such a small municipality, it didn’t have a fancy, high-tech media center to serve as a backdrop. Instead, the authorities had to use the space where they held city commission meetings, namely the high-school auditorium. This venue happened to have its stage occupied at the moment by the set for the Wizard of Oz production the student theater club was currently performing.
So chief-of-police Rick Tooey, Detective Fred Affird, and the grieving Mayor Janet Donovan, dressed in black, gave their briefing loomed over by a giant rainbow and a two-dimensional Munchkinland behind them.
Chief Tooey droned on about how the murderer was a cancer on the reputation of our city, so beloved by tourists and retirees alike. How the killer must be stopped. How evidence suggests other murders might be the work of the same culprit. How the department has some promising leads that cannot be revealed to the public at this time. How a person of interest has been interrogated by police. How the crime hitting our very own mayor’s family did not add any urgency other than the same diligence any other grieving family would receive. And how the mayor will continue with her duties but did not wish to speak at this press conference.
Then the questions began.
Reporters from the local NBC and CBS affiliates asked perfunctory questions and received evasive answers from the chief. Missy paid little attention while she poured her first cup of Earl Grey and the cats brushed against her legs. Then she heard a voice that wasn’t distinctive, but had a pleasant vibe making her glance at the television. It was a bookish man with a beard who identified himself as Matt Rosen from the Jellyfish Beach Journal.
“Was a weapon ever found?” he asked.
“No,” the chief replied. “The wounds indicate it was an icepick-like instrument.”
“Can you comment on the fact that the corpse was drained of blood?” Matt asked quickly, before another reporter could get in a question.
“It’s common for victims with wounds to their arteries to exsanguinate,” the chief said.
“Yes, to bleed out,” Matt said. “But I meant drained. As in the blood was purposefully removed from the body. It’s my understanding there was very little blood found at the scene, certainly not the amount an adult body holds. Where would the blood have gone?”
Buzzing of conversation broke out in the room off-camera.
The chief appeared to find his uniform too tight in the collar. “I don’t know where you got your information. We have no such evidence.”
“Can you comment on the fact that other victims have also had similar wounds and had been drained of blood?” Matt asked. “Do you believe this was a ritual killing? Or that it was committed by a vampire-like individual, or someone pretending to be a vampire?”
Someone laughed very loudly and the crowd buzzed. The chief, red-faced, spoke into the microphone, “I’m only taking serious questions. If there aren’t any, then we’re wrapping up.”
There were more questions about the person of interest and about other victims. But it was clear by their reactions the “serious” reporters found Matt’s inquiries to be a joke.
The problem was, the word “vampire” was out there now. And it truly looked as if a vampire or vampires were responsible for the killings.
This is really bad, Missy thought. Her patients at Squid Tower were especially vulnerable now. Even if the public didn’t believe in vampires, the police and reporters were on the lookout for a killer behaving like a vampire while committing murders near Squid Tower. Its residents were in great danger of being revealed. And their very existence was in peril.
6
The Old, the Ill, the Undead
You don’t belong.
George Plankton’s words drifted into Missy’s mind while she drove to Squid Tower for patient visits. And the words still hurt, more now than when she had first heard them. True, she wasn’t a vampire and no intention of becoming one. But she felt like she was part of the communities of Squid Tower and Seaweed Manor, the werewolf enclave next door. Her life revolved around learning the vampires’ and werewolves’ special needs and idiosyncrasies while trying to keep them healthy. Not to mention preserving their secrecy from the normal, outside world.
Plus, she was sort of a freak herself. There were powers inside of her she didn’t understand. She considered herself a witch, but more of a hobbyist than a supernatural creature. She dabbled in Wicca and in her own brand of Florida Cracker magick
, though she sensed she had access to powerful energies residing in the earth and, even, deep inside of herself.
She was friends with Luisa, the owner of a botánica where Missy worked part-time, who knew quite a bit about magic—though Luisa insisted she herself wasn’t a bruja, or, witch. She had been encouraging Missy to learn more about witchcraft and to seek out other practicing witches, though Missy didn’t know any and had no idea how to join a community of them.
Missy’s previous job as a nurse had made her part of a tight-knit community at her hospital, particularly her coworkers in the Intensive Care Unit. She loved working and hanging out with them. But each year in the ICU took a toll on her. The extreme emotional ups and downs—the stress, the heartaches, the impact of the patients she lost as well as those she helped save—began to turn her empathy into a hardened shell.
Caring too much would break her. But caring less would be a betrayal to all she believed and worked for. It became time to move on.
She had been divorced for years and had no children. Her overnight work schedule put a damper on any social life she might have had. Her birth parents had died when she was too young to remember them and her adoptive parents had moved to the northern part of the state when they retired. Her father lost his long battle with cancer and she only saw her mother during holidays. She had an eccentric aunt in Florida whom she tended to avoid. That was it when it came to family.
She was pretty much alone, except for her two cats. The communities of “freaks” she cared for was all she had.
The independence of a home-health nurse had sounded appealing. She found out about an opening for a nurse on the overnight shift. She had worked this shift in the ICU for years, so her body clock was used to it. But she was very surprised a home-health service would need staff to work overnight, aside from the live-in aides.