Kiss of Death (13 page)

“We'd like the names of everyone in After Dark,” Sloan says. “Including the donors.”

“Do you have a warrant, Detective? I do have the privacy of my family to consider.”

“I assumed an upstanding citizen like yourself would want to help the law.” Sloan pulls off that perfect balance between friendliness and authority.

“Yes, of course. But you still haven't told me exactly what all this is about. A murder, I believe?”

“Yes. Your butler told you that?”

“Correct. And I believe you were at Walter Riley and Larry Davidson's apartment.”

“News travels fast.” Sloan's voice is tight.

“Well, the victim is not from my house. So perhaps you think one of us is the killer?”

“What makes you think the victim isn't a member of After Dark?” Sloan asks. It's been less than twenty-four hours since the body was discovered and Ward isn't next of kin…

“I would have felt it, Detective. I am connected to all from my house and would know if one of them had been harmed.”

“Like a disturbance in The Force?” Carey asks, his voice even.

The analogy, the joke, is met with silence.

Eventually Ward says, “I know all my members are alive and well. Which brings me back to my question—you think one of us is the killer?” He leaves the question unanswered and continues. “So there must be some evidence of vampirism on the body or at the crime scene.”

“That's police business, Mr. Ward,” Carey replies.

A pause, then: “Quite. Well, I can assure you it's no one from my house. Our donors must be willing and I do not condone violence or force of any kind.”

“I'm afraid we'll need more than your
word,
Mr. Ward,” Sloan says.

“No one in my house would dare disobey my rules. I am a kind and generous master. They do not want to be out of my favor.”

“That may be the case, Mr. Ward, but this is a murder investigation and we will be talking to all of your members.” Sloan's voice is polite but firm. “You can help us, or you can make this less pleasant for all your members we question.”

I hear his coffee cup being put down on the table again. “Of course I will help the police. I am hosting a party here tonight. I will arrange for my members to come early, so you can talk to them.”

“All members?” Sloan confirms.

“Yes. When I call, they come.”

I pause the recording. “I don't think he's using the word
call
in reference to phoning his members. It's more like a master calling for his dog.” I stare out the window at the stream of traffic stop-starting in the opposite direction. “And perhaps that's just how he sees his members—as
beasts he has trained to obey him.” The professional, rational me has enough perspective to see the dynamics, but I can also understand why they come. Most people would jump at any opportunity to be close to Ward. I chew on my bottom lip.

“You're spot-on, Anderson.” Carey turns around to see me properly. “It wasn't that he was being derogatory to his members, as such, but it was all just so…matter-of-fact.”

I nod and press Play again.

Sloan speaks next. “Thank you, Mr. Ward. That would be most helpful.”

“Do you know the identity of the murder victim?”

“Yes. Sherry Taylor. Does the name ring a bell?”

“No.”

I hear a slight rustle of paper. Sloan must be showing him Sherry's photo. “This is her.”

It's a few seconds before Ward speaks. “She is…was…beautiful. But I've never seen her before.”

“She's definitely not one of After Dark's donors?” Sloan asks.

“So she was bitten.” It's not a question; it's a statement and his voice is smug, as though he's uncovered a vital piece of information that we were keeping from him.

“Correct, Mr. Ward,” Carey says. “But we are keeping that detail from the press. So if you don't mind, please keep it between us.”

“Of course. Anything I can do to help. Does eight-thirty this evening suit you? I know it's out-of-office hours, but, like I said, we are creatures of the night.”

“That'll be fine,” Sloan says. “How do you recruit your members, Mr. Ward?”

“Usually referral…word of mouth. We are a small community, even though L.A. is such a large city.”

“And is there a membership fee?”

“A very small administrative fee. But as you can see, Detective Sloan, I do not need money. I am self-made.”

Sloan looks back at me and I pause the tape.

“Gosh, I had to bite my tongue on that one. Self-made?” Her left eyebrow arches high above her eye. “Made by Daddy, more like.”

I manage a laugh even though I find myself wanting to jump to Ward's defense. Part of me is somehow captured in his spell. I bite my lip again and press Play.

“And what if one of your members wanted to leave?” Carey broaches one of the few questions I'd briefed them to ask. In the classic cult framework, vulnerable individuals are recruited and the leader makes it almost impossible for them to leave. Either physically or financially. And according to Cheryl from Malediction Society, not many have left.

“Any of my clan is welcome to leave. But not many
want
to leave.”

“So it has happened?”

“Of course. After Dark has been around for ten years. We've had people come and go.”

“We'd like the names of your past members, too, Mr. Ward,” Sloan says.

“Certainly. I will bring a list this evening.”

“Was Damien Winters the most recent member to leave the group?” Sloan asks.

There's a moment's hesitation, as if the question unsettled him. Perhaps he didn't expect the detectives to know about Winters.

“That's correct, yes.”

“And why did Mr. Winters leave?”

“I cannot be certain what caused his ultimate desire, but things had become a little tense between Damien and me, so I'm sure that must have contributed to his decision.”

“You had an argument?” I can hear Sloan take a large sip of coffee.

“Not an argument, Detective, no. Damien is a Web developer. Very smart man, and mostly self-taught. However, I didn't agree with some of the clients he was taking on and I told him so.”

I manage to bring my analytical self to the fore and pause the tape. “This could be the control element we so often see in a leader of a new religious movement. Ward was trying to tell Winters who he could and couldn't take on as clients and it sounds like Winters wasn't exactly receptive.”

Sloan nods. “Yes. I pushed him on it. It's coming up.”

I hit Play again.

“You didn't agree? Politically?”

“I guess you could call it that, Detective, but perhaps philosophically would be a more apt description. Damien was getting more and more corporate clients, including a tobacco company and a gambling company.”

“Evil?” Sloan braves.

“Social evil, yes, Detective Sloan. I like to protect my members from hardships in this life and I also insist they're free from any addictions—drugs and alcohol of course, but also smoking and gambling. It is hard enough to live the life we do without complicating matters. And I don't approve of organizations that prey on others' weaknesses, feeding their habits.”

A sense of admiration washes over me…a socially minded man, keeping an eye out for his friends.

“This is your moral code? And you enforce it on After Dark?” Sloan clarifies. “
Enforce
is not the word I'd use, but in essence what you're saying is correct.” He pauses. “Truth be told, Damien and I were drifting apart. This was simply the last straw, I suppose.”

“Any particular reason you were drifting apart?”

He shrugs. “Not really, no. I guess After Dark no longer met Damien's needs.”

There's a moment's silence before Sloan moves on to the next topic.

“Can you tell us a little about the After Dark symbol? The pentagram.”

“Ah, yes. The pentagram. It does not stand for evil, as many think, Detective Sloan. In fact, the pentagram has a very noble history and was seen as something that protected the wearer from evil. It represents the mastery of the spirit over the four elements—earth, wind, fire and water—and was even worn by Sir Gawain of the Knights of the Round Table.”

“And this is what it means in After Dark's context?” Carey asks.

“Correct. After Dark is a home and it is safe. The pentagram represents that safety and protects us, and it symbolizes our connection with the elements.”

After a few beats of silence I hear movement, like someone's standing up.

“Thank you for your time,” Sloan says.

“You're welcome.”

More movement, then Carey says, “Mr. Ward, where do most vampires bite their donors?”

“It depends on the vampire and donor. It's very personal. However, contrary to the fictional vampires, we don't tend to go for the neck. It's simply too dangerous. Vampires who feed on blood do not need very much. They certainly do not need to drain the whole body and kill the donor. Again, that is fiction, not fact.” He pauses. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes,” Sloan says. “Do you always video your guests?”

“It is part of my security system, Detective Sloan. As I'm sure you can see, I have many valuable objects in this
room and I need to protect them.” He takes a deep breath. “If there's nothing else, I do need to get
some
sleep.”

“One more thing. Do you ever use Temescal Gateway Park or Topanga State Park?”

There's a long pause. “On occasion, yes.”

I stop the recording. “He admitted to using the parks.”

Carey looks back from the front seat. “Yes, but I don't know if this guy and his group are contenders.”

I'm glad I'm not the only one getting the “good guy” vibe off Anton Ward. Even though I still think Sherry's murder has got something to do with vampires.

“I agree,” Sloan says. “They're on our radar now, but I want to see how Todd Fischer and Sherry's professor pan out.”

Mmm…I'm with her on Ward, but still have to disagree on Fischer. As for Professor Carrington, who knows?

I press Play again and pick up the interview with Sloan asking Ward if he was at the park three months ago when Larry Davidson and Walter Riley were arrested.

There's a long pause. “I confess…we were all there that night. Larry and Walter insisted on keeping After Dark out of the picture. In the end, I decided to respect their loyalty to the group.”

“I wonder who
really
insisted that After Dark's name be kept out of the charges,” Sloan says over the top of the recording.

I tune back into the interview.

“And when was the last time you and your clan were in Temescal Gateway Park?” Sloan asks.

“About a month ago.”

“That was the most recent visit?” Carey presses.

“Yes.”

A small pause, before Sloan thanks Ward for his time.

I hear the door open and then Ward says, “Show our guests out. Thank you, Stephen.”

“Yes, master.”

“The butler was waiting outside?” I ask.

“Uh-huh.”

The recording plays a couple of footsteps before they stop and Sloan says, “What size shoe do you wear, Mr. Ward?”

“Twelve.”

The loud footsteps resume as Sloan and Carey are shown out.

I hit Stop. “So the shoe sizes are possible matches for Riley, Davidson and Ward.”

Carey twists around again. “Yes, but we're only talking partial prints and it's a common size.”

I nod. “Anything more specific from the lab?”

“They're in a queue for analysis now. Could be a couple of days.”

I move us back to Ward. “Ward's an interesting guy, huh?”

“I'll say.” Sloan shakes her head. “There was one moment when he was obviously annoyed with me and I gotta say, I actually found myself wishing I hadn't upset him.” Sloan's face crinkles in disgust. “That's not an emotion I'm used to feeling.”

“I know what you mean.” I'm relieved that Sloan was affected by him, too. “Just from meeting him last night I can see how he attracts his followers
and
keeps them in line.” Again, I have to consciously, and with some effort, move myself into analytical mode. “But like most leaders he's probably a master of human behavior. A chameleon…someone who shows you the face you need to see when he's trying to charm you. Then once he's got power over you, you'd do almost anything to keep him happy. To serve him.”

“Sounds like some of our politicians.” Sloan pulls up at a stoplight.

“All leaders exhibit similar traits. That's what attracts them to positions of power in the first place and helps to keep them there.”

“You notice the butler called him master, too?” Carey only partially turns around. “Like Davidson and Riley.”

“It's probably simply an old-school approach to the traditional master-servant dynamic rather than the butler being part of Ward's wider house.”

Sloan glances at her watch. “We're almost at the coroner's office. I hope we haven't missed the autopsy.”

“Me, too.” I stare out the window at the dark clouds rolling in from the west. “Bodies always talk.”

Monday, 11:30 p.m.

A
t the county coroner's office on North Mission, we find Belinda Frost closing up the body in autopsy room four.

She looks up at our entrance. “You missed all the fun.”

“Looks like it.” Sloan leads the way across the room and stands next to Frost.

Sherry's brown hair looks almost damp, clinging to her body and the gurney in small clumps, and her skin is even paler than I remember from the crime scene. Then again, the bright fluorescent overhead lights certainly accentuate the pastiness. The Y-cut of the autopsy is half closed, with Frost's neat stitches running from Sherry's abdomen to her chest, while the arc from collarbone to collarbone remains open.

“Well?” I stand on the other side of the gurney with Carey next to me. The autopsy may be finished, but at least we can talk to Frost while her findings are fresh in her mind.

“Cause of death is going to be tricky.” She sighs. “Like I said yesterday, we've got no medical way of measuring
the amount of blood in a body at death, and I haven't found anything else today to indicate cause of death. While the body looked pale at the crime scene, it wasn't exsanguinated.” She looks up. “
Exsanguination
is when the body is completely drained of blood. But that wasn't the case here.”

“So there's no way to tell if someone drank her blood?” I flick the ring on my little finger, flashing back to the killer biting down on me during my dream on Saturday night.

“No. All I can say is that I can't rule it out. The injury—” she points to Sherry Taylor's neck “—has ruptured the jugular. And the vein has collapsed, indicating some sort of trauma.”

“The contusions on her face and arms imply she was traveling through the brush at some speed,” Frost says “And with her heart rate elevated, from a slight downward angle an attacker would have been able to see her pulse in the jugular and target it that way. The jugular would provide a strong flow, but not the dramatic spurting you'd get with a severed carotid. And the most someone would get is two to three liters of blood before the jugular collapsed.”

“Would that be enough to kill her?”

“Yes. The average person has about five liters in circulation, so you're talking about losing roughly half. She would have gone into hypovolemic shock and her heart rate would increase while her blood pressure dropped. At that point, the brain would be struggling to get the blood it needed. At that stage, her blood pressure would be so low that no more blood would flow from the wound. She'd have only been alive for a few more minutes, ten at the most.”

“Unconscious?” I ask.

“Yes. Toward the end.”

Sloan stares at Sherry's face. “Thank goodness for small mercies.”

Frost grimaces. “The blood flow would have been quite slow. If she did bleed out, she was probably conscious for at least the first ten minutes of the whole ordeal.”

We're silent for a bit before Carey says, “So where to from here, Doc?”

“I did find some particles of wood and pollen in the scratches on her arms and face, which I've passed on to the lab for comparison with the plant varieties in Temescal Park and Topanga State Park. But it's safe to assume it'll be a match, given the wounds were fresh.”

We all nod.

“Then there's the tox screen. Like I said, there's no way for me to conclusively declare blood loss as the cause of death. But maybe there's something else in the tox screen.”

“That won't give us much unless she was poisoned or sedated.” In all likelihood the tox screen will just show us that she had alcohol or painkillers in her system, if anything.

“What about the puncture marks?” Sloan points to Sherry's neck. “The bite?”

“Two marks, almost perfectly cylindrical. Whatever punctured the skin was extremely sharp and left no fragments on the skin or surrounding tissue.”

“Teeth? Metal?”

She cocks her head to one side. “Could be either. The marks are too far apart for a standard fork.” Frost holds up a fork.

Sloan looks at the fork and then at Frost, before arching one eyebrow.

Frost shrugs. “I brought it in from home this morning.” She puts the fork against Sherry Taylor's throat, demonstrating the mismatch.

“What about a barbecue fork or serving fork?” I ask.

“I've got my assistant looking into that at the moment. We'll try a few different sizes and see if anything matches.”

“And if it's teeth?” Sloan leans in for a closer look at the wound. “It's obviously been made to look like a vampire bite because of the hickey around it.”

“Yes. Although if someone was drinking the vic's blood, they would have only needed to suck hard in the last few minutes. Before that the flow would have been strong enough from Sherry's beating heart.” We nod.

She reaches into her pocket. “These are the standard Halloween vampire teeth. The size is roughly correct.” She holds the plastic teeth up against Sherry's throat and the alignment is almost perfect. “But obviously these teeth aren't sharp enough to cause that wound, even if they were wielded with great force.” She holds the teeth high above the body and brings them down forcefully, stopping short of Sherry's throat. It looks almost comical and I resist the urge to smile.

I focus on the teeth. “Apparently some vampires file their canine teeth to sharpen them, or get caps or dentures.”

“Any teeth would have to be extremely sharp and that would cause problems if they were permanent. The person would be cutting their bottom lip on them all the time.”

I nod. “So dentures rather than caps.”

“Probably.”

Carey leans on the gurney. “Looks like we need to talk to some dentists.”

“It's most likely an area of specialization,” Frost says. “And I'd say it's a word-of-mouth thing with these people. You know, who did your teeth?”

I smile. “Wow, those fangs are great. Where did you get them?”

Frost nods. “Pretty much.”

I sigh. “Hate to burst the bubble, but I did a quick Google search and there are lots of providers. Too many to chase down. I actually found quite a few Web sites dedicated to vampires and there are a host of suppliers—from clothes and jewelry to teeth and furniture.”

Carey shakes his head. “Who knew the vampire culture was so big?”

A beat of silence.

“I've definitely ruled out snakebite, too. I ran the swabs in the lab and there's no poison present around the wound. Besides, the size doesn't correlate with snake fangs.”

“And what about saliva or DNA from the wound?”

“I've sent a cross section from the wound over to DNA, but if there was any saliva present, it must have been a minute amount.”

Another beat of silence.

“So if blood loss is our cause of death, was it from
this
wound?” Sloan asks.

“I'd say so, yes. No other wounds and no signs of internal bleeding.”

“And only a tiny amount of blood at the scene,” I add.

“Yes. That's being run for a DNA comparison with Sherry, but I'm sure we'll find it matches.” She waits, giving us time to comment. When we don't she continues, “So the blood was either ingested or pumped into some container.”

“Pumped?” Sloan's brow furrows.

“The redness and bruising around the puncture marks indicate a sucking on the skin. But that could have been made by a mouth or by some sort of pump. Much like women use a breast pump when they're breastfeeding.”

“Would a breast pump do the job?”

She shakes her head. “Not unless it was fitted with some sort of attachment. A breast pump attaches to a woman's nipple, covering the surrounding area and creating a suction cup. But that suction cup is rounded, in line with a breast's curvature. For the throat—” Frost points to Sherry's wound again “—you'd need a smaller suction area and the cup would have to be flatter. Especially given the wound and the crime scene were so clean.”

Silence again.

“Still,” she continues, “it wouldn't be hard to adapt a breast pump. Someone could just switch out the suction cup on the end.”

“You think that's more likely than someone drinking the blood straight from her throat?” I ask.

“The vic would need to lose two to three liters of blood to cause death. That's a lot of fluid, especially when the body's natural response to ingesting blood is to vomit. It makes sense that at least some of it was saved, unless we're talking about twenty or thirty perps.”

I bite my lip. “We could be. Apparently there are thousands of vampires in L.A. and lots of them form houses…hang out together.”

Frost shrugs. “So maybe they didn't need a pump.” She pauses. “But there is only one bite mark.”

“Is it possible one person made the bite and then they all took turns drinking her blood?”

“Possible, yeah. The first few changeovers would be trickier because the blood would have been flowing, but that might account for the drops we found on scene.”

“And she wasn't moved postmortem?” I'm wondering if she bled out somewhere else.

Frost shakes her head. “Lividity indicates she died where we found her. The photos of her back match the terrain, with a few rocks making a lividity imprint on her back.”

I nod, remembering the case when a perp transported
a body in the trunk of his car, with a spare set of license plates. The red patches on the victim's skin as gravity pulled the blood toward her back showed a lovely partial imprint of a license plate. Body was found, number plate was traced and, voila, killer in custody.

Whether it's two people or thirty, if they all drank Sherry's blood they're equally responsible for her death. The puncture wounds didn't kill her—it was blood loss, presumably. But how can we prove that in a court of law? It sounds like all we've really got, forensically speaking, is the fact that blood loss is at best a probable cause of death, simply because nothing else could be found. Will Sherry's pale skin and pale internal organs be enough to convince a jury?

“So if the crime scene has been
staged
to look like a vampire attack, our perp would have used a pump,” Sloan says.

“Yup. You'll have the official report by midday tomorrow, and the tox screen should come through at some stage tomorrow afternoon.”

“Okay. Thanks, Doc.” Sloan heads for the door while Belinda Frost goes back to her suturing.

Sloan sets a fast pace along the corridors, surprisingly fast given her size and age. Guess she's in a hurry to get out. The full gurneys that line the corridor don't exactly make you want to stick around, but it's been like this ever since I've been working out of L.A. The first time I visited the coroner's office I was shocked—most places have enough room to keep the dead who are waiting for an autopsy in the slide-out cabinets, but the L.A. Coroner's Office is in desperate need of an extension or total relocation. Who knows what they'd do if the air-conditioning malfunctioned.

“You remember a time when it wasn't like this?” I ask Sloan.

She looks at me questioningly.

“The bodies.”

“Oh. Sure. But we're talking maybe twenty years ago. L.A.'s dead outgrew this place over a decade ago.”

“How long have you been working Homicide here?”

She slows down a little. “I was with the Los Angeles Sheriff's Department from 1978 to 1998. Worked Homicide for fifteen of that twenty, until my retirement in 1998. I took a couple of years off before signing up at the LAPD.”

“Sucker for punishment.” Carey smiles.

“I was just happy the LAPD didn't mind hiring an old gal like me.”

“Law enforcement can always use experienced officers,” I say.

“Ain't that the truth. Especially when most of us are only in it for twenty years.”

“I'm surprised you didn't contract back for the LASD.” The Sheriff's Department often hires back its homicide detectives as contractors, and they have a strong homicide department because of this strategy. LAPD's jurisdiction covers the City of Los Angeles, which equates to over three million residents and 465 square miles. And they have roughly 9,200 officers to police that area. The Sheriff's Department polices most of the rest of L.A. county—with a few exceptions—covering two and a half million people across 3.101 square miles. While their jurisdiction is larger, they have fewer sworn officers at roughly 8,400.

“I wanted a change of scenery. Wanted to dig my teeth into the city. But I would have taken the offer up if LAPD hadn't panned out.”

We exit the cream building and walk the one hundred feet to Sloan's car.

“Carrington next?” Carey asks.

Sloan looks up at the sky, like she's using the sun's position to tell the time. “Too early.”

“I wouldn't mind heading back to the office for a bit. I want to set myself up online, as Veronica, and I also want to see what the American Psychological Association and American Psychiatry Society say about Renfield's syndrome.” I look at Sloan. “Plus I will talk to my boss about the undercover angle. Play it by the book.” I use Sloan's terminology.

She gives me a cursory nod. “Carey and I need to work on Sherry's missing hours, 9:00 p.m. to midnight, assuming Todd's telling us the truth. Any word from Bar Sinister on the video footage?”

I dig out my BlackBerry. “Nope. I'll chase them again this afternoon. And I'm still waiting to hear back from the manager at Monte Cristo for video footage of Ruin and Malediction Society.”

“It sure would be nice to know if Sherry was at Bar Sinister on Saturday night.” She leans on the car. “Credit card and phone records should be in soon, too.”

“It's going to be a busy day.” I open the car door, eager to get on the road.

Sloan's still leaning on the car in thought. “Why don't you pass over the video tasks to Carey? That'll give you more time to focus on the online leads and the vamps.”