Knights of the Blood (12 page)

“So I agreed to go up into the mountains with him. I helped him dig his grave. We said Mass together, and I gave him the Last Rites. He took some sleeping pills then, and laid down on the ground beside his grave with his arms outstretched in the form of a cross. It wasn’t a fatal dose, though, because that would have been suicide, and I wouldn’t let him do that. It was bad enough that I must be the instrument of his death–this man that I had come to love like a brother.

“And then, when he had fallen asleep, I–did what had to be done, and buried him, and came back down the mountain to comfort Lupe. The story we’d agreed on was that he’d gone back to Mexico. No one would ever question that in the Hispanic community. And when my–troubles began with the police and archdiocese, no one thought to connect his disappearance with what I’d done.”

Drummond found he had nearly stopped breathing as Freise’s story unfolded, and he was shivering inside as he drew a shaky breath. Not six murders, but seven. The priest was clearly mad–or was he? The latter possibility was infinitely more frightening than the first.

“You don’t believe me, do you, Captain?” Freise asked gently, all passion spent, now that he had bared his soul to the man who could still bring him to conventional justice. “You think I’ve made up all this part about the vampires to justify the acts of a madman. I can’t say I blame you.”

Cold inside, Drummond drew a tentative breath.

“Does anyone else know about Miguel?” he asked.

Father Freise shook his head. “Only Lupe, of course. I’ve never even told a confessor. What possible penance could he assign, much less grant absolution?” The priest smiled and glanced at his hands, still holding the pen and notepad. “Are you going to arrest me, Captain?”

Answering Freise was one of the most difficult things Drummond ever had to do in his professional career. “I’ll simply ask you not to leave this place for now,” he said evenly. “And if you don’t mind, I’d like to have that sketch you made.”

The old priest’s eyes lit with something a little like hope. “Then, you
don’t
think I’m mad?”

“I didn’t say that,” Drummond replied. “May I have the sketch?”

With trembling hands, the old priest tore the page from his notepad and handed it to Drummond.

“God bless you, Captain,” he murmured, as Drummond rose to go. “God bless you–and be careful!”

And before Drummond could leave, the priest pressed a much—used rosary into his hands, lifting a hand in benediction as Drummond beat a hasty retreat toward his waiting car.

IN THE
two weeks following his return from meeting with Father Freise, Drummond’s investigation had run up against a stone wall. In trying to verify at least some of the priest’s story–though without mentioning that he had seen Freise–he contacted the archivist of the Archdiocese of Los Angeles. The bespectacled priest who granted him an interview at the chancery was polite but evasive. He was too young to have been involved in an incident of twenty years before, but he obviously had been ordered not to give any information on Freise. Unless Drummond wanted to disclose his sources–which he most certainly did not–the Church was not going to be very helpful in this case.

He had rather better luck regarding the sketch Freise had given him–at least in finding out how to learn more about it. One of his neighbors had an interest in chivalry and heraldry, and referred him to a private research library in San Pedro.

Drummond parked his car in front of the small, sun—faded building on Catalina Street, tucked in between the local post office and a used—book store. A discreet brass plaque on the door announced that this was the library of the International Institute of Noble and Heraldic Studies. Thumb—tacked below the plaque was a small card instructing those desiring entrance to press the button to the left of the door.

Drummond pressed the button, and after a few seconds a metallic voice responded.

“May I help you?”

“I hope so,” Drummond replied. “A friend of mine suggested that you might be able to help me with a research project I’m involved with.”

“Okay,” said the metallic voice. “If you can wait just a second, I’ll let you in.”

Drummond was waiting for the click of a remote control lock when the door was opened by a conservatively dressed gentleman wearing a dark blue blazer and regimental tie.

“Please come in,” the man said.

There was a small counter just inside the doorway, and after locking the door behind him, the man stepped around Drummond and gracefully moved behind the counter.

“I’ll have to ask you to sign in, please,” he said, as he opened a guest book on the counter. “It’s one of our rules here at the library. The other one is ‘No Smoking.’ “

Drummond picked up a pen from next to the book and signed just his name.

“Now, Mr.—er,” the man turned the book around to read the signature, “Mr. Drummond, what can I do for you?”

“Well, I’m trying to find out about a coat of arms,” Drummond said. “I think it’s from around the Ardennes, perhaps the Luxembourg area, and I’m told it might belong to some kind of religious order.” Then, extending his hand toward the other man he added, “I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.”

“My name’s Keating, and I’m the director of the institute.” He glanced awkwardly at Drummond’s outstretched hand. “I hope you’ll forgive my not shaking hands, but I have arthritis ... . “ His voice trailed off.

Drummond smiled slightly. “Of course,” he said. Beyond the counter where Drummond had signed in, the library stretched to the very back of the building, shelves lining the four walls as well as forming neat little islands on the floors. The smell of books, especially old books, was an aroma that Drummond found as intoxicating as any perfume.

Hundreds of small shields, each brightly painted with a coat of arms, looked down on Drummond as he followed Keating back to the rear of the library, passing stacks of books that dealt with every aspect of heraldry, chivalry, and the nobility. Pausing briefly, Drummond noted that the books were in every imaginable western European language, and many of them, to judge by their elegant bindings, were privately printed.

Keating halted outside a door marked HERALDIC RESEARCH and fumbled in his pocket for a key.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to apologize for the condition of these files,” Keating said. “I had a retired colonel who used to come in from time to time to sort things out, but he died a few months ago, and 1 haven’t had a chance to get back here and tidy things up.”

Turning the key, Keating opened the door to the small room. A leather—topped table with a brass lamp filled the center of the room, and around the four walls, reaching from floor to ceiling, were filing cabinets. Not the large sort of cabinets found in offices, but the smaller ones usually used to index books in libraries. Keating pulled out one of the drawers filled with index cards.

“Here’s how it works. The files with white ID cards are filed by the name of the organization.” He pulled out one of the cards. “This one is for the Order of Malta. On the front of the card is the coat of arms, and on the back its blazon, which is the technical description of the arms, as well as the date granted.” Keating smiled. “I don’t suppose you know the name of the religious order you’re looking for, do you?”

Drummond shook his head.

“I was afraid not.” Keating sounded almost dejected. “In that case, you need to search the files that have the blue ID labels. This is going to take a while longer, because on this side of things, Colonel McEwan died before he got it cross—referenced.” Pulling out one of the drawers, he held up one of the file cards and continued.

“Each coat of arms is recorded by three things: the color of the shield, the design on the shield, and the color of the design.” Keating slowly shook his head. “Unfortunately, the colonel wasn’t computer friendly, so he did all of his work by hand. What you’re looking for is probably in here,” Keating waved his hand around the room, “but finding it may take quite some time.”

“I can see that,” Drummond said. “Any suggestions on where I should begin?”

“That depends on what you’ve got, so far. Have you got a sketch of the arms?”

Drummond produced the page tom out of Freise’s notebook and showed Keating the cross with its four swastikas.

“The cross is blue,” he said. “And the swastikas are gold.”

Keating nodded, studying the drawing. “I’m afraid it doesn’t ring any bells for
me.
I don’t suppose you know the background color?”

“Red,” Drummond said, with the most conviction he’d been able to muster about anything in this case so far. “The shield is red.”

Keating grinned. “I can see you’re not a herald, Mr. Drummond. But red it is. That narrows your search to
these
drawers.” The sweep of Keating’s hand took in an entire corner of the room. “Good hunting.”

Three hours later, Keating stuck his head in through the door. “Can I offer you a cup of tea or coffee?” he asked.

“No, thanks, unless you can do an iced tea,” Drummond replied, aware that he was coming down with a massive headache.

“Afraid not. How’s the research coming along?” Keating asked.

“Not so hot. I haven’t even made a dent in the red shields, and already I’m coming down with eyestrain.” Drummond stretched. “It isn’t easy.”

“Research never is. Look, do you mind if I make a suggestion?” asked Keating.

“Go ahead,” replied Drummond.

“There’s an organization in Switzerland, the Priory of Sion, that keeps tabs on this sort of thing. From time to time, we contact them regarding information we need here at the library. If you’ll give me as much information as you can, I’ll write to them and we’ll see if they can help.”

Drummond looked around the room at the hundreds of small files neatly stacked one on top of the other. It had taken him three hours to go through the contents of only a few of those drawers.

“Mr. Keating,” Drummond asked, “how much do l owe you for the postage to Switzerland?”

* * *

Another two weeks passed, filled with the routine paperwork that occupies most of a career police officer’s time. Despite the midsummer heat of Los Angeles, Drummond had fewer than twenty homicides to contend with, none of them sensational. Most were gang—related–Asian gang members killing Chicanos, and the Chicanos retaliating–pretty much open and shut stuff, most with the killer apprehended within three or four days.

Turning from the completed crime files in front of him, Drummond was going over the expense vouchers turned in by the men under his command when Special Agent Sandy Morwood came in through the open door to his office and dropped into a chair opposite his desk.

“John,” Morwood said, “I’ve got another one for you.”

“Another what?” Drummond asked.

Morwood held up the faxed copy of a report from FLASH. “More bodies without blood.”

“Like in Vancouver?” Drummond had set aside the expense vouchers and was giving Morwood his undivided attention.

“Not quite. This one’s in from Germany–Hamburg, to be precise.” Morwood put on his glasses and scanned through the report. “Seems a lot of street people have been disappearing in the docklands of the city. Local police didn’t think too much of it until last week, when some big developer started tearing down buildings in the area and discovered what they thought was a mass grave–you know, the sort that would have been leftover from the war.”

Drummond nodded.

“Anyhow, the developer called in the police–and you guessed it–these were fresh bodies. And–“ Morwood tossed the report onto Drummond’s desk “–all of them were about six quarts low.”

Drummond stared at the folder. “Empty, huh?”

“That’s what the report says. Anyway, they flashed it over to us to see if we had anything similar. We haven’t, of course–at least not in L.A.–but I thought you might be interested.” Morwood pushed himself out of his chair and grinned as he jammed his hands into his pockets. “Uh, do you have anything you’d like me to send out on FLASH? Uncle Sam would like to justify my salary this month.”

“Nothing today, Sandy, but if anything weird comes up, I’ll let you know.”

When Morwood had left the office, Drummond picked up the report that had been tossed on his desk. Thumbing quickly through, he noticed that all of the victims seemed to have been clinically drained of their blood, as none of them bore any wounds that could result in so much blood loss.

The phrase “clinically drained” leaped off the page at Drummond. Rummaging in his desk, he turned up the report from the Vancouver Police concerning the blood bank murder. Scanning down the report, he stopped when he came to the coroner’s report on the victim found in the alley behind the blood bank.

“ ... despite deep lacerations to the wrists of the victim, it was obvious from the nature of puncture wounds in the arms that the blood had been clinically removed from the body sometime prior to its being placed in the dumpster.”

Picking up the phone on his desk, Drummond buzzed his secretary.

“Alicia, do we have any old phone books here in the office?”

On the other side of the glass division, the petite young Chicana looked at the shelves behind her desk. “How old,
Capitán?”
she asked.

“The late sixties, early seventies.”

“The oldest I’ve got is about two years old. I think you’d have to try archives if you want anything older.”

“Okay, Alicia, thanks.“

Drummond hung up the phone. Reaching across his desk, he picked up the pile of expense reports in front of him and, without bothering to check the figures, initialed all of them in the appropriate box. Scooping them up, he headed out the door, dropping them on Alicia’s desk as he left the office.

The reference section of the central library in downtown Los Angeles was on the third floor, although it turned out that the old copies of the
Yellow Pages
were kept in the basement. It took nearly half an hour for the slightly built young man with the thick moustache to bring up the three volumes covering 1971, 1972, and 1973.

“Now, here you are, sir,” the young man said as he dumped the three dusty phone books on Drummond’s table.

“Thanks,” Drummond said to the retreating librarian.

Starting with the 1971 edition, Drummond checked the listings of all the blood banks in the East L.A. area. Shifting to the 1972 edition, he cross—checked the listings and found that while two companies no longer were listed, three had been added. Turning to the 1973
Yellow Pages,
only one company Euro Plasma Services, had dropped its ad. Its address, he noted, was on Whittier Boulevard–which at least supported part of Freise’s story. Scratching the information in his notebook, Drummond headed back to Parker Center.

Back in his office, Drummond gathered up all of the files on the vampire killings, put them in his briefcase, and headed down the corridor to Sandy Morwood’s office.

”Hey, Sandy, you got a minute?” Drummond asked as he walked into the special agent’s office.

“Sure. What can I do for you?” Morwood moved a stack of files from the center of his desk as Drummond sat down.

“I need a favor.” Drummond leaned across the desk. “I’m working on a dead case, one that’s been officially closed for twenty years. I think it may be tied in with the blood bank murder in Vancouver and the mass graves in Hamburg.”

“Jesus, John. What kind of case is this?” Morwood pulled out a legal pad and started to take notes.

Drummond reached out and put his hand on Morwood’s wrist. “Sandy, this has got to be totally off the record.”

“I don’t know, John. I mean, FLASH isn’t for personal use.”