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Authors: Tami Dane

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BOOK: Blood of Eden
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The way I saw it, I had two options: either forget about an internship with the FBI, and let my mom down; or chase imaginary monsters.
When I looked at it that way, spending three months profiling vampires and werewolves couldn't be any worse than emptying Porta-Potties in the county parks. And that I'd done, for more summers than I cared to remember.
I shrugged. “Sure. I'm in.”
I would rather live in a world where my life is surrounded by mystery than live in a world so small that my mind could comprehend it.
—Harry Emerson Fosdick
2
“According to Wikipedia, a vampire feeds on a mortal being's life essence, which is most often defined as blood,” Fischer recited as Chief Peyton navigated her black government-issue Suburban through thick Baltimore traffic.
Chief Peyton flipped on her turn signal and changed lanes, somehow defying the rules of geometry by wedging the huge vehicle into a space the size of a Chevy Volt. “I think we all know this. But I suppose I'd better ask, since this is the team's first case, does anyone
not
have a rudimentary grasp of vampire legend?”
Riding shotgun, I raised my hand, hoping I wouldn't be the only one. About a half minute later, I learned I was. And I couldn't help laughing at the irony. Throughout all my years in school,
that
had never happened. Not even after skipping one grade in elementary school, one in middle school, another in high school, and starting college at the age of fifteen. For the first time in my life, I didn't know something that everyone else did.
I was both amused and mortified.
If Chief Peyton was disappointed in my lack of knowledge of supernatural beings, she hid it well. “I guess we'll start from the top, then.” She pointed at the file sitting on my lap. “Skye, you'll need to review everything in that file. I hope you're a fast reader.”
“I am,” I assured her.
“Excellent. Fischer, continue.”
Sitting directly behind Chief Peyton, Fischer read from a book. “‘While ancient cultures all had some form of vampire-like creatures within their legend systems, the being most commonly associated with the word vampire has roots in eighteenth century Eastern European lore. This being is commonly described as ruddy or purple-ish in color, bloated—'”
“Not skeletal and pale, like Bram Stoker's Dracula? Sorry for interrupting,” I interjected, somewhat confused by the difference between the vampire I was vaguely familiar with and the one Fischer was describing. I'd caught maybe twenty minutes of
Dracula
playing on television one Halloween. To say my exposure to vampire legend was limited was a gross understatement.
“Don't apologize. You're a part of this team for a reason, and I want you to keep asking questions. Questions lead to answers. Or, in some cases, more important questions.” After a beat, Chief Peyton continued as she cut across three lanes of traffic to exit onto I-295. “The type of creature you're describing is what we'd call the contemporary vampire. It's an adaptation of older vampire legend. Fischer, could you please give Skye the book you're reading?”
“Sure.” Fischer handed the heavy hardcover to me.
“I understand. But I have to ask, aren't there living, breathing,
mortal
people who think they're vampires? Or pretend to be vampires? And if so, couldn't this murder have been committed by a human being with an unusual fetish?”
Chief Peyton nodded. “Sure. Our job is to develop a profile that local agents and police personnel can use to eliminate suspects. While we're talking as if it's a given the unsub is a vampire, until we have enough information to make a clear determination, we will not set our minds on any one possibility.”
“Got it.” I set the case file on top of the book and flipped it open. The very first thing I found was a photograph of the victim, a woman, lying with arms and legs askew, on a sidewalk. Like every dead person I'd ever had the misfortune of seeing, she looked like a mannequin. It was hard to guess her age, but I estimated her at about thirty-five. Judging from her clothes, hairstyle, and level of skin wrinkling, she appeared to be older than me but younger than my mother. Her mouth was slightly open, eyes staring blindly. Her clothing was still in place, shoes on her feet, hair slightly mussed. Overall, she looked like she'd simply collapsed and died of natural causes.
Except there were those puncture marks on her neck.
“The wounds were made before she died.” JT, who'd been inhabiting the seat directly behind mine, leaned over my shoulder. He indicated the redness around the injury. “See here, she bled. Dead people don't bleed.”
“Yeah. No heartbeat, no circulation.” I leaned to the side, a smidge uneasy by how close he was. With his shaggy brown hair, dark eyes, razor-sharp cheekbones, and adorable dimples, he was a little too good-looking for my comfort. He also smelled really nice. Normally, this wouldn't be a problem. But I was an intern. He was an agent. That made him strictly off-limits to me, and me to him.
Reading my body language, he sat back. “Didn't mean to crowd you.”
“It's okay.” I shifted in my seat and stared down at the file on my lap. My cheeks were burning, which wasn't good. But I knew he couldn't see them, since he was still sitting behind me. When I was almost positive my cheeks weren't the color of the traffic light we were stopped at, I twisted, facing the back of the vehicle. “I'm a little overwhelmed. I didn't expect to be hitting the road my first day, profiling a murderer. I mean, I'm just an intern. I assumed I'd be filing paperwork and fetching coffee.”
Fischer, busy reading the rest of the documents in the case file, responded to my confession with a quick smile.
JT leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. The seat was big and cushiony, but he was bulky enough to make it look small. The guy obviously spent some serious time in the gym. “Since this is our first case, we're all a little overwhelmed. And excited. We have a lot to prove.”
“Are you new to the FBI?” I asked him.
“To the FBI, sort of. I was a field agent, low on the food chain. I've only been out of the academy a year, not long enough to apply to the BAU. When I heard about the PBAU, though, I knew it was the place for me. Luckily, the qualifications aren't as strict.” He motioned for me to come closer and whispered, “I think they're having a hard time staffing the unit. Most of the agents in the bureau—the ones that know about it—think it's a joke.”
“I did too ... kind of.”
JT nodded, his expression clear of any anger or defensiveness. “None of us would have taken it personally if you'd said, ‘Thanks, but no thanks' to Peyton's offer. We know we're neck deep in
The X-Files
territory, risking ridicule. But we're all determined to do our best and hopefully save lives by helping local authorities get killers off their streets, whether they end up being homicidal vampires, psychotic werewolves, or sociopathic mortals.”
I liked this guy. “A noble cause, for sure,” I said.
“The cases we'll be taking are the ones no other units want to touch. For the victims of these crimes, we are their voice.” After a moment, he pointed at the photograph on his lap. “Notice anything else?”
“No. Did I miss something?” I opened my file and stared at the picture.
“Look again. A good profiler will pay attention to every minute detail.”
Slightly bothered by the fact that I wasn't catching everything I should, I concentrated, starting at the upper left corner of the image and moving across the photo slowly enough to give my mind time to register everything I saw. I scrutinized the woman's hair, eyes, face, neck, shoulders, the patch of cement sidewalk beneath her. “There's no blood on the sidewalk.”
JT lifted the photo and pointed at the dry area just under her neck. “She stopped bleeding before she collapsed.”
“Did that mean she was already dead when she was placed here?”
“Good question.” He handed me a pencil and pocket-sized notebook. “You'll want to make some notes for yourself, so you'll remember to ask the right questions when we're at the crime scene.”
“Thanks.”
He set his hand on my headrest. “We're in this together. We all want the same thing—to do our jobs and do them well. And I know, once you get your feet beneath you, you're going to be a valuable member of this team.”
“Thanks.”
JT's words echoed in my head during the rest of the drive as I read
The Vampire Encyclopedia
and then scoured each document in the file, looking for clues. By the time we'd made it to the crime scene, I knew the basics about every vampire legend in the world, from the West African Asasa-bonsam to the Greek Vrykolakas. I was ready to prove to my new coworkers, and myself, that criminal profiling was the perfect job for me.
 
 
This was
not
the job for me.
I swallowed. At least a dozen times. I breathed through my mouth and closed my eyes. I concentrated on taking slow, deep breaths. And still, I couldn't stop it. I puked. In front of Chief Peyton, as well as the other members of the PBAU, and the local FBI contact, and a whole passel of Baltimore's finest men in blue.
Little had I known, but getting up close and personal with a recently deceased person was not the same as seeing one that had its hair done, makeup on, and was posed in an appropriately peaceful manner, snug in a coffin.
I was ready to crawl back in the Suburban and die of embarrassment.
Chief Peyton was nice enough to compliment me for not contaminating the crime scene. Then, kind soul that she was, she suggested I accompany JT in interviewing a witness who claimed to have seen the victim collapse. The witness was standing at least twenty feet away.
After doing what I could to eliminate all signs of my shamefully weak moment, I headed in the direction Chief Peyton had indicated, quickly locating the pair.
JT greeted me with a nod before turning back to the witness. “This is Sloan Skye.”
The witness, a woman wearing a dress at least four decades old, turned bloodshot eyes my way, giving me a quick assessing glance before looking back at JT.
“Can you tell us what you saw, Mrs. Zumwalt?” JT asked.
“
Miss
Zumwalt,” the witness corrected, her wispy gray hair whipping into disarray as an almost imperceptible breeze blew through it. “I saw a woman walking from that direction.” She pointed a shaking hand toward a tall redbrick building hidden by a small grouping of trees. “I was going this way, toward Centre Street. I collect the cans and bottles people throw into the street. You know, just doing my part, keeping the city clean... .” Her words trailed off, and her eyelids slid over her eyes.
“Miss Zumwalt,” I asked, “what happened next?”
Miss Zumwalt's eyes snapped open. Looking a little confused, she glanced around. “Oh. Yes. Where was I?” Her hands disappeared into her pockets.
“You saw a woman. Coming this way.” JT pointed toward the redbrick building.
Miss Zumwalt fingered her mouth. “Yeah. She came from that way. We passed each other here, at the intersection. A few seconds later, after I turned the corner, I heard something behind me. A dull thump like a heavy sack being dropped. When I turned around, she was lying on the ground, just like she is now.”
JT scratched some notes in his notebook. “Then you didn't see the victim fall?”
“No, I guess I didn't.” The witness swayed slightly. She blinked in slow motion.
Swaying. Slow reflexes. Bloodshot eyes. Shaking hands. Was this witness credible? Regardless of my doubts, I took notes on both what the woman said and what she did.
I asked, “Did you happen to notice if the woman was bleeding as she walked toward you?”
Miss Zumwalt's forehead crinkled into deep grooves. “Bleeding? No. But ... now that I think about it, she didn't look right.”
“In what way?” JT asked.
“She was kinda pale. And I think she was sweating. With this cold snap—it was downright chilly this morning, for June—and dressed the way she was, she should have been cold, not hot.”
I jotted,
sweating, pale.
“Did you see her carrying anything? A purse?” I asked, recalling the one useful detail I'd retained from the crime scene.
“No.” The woman paused. Nodded. “I take that back. Yes. She had a purse.”
“What did it look like?” JT scribbled more notes.
“Brown.” Miss Zumwalt tapped her chin, then shook her head. “I'm sorry. That's all I remember. The bag couldn't have been big. That would have stood out. But it was big enough for me to see it. So, I'm guessing medium and brown. Or maybe it was black.” The witness sighed. “I don't remember. I looked at her face, not her purse.”
“It's okay. You're doing fine,” I reassured her. The details the woman had been able to give us were remarkable, especially considering her state. I had a sneaking suspicion she existed on a primarily liquid diet, and it wasn't coming from the local soup kitchen. I'd seen my share of hard lifetime alcoholics to recognize one when I saw it. “Did you hear anything? Gunfire? A struggle?”
BOOK: Blood of Eden
5.42Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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