Beyond Nocturne Ch. 04

"Hey Sue," Michael shook her hand as she brushed a strand of her red hair out of her face, "How you doing?"

"I'm fine," she said and frowned, "How are you? You look like shit."

"Been better," Michael conceded as they walked into her office.

Sue Macklin was probably the top forensics specialist in the whole state, her reputation for genius in seeing what others could not was only matched by her unorthodox thinking and gently beauty. From what Michael had seen, she had a rare combination that few possessed in this line of work, and despite the horrors she had seen, her contagious smiles always managed light up her green eyes and everyone around her.

"A suspension, a divorce and now this," she muttered, shaking her head as she turned on her computer. They both sat down, and Michael was thankful that the chair in this office was soft and inviting. Sue looked at him sympathetically, "Does trouble just go looking for you?"

"It has my home phone number," he said, "You got anything for me?"

"Yes, I do actually," she said as she typed faster than his eyes could follow, inputting commands to the machine, "I assume Chief Hollins told you to stay away from this case in his usual, clichéd style?"

"Oh yeah."

"Well," she said, her eyebrow raised slightly, "Here's something that may help you get the heads up on Hollins. We ran the fingerprints taken from that umbrella found in your brother's apartment and Crispin's place against any kind of smudging or glues that might be used to hide the ridges of a print. We found oils secreted by the skin on the prints which rules out glue. And, there are no distortions to indicate smearing. No signs of intentional or unintentional smearing. I'd bet whoever left these prints behind came by them naturally."

"Nice," Michael leaned back in the chair.

"We compared those findings to the prints on that photo of the hooker," Sue said, "They match up just fine. But it may not mean much as far as an arrest goes."

"You're killing me," he sighed.

"Did you get a good look at this woman's fingers?"

Michael shook his head. "Not close enough."

Sue smiled sympathetically, "But..."

Michael looked to her, "But?"

"But, the investigation team did find a partial boot print, bloody I might add, in your brothers bathroom. Who ever it was who killed him stepped in some of his blood on the way out. This print is identical to one taken from Larry Crispin's apartment. Whoever this is, he or she is very meticulous and clever about not leaving clues. They also wear a size 9 men's boot. The killer is a pro, but missed this one tiny detail."

"Holy shit. There's the connection," Michael smiled, his fist clenched, "Was there any autopsy information from the morgue before Steve's body went missing?"

"No," Sue frowned, "But from the photos of the body at the crime scene, my guess would be he was bled dry from punctures on his neck. How this was done so quickly is beyond me, and there wasn't nearly enough blood on the bed to account for all of it."

"A vampire?" Michael laughed, rubbing his temples.

Sue smiled. "Maybe someone who wishes they were, I don't know. But it's clear whoever did this knows how to kill, knows how to escape and knows how to be quick. Your brother was fully erect, if you know what I mean, when he died, so it's safe to say he was being intimate with someone at the time of the murder, someone he trusted. Maybe there's something in that? Did he have a girlfriend?"

"He didn't have any girlfriends," Michael shrugged, "He never had the time."

"Is there any chance he might have been gay?"

"No, not Stephen. He was as hetero as they come."

"Well, it's a safe bet that whoever had sex with him last is the killer. I'd bet my retirement on it."

"He might have gotten himself a prostitute, but that is so not his style. It doesn't make sense."

"There are a lot of things that don't make sense here," Sue said, turning to Michael as she showed him the photos of Larry Crispin's apartment, "The window was broken in, and at a high velocity judging from the glass we found embedded in the wall on the far side of the bedroom. The only other window, the one the living room, was locked from the inside. We know that someone had been tied up on the bed, probably Maricel LaVoy, and that those bonds were cut by something really sharp. The front door had been dead bolted, so whoever killed Larry and took off with Maricel went back out through the shattered window."

"A fifth story window, with no way to climb up to it quickly without drawing attention from the people below and above," Michael shook his head.

"Sounds impossible."

"Maybe we should hire this guy."

"Maybe you are dealing with a vampire," Sue suggested wryly, but something in voice led Michael to suspect she might be serious "I can't explain how Larry Crispin died. His brain was puréed inside his skull, his throat had been throttled violently, but nothing was crushed. He was AIDS positive, but the virus does not scramble the brain like that. No virus does. Fifth story windows, locked windows and doors and one man drained completely dry of all his blood through a wound on his neck in a matter of hours. I can't explain it."

"A vampire would explain my brother," he smiled weakly, "But not Larry. Or Maricel."

"That's why they call it a mystery."

"There's only person who knows what happened that night," Michael sighed, "And Maricel LaVoy is nowhere to be found."

"She may be dead," Sue said quietly, "Between the evidence of her hair on the bed, some of her blood on the floor by the bed, the purse that had been I.D.'d by her friends as hers, the fact that she was last seen with Crispin the night before and the fact that an article about her was in the keepsake box... well... maybe she was killed and taken somewhere else before Larry checked out."

"I've got to hope she's still alive. She's the best chance I've got of finding Steve's killer."

"True."

"But we have a foot print," Michael smiled, "And that's as good a start as any."

"You be careful, Mike," Sue put her hand on his and squeezed.

***

Maricel woke slowly from the nightmare, her body aching as though she had been on a non-stop sprint for a week. The first thing she noticed was how sensitive her eyes were, how loud everything was to her. She could hear everything and she covered her ears as she sat up on the bed, swinging her legs over the side. She was naked and cold as she wrapped the thick blanket around her body. She opened her mouth to speak and felt a sharp poke on her tongue. With fingers that shook badly, she reached up felt the fangs that had replaced her canines. They were smooth and sharp, somehow cold in her mouth and up into the gums despite the heat of her body.

On the night stand were two bloody teeth. Her canines had fallen out...

"You're awake," Lydia said from the corner of the room, her face partially illuminated by the candlelight. "How do you feel?"

Maricel licked her lips, her face pale and reflective of her uncertainty. "I feel lightheaded," she croaked, her throat dry and parched, "Thirsty."

Lydia brought her a glass of water and sat down beside her on the bed, handing her some clothes. Maricel drank it greedily, chugging the water down as her sweaty, blonde hair clung to her neck and shoulders. She finished, handed the glass back to Lydia and took the clothes. She stood up too quickly, and wobbled a little. Lydia grasped her hand and steadied her.

Maricel suddenly looked at Lydia. "I dreamed of you," she said, "I dreamed we..."

"It wasn't a dream," Lydia said bluntly, leading Maricel to the bathroom and more importantly, the shower, "We shared an...intimate moment."

"Oh my god," Maricel whispered as she stepped into the soft illumination of the light-blue tiled bathroom, "I never meant to..."

"It's okay," Lydia reassured her, her hand firmly holding the young woman's shoulders, "We'll talk later. Go ahead and freshen up."

Maricel nodded and Lydia left her alone to clean up. She grabbed the blankets off the bed and put them in the laundry hamper. Lydia went to her bureau and pulled out her nightclothes, carefully placing them on the bed. She undid her jacket and blouse, tossing them with the blankets. She unhooked her bra and let her breasts hang free. Her nipples had been sensitive today, almost painfully so as she cupped her breasts and gently massaged them for a moment. She looked in the mirror attached to the cherry stained dresser and looked at her reflection.

As far as she knew, she was the only vampire ever to have a reflection. There was no explanation as to why a vampire didn't show up on mirrors, though some had said it was a spiritual effect of the virus. A supernatural side effect of losing one's humanity. And yet, here she was, reflected in the mirror, her soft skin glowing in the candlelight, her breasts as full as they had been on the day she had been bitten. She tilted her head to the side and looked at the twin scars on her neck. They had faded a little, but were still raised and puckered like small islands on the sea of her dulcet skin.

She cupped her left breast and turned to her side, revealing yet another set of puncture wounds on the side swell, identical to those on her neck. She dropped her skirt and removed her panties. She put her right leg up on the bureau top and turned so she could see the inside of her thigh. One more set of puncture wounds, in the soft flesh of innermost part of her upper thigh.

There was moment where the memories of the ones who had turned her tried to come flooding back, but she resisted and pushed them away. Thinking about it was too painful, and she didn't dare want to cloud her mind with the past. Tonight, she had to be alert and ready.

Her future depended on it. Maricel's future depended on it.

When Maricel returned from the bathroom, she was dressed in khakis and a white t-shirt, her feet bare. Lydia had just finished putting on her vest, and was pulling her thick hair back from her face when she saw the young woman. Her nipples were hard against the t-shirt, her breasts moving freely as she walked.

"I would've got you one my bras, but we're not the same size," she said.

"I remember," Maricel said quietly and sat down on the bed again, remembering the rush of pleasure she had felt from fondling Lydia's breasts, suckling on her nipples. "So what now?"

Lydia pulled a ten-inch-long intricately detailed dagger from her bottom drawer and sheathed it inside her overcoat. She had thought to bring the twin katana blades she kept hidden in her closet, but thought better of it. They had been a gift from Demeras himself, a symbol of the monarch's gratitude and generosity. They were the only real gift she had ever received. Still, the dagger was easier to hide and would kill just as effectively.

"You're staying here tonight," Lydia told her as she secured the dagger, "I have some business to attend to, and then I will be back."

"It's night already?"

"Eight in the evening," she said as she laced up her boots, "You've been out for over 12 hours."

"Why can't I leave?" Maricel asked.

"You're not ready yet," Lydia answered flatly as she went for the door that led to her office, "There's still much to do in preparing you for your new life, such as it is."

Maricel nodded. "When will you be back?"

"Soon," Lydia smiled reassuringly at her, "Very soon."

Maricel sat for a while on the stripped bed, getting used to the new sensations her eyes and ears were feeding her. Even her skin felt more alive, more in tune to the environment around her. She shuddered as she remembered the images of Lydia's life that had been downloaded into her mind, her journey from one century to the other and all that she had seen. It was fading now to a dim blur in her mind's eye, but the fear and agony of that life remained as powerful as if it had been she who had lived it.

She wondered if her fate would be the same as Lydia's.

Maricel wept, quietly at first and then. as she realized she was truly alone, sobbed openly into the mattress.

***

"You gotta be kidding me," Rossetti groaned as he and Michael pulled up to the side of the museum, their car nestled in the alley, "I'm not letting you go out there alone tonight. In case you haven't noticed, there's bad shit happening out there."

"I know," Michael tried to calm him down, but knew it would do no good, "Just relax okay. I'm probably wrong about her. She probably has no connection whatsoever and I'm just grasping at straws. It's like you said, pretty fucking thin, right?"

"Yeah, but still," Rossetti started, but Michael cut him off.

"Look, we haven't got shit but one for leads right now," Michael explained as he loaded a fresh clip into his sidearm, "Finding out who killed The Front Page Predator is isn't going to mean jack shit if we can't find who killed him. Right now, this woman is the only lead we've had, and I know it's thin, but I'm grasping at straws here, man. My brother's not only dead, but also missing from the morgue. Time is short. Some weird shit is happening here, and maybe this woman can lead me to the truth."

"Fuck me Freddy," Rossetti grumbled as he shut off the headlights and turned off the car. Rain began spattering the windshield as the two men debated, and then became a downpour as the eight o'clock hour rolled around.

"Maybe she isn't the killer, but maybe she can lead me to the one who did it," Michael said, "And maybe we'll find Maricel LaVoy alive."

"Just don't make this shit a personal vendetta, okay?"

"It is personal, you know that. I have to follow through on this, whether Hollins likes it or not."

"And if it costs you your badge, Mike? Hollins warned you off this, told you to stay on the Crispin murder, not your brother."

"They found identical boot prints at both scenes," Michael said as he opened the door, putting one foot out.

"I didn't know that."

"I have to check this out."

Rossetti looked to him, resigned and sullen. He said, "Mike, be careful. If this bitch really is the one who killed your brother and Crispin, she's not defenseless and she's proven she's got one fuck of an edge over the average loon. She'll take you apart."

"You know me," Michael winked and stepped out into the rain.

The door slammed shut and Rossetti said a silent prayer for his friend. This wasn't just another case, and this wasn't just another night in the city. Something was happening, something beyond his understanding, maybe beyond anyone. The rules had changed right along with the game. Rossetti wasn't certain of what was to come, but he knew a lack of knowledge about this new game was going to get them killed if they weren't careful.

He didn't know why, but he felt in his heart that he would never see Michael again.

Rossetti started the car, flipped on the lights and pulled away.

***

Michael leaned against the building, drenched by the fat raindrops rocketing down from the roiling clouds above. The museum was darkened, closed and empty for the remainder of the night. The last few employees were running to their vehicles, newspapers and umbrellas their only protection against the weather. Michael felt himself more alive and alert than he ever had been before, and despite how tired his body felt, he felt reinvested in his work.

When Barbara had left him six months ago and taken his son with her, it had hollowed him out. The marriage had been falling apart for two years before that, mostly over Michael's inability to leave his work at the office and that one other thing.

Michael grimaced, his fist clenched in the pockets as he thought: that one fucking thing.

"I won't let your job destroy us the way it destroyed you," Barb had finally had enough. She left him, imparting those words to Michael on a note she had tucked in his duffel bag.

It had hurt letting them go. But she was right and he felt his son deserved better than only half a man, half a father. He imagined himself becoming his own dad, distant and never quiet there. He imagined the boy growing up to resent him, the same way he resented his father. In the end it was better that they go and get away from him. At least then his son would have a chance to grow up with no handicaps. Michael had wanted to be many things to his boy, but never would he allow himself to be a handicap.

His son deserved better.

He felt he had made some progress in moving on, but as far as might think he had gone, the gold wedding band had not left his finger yet. His thoughts were interrupted by a noise in the alley behind him.

He turned quickly, impulsive reaching for his gun. He caught himself and stopped. There was no point in pulling a gun out on a vagrant or bum, or maybe even a custodian and scaring the piss out of them. It was probably some alley cat digging in the trash, looking for dinner. He stood against the wall, looking into the darkness, gambling that if whoever or whatever was down there did try to attack, he'd have enough time to draw, aim and fire.

"Detective Wolverton," a voice from behind him said softly.

He spun, gun drawn and finger poised as he saw Lydia Jansen standing calmly in the entrance to the alley. She was dressed in a flowing black overcoat, her red hair wet and dripping. And yet, her eyes were radiant and beautiful, almost hypnotic.

"Ms. Renee," he said, gun still aimed at her head, "What are doing here?"

"I work here," she smiled casually, "I might ask the same of you? The police station is fifteen blocks away."

"I thought I might go for a walk."

"Bad night for a walk."

"Yes, I suppose it is," Michael agreed and looked at her intently, "So why are you out and about?"

"I'm a night owl, detective," she replied coolly, "Daylight brings me down."

"I see."

"I doubt that."

"You'd be surprised."

There was a moment of silence save for the steady rattling of the falling rain.

"Are you going to shoot me?" she asked.

"No, I hadn't planned on it."

"Then maybe you should put your piece away before some gets the wrong idea."

"Right," Michael smiled uneasily as he holstered his gun.

He could feel something passing between them, as he had felt it earlier that morning when he first met Lydia. He had never believed in psychic ability, but as he concentrated on the strange feeling in his head he swore he could feel her thoughts, her nervousness. It was this feeling that had caused him to get suspicious, to suspect she had involvement when he had questioned her. She was hiding something and he could feel it now as clearly as the rain pelting his head.

"Where's your umbrella?" he asked, testing the most dangerous water they were treading.

"I don't own one."

"Really?"

"What do you want from me detective?"

"What makes you think I want anything?"

"You're here," Lydia took a step towards him, "In the rain, waiting for me. Don't lie to me. I know when people lie."

Michael thought for a moment, and then said, "Okay, you're right. I have two dead bodies, one of them a serial killer who has claimed 29 victims. The other my brother, who was murdered shortly before the second, only four blocks away."

The word "murdered" stung as she listened, and she thought of Steve. "And you think I am connected?"

"It's a hunch, miss," he shrugged, "Maybe you didn't do it, but you recognized that specific umbrella this morning. You recognized Maricel LaVoy from her picture, and I can't believe a woman like you would ever whore herself out or go seeking a hooker. It limits the ways you could have ever known her."

"And the man who was killed," Lydia looked at Michael, the only sound in the alley besides them being the continual drumming of the rain against metal and concrete coupled with the gutter systems washing themselves out. "Larry Crispin, I think the news said, he was The Front Page Predator?"