Kiss of Death. P.D. Martin
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few drops here.” She points to roughly six drops of blood next to the body.
I’m surprised, but when I think about it I’ve never worked a case of blood loss where the surrounding area wasn’t covered in blood. And the experts always specify how much blood was lost at the scene, from which they can conclude blood loss as the cause of death.
Sloan bends down next to the corpse, too. “Someone sure has made it look like a vampire, though.”
“Not necessarily look.” I scan the rest of the victim’s body. “There are people who truly believe they are vampires. That they need blood to survive.”
While it’s possible someone wants us to think we’ve got a vampire on our hands and is recreating that scene, it’s also possible that we’re dealing with people who believe they are modern-day vampires. If that’s the case the murder and crime scene hasn’t been purposely staged, the killer has just murdered the victim in what he’d consider a “natural” way. And psychologically there’s a big difference, especially in terms of a profile.
I stand up again. “Time of death?”
“Based on her liver temp and the current outside temperature, between one and four.”
Frost would have inserted a metal probe through the skin and into the victim’s liver to get the all-important core body temperature. While some forensic pathologists prefer to take the rectal temperature so they’re not piercing the skin and organs, obviously Frost is in the liver-temperature camp.
“That time ties in with our caller.” Sloan pulls herself to standing with some effort.
“What did the witness see?” I ask her.
“Lights, like torches, moving, and then later on a circle of smaller lights. I haven’t been to interview him yet, but he’s next on my list.”
I flick the ring on my little finger. “Sure does sound ritualistic.”
“Yup. Why do you think I called you in?” Her response is a little terse.
I look around at the scene. “What else have you got?”
“The ranger who found her is over there.” Sloan nods at a tall bearded man in his early thirties. “He was careful with the crime scene, careful trekking in and out, and we’ve managed to find quite a few distinct footprints nearer to the body.”
“Any idea how many sets?”
“Too early to tell. But apparently this clearing is a common stopover point for walkers. It’ll be hard to tell if the prints are from last night or earlier in the week.”
“Any in a circle?”
She shrugs. “We’ll know more in an hour or two.”
“You ID’d the girl?” Rosen bends down to take a closer look at her face.
“Yes. Sherry Taylor.” Sloan leans over the body. “There was an APB put out for her earlier today. She’s twenty years old, and lived in Brentwood with her parents, who reported her missing this morning.”
I chew on my bottom lip. “You’ve done the death knock?”
She sighs and nods. “Just got back. The parents were too distraught to talk, so I’m giving them an hour or two before we start questioning them. I’m hoping they’ll give us the formal ID this evening or early tomorrow. But I did take a head shot for them. It’s their girl, all right.”
“I’d like to sit in on any meetings you have with them, if that’s okay, Detective. I need to know as much as possible about Sherry.”
She nods. “I know the drill, Anderson.”
“Great.”
I take another look at the body, noticing her nakedness in every sense of the word—no makeup and no nail polish, which is unusual for a young woman. Did the killer or killers remove these things? It might tie in with the sacrifice angle—she had to be pure.
Sloan moves us away from the body.
“Ever seen anything like this before?” I ask her.
“No. I’ve seen a lot of bizarre things in my time, but nothing that implicates vampires. You?”
“My vampire viewing’s limited to Buffy.”
She gives a brief chuckle before letting out a heavy sigh. “The vampire mythology has always held a sense of intrigue, but it’s everywhere now.”
I nod. “And vampires are part of our consciousness from an early age. Even Sesame Street has The Count.”
“Humph…I never thought of that.” She looks back at the body. “Young women like Sherry…they think vampires are cool.”
I stare at the body, too. “I bet Sherry Taylor didn’t think it was cool when she was running for her life.”
Two
Sunday, 12:30 p.m.
Our caller lives on El Medio Avenue, overlooking both Topanga State Park and Temescal Gateway Park. Sloan and I pay him a visit together, leaving the crime-scene techs and Sloan’s partner, Detective Carey, to finish processing the scene. Rosen also leaves, opting to go back to the office and finish some paperwork, and Frost will be heading off with the body soon, too. Every forensic pathologist is different, but an hour or so at the scene is plenty for most.
Sloan and I take my car, and I turn off Sunset onto El Medio Avenue. The incline starts immediately, and within less than half a mile we’re on the crest of a large hill. From the road, the houses seem like larger suburban blocks, and their impressive views are hidden behind their bulk. It’d be nice to have a state park in your backyard. Especially so close to downtown L.A.
“What do you think one of these would go for?”
Sloan lets out a whistle. “Dunno…not exactly in my budget.” She peers out the window for a second look. “You’d have to be talking five to ten million, maybe more.”
“Ouch.”
“Uh-huh.” She pauses, looking at the street numbers. “We’re almost there. Third house on the right.”
I pull into the curb outside number 922.
Sloan unbuckles her seat belt. “We’re looking for Mr. Heeler.”
The house is a gray weatherboard, with white easels and window frames. It’s set back from the road a little more than some of the other houses, with a large concrete driveway leading to a double garage under the main residence. We walk along the driveway, up the two porch steps and knock on the white door.
A man in his late fifties answers. “Yes?” With one word, one breath, the stench of stale alcohol hits me. Great.
“This is Agent Anderson, and I’m Detective Sloan from the LAPD.” We both show our IDs.
“Of course.” He gives them a cursory glance with bloodshot eyes. “I’m Andrew Heeler. Please come in.”
Heeler is wearing khaki pants, a black shirt and bare feet. His graying hair is short, accentuating his round face and dark brown eyes. He takes us past a staircase and a living room on the right, into a large kitchen and open-plan space that looks out onto a deck…and the park.
“Wow,” I say. “What a view.”
He stops and looks out the windows. “Yes. It’s magnificent.” He sighs. “Except when kids are fooling around down there.”
“The people you saw were young?” Sloan asks.
“I don’t know. I’m just assuming.” He turns around to us. “Tea, coffee?”
Sloan and I both accept the offer of a coffee.
“Take a seat if you like.” Heeler motions toward a large black leather couch.