Robert Walker - Killer Instinct

“ Still, if Teach was a second personality-”

“ I know, I know… wouldn't the handwriting reflect that?”

“ And isn't it feasible-just feasible-that Maurice's so-called partner was his other self, this Teach? And maybe this would explain why he was afraid to give his lawyer a name.”

“ This case could drive me wacko,” admitted Brewer. “Look, we go to Balue-Stork. Do a little snooping, say in personnel, records-”

“ Sales. We hit sales records,” said Boutine. “See if they've got anyone who regularly visits hospitals in Wekosha; Iowa City; Paris, Illinois; Indianapolis-”And Zion.”

The two men stared into each other's eyes. “If there is another killer out there taking blood-'' began Brewer.

“ It could be Kaseem's vampire.”

“ It could also be the one who likes to write to Dr. Coran, too.”

At that moment, Otto knew he would not be leaving Chicago without Jessica beside him. “Let's get over to this medical supply. You know the quickest route?”

“ It's damned far from here; located in the suburbs. We'll have to use the siren, make it down the Eisenhower. Come on.”

It was nearing 5 P.M., which was just as well. They'd go in after most of the employees were off the premises, and they'd dig all night if it was necessary.?

Jessica Coran set up a number of tests which would separate the blood splotches on the letter both on the front and the back to determine the exact amount of time they had been on the paper. If there was a significant lag time, it would be logical to assume that the blood on top of the suicide note was different in some regard from that found below. At the crime scene she had drawn extensive diagrams for the trajectory of the blood from Lowenthal's wounds. If the suicide note had been lying on the coffee table before he cut his wrists, the splatters would be less like splotches and more like exclamation points in a series, as the vein would have spurted. The tracks on the table beneath the note had this significant shape, but the tracks on the face of the paper did not.

It was clear to her that either (1) the dead man had placed the note gently onto the table after he had slashed both his wrists, or (2) someone else was kind enough to do it for him. There was no doubt in her mind that the wounds inflicted were of such a brutal nature that no one could be calm under the circumstances, or clearheaded enough to locate and place that note on the table just before keeling over. She'd had Lowenthal's blood and serums checked for LSD or any other drug that might account for the unusual sequence of events surrounding his death, but the lab had found no trace of drugs, and certainly no cortisone. As for the print left on the cortisone capsule, there was simply not enough to be sure either way. She spent hours over Lowenthal's body, his wrists to be exact, using an exacting method of measurement about the wounds, determining that the left was indeed cut by a right hand, and the right was indeed cut by a left hand. Only the most cunning, methodical of killers would think to change hands with the scalpel as he sliced each wrist, to create the illusion of suicide.

It looked rather hopeless, except for the blood evidence, and all too often, blood evidence was ignored, despite the incredible accuracy of the scientific field. To prove her point, she'd have to get a world-renowned blood specialist. Not even Robertson back at Quantico, with all of his background, would be enough to support what she was saying, and the cost factor, and the logistics of getting a man like T. Herbert Leon, or her old mentor, Holecraft, to fly to Chicago to look over the evidence… Well, it was not likely she'd get the okay from Otto, not in his present mood, and as for getting “permission” from O'Rourke, that'd stick in her craw like a chicken bone.

But maybe she'd have to put her personal feelings aside. She thought of all the professionals who had put in so many grueling hours on the Tort 9 case, from J.T. to Byrnes and Schultz, O'Rourke herself, even Raynack, with their pro bono work going to Kaseem and Forsythe. She wondered momentarily if the man who had staged the “death” of the vampire killer here in Chicago was not the same man who had eluded the military for so many years. Was it possible?

She was tired, exhausted, and while she had the killer's bloody tools to examine against what she knew of the wounds inflicted on the flesh of his victims, tests on the tissue that had come off of these blades had already confirmed a match with Tommy Fowler in Indiana.

How did Lowenthal lure his victims in? An old man who often used a cane. What Scarborough, the only so-called witness had seen was a younger man. They'd found no hairpieces or makeup kit. Yet, his spigot, under magnification, was clearly the nasty weapon used at the jugular on the Cope-land girl and all the others. And if there was another vampire working with Lowenthal, he'd never give up this device.

But suppose, she stopped herself with a thought, suppose there were more than one; suppose Lowenthal had made two or three or more?

Or was she being paranoid? She had plenty of reason to be; and hadn't J.T. said that it was, after all, a healthy enough emotion if it kept you from cold, shocking surprise blows to the blind side? Like O'Rourke's sudden power grab. Like Otto's uncharacteristic tent-folding act. She wanted to scream at him for letting it all happen. The forces had been aligned against him while his wife was dying, and they said sharks lived only in oceans. And then Otto had had the audacity to say that he more or less admired O'Rourke for her cunning and her timing. Was that because Otto himself was a well-timed, cunning devil himself? Like his showing up the night before when she would never have turned him away?

She was still angry with him for implying that her interest in him had only to do with her ambition.

These thoughts crowded out her attention to her work, and she realized that she was becoming too fatigued to carry on. She'd performed the autopsy on Lowenthal as well as arranging for the various tests she'd wanted done. She now looked at her watch, and lunch felt like a distant vacation taken years before, save for the hurt she'd felt at Otto's thoughtless remark.

She peeled away her lab coat. Most of the areas of the lab were dark, the graveyard shift kept to a minimum along with the lights. She stretched and realized that a lab assistant in another room was staring through the glass at her and pointing to the phone. She only now realized the buzz in a nearby office was for her. She went to the phone and picked it up.

“ Call for Dr. Coran,” said a female voice.

“ Yes, this is she.”

“ Go ahead, sir.” After a moment's hesitation and the disappearance of the operator, a raspy voice came choking through, sounding nervous.

“ I saw you onnnnn TV. You… you are pretty.”

“ Who is this?”

“ I… I'm the vampire.”

“ Look, I'm in no mood for a crank-”

“ I take the blood in jars.”

“ Yes, well, thanks to the papers, everybody knows that.”

“ I use a modified tracheotomy tube and a tourniquet to control the blood flow, usually after severing the Achilles tendon.”

She shivered from deep within her soul. “The vampire killer is dead. Maurice Lowenthal-”

“ I killed Maurice. You know that… You're the only one who knows that.”

So you want me dead, she told herself. “Why're you telling me this?”

No one outside FBI circles knew of the tourniquet or the slashed heels.

“ / want some of your blood.'''

She tried to breathe normally, but found it near impossible. Now he was quoting from the letter he had written in Copeland's blood. Either she was speaking to Candy Copeland's killer, the man who treated his victims like swine to be bled, or someone was playing the kind of cruel, sick and senseless joke that police personnel loved the most.