S. Cedric - Of Fever and Blood

“Raped?”

“Possibly, but the vagina was so mutilated, it’s impossible to establish with certainty. What’s certain, though, is that no semen was found on the victim, nor any trace of DNA. The killer took a shower and carefully cleaned everything. All we were able to pick up were a few partial fingerprints on the kitchen knife stuck down the girl’s throat. Unfortunately, none of them were good enough to be of any use. Just so you know, the knife belonged to Barbara Meyer, but it isn’t the weapon that was used to torture her.”

Deveraux placed a second pile of papers in front of him. “Second victim: Audrey Desiderio, journalist, thirty-nine years old, presumably the first victim’s lover. Same MO, same weapon. The killer tied her up before stabbing her forty times. Several organs punctured. There, too, the skin on the face was completely peeled off while she was still alive, and then her throat was slit. Death occurred faster in that case, but the murderer very carefully collected a certain amount of blood, approximately two pints, that couldn’t be found at the scene. In both cases, it’s the victim’s blood that was used to write the inscriptions.”

“The inscriptions. Yes.”

The chief studied the photos that Deveraux had just given him.

He turned to Eva.

“So?”

Eva cleared her throat.

“So, the similarities with the Salaville brothers’ MO are glaring.”

“That’s not what I’m asking you.”

“I know,” Eva said.

“A copycat?”

Eva hesitated, then answered, “No. I wish that were the case, but I don’t think so. And that’s precisely what worries me.”

Jean-Luc Deveraux let out an exasperated sigh.

“Come on, Eva. The media went on and on about the Black Mountain Vampires. All you need is five minutes surfing the Internet, and you’ve got all the details. You can even buy fucking T-shirts with a picture of the Salavilles on them. Any admirers of the perverts could have set out to imitate them.”

“It’s not that simple, unfortunately. Those inscriptions were part of the evidence that was never disclosed to the media, and I made sure of that myself. Reporters had access to only a few carefully selected pictures. The same for the broken mirrors. That detail was never made public.”

“You know full well that cops will talk if the price is right,” Deveraux shot back.

“Maybe you would. But don’t presume your lack of ethics is the norm.”

“Eva, cut it out,” the chief ordered before Deveraux could respond.

A tense silence fell around the table. O, his face grave, turned to Deveraux.

“Jean-Luc, you can investigate the copycat angle if you want. The Salavilles probably have quite a few fans.”

Eva’s cheekbones reddened, but the rest of her face remained perfectly impassive.

O turned to Eva. “I’m listening,” he said.

Eva took a deep breath. “What I’m certain of is that we’re dealing with a true sadist. He’s smart and much more organized than the Salavilles. With him, nothing is left to chance. Everything is carefully planned. He didn’t kill these women with the first weapon he came across. He brings his own equipment. He also makes sure his victims are defenseless. He’s capable of hacking a girl to pieces for hours, spreading blood all over a room, and then taking a shower so as not to leave any clues. I don’t know if you actually realize how composed you’ve got to be to do such things. This is an advanced stage of psychosis. It doesn’t get to that point overnight. It takes time to develop, ten years or so. He may have killed other women, as well. We need to look into unsolved missing-persons cases for the past year, starting with the Ariege Department.”

Eva paused to give her colleagues a chance to ask questions. Deveraux shot her a dirty look. Silly as it was, it amused her.

“There’s actually one point that Deveraux and I agree on,” she continued. “That’s the fact that these two murders have a link to the Salavilles. The MO isn’t just similar. It’s exactly the same. And I can assure you that I’ve spent hundreds of hours on the Salaville case.

“Who were they? Two ordinary madmen who happened to be brothers. They’re not the first of their type, and unfortunately, they won’t be the last we encounter over the course of our careers. But at the end of the day, I’ve always felt that all the pieces weren’t there. Something crucial was missing. Of course, we know everything about their MO. We know exactly how they kidnapped their victims. But what remains unexplained is why they cut off the faces of their victims. And what did they do with these trophies? Personally, I always thought that they were meticulously following a ritual. I haven’t changed my mind about that.”

“Like some sort of cult?” Leroy asked.

“Right. This type of ritual can have a diabolic motive, like stealing the souls of these girls, for example. Remember the case of the Skid Row Stabbers, Maxwell and Greenwood? They thought they were harvesting souls for the devil by killing homeless people, and Maxwell left messages with the word “Satan” written everywhere. As for Greenwood, he drank his victims’ blood right from their slit throats. Sometimes he collected some of the blood in small cups, and he traced circles of salt around the corpses.”

Rudy O spread the photos of the circle of blood.

“You think that’s what our killer is doing?” Rudy O asked. “That he’s collecting souls?”

“I think it’s not impossible,” Eva answered. “Psychopaths who kill in a ritualistic manner often aim at pleasing some sort of god. In this case, all we know is that our killer is obsessed with blood. And, on that subject, I think it’s time to show you what I’ve found.”

She opened a folder and pulled out the book with the white cover bearing the title The Blood Countess . Next to the book, she set the picture of the dragon biting its own tail.

“What do you think of this symbol?”

Leroy turned the sheet of paper toward him.

“Looks like the drawings found in the Salaville house. No doubt about it.”

“It’s the coat of arms of the Countess Erszebet Bathory. Or Elizabeth Bathory, if you prefer the modern form of her first name.”

The three men stared at her.

“It’s in the Bible, isn’t it?” Leroy finally asked.

“Not really, Erwan. Countess Bathory was a Hungarian aristocrat in the sixteenth century. And she was a sadistic psychopath. She had four minions, who were also said to be sorcerers, whom she used to torture her female servants in every possible way. She would have them drive needles under their skin, for instance, and flay them until they bled to death. The official tally was three hundred and fifty victims, which makes her the most prolific serial killer in history. To this day, she’s remembered as the Blood Countess in Hungarian folklore.”

“Three hundred and fifty victims?” Deveraux responded. “You’ve got to be kidding?”

“No, I’m not. All this really happened. The Blood Countess has inspired a lot of modern vampire legends, as many legends as Prince Vlad Dracula. She was convinced that the blood of young girls could remove all traces of aging. She spread it all over her body, even bathing in a blood-filled bathtub, all for the purpose of becoming immortal.”

“Did it work?” Deveraux asked, chuckling.

“Not exactly,” Eva said, unfazed. “Actually, things got so out of hand, her own family brought her to trial. She was sentenced and ultimately walled up in her own bedroom. She died three years later, in 1614 to be precise.”

Eva’s colleagues stared at her. Leroy leafed through the book in silence, then handed it to Deveraux. He opened it, brows furrowed, and closed it almost immediately.