William Bernhardt - Capitol Murder

The question troubled him deeply. Because as every good attorney knew, the key to a successful defense was anticipation. No matter how bad the testimony, if you can see it coming, you can come up with some way to deflect it, to undermine it, to deflate it, to make it seem less than it at first appeared to be.

But if you didn’t know what was coming, you were like a floundering fish waiting to be speared. Dead in the water.

Loving stared at the young woman bearing both the determined expression and the crossbow aimed at his chest. “Have I… uh… done somethin’ to offend you?” he asked.

“Your very existence offends me, Dracula.”

Loving furrowed his brow. “I think you may be confused.”

“Am I?” She was so close now the tip of the crossbow bolt was barely a foot away. “How do you figure?”

Loving pointed to Daily. “He’s Count Dracula. I’m Renfield.”

Daily spun around. “Now wait a minute-”

“You think that’s funny?” She pushed the tip of the bolt to his chest, right over his heart. “You won’t be laughing once I send you into instant cremation.”

Loving held up his hands. “Look, lady, you’ve got the wrong idea. We’re not vampires.”

“I suppose you were in there just for the free crudités.”

“I was in there as part of an investigation. That’s my job. I’m a private investigator.”

“Do you think I’m stupid? I was watching you. I saw that rouged-up Vampirella bite your neck.”

Ah. Now Loving was beginning to understand where the woman was coming from. “And why do you care?”

“Because that’s my job,” she spat back. “I’m a vampire hunter.”

Loving and Daily exchanged a look. “Did you say what I think you just said?”

“Don’t get smart with me!” She jabbed him with the tip of the bolt. “I won’t take any crap from a reanimated corpse.”

Loving held up his hands. “Lady-do you have a name?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“I’d just like to know who I’m talkin’ to before you, uh, slay me.”

She hesitated, her narrowed eyes spewing anger. “You can call me Shalimar.”

“And you’re a… vampire slayer.”

“ Hunter! Not slayer!”

“What’s the difference?”

“The difference is this is real life, not some TV show.”

“Fine. Vampire hunter. ” He paused. “Do you need a hunting license for that?”

Her teeth clenched together. “Wiseass undead hellspawn. I’m taking you down.”

“Look, Shalimar, I’m not a vampire. You fire that bolt, you’ll be committin’ murder.”

“Prove it.”

“Prove it? How do I prove I’m not a vampire?” He snapped his fingers. “I got it. I’ll follow you home.”

“What? Why?”

“If I can sneak into your place without an invitation, that means I’m not a vampire, right?”

She raised the crossbow higher. “I warned you-”

“Or we could get Italian. After you see how much garlic I put on everythin’-”

“Cut it out!”

Loving tried another tack. “You got a cross on you?”

She hesitated. “Several.”

“How did I guess? Gimme one.”

“Why?”

“So when I don’t burst into flames or cower or hiss or anythin’, you’ll know I’m not undead.”

Slowly, Shalimar reached inside her Windbreaker and produced a small wooden cross. She held it out to him. Loving took it into his hand…

And screamed. “Aaaaaah!” He dropped the cross and pressed his hand to his chest.

Shalimar jumped, crossbow at the ready. “ What? You monstrous-”

Loving held up his hands. “Jokin’, jokin’.” He picked the cross up off the pavement and squeezed it. “See. Nothin’. I’m not a vampire.”

Shalimar pursed her lips, furious. “Him, too.”

Daily took the cross, didn’t joke around, didn’t turn to flames.

Slowly Shalimar lowered her crossbow. “I guess you’re clean. You should be more careful about who you make out with.” She shrugged. “Sorry if I startled you.”

“Think nothin’ of it,” Loving replied. “Happens every day. But lemme tell you-there’s nothing in there but a lotta pathetic whack jobs tryin’ to convince themselves they’re special by copyin’ scenes from bad horror movies. I didn’t see anyone who didn’t reflect in the mirror over the hearth.”

“More pretenders.” She released the bolt from her crossbow and slowly edged it back into the quiver on her back. “Damn.”

“Lady, they’re all pretenders. There’s no such thing as vampires.”

“You’re wrong. They do exist.”

“Where? Universal Studios?”

“History is replete with documented vampires. The novel Dracula was based on a real vampire. Lady Caroline Lamb, the Victorian poet, was a vampire. There have been many books written on the subject.”

“Ma’am,” Loving said, “with all due respect, I’ve been known to buy any number of off-the-wall theories. But even I don’t believe some lady poet was really a vampire. Know why? ’Cause there’s no such thing!”

She looked at him with a sad, pitying expression. “That’s what they want you to believe.”

“Oh, for Pete’s-”

“Are you familiar with Rousseau?”

“The actress?”

“No, the eighteenth-century French philosopher and writer. One of the smartest men who ever lived. He said-and this is an exact quote-‘If ever there was in the world a warranted and proven history, it is that of vampires: nothing is lacking, official reports, testimonials of persons of standing, of surgeons, of clergymen, of judges; the judicial evidence is all-embracing.’”

“The man was cracked. With all due respect, Miss Shalimar, people don’t rise from the dead, no matter who they’ve been suckin’ on.”

“Do you know the disease porphyria? It’s a genetic disorder that causes receding gums-which can make people look like they have fangs-and also creates hypersensitivity to sunlight and an enzyme deficiency that can cause people to crave blood.”

Loving pinched the bridge of his nose. “Lady, you’re… what? Twenty-one, twenty-two? You should be in a sorority or the Junior Service League or somethin’. When did you get started chasin’ vampires?”

Her eyes narrowed to a dull pinpoint of light. “After they took my sister.”

A synapse fired somewhere inside Loving’s brain. “What was your sister’s name?”

She looked at him for a long while, as if trying to evaluate whether she could trust him, before finally answering. “My sister’s name was Beatrice. Why do you ask?”

B en waited quietly, wringing his hands under the defense table, desperate to know who the prosecution’s pièce de résistance would be. He’d pored over their witness list, but that was no help-there were at least thirty uncalled witnesses remaining, and as far as he knew none of them had anything sensational to say. He’d tried to wheedle the information out of Padolino, who wouldn’t give up anything but kept pestering Ben for Christina’s phone number. His associates were apparently under threat of bodily injury not to talk. Ben had scanned the courtroom, the hallway outside, even the men’s room, but hadn’t been able to spot anyone who wasn’t normally present.

“Maybe you’re wrong,” Christina said, with an attempt at solace that was painfully unavailing. “Maybe there is no killer finale. They’ve already put on enough to make their case.”

“But possibly not enough to win it.” Ben shook his head. “No, if this was all he had, Padolino would’ve closed with Senator Tidwell. Or the video. There has to be something more.”

“Don’t feel bad,” Glancy grunted. “My staff is equally clueless.”