Линкольн Чайлд - Bloodless

“That will do,” Pickett said, his voice tight. And the phone went dead.

Coldmoon looked at Pendergast, who had a most unusual twinkle of amusement in his eye. “Is that who I think it was? The Georgia senator, reaming out Pickett?”

“Tragic how some people seem unable to master digital technology,” Pendergast said, not sounding perturbed at all.

“I don’t know how, but I think you managed that little screw-up,” said Coldmoon.

“Who, me? Impossible.”

That Senator Drayton certainly sounded like a first-class asshole. Coldmoon couldn’t help but feel a certain grim satisfaction in knowing that Pickett might himself be on the receiving end of the stick.

Pendergast was already out of the car and walking across the parking lot, and Coldmoon hurried to join him.

He mounted the stage behind Pendergast, who took up a position on one side of the podium, with Delaplane, Detective Sheldrake, and a short, red-faced man Coldmoon assumed was the mayor on the other. The press had assembled with less jostling and chaos than Coldmoon expected. Maybe it had something to do with southern gentility. He noticed that the documentary filmmaker, Betts, must somehow have gotten wind of this conference before anyone else, because his team had parked themselves at the very front, staking out the choicest spot while the area behind had gradually filled with other journalists, cameras, and boom mics.

At eleven o’clock sharp, Delaplane stepped up to the microphone and gave it a few loud taps to silence the crowd. “I am Commander Alanna Delaplane, Savannah PD,” she began, “and I welcome you all to this press conference.”

She took a deep breath and went on, her powerful voice ringing off the façades of the surrounding buildings. This was one way to handle the press, Coldmoon thought: at high volume. She expressed sympathy for the two victims; assured the public that all resources were being brought to bear; praised the M.E.’s work; welcomed the help of the FBI; thanked the forensic teams and labs working on the case; and burnished the investigation to such a high gloss that it left the assembled press — who were no doubt thirsting for gore and controversy — dispirited, almost as if the case had been solved while their backs were turned. No mention was made of the raid.

Then the mayor took the podium and praised Commander Delaplane in turn, along with various officials Coldmoon had neither seen nor heard of, for their splendid work on the case. Coldmoon was beginning to feel uneasy with all this self-congratulation: from his own perspective, so far they had jack shit. But the entire press conference seemed to be having an anesthetic effect, turning an inexplicable and frightening situation into something that sounded almost boring. Perhaps that was the intention.

Finally, the mayor introduced “the highly decorated Special Agent Aloysius X. L. Pendergast of the FBI” — actually pronouncing his first name correctly which, Coldmoon guessed, might be another southern thing — and then stepped aside and yielded the podium.

Pendergast stepped up to it and spent a few moments surveying the restless crowd with gleaming eyes. As he did so, a hush fell. Coldmoon had to admit his partner had a charismatic aura so magnetic it could quiet even a crowd of reporters — at least temporarily.

“Honored ladies and gentlemen of the press,” Pendergast began, his honeyed accent thicker than ever, “the FBI is naturally glad to assist Savannah law enforcement in investigating these recent homicides.” He went on, his sonorous tone mesmerizing the crowd without actually imparting any information of note. He finished and stepped back, while Delaplane came forward again to call for questions. A scattering of hands shot up, including Betts’s.

Delaplane pointed into the crowd. “Ms. O’Reilly, of WTOC?”

“Do you have any leads?”

“Yes, we do. I can’t go into them for obvious reasons, but we’re working on several promising avenues of investigation. Mr. Boojum of the Register? ”

“Commander, is there a concern there might be more killings? And, if so, do you have any advice for the public on how to protect themselves?”

“We’ve quadrupled law enforcement presence in the historic area,” Delaplane said. “I would ask that people not walk downtown alone at night, and please avoid inebriation, which always makes one an easier target.”

There was quite a bit of snickering among the press over that last piece of advice.

“Ms. Locatelle of WHAF.”

“Commander, what about the raid on that church over on Bee Street? Did anything come of that?”

At this, Delaplane pursed her lips. “If you’re referring to the FBI action, the SPD had nothing to do with that. I’ll turn the floor over to Special Agent Pendergast to, ah, explain.”

Pendergast stepped forward. “I’m afraid that was a dead end. The rites involved animal blood, not human.”

“What kind of animals?”

“Ducks, apparently.”

There was a rash of snickering at this detail.

“No connection was found to the current case, and no apparent laws were broken by the, ah, worshippers, and as such their names cannot be released.”

He stepped back and the commander came forward to handle more questions, pointedly ignoring Betts, who was waving his hand and becoming increasingly agitated when he was not called on. Finally, he simply shouted out a question. “Commander, what do you say to reports that these killings are remarkably similar to the legends of the Savannah Vampire?”

Delaplane fixed him with a steady eye. “Vampire, did you say?” she asked in a tone one might use to humor a child. “Mister...”

“Betts. Barclay Betts, anchor for—”

“Mr. Betts, if you’re asking me if we think these killings are the work of a vampire, the answer is... wait for it... no .”

Another titter rippled through the crowd.

“However,” Delaplane continued, “it might be the work of a person, or persons, drawn for unhealthy reasons of their own to Savannah... and its legends. The Bee Street raid is a case in point.”

“How was the blood drained?” Betts continued. “And to what purpose?”

“We believe a tool called a trocar, similar to a large-bore needle, was inserted into the femoral artery of the leg. As to what purpose, we have no idea yet.”

When Delaplane tried to move to another questioner, Betts continued. “Is it true that all the blood was sucked out... every drop?”

She arched her eyebrows and fixed him with a steady gaze. “Every drop was taken. We’re analyzing how it might have been done.” Before Betts could continue, she said: “Mr. Wellstone?”

Coldmoon saw a handsome figure in an impeccable suit — gray hair at the temples, horn-rimmed glasses, every inch the professor — nod in acknowledgment. “I have a question for Special Agent Pendergast,” he said in a patrician drawl. “Agent Pendergast, I understand you’re one of the FBI’s leading experts on deviant criminal psychology, especially as it involves serial homicide. Do you think the perpetrator is, in fact, a deviant serial killer?”

Silence fell as the crowd awaited Pendergast’s answer.

“Serial killer?” Pendergast finally said. “Perhaps. Deviant? Perhaps not.” He paused. “Perhaps what we are seeing is the expression of a certain kind of normative psychology, not deviant so much as a deviation from our expected standards.”

“What do you mean by that?” Wellstone asked.

Amen , Coldmoon thought.

But Pendergast said nothing more, and with that Delaplane concluded the press conference.

Standing in the muck, Commander Alanna Delaplane slapped at a mosquito and cursed under her breath. The dog handler, Boris Strawbridge, was moving ahead of her, his boots squishing along the riverbank as he forced his way through the thick vegetation. Twist, the giant bloodhound he had brought, had the longest tongue Delaplane had ever seen on a dog. The powerful animal’s leash was clipped to a belt around Strawbridge’s waist to keep his hands free for pushing aside vegetation. Behind, she could hear the distant rush of traffic as it crossed the river on the Victory Drive Bridge, but the trees and bushes were so thick she couldn’t see the span. Where they were — along the marshy shores of Sylvan Island — might as well be the damn Amazon jungle for all its impenetrable thickness and whining bugs. The big bloodhound was snuffling about listlessly, more interested in trash that had washed up than any scent connected with the Ellerby homicide.