P.D. Martin - Kiss of Death

I nod and we keep moving upward. My heart rate increases slightly and I can feel my fatigued muscles working on the steep incline. On either side of the trail are smaller shrubs scattered amongst the trees. There are also several cacti dotted around the patches of vegetation. The path is obvious; however, it wouldn’t be that hard to move off the trail and through the denser brush.

Finally, at the next corner, I hear voices. It’s still hard to work out how far away they are, with the wind and mountain slope carrying the sound and distorting distance, but we’re close.

Both the victim and killer, or killers, probably came up this path. There’s only one way up, unless they hiked in from the neighboring Will Rogers State Park to the east or Topanga State Park from the north. But it’s much more likely they parked on the street somewhere, jumped the park’s nighttime barrier and made their way to the trail. The park is only open from sunrise to sunset, but I doubt the security is heavy.

“Who found the body?” I ask.

“One of the park rangers. They had a call at nine this morning from a resident who overlooks the park. He spotted what looked like torches around midnight last night and then lights again just after two. Called it in this morning.”

I look around for any houses that might have a good view. From here there are only a few houses in the distance to the east, too far away to see much.

Rosen’s starting to puff. “The ranger didn’t think much of it, but decided to check it out anyway. It was about ten when he found the body.”

Rosen called me around eleven, so things moved pretty quickly. An LAPD officer would have come down immediately to secure the scene and wait for the homicide detectives, Forensics and crime-scene photographers. The specialists would have arrived about 10:30 a.m., and the forensic pathologist from the coroner’s office probably only just beat us.

Within a few minutes I can see another row of houses in the distance—one of these homes must be our witness’s. I look around, taking in the surrounding area more closely. To the south is the ocean, and to the north, east and west are hills, some of which are claimed only by nature, while other slopes hold large residences or clusters of smaller houses. The views would be magnificent and I imagine it’s prime real estate. Certainly nothing I would ever be able to afford on a government salary. So, the witness saw into this clearing, saw activity, but did he see anything that will help us further? All the houses are too far away for the naked eye, but if the resident has binoculars or a telescope, he may have seen much more than I glimpsed in last night’s dream.

We round another bend and run into a hive of activity. Most are uniformed police officers from the LAPD, but I can also make out the forensic pathologist Belinda Frost from the coroner’s office and a few plainclothes officers. Only one female in plainclothes, presumably Sloan.

In her mid to late fifties, she wears her graying hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. She’s about fifteen to twenty kilograms overweight, and well-defined lines across her brow, eyes and around her lips help me peg her age. She wears a well-cut navy suit, with pants that flare slightly at the ankle. The suit’s color brings out bright blue eyes and naturally rosy cheeks.

Rosen strides over to her. “Detective Sloan, nice to see you again.”

“You, too, Agent Rosen.”

Rosen introduces me.

“Ah, yeah. My head girl.” She taps her head.

“That’s me.” I smile and take her outstretched hand.

She gives me two firm pumps. “Thanks for coming out so quickly.”

“Thanks for calling us in.”

She gives me a forced smile. While some law-enforcement officers jump at the chance to get a helping hand from the FBI, others avoid us like the plague. Sloan requested Bureau involvement but it doesn’t look like she’s exactly overjoyed by our presence. She’s probably just covering all bases.

“So…there’s our gal.” She steps to one side giving us a view of the body next to Frost’s crouching figure. The victim looks to be in her late teens or early twenties and is slim but curvy—a fact accentuated by her nakedness.

Frost turns around. “Hi. It’s…Anderson, right?” She and I met at a conference six months ago.

“Yup. Agent Sophie Anderson.” She’s several feet away, so we give each other a nod rather than going in for a handshake.

“And good to see you, Agent Rosen. Out in the field, huh?”

Rosen shrugs. “Well, it was a nice day, and this case sounded intriguing.”

Frost nods. “It is.”

I move closer. “Any chance it’s just a simple snakebite?”

“Unlikely.” Frost stands up. “Snakes usually leave residual venom around the wound. I swabbed the area and my preliminary tests were clear. I’ll run full tests back in the lab to be sure, but at this stage it doesn’t look like we’re looking at a snake.”

“Was there any saliva?” Is DNA too much to ask for?

She shakes her head. “No saliva showed up under ALS, but we might get something from deeper inside the wound.”

Whether the murder was premeditated or an impulsive act, the killer may have had the good sense to wipe the girl’s wound clean of saliva—assuming she was, indeed, bitten as the fanglike puncture marks might suggest. Still, we might find something he missed, hiding in a crevice of the wound.

“Any sign of sexual assault?” Rosen asks.

“Rape kit was positive for semen, but at a guess I’d say we’re looking at consensual sex. No bruising or tearing. And no restraint marks.”

I nod, but I know it’s inconclusive. Rape comes in all shapes and sizes and just because her body doesn’t show signs of violent or rough sex, doesn’t mean it was consensual. A gun or knife to the head—or some other threat of violence—usually ensures the victim doesn’t struggle.

“Any defensive wounds?”

Frost squats back down and picks up the dead woman’s arm with a gloved hand. “We’ve got a few scratches on her arms, hands and face, but if she ran along this trail or in this area they’re probably from the tree branches rather than an attacker.”

Last night’s dream comes flashing back. The victim was running all right, with branches hitting her face despite her attempts to shield herself.

“I should be able to confirm that under the microscope. There’ll be particles of wood or leaves.”

I squat down next to her. “And cause of death?”

“Not sure at this stage.”

I peer more closely at the neck wound. The two puncture marks are perfectly cylindrical and very neat, with no obvious tearing of the surrounding skin. However, the skin is red, and looks almost like a small hickey—like someone sucked on the wound. “Could it be blood loss? If we are dealing with someone from this vampire group, that’s likely, yes?”

Frost screws up her face. “She looks a little pale but if she died of blood loss it’s going to be a tricky one to prove.”

“Really?”

“There’s no way to test at autopsy how much blood is in the body and we’ve only got a 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.”