Blood Trust - Eric van Lustbader [12]
They had drawn up to the front gates of Fearington Academy, which was ablaze with the blinding dazzle of cop cars and unmarked vehicles. After showing their credentials to three different police in ascending order of rank, they were directed and waved through. The car crunched the gravel as Jack headed toward the obstacle course to the left of the main building.
Henry Holt Carson leaned over slightly. “My brother allowed you too much control over Alli, McClure. That’s a mistake I aim to correct tonight.”
THREE
“WELL, HERE’S something you don’t see every day.”
The ME, a tall, rangy man in his midfifties with skin like a lizard and eyes like burnt-out pits, was crouched just to the right of Billy Warren’s corpse. His name was Bit Saunderson; he viewed corpses the way a philatelist views stamps. His forensic people had snapped photos from every conceivable angle, taken shoe prints from the crime scene area, and had departed as silently as clouds drift across the sky.
“Look here.”
He was speaking to Willowicz, but no one stopped Alli from having a look herself. Saunderson’s knees creaked like masts at sea as he moved to give them a view of the side of the corpse’s neck.
“Yeah, we noticed,” Willowicz said, “but what the fuck is it?”
“It’s a bit of a plastic straw. See, it’s pink-and-white striped.” Saunderson touched the protruding end with the tip of his gloved finger. “Neatly punctured the carotid, too. This is how your victim exsanguinated.”
Willowicz scratched his razor-burned jaw. “That speaks to a working knowledge of the human body.”
“Anatomy is a first-semester class at Fearington.” Commander Fellows had begun to look green around the gills.
“Aced her courses, she said,” O’Banion growled as he took up position directly behind Alli.
Naomi Wilde frowned as she bent over for a look. “But why a straw, of all things?”
O’Banion was virtually breathing fumes from his sour stomach down Alli’s neck. “Why don’t you ask her?”
Saunderson turned his half-dead face up to Wilde. “Like sucking an ice-cream soda, you can control the volume of flow.”
A deep and horrific silence ensued, which ended abruptly with O’Banion’s bray. “Doc, please, you’re telling us that Ms. Carson might be a vampire?”
“You’ve been seeing too many horror films, O’Banion.” The ME shook his head. “No, this is something far worse. Your perp is a deeply disturbed individual—a psychopath, though there’s nothing textbook about him. He—”
“Or she.” O’Banion stared at the back of Alli’s head with newfound venom.
Saunderson took a breath. “Your killer is both a sadist and, I would venture to guess, insane, or at least has become unhinged.”
“Traumatized,” Willowicz said. He, too, was watching Alli as if she were already in a cage. “As from a terrible ordeal.”
Saunderson, clueless as to his true meaning, nodded. “Something in the past, yes, that’s a distinct probability with psychosis.” He tapped the straw. “Who else would think of varying the flow of blood in order to prolong a victim’s agony?”
* * *
HARRISON JENKINS, Carson’s attorney, drove up minutes after Jack had exited the car. Carson was walking back and forth over the frosty ground like a caged animal impatient to be fed. Jenkins was one of those sleek men you see giving sound bites on CNN or Fox News. His gray hair was thick, and long enough to cover the tops of his ears, his cheeks were a healthy pink, and, Jack noted, he had perfectly manicured nails that shone like ten tiny mirrors. He gave the impression of being tall, but up close he was less than median height, maybe five six. He was carrying a battered leather briefcase. His expensive overcoat was open, revealing a steel-gray suit, white shirt, and a striped red tie. There was an enamel pin of the American flag on the lapel of his overcoat. All he needed, Jack thought, was a bald eagle perched on his shoulder. He walked like a lawyer should, as if he owned the ground over which he strode. Jack supposed he should be grateful for Jenkins’s appearance, but something about the man chilled him.
Carson whirled around when