Guilty Pleasures - Laurell K. Hamilton [83]
THERE are always too many people at a murder scene. Not the gawkers, the people who come to watch; you expect that. There is always something fascinating about someone else’s death. But the place always swarms with police, mostly detectives with a sprinkling of uniforms. So many cops for one little murder.
There was even a news van, with a huge satellite antenna sticking out of its back like a giant ray gun from some 1940s science fiction movie. There would be more news vans, I was betting on that. I don’t know how the police kept it quiet this long.
Vampire murders, gee whiz, sensationalism at its best. You don’t even have to add anything to make it bizarre.
I kept the crowd between myself and the cameraman. A reporter with short blond hair and a stylish business suit was shoving a microphone in Dolph’s face. As long as I stayed near the gruesome remains, I was safe. They might get me on film, but they wouldn’t be able to show it on television. Good taste and all, you know.
I had a little plastic-enclosed card, complete with picture, that gave me access to police areas. I always felt like a junior G-man when I clipped it to my collar.
I was stopped at the yellow police banner by a vigilant uniform. He stared at my I.D. for several seconds, as if trying to decide whether I was kosher or not. Would he let me through the line, or would he call a detective over first?
I stood, hands at my sides, trying to look harmless. I’m actually very good at that. I can look downright cute. The uniform raised the tape and let me through. I resisted an urge to say, “Atta boy.” I did say, “Thank you.”
The body lay near a lamp pole. Legs were spreadeagled. One arm twisted under the body, probably broken. The center of the back was missing, as if someone had shoved a hand through the body and just scooped out the center. The heart would be gone, just like all the others.
Detective Clive Perry was standing by the body. He was a tall, slender, black man, and most recent member of the spook squad. He always seemed so soft-spoken and pleasant. I could never imagine Perry doing anything rude enough to piss someone off, but you didn’t get assigned to the squad without a reason.
He looked up from his notebook. “Hi, Ms. Blake.”
“Hello, Detective Perry.”
He smiled. “Sergeant Storr said you’d be coming down.”
“Is everyone else finished with the body?”
He nodded. “It’s all yours.”
A dark brown puddle of blood spread out from under the body. I knelt beside it. The blood had congealed to a tacky, gluelike consistency. Rigor mortis had come and gone, if there had been rigor mortis. Vampires didn’t always react to “death” the way a human body did. It made judging the time of death harder. But that was the coroner’s job, not mine.
The bright summer sun pressed down over the body. From the shape and the black pants suit, I was betting it was female. It was sort of hard to tell, lying on its stomach, chest caved in, and the head missing. The spine showed white and glistening. Blood had poured out of the neck like a broken bottle of red wine. The skin was torn, twisted. It looked like somebody had ripped the freaking head off.
I swallowed very hard. I hadn’t thrown up on a murder victim in months. I stood up and put a little distance between myself and the body.
Could this have been done by a human being? No; maybe. Hell. If it was a human being, then they were trying very hard to make it look otherwise. No matter what a surface look revealed, the coroner always found knife marks on the body. The question was, did the knife marks come before or after death? Was it a human trying to look like a monster, or a monster trying to look like a human?
“Where’s the head?” I asked.
“You sure you feel all right?”
I looked up at him. Did I look pale? “I’ll be fine.” Me, big, tough vampire slayer, no throw up at the sight of decapitated heads. Right.
Perry raised his eyebrows but was too polite to push the issue. He led me about eight