"I guess your squad and mine will both be investigating this, from different angles," Scanlon said. "It would be a good thing to keep each other current on any progress – informally, of course."
"I agree, Lieutenant." Informally meant we'd avoid official paperwork and the interdepartmental rivalries that sometimes went along with it. It's like the CIA and FBI – they're supposed to share information, but they don't, always. And when that happens, sometimes people die.
I glanced over toward the tree, and saw the EMTs gently lowering the burned body onto the stretcher. "We probably oughta get going," I said to Karl.
I wanted to get on the path before the EMTs did. Otherwise, we'd have to follow them, and their macabre burden, all the way to the parking lot. It would slow us down, and would mean another ten minutes or so of inhaling that sickly-sweet odor from the burned corpse. I'd smelled enough of that for one night – or a lifetime, for that matter.
As I followed Karl and his vamp-vision through the dark, he said, over his shoulder, "Wonder if she has a family?"
"Probably," I said. "Most people do." Whoever the victim's survivors were, I was glad it wasn't my job to inform them of her death, and how it had happened. "We'll probably have an ID in a day or two."
"Even with the way she was burned?"
"Somebody'll report her missing, most likely – just like the other one, Mrs, uh–"
"Allerdyce," Karl said. "Brenda Allerdyce."
"Once Homer has a name to work with, he won't have much problem confirming her identity. Then we can go to work. Just like real detectives."
"Looking for stuff they had in common, all that."
"Yeah, but we'll start with finding out whether they knew each other. The ultimate common factor."
"Maybe Rachel can help out with that," he said. "Once she gets back."
"Assuming she's not still mad at us," I said.
"What do you mean us, kimosabe? I'm not the one who asked her to do the fucking necromancy."
We were kidding around, a little – we both knew that Rachel Proctor didn't hold a grudge against either of us. Although I wouldn't blame her if she did, in my case.
Last summer, I'd prevailed upon Rachel to conduct a necromancy so I could talk to the spirit of a murder victim. She'd agreed, against her better judgment. Turned out her judgment was right on the money, because things had gone very wrong. But she said she didn't blame me for any of it, and even gave me some of the credit for later getting her out of the mess that I'd gotten her into in the first place. Nice lady, that Rachel.
As we reached the gate I saw that the media had arrived in force, although the uniforms were keeping them behind a barrier of crime scene tape that split the parking lot in two. It looked like the four local networks had each sent a camera crew, and a couple of print reporters for the Scranton and Wilkes-Barre papers had shown up, too.
As soon as they saw us, a couple of mini-spotlights came on, along with the red lights atop the video cameras. The reporters were all yelling questions at us, but Karl and I just squinted against the glare and kept walking. If I made any statements without prior authorization, McGuire would disembowel me with a spoon. Anyway, I don't like journalists, much. I know they're just doing their jobs – but then, you could probably say the same thing for the guards at Bergen-Belsen.
As I started the car, Karl said, "About two hours to sunrise," which meant two hours before he had to be back inside his apartment's bedroom, in a sleeping bag with a blanket over it.
"Still time to accomplish a couple of things which might actually prove helpful. I'm gonna call Doc Watson and leave a message on his machine. See if he can spare us some time tomorrow night."
Terence K. Watson, MD, had been born in the Mississippi delta, the heart of blues country. That's where the nickname came from, although Doc says he can't even carry a tune in the shower. But he's a good psychiatrist, and he's been helpful to us in the past.
"You mentioned a couple of things," Karl said. "What's the other one?"
"I want to talk to those two Feebies."
Thorwald and Greer were set up in the squad's break room. It isn't much – a Mister Coffee that nobody every cleans, a small urn with hot water for the tea drinkers, a beat-up table, and some chairs. There's a small refrigerator that nobody ever uses, although Karl's been talking about keeping a bottle of O-positive in there, just for laughs.
The two Feds were looking through a pile of our old case files, although I couldn't figure what they thought they'd find. As we walked in, I said, "Got a minute?"
Greer glanced at his partner, then said, "Sure," with a little gesture toward the vacant chairs. We sat down, and I noticed that Karl was staring at Thorwald. Maybe he was considering her as a possible volunteer blood donor. She might've read his mind because she returned the stare and said to him, "You're undead, aren't you?"
I guess Greer wasn't as sharp as his partner, because he looked at Thorwald in surprise, then transferred the look to Karl. The surprised expression quickly turned into some thing wary. Maybe he thought Karl was going to jump across the table and go for his jugular. I figured Greer didn't have much experience with vampires – maybe neither of them did.
Karl just nodded at Thorwald's question. There was a time when he would've tried to charm her with a smile, but nowadays his fangs tend to spoil the effect. He usually keeps them covered around strangers.
"I didn't know that the Scranton PD was recruiting vampires," Thorwald said. She didn't have Greer's leery expression, but didn't look like she was about to ask Karl to the Sadie Hawkins Day dance, either.
"They're not, far as I know," Karl said. "I was a cop before I was a vamp." He said it as if he was discussing tomorrow's weather.
"He was… changed… in the line of duty," I said.
Karl nodded and added, "It's a long story," meaning one he wasn't interested in telling now, if ever.
"I wanted to ask you about these videos," I said.
"What about 'em?" Greer asked.
"You said there were four, so far," I said.