Code 61 ch-4 Page 17

  Beside the cemetery book was one entitled The London Nobody Knows by Geoffrey Fletcher. Next to it was London Under London, A Subterranean Guide by Trench and Hillman. Two books I thought I'd like to read.

  The Oxford Dictionary of the English Language dominated a shelf all by itself. I'd heard of it, but never actually seen one. It was the really cool edition, the one that came with the magnifying glass. I thought it looked out of place in such a modern room, and should have been in the library downstairs, with the mahogany table and the five-foot wainscoting.

  The last shelf contained a series of almanacs, woodworking guides, a carpenter's handbook, and The Joy of Sex. I smiled to myself, because their shelf order made me think of splinters in unusual places.

  There was nothing behind the books or behind the shelf. I went back toward the center of the room, and cleared my throat. Hester turned her head toward me. “I know what that's a photo of,” I said, pointing to the wall.

  “Really?”

  “Highgate Cemetery, London. It's crypts. In a circle, pretty old.”

  “Ah.” Not as much reaction as I'd hoped.

  “Check this,” she said. She drew my attention to the built-in wardrobe closet. Lots of stuff, much of it women's clothes. Some Victorian-looking stuff, brocaded and velvety, in deep reds, blues, and greens, with lots of lace at the neck and cuff. Pretty. Some men's clothing, as well. Looked to be for somebody about six feet, slender build. Big-sleeved shirts, laced-at-the-v-neck kind of stuff. Mostly white and off white. Black trousers, and one formal set of tails. Really nice. With them on the hangers were blue jeans, sweaters, sweatshirts, and sweatpants.

  On the floor of the wardrobe were several kinds of footwear, including Wellington boots, laced Victorian women's high-topped shoes, and men's and women's tennis shoes.

  On a series of little pegs on the inside of the door were hanging several pairs of black velvet restraints, black velvet blindfolds, and a brown leather switch with a tasseled end.

  “Little something for everybody,” said Hester.

  “Not quite,” I said. “No cookies.”

  Between both teams we eventually found only three groups of items of particular interest, which were photographed in place, and then taken as evidence.

  The first interesting little group was discovered by Hester, in the wastebasket in the kitchen area. A fairly large pile of stripped casings from a variety of rechargeable lithium batteries, the kind that are used in cameras, video cameras, flashlights, that sort of thing. The metallic cases were split, and folded back. A bunch of packaging material, that had obviously contained the shrink-wrapped batteries. Also in the white garbage sack inside the wastebasket were about ten empty packages of Sudafed cold medications. Nothing more.

  “Look at this stuff,” said Hester. “I believe we have a tweaker.”

  Both Grothler and Chris Barnes were on the battery casings like a pair of hounds.

  “Yep,” said Grothler. “Took the lithium strips out. You bet.”

  “Nazi formula,” said Barnes. “Watch for anything that looks like ether. Needs anhydrous ammonia, too, but it's probably stored remotely.”

  What they were referring to was the formula for methamphetamine developed by the Germans in WWII. Speed. The allies developed their own methods, too, but needed central manufacture. Used as a way to keep soldiers awake and alert for extended periods, the so-called Nazi method involved ephedrine, lithium, and assorted other elements, cooked using ether and anhydrous ammonia. It was quick, effective, and made small amounts that were ready for use. The Germans apparently needed their troops to be rather more self-sufficient in the face of Allied interdiction of supply lines, I guess. The mixtures were both chemically dangerous and quite explosive. No particular problem for soldiers in the ffeld. In your house, though, you could easily blow yourself up, or burn your house down.

  At any rate, you sure didn't have to be a soldier to use the stuff.

  Hester, who'd continued to search that area while the discussion was taking place, held up a small glass bottle. A brownish crystalline substance was inside.

  “Bingo.” She held it up to the light. “I'd say meth, all right. Crystal meth.”

  The question quickly came down to just who the tweaker was. This elusive Peel dude? Jessica? Or maybe Edie, who had, after all, possessed a key to the third floor?

  The second item discovered was a black steel filing box containing nine VHS videotapes. They weren't labeled, but were numbered one through nine, neatly, with numerical stickers in the left corner. A glance showed that tape number ten, identically marked, was in the camera.

  The tapes and camera were seized, due to the high probability that we might just have tapes depicting either the real Daniel Peel, or the man who had fled down the stairs and sliced Borman's vest, or… well, both, if they were either the same man or two different people. Along with others, presumably Edie chief among them. Because Edie was likely to be on them, I truly was not looking forward to viewing those tapes.

  The third item was what we used to call “pay dirt.” It was in the center, lower drawer under the huge bed. A knife, and an unusual one at that, wrapped in a cloth with dark, reddish stains that appeared to be blood.

  The knife was really strange-looking. I suppose it was nearly sixteen inches overall, with a blade some eight to nine inches long. The handle was slightly curved downward, ebony, and with a silver metal butt cap that was shaped like an eagle's head. The beak on that bird looked very sharp. The blade itself was the really weird part. It was about three inches wide, tapering sharply to a very fine, slightly up-curved point. It was a double-bladed knife, so the blade looked as if it had had about a quarter-inch slot just ground out all along its length, making two blades, effectively. The inside edges of both halves had been sharpened, too. Four cutting surfaces for the price of two, so to speak. The thing that really struck me about the knife, though, was that slot between the blades. I vividly remembered the lump of muscle protruding from Edie's neck wound. With this knife, it would have been easy to snag muscle in the slot, and if there was any twisting, to effectively pull muscle and other tissues right back out of the wound.

  “This could be it,” I said.

  “Sure is big enough,” said Grothler.

  “You mean the split in the blade?” said Hester, to me. “Snagging tissue?”

  “Yes.” I nodded. “It looks like that'd do it.” It would explain the number of cuts inside the wound as well. Not so many thrusts, but twice the cutting surface.

  “Could well be,” said Hester, reaching for an evidence bag.

  We also found some fairly benign sorts of things that might have a bearing on the case. One was an antique crystal candy dish, with a silver lid, containing a number of small white pills. They seemed to have cartoon characters pressed into them. I saw Woody Woodpecker, for sure.

  Hester looked carefully at the container, and chuckled. “Ecstasy. Possibly from Holland.” She pointed to the elaborate initial etched into the silver lid. It was an “E,” very much embellished. It, too, was seized as evidence.

  There was another bottle, green glass with a brass top, and mounted in a brass tube with legs. Antique, too, I thought. It contained a number of dark green pills, smallish, with a horizontal break line and the numeral 6. Curving across the top was a word, which I could only make out with the help of my reading glasses. “Coumadin.” We all knew that was a blood thinner, but weren't sure just how many different conditions would require its prescription. It was also an anticoagulant. Hester and I exchanged glances over that one, and she nodded.

  “Yeah.”

  “I think so, too,” I said. “I wouldn't be at all surprised if the lab found a quantity of Coumadin in Edie's tissue samples.”

  Another container, this time an old 250ml Erlen meyer flask, graduated, held a large number of coated, pink pills with the inscription “Mellaril 200.” No idea on that one.

  The last pill jar was a deep red, also appeared to be antique, wi
th silver scrollwork and a silver stopper. Eighteen blue, diamond-shaped pills, with a brand name on one side and the inscription “VGR50.”

  “Anybody know what this is?” I held one out in my hand.

  “Hang on to it, Houseman,” said Hester, with a grin. “You may need it sooner than you think.”

  I bit, I admit it. From her comment, I sort of assumed it might have something to do with Alzheimer's, or something like that. “Memory stimulant?”

  “Probably, in your case, that would be all it is,” she said, laughing. “It's Viagra, Houseman.”

  “Oh.” I put it back. “Hey, I'm sorta proud I didn't know what it was.”

  “That's the memory part,” she said.

  We were all aware of the fact that most of the seized pills appeared to be prescription drugs. We were also aware that we'd not found any prescription bottles of any sort.

  Pending the results of the toxicology exam, all meds were photographed in place, and seized.

  Chris did the back stair, the one Borman had been guarding, with great diligence. Hester followed him down, after I took photos. The steps were pretty clean. Not only in the evidentiary sense; they gave every indication that they were cleaned and vacuumed regularly. No cobwebs. No dust. Just shiny hardwood and clean pastel green plaster. Nothing, until the second step from the bottom. Chris went on point, came back up for his stuff, and after a few minutes, we shut off the lights.

  Green luminescence shone on the bottom two steps. In wide swaths, with a discernible swirling pattern.

  Chris looked up the stairs at our three faces peering down at him. “Looks to me like it's a blood response, not detergent. We'll see, and I wouldn't be surprised if there was a mixture of both. But for now, I'd be inclined to say somebody wiped up some blood here. And not too long ago.”

  The rest of the steps were clean. Period. According to Chris, that was far from typical.

  “I'd be inclined to think there should be more blood-staining around here. Drips. Spills. Seepage. Something.”

  But there wasn't.

  We photographed the stairs by using a time exposure, darkening the entire third floor, and using a slow pass with a flashlight across the walls of the stairwell, first one side, then the other. That way, the luminescence would show up, and we'd also be able to show the scene. Without the dim light of the flashlight, we'd only get the green on fflm, without any clue as to where it was located. That was the theory, anyway. Just to be safe, we also outlined the areas where the wipe marks were, and took shots of them in good light.

  We all sat around for a few minutes, completing our inventory of seized items, finishing up the sketched diagram of the third floor, and making sure we had everything.

  “We done?” asked Hester.

  Well, as far as we were concerned, we were. Others, it seemed, had different ideas.

  SEVENTEEN

  Monday, October 9, 2000

  01:47

  I guess I hadn't fully comprehended the extent of the isolation of the third floor from the rest of the Mansion. As we descended the stairs, we gradually became aware that there was quite a bit of activity around the place. The closer we got to the ground floor, the more my suspicions were confirmed.

  We got to the bottom of the stairs, and saw the press people gathered outside the front door. The scene was brilliantly lit. Shit. They had TV cameras and everything. I identified Iowa TV units from Cedar Rapids and Dubuque and one from La Crosse, Wisconsin.

  Our call for reinforcements had gotten a little more attention than I'd hoped.

  Lamar was, well, eager to see us.

  “Somebody told these assholes we were hunting for a vampire up here,” he said, the tense being past accusative. “Who did that?”

  I started to say that I didn't know, when he continued.

  “They want to know who and how many he's killed, where the vampire is, who the vampire is… ” He looked me square in the eye. “Any suggestions?”

  “I suppose,” said Hester, “that means he hasn't been caught yet?”

  “Hell, no, he hasn't been caught,” said Lamar, with considerable disgust. “They can't even find a good track, and the useless dog got away from his trainer.” He shook his head. “Goddamned animal started to track Borman at first. You know that? Worthless… ”

  There had just been too many people around, I guess.

  “I got the plane up from Cedar Rapids PD, with their FLIR, and all they can see is cops, deer, and that useless fuckin' dog wanderin' around.” Lamar gestured toward the woods. “We used spotlights from the Conception County helicopter. All the way to the river. Then the FLIR, when it got here. Nothin', nothin' at all.” I thought he was going to spit. “Then this goddamned rain on top of it… ”

  It was raining, not hard, but one of those drizzly, persistent rains that can go on for days. A cold, damp night, peculiar to October and November.

  “The rain affect the FLIR much?” I asked.

  “I guess,” he said. “It tends to even out the temperatures, if somebody's gonna hide in the woods, so they tell me.” He shrugged. “Just makes it harder, is all.”

  FLIR is a Forward Looking Infra Red device. It can see a heat differential of less than half a degree Fahrenheit. Any mammal would show up, and clearly enough that you could spot the antlers on a buck deer from about five hundred feet up. The beauty is, the target has no idea you're looking at it. You can hide under things, of course. Behind things, inside things. But if even your legs were uncovered, it would have you. But the rain, like Lamar said, would make it less effective.

  “Where could he go?” I was thinking out loud, more or less.

  “I hope,” said Lamar, “that you didn't come all the way downstairs just to ask that.”

  Lamar hates the press. It isn't always so obvious, but he really does. He's also very nervous around them, and will do almost anything to avoid having to talk with them. The fact that the so-called vampire's victim was his niece just compounded the problem past all reason.

  “You give a statement yet?” asked Hester.

  “Nope. Nothin' to say, I guess.”

  “Let's give a joint statement,” she said. “You and I can write it up real quick, and I'll go with you and both our offices can issue it.”

  He nodded, and the two of them went into the main dining room, and sat at the long, beautiful table. The setting was quite a contrast to the turmoil both inside and outside the Mansion.

  There was a familiar voice at the door.

  “Hey, Houseman, kin we have your picture, or you gonna feed all of us?” Harry.

  As it turned out, Harry had been in Milwaukee most of the day, talking with the pathology team that had done the autopsy on Randy Baumhagen. The death had been the result of the blow to the head with one of those ubiquitous “blunt instruments.” Probably about three to four inches wide, probably fairly heavy. The throat injury was, as we had been told in the preliminary report, the result of the use of a sharp object, but not a blade.

  All well and good. But Harry had been busier than that. He'd talked with people about William Chester.

  “He ain't got a sister, Carl, and he never fuckin' had one. Dead or not.”

  “Really?”

  “He was livin' with some gal, over around Walworth, who died in a car wreck. That's it. He lied.”

  “What do you think? We dump him?”

  “I dunno. Everything else checks out so far. I dunno.” Harry looked around the interior of the Mansion, taking it in for the first time. “Nice fuckin' place.”

  “We like it,” I said.

  “So, the press people tell me that you found our boy?”

  I explained that he'd more or less found us. I gave Harry all the details.

  “Warning shots?”

  “Yeah.” I sighed.

  “Kids these days,” said Harry. “They just think too much.” He looked around some more. “So, you think he was up there all the time, then?”

  “Yeah. Zonked, maybe. Enough
pills up there to keep you out for a while.” I motioned him over to the stair, near the inglenook. “Hear anything?”

  He tried. “Nope.”

  “Quiet, isn't it?” I gestured around me. “I mean, even with all the commotion outside.”

  “Well, yeah, now that you mention it.”

  “I'll tell you, Harry, this is the quietest house I've ever been in in my life. You could make a lot of noise one or two rooms away, and never be heard. Not to mention up a floor or two.”

  “It's all the insulation in the interior walls, I betcha,” he offered. “These old places are like that.”

  “I think so, too,” I said.

  “So, where ya think he's got to?”

  “Beats me. Lots of area to hide in out in those woods. Lots.” I raised an eyebrow. “Maybe we got lucky, though.”

  “How's that?”

  “Maybe he's a good swimmer, and made it to the Wisconsin side.”

  While Harry paid his respects to Lamar and Hester, I called the office to find out whether or not the Freiberg cops had been able to find Kevin Stemmer. Turned out they had, in a local bar called The River Bank. Strike one suspect.

  The news conference was remarkable. Hester and Lamar stood together on the front steps, starkly lit by the TV reporters and their lights, and with their breath visible against the shadows of the house, gave a prepared statement. Actually, Lamar introduced them both, and then let Hester do the statement, but it was obviously and effectively a joint release. The rest of us watched intently from the corner of the porch. We were safely off camera, and had a view from the left rear quarter, where we could just see their brightly lit faces.

  “This is an ongoing investigation into a possible homicide,” said Hester. “I emphasize 'possible.' Since it is ongoing, there is very little we're able to release to you at this time. The deceased is one Edith Younger, of Rural Route, Freiberg. An autopsy has been performed by the medical examiner's office, and the results are expected to be formally submitted at the conclusion of all the routine laboratory testing.”