her. He must have complete control to tie her heels and her hands and to feel the rush of superiority he requires to look upon her as an object, a container housing the fluid he wants from her. He must use an injection, possibly a powerful anesthetic. Once she is incapacitated, he ties her and rips down the chandelier and uses the naked cords to tie his rope to and hoist her up over the area where her dining room table had been before the killer pushed it over to one side. He uses a chair, but he still must be rather tall and strong to support the dangling woman while he wraps the rope round and round her heels there, pulling tight against the wire supports.
She put the chair next to the body and had Forsythe stand on it. Forsythe was six two. He had to reach to the very length of his arms to make the tie. Their killer, she reasoned, was even taller than Forsythe, perhaps six four or five. She jotted this fact down beside all the others she had learned about the killer, both from her lab work and from Otto's profiling team. The list was getting long, and for the first time, she began to see discrepancies between Kaseem's killer and her own. For one, Kaseem's man was only five nine. He'd have a near impossible time of placing the body in the position it was in, using only the chair.
She informed Kaseem of this when he returned. He was instantly dubious.
“ How do you know he didn't use the table? Or a ladder?”
“ Marks in the rug, here,” she said, pointing. She had already had photos taken of the indentations. “They indicate the four-legged chair was used, and there are no others in the immediate area of the body.”
“ Just the same, my guy is very strong, a weight-lifter.”
“ It's not so much a matter of weight lifting as reaching.” She got up on the chair, saying, “I'm over six feet up, but I could never work that rope myself.”
Kaseem chose to ignore the obvious. He was convinced that the vampire they were after was the same vampire he had encountered in West Germany. She chose then to ignore his ignorance and get on with her evidence gathering. This time, with Chicago's help, she had the latest in equipment for fingerprint finding and for dampness imaging, and the light generated by the reflective ultraviolet imager brought smudges and smears into incredible focus. The bastard's chosen the wrong place this time, she thought. Somewhere in this room he had left traces of his perspiration, and from that all she need do is establish his DNA.
She worked through the night.
At 2 A.M. she began to hear the first rumblings of another victim located in Indiana, on the outskirts of Indianapolis. Word had it that it was a young male victim, and that perhaps it had nothing whatever to do with the Zion killing; yet the victim was drained of his blood. It was yet another Tort 9, and it fell within the one-hundred- mile circumference of Chicago.
She would have to go there in the morning. Joe Brewer brought her word that Otto Boutine would catch up to her in Indiana.
Jessica wanted to strike out at the unknown, unseen assassin. She wanted to rend his tidy little world apart, threaten him as he had never been threatened before. She more and more liked O'Rourke and Schultz's suggestion to taunt him through the newspapers, and be damned with caution. She wanted to do something-anything-before the bastard struck again. In the space of twenty-four hours two more bodies were found. He had stepped up his killing, increased his need for victims, for blood. Why? What had changed? Or was it that he now had, along with his killing tool, a brash new attitude that he could take it when he wanted it, whenever he dared; that in fact there was no dare to it? He was feeling so far beyond capture, beyond the law and human morality, that he was flaunting his newfound power. This is what he seemed to be saying to her. She was angry beyond words, so angry that she wanted to kill this horrible man at any cost.
Brewer drove her back toward Chicago and the Lincolnshire Inn where she was staying, fairly close to the airport. She had intended to be flying back to Virginia the following morning, but now she'd have to prevail upon Brewer's people to get her out to Indianapolis, or hire a car of her own.
She was exhausted by now and so declined Brewer's suggestion they get a bite to eat. He said he hadn't seen Otto in years, and wanted to catch up.
“ You'll have plenty of time for that with Otto when he meets us in Indianapolis,” she said.
“ I was sorry to hear about his wife.”
“ Yes, so were we all.”
They were just outside the inn now. “Did you know her, well?”
“ No, not at all, really. Except for what Otto's told me.”
“ Was a time I thought she was going to marry me, but she chose Otto instead.”
“ I didn't know.”
He managed a grimacy smile that turned to a frown. “Life deals us all body blows from time to time, but this one… could take Otto out. He… well, he really loved her.”
“ I know that.”
“ Then there's nothing to the rumors… 'bout you and Otto?”
“ Christ, Brewer, how goddamned long is the FBI grapevine?”
“ I talked to Otto. He's… he is in love with you. You know that, don't you?”
She hadn't thought of the affection they felt for each other as love. She was unsure whether or not she wanted it to be called love, not at this time, and not with such suddenness. How did Otto know how he felt, his emotions in a complete jumble? She wasn't even sure how she felt. All she knew was that she liked it when he held her, when he had kissed her briefly, and when he had stayed overnight. She had liked how it felt to have him in the apartment. But was it love?
“ Otto and I are best of friends for now… best of friends and we work together. Does that settle your curious mind?”
“ I'm sorry if I offended you. Just wanted to tell you that I know Otto. I know he… that he's the kind of man who needs commitment and a real relationship and-”
“ Dammit, Brewer, I thought Chicago had a Dear Abby. I don't need to stand here in the cold and listen to advice from you about my relationship with Otto.” She stormed off, angry at Brewer, angry at herself, angry at Otto and the situation, but mostly angry at the Wekosha vampire, who, it appeared by the headlines in the newspapers in the lobby, had become the Chicago vampire.
She picked up a copy and took it to her room. Schultz did quite a number on the killer. He had gotten a story placed that pictured all the alleged victims of the vampire killer, along with photos of their parents where this was possible. The story told primarily of the suffering of the families left in the wake of the killer's bloodletting. It was the sympathy-garnering story that Otto had approved, but as she read it, and as she thought about the vampire who slept peacefully somewhere nearby, she realized the story would gather in no sympathy from him.
Her hatred for the creature was so great that she no longer considered him human. The fact he was human- the fact he was not a freak of nature or a predatory animal-only added to the man's despicable and horrible tastes and murderous proclivities; the fact he did what he did without rage, without insanity, but with a cold, methodical and calculated process always in mind… this made her wish he was an animal or a mythical underworld beast.?
EIGHTEEN
Even before she got to Indianapolis, Jessica learned that a task force of hundreds of law enforcement officials had been set to work on the killer of the Zion nurse. Every conceivable lead, every telephone call, every scrap of information, was being pursued tirelessly, around the clock. No call was too absurd or fantastic to respond to. The only problem was that the calls outnumbered even the hundreds upon hundreds of police officials called in on the case.
Joe Brewer had brought her up-to-date on these developments as they helicoptered to Indianapolis. He also had a lab report on the capsule found at the Zion death site. Oddly, the drug had turned out to be a potent dose of cortisone, the kind that could be had only through a prescription. Jessica knew that such a dosage was for no ordinary measure, that it meant the killer-if it belonged to him-had a serious disorder. This made her recall what Teresa O'Rourke had surmised about the killer.
“ What about a print? Anything?” She knew it was unlikely.
