like splotches and more like exclamation points in a series, as the vein would have spurted. The tracks on the table beneath the note had this significant shape, but the tracks on the face of the paper did not.
It was clear to her that either (1) the dead man had placed the note gently onto the table after he had slashed both his wrists, or (2) someone else was kind enough to do it for him. There was no doubt in her mind that the wounds inflicted were of such a brutal nature that no one could be calm under the circumstances, or clearheaded enough to locate and place that note on the table just before keeling over. She'd had Lowenthal's blood and serums checked for LSD or any other drug that might account for the unusual sequence of events surrounding his death, but the lab had found no trace of drugs, and certainly no cortisone. As for the print left on the cortisone capsule, there was simply not enough to be sure either way. She spent hours over Lowenthal's body, his wrists to be exact, using an exacting method of measurement about the wounds, determining that the left was indeed cut by a right hand, and the right was indeed cut by a left hand. Only the most cunning, methodical of killers would think to change hands with the scalpel as he sliced each wrist, to create the illusion of suicide.
It looked rather hopeless, except for the blood evidence, and all too often, blood evidence was ignored, despite the incredible accuracy of the scientific field. To prove her point, she'd have to get a world-renowned blood specialist. Not even Robertson back at Quantico, with all of his background, would be enough to support what she was saying, and the cost factor, and the logistics of getting a man like T. Herbert Leon, or her old mentor, Holecraft, to fly to Chicago to look over the evidence… Well, it was not likely she'd get the okay from Otto, not in his present mood, and as for getting “permission” from O'Rourke, that'd stick in her craw like a chicken bone.
But maybe she'd have to put her personal feelings aside. She thought of all the professionals who had put in so many grueling hours on the Tort 9 case, from J.T. to Byrnes and Schultz, O'Rourke herself, even Raynack, with their pro bono work going to Kaseem and Forsythe. She wondered momentarily if the man who had staged the “death” of the vampire killer here in Chicago was not the same man who had eluded the military for so many years. Was it possible?
She was tired, exhausted, and while she had the killer's bloody tools to examine against what she knew of the wounds inflicted on the flesh of his victims, tests on the tissue that had come off of these blades had already confirmed a match with Tommy Fowler in Indiana.
How did Lowenthal lure his victims in? An old man who often used a cane. What Scarborough, the only so- called witness had seen was a younger man. They'd found no hairpieces or makeup kit. Yet, his spigot, under magnification, was clearly the nasty weapon used at the jugular on the Cope-land girl and all the others. And if there was another vampire working with Lowenthal, he'd never give up this device.
But suppose, she stopped herself with a thought, suppose there were more than one; suppose Lowenthal had made two or three or more?
Or was she being paranoid? She had plenty of reason to be; and hadn't J.T. said that it was, after all, a healthy enough emotion if it kept you from cold, shocking surprise blows to the blind side? Like O'Rourke's sudden power grab. Like Otto's uncharacteristic tent-folding act. She wanted to scream at him for letting it all happen. The forces had been aligned against him while his wife was dying, and they said sharks lived only in oceans. And then Otto had had the audacity to say that he more or less admired O'Rourke for her cunning and her timing. Was that because Otto himself was a well-timed, cunning devil himself? Like his showing up the night before when she would never have turned him away?
She was still angry with him for implying that her interest in him had only to do with her ambition.
These thoughts crowded out her attention to her work, and she realized that she was becoming too fatigued to carry on. She'd performed the autopsy on Lowenthal as well as arranging for the various tests she'd wanted done. She now looked at her watch, and lunch felt like a distant vacation taken years before, save for the hurt she'd felt at Otto's thoughtless remark.
She peeled away her lab coat. Most of the areas of the lab were dark, the graveyard shift kept to a minimum along with the lights. She stretched and realized that a lab assistant in another room was staring through the glass at her and pointing to the phone. She only now realized the buzz in a nearby office was for her. She went to the phone and picked it up.
“ Call for Dr. Coran,” said a female voice.
“ Yes, this is she.”
“ Go ahead, sir.” After a moment's hesitation and the disappearance of the operator, a raspy voice came choking through, sounding nervous.
“ I saw you onnnnn TV. You… you are pretty.”
“ Who is this?”
“ I… I'm the vampire.”
“ Look, I'm in no mood for a crank-”
“ I take the blood in jars.”
“ Yes, well, thanks to the papers, everybody knows that.”
“ I use a modified tracheotomy tube and a tourniquet to control the blood flow, usually after severing the Achilles tendon.”
She shivered from deep within her soul. “The vampire killer is dead. Maurice Lowenthal-”
“ I killed Maurice. You know that… You're the only one who knows that.”
So you want me dead, she told herself. “Why're you telling me this?”
No one outside FBI circles knew of the tourniquet or the slashed heels.
“ / want some of your blood.'''
She tried to breathe normally, but found it near impossible. Now he was quoting from the letter he had written in Copeland's blood. Either she was speaking to Candy Copeland's killer, the man who treated his victims like swine to be bled, or someone was playing the kind of cruel, sick and senseless joke that police personnel loved the most.
“ I… I could give you some,” she said, unable to know where she found the words or the nerve.
“ You'll never know how happy you've made me to hear that.”
“ I mean… you could get blood from me when… whenever you needed, so-so”-she forced herself to control the fear-induced stuttering-”y-you wouldn't have to go on killing-”
“ You'd do that for me?”
“ For Teach, yes. I know you're ill, and you need help. I know you've got a disease.”
“ I know that you know. You know all about me.”
“ So we know all about each other. So where can I find you?”
“ No… no. I'll have to give this some thought.”
He hadn't expected her to react this way when he had planned the call. She could tell this from the inflection in his voice.
“ Don't hang”-he was gone-“up!”
She stood in the darkened office, fear gripping her on all sides. How did he get through to her? She felt defiled just having spoken with the perverted killer, as if he had touched her in some secret place.
Her hands were trembling; every nerve in her body felt as if touched by a hot wire, but she fought to remain in control. She drew on her training as an FBI agent. She had to contact someone about the phone call. It was too much to keep to herself, for any reason.
She rang for the operator, shouting her need.' 'The call to me just now. I need a tracer on that to determine the source. Can you do that?”
“ Yes, but it will take some time.”
“ Do it. It's very important, very.”
“ I'll get on it. We've got the new system that-”
“ Just do it, please.”
“ Yes, Dr. Coran.”
She was still trembling, feeling as if she needed a stiff drink, wishing that Otto was here with her now, someone she could throw herself at; she wanted to cry and to kick all at once. The very thing she hated most in this world had just spoken to her in what his bloody mind must constitute as intimacy. She wanted to snatch her. 38 from its holster and hold onto it for dear life, stretch it before her like a deadly shield of protection to ward off the evil.
People working in nearby offices were suddenly taking on evil dimensions, satanic form; everyone around her
