black magic. But when greeted, the man apparently said something along the lines of 'You must be mistaken,' and walked away, quite brusquely.'
'Mistaken identity, maybe,' I said. 'It happens, you know.'
'Truly it does,' Barney said. 'But the one recounting this tale said he was absolutely certain that the fellow was the one he'd known, especially after he'd heard the man speak. Apparently he has a rather distinct Irish accent.'
'A name,' I said. 'Please tell me that you got a name for this guy.'
'In point of fact, I did,' Barney said. 'Whether it's a first name or last I can't say, but the practitioner I overheard referred to him as Sligo.'
The morning sun was bright, but inside this windowless place natural light never entered. It was probably too embarrassed. The cheap fluorescents in the ceiling gave off a sickly blue-white glow that made the people – Homicide dicks, forensics techs, uniforms, the rest of them – look like overflow from a zombig for a frion.
I pushed aside a couple of inflatable love dolls that were hanging from the ceiling and leaned over the counter to take a look at the guy who was lying on the floor. He stared back at me, the way corpses usually do. If I'm lucky, that's all they do.
In life he'd apparently been in his early twenties, with longish blond hair and a bad complexion. There was blood on the garish Hawaiian shirt that was unbuttoned to his navel, and more of it pooled under the body.
'Name's Peter Willbrand,' one of the uniforms said to me. 'Worked the counter last night, was supposed to've closed up at ten. The day guy found him when he opened up this morning, a little before nine.'
I'd been home for about three hours, and asleep for two, when the phone rang with the news that had brought me here to Fantasy Land, a depressing little shithole around the corner from the city bus station. Adult Books and Videos, the sign on the door said. Marital Aids, it said below that. Further down, Individual Viewing Booths, was followed by Supe-Friendly.
Taped to the counter was a small poster that somebody had made on a PC, advertising what was playing in the jerk-off booths this week. In addition to the usual stuff, I noticed Ogre Gangbang 3, Werewolves Gone Wild, and something called The VILF Next Door. Guess that's what the sign outside meant by 'Supe-Friendly.'
The coroner's guy on the scene was Homer Jordan, who went to Penn State on a football scholarship and still has the linebacker's shoulders to prove it. 'So, how long's the corpus been delicti?' I asked him.
'At least three hours, no more than eight. I might have a better idea after I post him.'
'Or not,' I said.
'Or not,' he said with a little smile. Figuring precise time of death is a bitch for pathologists, always has been. But cops keep asking.
'How about COD?' I asked.
'Gunshot wound to the heart. That's officially preliminary, but, hell, Stan, you know what a bullet wound looks like, same as I do. That's what killed him.'
Fantasy Land had a string of small bells tied just above the door on the inside, probably so none of the pervs could sneak out without paying for their copies of Kiss My Whip Magazine. I heard the jangling and turned to see Karl come in, looking about as grumpy as I felt. Guess the thing with the LeFay sisters hadn't worked out.
Or maybe it had, and that's why he was so pissed to be up early.
Karl took his time walking over, sourly taking in the racks of magazines and paperbacks, the BluRay discs and DVDs, and the glass cases displaying every kind of vibrator, dildo, and butt plug known to man – or woman. As he got closer, I saw him looking at the poster for this week's porn videos. 'What's a VILF?'
'Means Vampire I'd Like to Fang,' I said.
'I didn't think places like this existed anymore,' Karl said. 'What with all the Internet porn, online sex shops, stuff like that.'
'Not everybody's as good at finding smut on the Web as you are,' I said. I batted the foot of an inflated love doll and set it swinging gently. 'Besides,' I said, 'what Internet site is gonna be able to provide a guy with one of these honeys? On short notice, I mean.'
'Yeah, and speaking of short notice, what the fuck are we doing here, anyway?'
I pointed to my left. 'Over there,' I said.
Karl bent over the counter, looked at Peter Willbrand's corpse for a few seconds, then came back. 'Okay, that's why Homicide's here,' he said. 'But why us?'
'Good questi. I was wondering, myself.' I looked over at Homer, who didn't bother to conceal the fact that he'd been listening. 'You know anything about that?' I asked.
'I've got no idea who called you guys, but I think I know where the impulse must've come from. Here, check this out.'
Homer eased behind the counter, careful not to step in the blood pool. He produced a pair of tweezers, bent over the dead guy, and carefully pulled back the collar of his gaudy shirt.
There were three symbols carved into the corpse's nearly hairless chest.
I didn't recognize them, but the alphabet looked like something I'd seen before.
Karl and I looked at each other for a couple of seconds, then I pulled out my notepad and started carefully copying the stuff down.
When I was done, I turned to Homer. 'You've got photos of this, right?'
'Course I do,' he said. 'I assume you want copies?'
'You assume right, Homes.' Homer likes it when I call him that – makes him feel like he's hanging with the cool kids.
Homer watched as I put the notepad away, then asked, 'What's that stuff on his chest say? Do you know?'
'Uh-uh,' I said, shaking my head. 'But I'm pretty sure I know what it means.'
'Well, what?'
'Trouble.'
Homer grinned with delight. 'Damn, I love that kind of talk.'
'I know you do,' I told him. 'But do me a favor, will you? Peel back the vic's upper lip for a second.'
He gave me a strange look, but didn't ask any questions. Pulling out the tweezers again, he bent over the corpse, got a grip on the thin flap of flesh below the victim's nose, and lifted it up.
All three of us stared at what Homer had uncovered, but Karl was the first one to speak. 'Sonofabitch. Fangs.'
By the time I finally got home from the crime scene, I was able to grab only three more hours of sleep. Then it was time to get up again, shower, eat, feed Quincey (my hamster, who's named after a hero of mine), and head back to the squad for the start of my regular shift.
My email messages included one from Homer, who'd managed to do the autopsy on our vic right away. Must have been a slow day at the morgue.
Stan:
You owe me lunch, man (and not at Mickey Dee's, ei ther) – I was planning to play golf this afternoon, not cut up a dead vamp for the Supe Squad.
Okay: to the surprise of nobody, Mr Willbrand's death was caused by a single gunshot, bullet penetrating the left ventricle of the heart and lodging therein. Death was in stantaneous, or near enough as makes no difference. I got the round out, more or less intact. It's a. 38, but here's the weird thing: sucker looks like it's made of charcoal. That's right, something you'd use in your BBQ grill, except a lot smaller. I've sent it to the lab, and you'll get a chemical analysis from them, eventually. But I'll bet my next pay check that I'm right.
I've heard of silver bullets – and I bet you know more about that stuff than I would. But charcoal? What the fuck is up with that?
Love amp; kisses,
Homer
By the time I was finished, Karl was reading over my shoulder. 'He asks a pretty good question there, near the end.'
'Sure does.' I clicked the mouse a couple of times to add a copy of Homer's message to the case file. 'Sts, sure. Even gold, a couple of times. Wasn't there a guy in some old James Bond movie that was known for using gold bullets?'
