Hester was doing the call to the Walworth County Sheriff's Department and the Wisconsin BCA, so I did the county attorney and Lamar. Sally went home to get some well-earned rest. Borman washed up the coffee cups and pot. I honestly think he expected Sally to do it, until it seemed to dawn on him that he who contributed least got the crap job. That was okay. He'd contribute soon enough, I was certain. He still wouldn't be able to get Sally to do the cleanup, of course.
“Are you really serious about this vampire stuff, Carl?” Borman seemed so sincere sometimes it was almost painful.
“Yes. And your lips are sealed. Right?”
“Oh, sure. Right.”
“One slip on this can cost a job. I'm serious.”
He seemed to listen well. I hoped so. I got on the phone again.
Mike Dittman, the county attorney, was a little surprised that we'd bothered a district court judge in the wee hours of the morning, but was even more startled that we'd started the search and then gone to bed. I reassured him that we had people doing stuff on the property all night.
“Are you sure we can do that?” He was asking me.
“Yep. Judge agreed we could, said you'd probably be able to find the applicable citations before the suppression hearing.” Judge Winterman had a fine sense of humor. Well, I thought so, anyway.
Lamar just wanted me to know that he'd told his sister that it was not a suicide.
“That's fine, Lamar.”
“You know what she said?”
That had to be rhetorical, but I answered anyway. “No… ”
“She said, 'I bet it was that Finn bitch.' Just like that.”
“No shit?” Our girl Huck? Hard to believe.
“That's what she said. Anything to it?”
“Not as far as I know, Lamar, but I'll sure as hell check.”
“Oh, Carl… you just might want to think about a statement for the press. We can't expect them to stay dumb forever.”
Not even on a Sunday.
My plate, as they say, was filling up. And we hadn't even gotten back to the Mansion yet.
Hester had disappointing news. Anything regarding the incident in Walworth County was in their confidential records section, and wouldn't be available until tomorrow. Wisconsin BCA's weekend answering service was a State Radio dispatcher, who had no access to records, either. He offered to contact an agent, and have one go into their records section, but he wasn't sure he'd be able to find one with the proper credentials to get to their records on a Sunday.
“For 'credentials,' substitute keys,” said Hester. “We wouldn't be able to get them, either, unless it was really urgent. I told him to try, but not to call out the director, or anything.”
We met the lab crew as they pulled in the department's parking lot. Specialist Christopher Barnes, of blood- spatter fame, would meet us at the scene.
We arrived at the Mansion at 09:38, let the two officers who had spent the night go home, and logged ourselves in. It was to be a daunting task, as there were six rooms on the second floor, seven on the main floor, and an unknown number on the third. Not to mention the basement.
Chris Barnes was waiting for us. He was the best blood-spatter pattern analyzer in the Midwest, at least as far as we were concerned. He was also easy to work with, and eager to explain any aspect of his art.
We started in the basement. It was enormous, with vaulted ceilings and seven separate and distinct chambers. The pillars were brick, with a concrete floor, concrete walls, and plastered ceilings. It was just about the cleanest basement I'd ever seen, with just a little debris in the fruit cellar, and some empty bags of salts near the water conditioner. But even those bags were neatly folded and stacked.
The oil furnace was quite large, converted from a coal burner, complete with a big boiler and very complex piping. One of the techs started there, checking for any traces of burned materials. Borman stayed with him, to assist in recording, preserving, or photographing any evidence that was discovered.
A lab tech named Grothler and I drew the main floor by default, as Hester, Chris Barnes, and the chief lab technician were going to do the second floor. Hester had started out as a laboratory technician years ago, and since we felt the most likely area where we'd locate trace (as in blood) evidence was the second floor, the most experienced people got that job.
I hadn't been there more than a minute, it seemed, when the phone rang. It was Harry.
“You can run, Houseman, but you can't hide. How about meeting with us right now?”
“Sure, Harry. Where?”
“My office. Quieter.”
I told Hester, and she decided to remain with the search team. I got in my car, and headed over to Conception County. It was clouding up, I noticed, as I crossed the mile long bridge spans to the Wisconsin side. Cooler, too. Rain wasn't too far off. And there, I thought to myself, go the beautiful leaves.
It really was quiet in Harry's office. I mentioned it as I sat down.
“I told everybody to get the fuck out onto the streets,” said Harry.
I looked at William Chester. “Harry has great administrative skills,” I said.
He nodded, but didn't answer.
“Carl,” rumbled Harry, “you wanna tell Mr. Chester here what you told me?”
“Might as well. But, first, Mr. Chester, you have to understand something. I'm going to ask you to sign a form, promising not to reveal anything that's discussed here. Under severe penalty.” With that, I opened my attache case and withdrew one of our standard forms. I passed it over to him. “Please read that carefully.”
He took it from me, and glanced at it. “I've signed these before,” he said. He pulled a pen from his shirt pocket, and signed it with a flourish. “I'll just need a copy… ”
“No problem,” said Harry. “Machine's in the next room. I'll be right back.”
I looked at our vampire hunter. Or, rather, tracker. “Okay, this is what's happened since we last talked… ”
Five minutes later, I was through.
“I see,” said Chester. “So, then. Are you willing to concede that you're dealing with a vampire, now?”
“Not even for a second.” I wanted him to be very clear about that. “What I'm dealing with is quite possibly some poor deluded bastard who believes he's a vampire. Nothing more. Because I know vampires really don't exist.”
“As you say,” he said.
I hate it when people do that. “So, what I want from you is this. I want to know how somebody who might think he's a vampire thinks a 'real' vampire behaves. How he's going to act. To convince himself and maybe some others that he's for real.”
“In exchange for which?” asked Chester.
“In exchange for access to some, but not all, of our information. Access to all I can think of that might deal with the vampire stuff, but not with the core case data.”
“Unless I need it?”
“Let me put it this way… If I think we need you to testify as an expert, you get what we got. Fair enough? That way, if you make a significant contribution to the whole investigation, you get the material you want. But you can't talk to the press, and you're locked in as a prosecution witness first.”
He thought for a moment. “Agreed, but I can publish my data afterward? I need to do that.”
I glanced at Harry. “Okay with you?”
“Yep.”
The way he said it, I knew that Harry would renege at the drop of a hat. That was going to have to be between him and Chester.
I told him some of what I knew. He was impressed, in a satisfying sort of way.
“My God, do you realize what you have here? You have a nest. You have a vampire's nest, with a house full of Renfields and blood donors. My God.” He appeared stunned.
“Renffelds?” asked Harry.
