They were calling them the Bite Me Murders. All eleven of the victims had nasty deep bite marks on their necks, and had bled to death. That was the official cause of death, anyway. Where all of their blood had gone was anybody’s guess. There was certainly none at any of the crime scenes where the bodies had been found. Not a single drop, anywhere in the vicinity.
Naturally, the media was sensationalizing the murders, talking about blood sucking vampires and pointing out that every one of the killings had occurred during the new moon phase of the month. The newscasts really played up the fact that all of the corpses had been drained of blood. That’s the way they always worded it. Not “bled to death” but “drained of blood.” Of course, knowing how the blood got out and where it went wouldn’t make these people any less dead. But it sure would make hunting down the killer a hell of a lot easier for the police forces in the cities where the murders had taken place.
There was a real shortage of clues to work with. Absolutely no connection had been found among any of the victims, nor among their families, friends or co-workers. The only thing they shared in common was the modus morte and the obvious fact that they had all taken place somewhere within Washington's King County.
Romeo Tarantella had not slept in 38 hours. He’d walked into HQ on Wednesday morning feeling mighty damn pleased with himself. His gritty testimony two days before had pretty much slammed the cell doors on Kevin Arnold, bolted them and melted down the keys. The verdict yesterday had been merely anticlimactic. There wasn’t a chance in hell that his sentence wouldn’t be death. Nobody felt sympathy for serial killers. When the creep’s victims had all been under the age of 7, he wasn’t just a killer — he was a monster. Arnold had committed unspeakable atrocities on his small victims before they had mercifully died. Tarantella knew the prison mindset. Arnold had better pray to God he got the death sentence — and solitary confinement until then.
Ten minutes after he’d taken his first sip of the industrial strength Drano that was euphemistically referred to around the station as coffee, the Chief called him into his office. Three other detectives were already gathered there: Rogers, Willis and McClain. Tarantella had worked with them all before, separately and collectively. They were all good men — even McClain, who was actually a woman. It would not be stretching things to call this group the best damn bunch of detectives Seattle had to call on. In fact, the media had adoringly nicknamed them Seattle’s Best.
Mary “Red” McClain was his de facto partner. A big-boned Irish woman, she had fiery red hair with the consistency of a used Brillo pad, and several million freckles on her face alone. She also had a mind like a steel trap, and a photographic memory. McClain had saved his ass so many times, Tarantella affectionately called her Saint Mary. She affectionately called him Dago. She was also the only person outside his family whom he allowed to use his first name. The fact that Red only used it in conjunction with “you dumb bumfuck” or “you stubborn shithead” helped considerably.
It was obvious right off that the Chief was pissed, bigtime. He had that little tick thing going on with his right eye that meant somebody’s ass was about to get reamed. And when the Chief was about to ream your ass, the best thing to do was drop trou, bend over and hand him the Vaseline. Defending yourself would only get you a new asshole right next to the first one.
“OK,” the Chief boomed. “OK. Here it is in Cliff’s Notes. The Mayor is shittin’ bricks. The TV fuckers are all over her ass as to why we ain’t caught this Bite Me killer. So Her Honor’s all over MY ass. Now, kids, you know that means I gotta get all over YOUR asses ‘cause I got six more years till pension paradise, and nothin’s gonna blow it for me. Capiche?”
They all nodded mutely. It was safer that way.
“Right. As of this second, Tarantella, this guy is your baby. Let’s see you really put those Big Apple years to good use. You other three are running offense. Get in bed with this guy. You’re gonna eat, drink, sleep and shit the Bite Me murders. You get him down so good, you know who he’s going after next before he does. This nut thinks he’s a vampire. Let’s give him our main vein to suck on, OK, boys?”
The other three got up and filed out. Tarantella remained sitting. When the others were gone, he grinned widely at the Chief.
“So, Kolchak, how long you been waiting for an opportunity to say that line?”
The Chief was not even embarrassed. He closed his eyes and sighed with supreme satisfaction.
“Thirty-two years. Never thought I’d live to see the day.”
“Yeah, well, you got your fondest wish. Over a lot of dead bodies.”
The Chief frowned. “And no blood.”
That was Wednesday morning. Since then, Seattle’s Best had been poring over every transcript, every note, every autopsy report, every piece of paper or evidence even remotely connected to the Bite Me murders. It was a desperate search for a new lead, but they found nothing. Nada. Zero, zip, zilch.
Tarantella rubbed his palm against his aching head. He hated these fucking microfische viewers. They made him dizzy, like he was carsick. And it hadn’t done him any good to spend three hours reading newspaper accounts of the case, anyway. They hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already know. He sighed deeply with fatigue, and stood up, stretching. Ahhh, what he wouldn’t give for an hour long Swedish massage! Well, what he wouldn’t give was $225, and that was the current going rate downtown. Besides, going downtown would just remind him of how desperately he missed Simon, and then he’d be depressed all night. He allowed himself a momentary flicker of yearning for Simon’s strong, loving touch, then resolutely pushed his ex-lover from his mind. He’d just have to settle for a hot shower and a cold beer. Or two. Or three.
Heat. Sand. The heavy scent of incense. Stone walls painted in brilliant murals, and a draped bed piled with tasseled pillows. A distant sound of softly trickling water. Dark eyes smoldering with love and passion. A face floating just at the edge of vision range, a beautiful, strong face with caramel colored skin and jet black hair. And a voice, whispering, the very sound of it bringing a flood of aching sorrow. “Ibis. . . Ibis. . .”
The dream again. It was driving him crazy. He was nearly to the point of dreading sleep, knowing it would come to him again, and he would wake with this agony tearing at him, this feeling of such unbearable grief and loss. And, Tarantella thought as he threw back the covers, he was damned if he knew what it was supposed to mean. He stood up and walked into the bathroom, flipping the light switch as he entered. There was a sharp pop, followed by a sizzle, as one of the two bulbs went out. Grumbling in annoyance, Tarantella leaned toward the mirror in the half-light. Something wavered in the reflection, and he jerked back, startled. He looked again, harder, and saw his own face. But for that one moment, he’d have sworn a dark-eyed, exotically beautiful woman was looking back at him.
