Vampyr?

 (Note: This is the first chapter of Vampry? Click on the book cover on the right for a direct link to Amazon. If you enjoyed this, and you like the book... please add a rating. If you enjoyed this, let me know in the comments, and I can add additional chapters. It's all about entertainment in the world today. Please enjoy this preview.)

Chapter One

The legend of the vampire had always fascinated Brian Lassiter. From the moment he'd first learned of it in the Saturday afternoon movies, he'd searched for everything he could find about it, quickly exhausting the books in the library so that he had to special order additional volumes from occult bookstores, specialty shops and eventually Internet websites. And, in an age of high-speed computers with humans walking on the moon, there wasn't much room in the world for old fashioned vampires, their supernatural existence, or their ancient legends. No one believed in such things anymore.

Not that Lassiter cared what the modern world said or did. He sometimes lost himself in the past, reading of Civil War exploits, cavalry charges into hostile camps, and tales of knights and battles and the horror of the medieval world. Lassiter's boss, Robert Mulvaney, used that love against him often, assigning him the stories that had little appeal to the reporters who saw themselves as latest Woodward and Bernstein or as the new Diane Sawyer.

So, Lassiter sat in his chair and looked at the latest assignment sheet trying to read something into it. Mulvaney had tossed it into the blizzard of paper that had drifted across his desk piling up against the side of the computer. Lassiter had rocked back in the old, wooden chair that squeaked in protest, and then held up the paper as if trying to decipher some secret code written on it.

"A four-day old murder?" he said.

"Fits right into your scheme of things," said Mulvaney, rubbing a hand across his balding head where the sweat glistened in spite of the air conditioning and the overcast day.

"My scheme of things?"

"It's a little weird," said Mulvaney. "The body was drained of blood." He then laughed, trying to sound like Bela Lugosi as the first of the young women had agreed to stay the night because the bridge was out.

"Christ," said Lassiter. "I do a single feature on Halloween and for the rest of my life I'm tapped as the resident expert on everything from vampires to flying saucers."

Mulvaney pushed a stack of paper to the side and parked a hip on the corner of the desk so that he was looking down on Lassiter. "Just look into it. With all the wackos running around out there, you don't know what this could turn into. Maybe a nice serial killer to boost circulation."

Lassiter shook his head. "Anything to boost circulation."

"Reality, pal. CNN clobbered everyone on the Gulf War so long ago. Twenty-four hours a day, there was CNN, ready to tell you that missiles were falling in Israel and Riyadh. By the time we could hit the street, everyone already knew what had happened. Hell, the one thing we used to have going for us...the detailed, in-depth report, was gone. CNN had already talked to all the experts, thrown up the graphics and told the world what the results were. And now there is MSNBC, FOX news, and specialty channels that can cover everything. We’re being beat into the ground."

"But a serial killer?" said Lassiter.

"Not a major one like Bundy or that Green River guy. Someone who would be of local interest with no national attention." The tone of Mulvaney's voice changed so that suddenly he sounded like a priest praying. "One body found under mysterious circumstances. Maybe it's only one killing... but who can tell? Then a second and a third. The police are baffled. The local TV devotes a minute, minute and a half to the latest victim, but we can take it further. Everyone wants to know why those people were killed. Is there a link? Does the killer go after young blondes, or maybe yuppies? Yeah. A yuppie killer. The body count rises. There's panic in the streets. People stay home, barricaded in their houses, venturing out only to buy groceries and the latest newspaper because the TV just doesn’t have the depth."

Lassiter had to laugh. "Yeah. Let's create a horror like that so that we can sell papers and see a dozen satellite vans parked outside."

Mulvaney took a deep breath and then pointed at the sheet in Lassiter's hand. "Just check it out."

"Now?"

"You working on something that I don't know about?" asked Mulvaney.

"No. It's just getting late in the day."

"The news never waits and never sleeps. Cable proves that every day."

Lassiter stood up and pulled his suit jacket from the back of his chair. He batted at his rolled-up sleeves and then decided that it was too hot to worry about them. He walked across the carpeted expanse of the city room, glancing to the right so that he could look out the bank of windows. Rain had speckled the glass and was just beginning to drip.

Lassiter walked down the steps and stopped at the glass door of the lobby. The street was already rain slick and it was beginning to rain harder.

He glanced at the paper in his hand again. Linda Walston had been found dead. Police had been called. No one seemed to know much about the case. Just one woman dead, in her home, possibly by violence. Mulvaney didn’t even know if she had been killed. Maybe she had a heart attack.

Lassiter shook his head and wished that the newspaper provided a covered parking lot like the one for those who worked in the telemarketing firm across the street. There was something wrong when telephone solicitors had better parking places than the guardians of the republic.

"Doesn't look like it's going to let up soon," said a voice behind him.

Lassiter turned and saw Sarah Brandon. She was a tall, thin woman who had been out of college for just over two years. She'd started as the entertainment editor but had moved up quickly.

"No," said Lassiter. He waved the paper with Walston's name and added. "I've got an assignment."

"If you've got to get your car anyway, how about giving me a lift?" Grinning, she added, "Pull up in front here and I'll run out."

"Why don't you get your car?" asked Lassiter. "Then I can run out."

"Because, we've moved beyond the days of women's liberation. I have my job and equal pay. Now I want someone to be nice to me. I want someone to get my car in the rain for me."

Lassiter laughed. "Or we both could wait right here until the rain stops."

"You're not in a hurry?"

"Not that much of a hurry. I have a four-day old murder. If I run out in the rain, it won't make any difference. She's still going to be dead."

"That's pretty hardcore, Lassiter," said Brandon.

Lassiter shrugged and then turned his attention back outside. The rain was falling in sheets creating a gray that made it impossible to now see across the street. At the corner was a flash of red as the traffic signal continued to cycle.

Brandon moved up so that she could see out the window. She wiped the fog from the inside of it. "Doesn't look like it's slowing at all."

Lassiter was suddenly aware of her as a woman. He glanced out of the corner of his eye and examined her profile. He realized that she was better looking than he'd thought. When he'd first met her, a year earlier, he'd been more impressed with her intelligence.

"I've got to hurry," she said. She turned to look at him as if she could convince him to run to her car.

"Nope," said Lassiter. "I'm not going out there. It's just too damn wet."

There was a flash of lightning and the lights flickered, went out, and then came back on.

"Maybe I can wait too," she said.

"I'll spring for the Coke, if you'd like one."

But even as he spoke he could see that the rain was beginning to slacken. The building across the street was visible again, the lights behind the windows casting a pale, yellow glow.

"I think it's beginning to stop."

"Yeah," said Lassiter shrugging.

"I'm going to try it," she said.

"You'll still get drenched."

"You want a ride?"

"Sure. To the police station."

"I'll be right back but I'm not going to wait long. You'd better be ready."

"I'll be right here."

 

Lassiter stopped just inside the door of the police station, letting the air conditioning hit him like a solid force. It had been so hot and humid outside, with a steady rain that darkened the sky that it was almost pleasant to just stand inside where the humidity couldn't get at him. He rubbed a hand through his rain slick hair and then opened the second set of double doors.

He stepped into a tiled corridor that looked as if it had been taken under siege. The walls had once been painted a soft green but were now scarred and broken. The floor was littered with cigarette butts and spit and unidentifiable material. There were old wooden benches bolted to the floor with people sitting on them. A young woman in a short skirt and tight blouse had her hands cuffed behind her. She had pretty legs, but her hair and face looked as if they belonged to an older woman. As he passed her, she stared up at him as if daring him to say something to her.

An overweight man stood near a bulletin board that held administrative announcements and informational circulars. He was studying them intensely but Lassiter noticed that one hand was cuffed to a black man who sat on another bench, his left hand cuffed to the arm.

Lassiter stepped to the window at the far end of the corridor, feeling like he was walking through a rogue's gallery. He was fascinated by the people there, waiting for the arresting officers, but he didn't want to talk to them. They were more like the exhibits in a museum than people waiting to see what direction their lives were about to take.

Beyond the window, the contrast was difficult to believe. It was brightly lighted, the walls looked freshly painted. The floor was carpeted and there was an arrangement of desks, each looking as if it, the papers, files, pens and in-out boxes, had been straightened by someone with a compulsion for neatness.

A sergeant in a pressed blue uniform, the buttons and badges gleaming, looked up at Lassiter, studied him for a moment and then grinned broadly.

"I wondered how long it would be before the vampire hunter arrived."

"I write one story on Halloween and for the rest of my life I'm the vampire hunter."

The sergeant closed the file folder, glanced at the computer screen, and then said, "What can I do for you?"

"Who's on the Walston case?"

The sergeant laughed. "Now why aren't I surprised?"

"Because you have no imagination," said Lassiter without smiling. He leaned on the sill of the window cut through the wall that separated the desk sergeant from all those who were waiting processing by their arresting officers.

"That's not the way to gain my cooperation," said the sergeant. He glanced at the computer screen set on the left side of his desk and said, "Looks like Foley's caught it."

"He around?"

There was a buzz at the door to his right and Lassiter grabbed at the knob, opening it. He pushed on through and then stopped by the counter where a couple of police women were working.

The desk sergeant, a pencil in his hand, said, "Foley's in the detective room."

"Thanks."

Lassiter walked to the closest door, opened it when another buzzer sounded, and stepped through into the detective office. It was brightly lighted and filled with metal and wooden desks. There were no windows, and there was a metal cage in the far corner. Half a dozen detectives sat at the desks and none of them looked up as Lassiter entered.

Foley was the red-haired man sitting with his back to the door. He wore a white shirt, suspenders and a shoulder holster that held a snub-nosed revolver while everyone else on the police force carried a Glock. He had a file folder in front of him and a series of glossy prints spread out on the top of his desk.

"That the victim?" asked Lassiter.

Foley turned, glanced up and then casually gathered up the pictures, turning them over. "The ghoul has finally arrived."

"What the hell is it with you guys around here?" asked Lassiter, pulling a chair over from the closest desk.

"Well, we read newspapers and I figured that you'd be here a lot sooner than this."

"What do you have?"

"I've got a young girl killed. Cause of death? One of four different things. Suspects? None. Motive? None. Now, where do you want to go with it?"

Lassiter was quiet for a moment and then said, "I'm just trying to do my job."

"Right," said Foley. He sifted through the photos, found one and handed it to Lassiter. "That was how she looked when we found her."

The woman in the photo was nude, lying on her side, one arm flung up, over her head, partially hiding her face. Her skin was unnaturally pale and Lassiter wondered if that was the result of the flash on the camera.

"No reason for it," said Foley quietly.

"Who found her?"

"Kids playing in the woods."

Lassiter handed the picture to him. In the back of his mind, he wondered if it might be the first victim of a new serial killer just as his boss had wanted. He wondered if it had been a boyfriend who had killed her in anger. Or maybe it was a rapist who decided that he didn't want the victim to be able to give the police a description.

"No leads?" asked Lassiter.

"You people with the press," said Foley. "It's so easy to sit there and say that we should be doing more to find the killer but you never have a suggestion on how to do it. There was no physical evidence at the crime scene with the exception of a single thread caught on the thorn bush that might have been there for weeks and have nothing to do with this case."

"Hey," said Lassiter, holding his hands up as if in surrender. "I'm on your side here. I'm just asking questions."

"Maybe you should go try to answer a few." He stopped and said, "Sorry. This one gets to me. She was nineteen and had just moved into an apartment with a couple of other friends. They were saving money for the fall semester. Just useless. No reason for it."

Lassiter thought of all the clichés. Cops weren't supposed to get involved. They were to be cold and composed and analytical, searching through mounds of evidence until they had learned everything they could and then assemble a comprehensive picture of the crime. They were not supposed to get angry.

Foley seemed to shake himself like a dog just out of the stream. "Now, what can I do for you?"

"The victim's name was Linda Walston?"

"Right. Been dead about three days when we found her. Kept the crime scene and the fact we had a body quiet so that we could process the area without two hundred amateurs trampling the evidence under foot."

"And you have nothing?"

"Nothing at all. I've got a dead woman who was killed somewhere else and dumped here..."

"Why somewhere else?"

"There was virtually no blood in the body. That, by the way, could also be a cause of death. There was no blood where we found the body."

For just a moment Lassiter thought about vampires, but that was the stuff of movies and fantasy novels. There were hundreds of cases where the victims had been drained of blood and all had mundane explanations. And more than a few where it seemed that the bodies had been drained but that was the reaction of the body to death.

Foley was holding a picture of the victim that her parents had supplied. It showed a pretty blonde who looked as if she might have been twelve or thirteen. Foley was shaking his head slowly. "Just doesn't make sense." He glanced at Lassiter. "No sign of a sexual assault."

"But she was nude."

"Yeah but the nuts know that clothing retains microscopic evidence. They take the clothes to keep us from getting anything to work with. Too many criminals watching too much television giving away too many of our methods."

"What do you think?"

"That the world is getting to be a lousy place," said Foley. "There was no reason for this."

 

 

Sitting in the car, and looking at herself in the rearview mirror, Sarah Brandon decided that she should have waited for the rain to stop before venturing into the parking lot. A man could get soaked, let the air dry his clothes and hair, and not look all that bad. A woman just couldn't do it. Her hair hung down in strings and it would take a comb and a hair dryer to repair the damage.

"Fuck it," she said and pushed open the door with her shoulder.

She walked around to the curb, looked at the house number and then at the paper she held. It was a small frame house that was nearly buried under the vines, bushes, trees, and flowers growing around it. The lawn was small and patchy, not doing well in all the shade cast by the larger plants and trees.

She walked to the front gate, pushed it open, and then walked on up to the front door. There was nothing remarkable about it. An average door on an average house. When she pushed the doorbell, she half expected to hear the five notes that had become synonymous with alien spacecraft thanks to Steven Spielberg. Instead, she got an ordinary ding dong.

And the woman who answered the door wasn't what she expected. She was a tall woman with black hair and small glasses. In a pleasant voice, she asked, "May I help you?"

"Mrs. Rosen?"

"Yes."

"You reported seeing a flying saucer?"

"An unidentified flying object," Rosen corrected. "Yes, I reported seeing one."

"My name's Sarah Brandon. I'm with the Gazette."

"Oh. Won't you come in?" Rosen stepped back, out of the way. She pointed at a room to the right. "Have a seat."

"Thank you." Brandon sat down and pulled her notebook out of her purse.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"No. Thank you." Brandon opened her notebook and asked, "Your full name?"

"Judy Rosen... I know, but then, it's my married name."

Brandon smiled weakly. "Normally we don't chase down reports of flying saucers."

"UFOs."

"Whatever. But you said that you'd seen the... creatures that were inside it."

"Yes. I did say that."

"That's the first time I've heard anything like that from around here."

Now Rosen smiled weakly. "There are hundreds of reports like this but the media isn't interested so they never get any publicity."

"So you're blaming us," said Brandon.

"No," said Rosen. "No."

Brandon lifted a hand and pushed her wet hair away from her forehead. "Why don't you tell me what you saw?"

"You really want to know? You don't look as if you care one way or the other. I don't think you believe me."

Brandon put the cap on her pen and sat back in the chair. She studied the other woman for a moment and then said, "You have to admit it is a fantastic story. Creatures from another planet landing out here, where only you could see them. Why not at the United Nations? Or the White House?"

"I don't know why I thought anyone would want to hear this story. Maybe after all the fuss over that Russian report of creatures a couple of years ago..."

"That was from an official agency," said Brandon.

"Oh," said Rosen. "The hundreds of reports by sober Americans don't count, but the reports from a single Russian newspaper have credibility."

"It was an official report. There has been nothing like it here."

"There has," said Rosen, "but you in the media have just overlooked it."

"I don't remember anything like that."

"No? In 1964 a police officer in New Mexico saw a landed craft and two beings. He watched it take off and there were burned marks left on the ground when it was gone. The Air Force labeled it as an unidentified case, but our media isn't interested. Don't want to risk personal credibility on a flying saucer story."

"I don't want to debate the reality of this," said Brandon. "I came to hear about what you saw."

Rosen stood up and walked to the window. Without looking at Brandon, she said, "I didn't see much. A small craft and one creature. Short, skinny. It looked in my direction and then ran into the ship. A moment later it took off. Straight up. It was gone in seconds."

"Not much there."

"What did you expect?" asked Rosen.

"Was there anyone with you?"

Rosen shook her head. "I was alone."

"That seems to be the way it always is. A single witness. No way to verify the report."

Turning, Rosen said, "You don't believe me."

"I'm sorry but you have to admit that it is a fantastic story. Never any proof. These things are never seen on radar. No pictures. Nothing on the ground."

Rosen laughed. "So the government would like you to believe. But they are seen on radar."

"You have no proof," repeated Brandon.

"That I saw something? No. I have no proof."

Brandon turned slightly and noticed the floor to ceiling bookcases. There were a number of books about flying saucers on the shelves. She suddenly understood exactly what she had found. A woman alone who had invented the tale of a flying saucer so that someone would visit her. It was sad when the only hope someone had for companionship was to invent a story of alien visitors. Very sad. Brandon closed her notebook.

"Why is it that you press people refuse to believe the truth? Thousands of sober, rational American citizens have reported UFOs."

"But no one ever has any proof. No one has a piece of metal that can be analyzed."

"So’ you're not going to write anything?"

Brandon stood up, deciding that she'd wasted enough time. There were important stories to find and write. Not more nonsense about UFOs and alien visitors.

"It was very nice to meet you," she said.

"But you're not going to write anything about it," repeated Rosen.

"I'll write it but that doesn't mean that it'll get in the paper," she lied.

Rosen moved toward the door. "I want you to know that something is about to happen. You'll soon believe everything that I had to say and you'll be sorry that you wouldn't listen. You'll see."

“Thank you for your time," said Brandon. "If you see anything else, please try to call so that we can see it too. Maybe we can get pictures."

"Classic," said Rosen. "You're too sophisticated to believe in UFOs, just like the church was too sophisticated to believe that the moons were orbiting Jupiter. Don't tell me the truth because I already know what it is."

"Well, thank you anyway," said Brandon. She moved to the door, opened it, and saw that it was raining again. Not as hard as it had been, but hard enough to soak her before she could get to the car.

"Terrific," she said. "Absolutely terrific."