would be checked at the morgue, Rowen presumed, where the doctor could take a closer look before inserting the thermometer. Even with the floodlights, this alley was no place to look for signs of sexual assault. Removing clothing or inserting thermometers could eliminate or contaminate evidence. Dr. Cost opted not to take the risk.
The M.E. glanced at Rowen’s gloved hands. “Help me turn her over.” A trace sheet had already been laid in place for wrapping the body.
Rowen obliged, subconsciously registering the non-human coolness of the woman’s skin. A layer of latex on her hands and paper covers on her shoes were automatics for Rowen. She never took chances with her crime scenes. Though they offered little in the way of armor shielding against the horror of death.
She’d always harbored extreme fear when it came to dying, significantly more than what most people considered normal. The panic she felt at times bordered on outright phobia. Those who knew her struggle—they were few, only her closest friends and family—couldn’t understand her need to go into homicide. Rowen deemed it her little way of doing all she could to stop those who committed the worst of crimes against others. And maybe to prove she could not only face the inevitable but could wage a sort of battle against it.
Cost shook his head slowly, a heavy sigh splintering his quiet ruminations as he considered the victim. “Nothing. I see nothing, Detective, that is going to separate this victim from the others.”
Rowen’s apprehension amped up another notch as she watched him bag the vic’s hands. “But you can’t be certain just yet.” She needed to hear something different but she knew that wasn’t going to happen.
“Look at her, Rowen.” He gestured to the grayish white skin that was strangely lacking in the usual lividity or marbling effect caused by blood pooling in the veins. “And if that isn’t enough, there is no outward indication of trauma other than this.” He pointed to the small marks on the victim’s throat, in the area of the body’s most prominent blood-carrying vessel.
“The same as the other three,” he stated unnecessarily and gave a small shrug. “I’ll do all I can. But I can’t find evidence if it isn’t there. At this point, I would say the victim died of extreme blood loss. End of story. Just like the others.” He looked over at Rowen then; his entire visage grim. “The only question is, how?”
And there it was. The riddle for which she had no solution. The one thing she and Cost knew for certain was that, in the other three murders and most likely in this one, the vast majority of the victim’s blood had been drained in a manner similar to how one siphons fuel from a gas tank with a hose. Only, they didn’t have a hose. They had no murder weapon whatsoever.
Maybe the Reporter was right.
Maybe Boston had itself a vampire.
A thirsty one at that.
WHEN THE BODY had been taken away and the crime scene secured for a second evidence sweep in the light of day, Rowen peeled off the latex gloves and shoe covers and shoved them into the pocket of her blazer. A fog had lifted and the dawn had come, swathed in a chilling, morose gray that had more to do with her mood than it did with the climate.
She climbed into her car and headed to One Schroeder Plaza, the main headquarters of Boston’s police department. There was time to check her messages and make some calls before the preliminary report from the autopsy would be ready. This case had priority status. Any new victims would be pushed to the front of the line. The powers that be were waiting, holding their collective breaths, for some sort of verdict. For any indication of a reasonable explanation that didn’t include sidebars to the Reporter’s melodramatic suggestions. Just what the city needed this close to Halloween.
So far, the murders had all taken place in one area and had since become known as the South End Murders. Not exactly original, but better than some others suggested at the station. It was bad enough that a smart-ass reporter had tossed out the idea of vampires to the general public. Having anyone in Homicide mention it, even as a joke, was not good at all. Especially since the reporter couldn’t have made the obvious connection if someone hadn’t leaked the cause of death.
Daylight crept over the city, the sun bleaching some of the gray, as Rowen reached Columbus Avenue. But she still felt shrouded in darkness, gripped in the choke hold of uncertainty.
Though she ignored the haunting feeling when working a case, the moment she was alone, her mind no longer focused on the scene or on a related report, she felt it…stronger than ever. It was more than the sensation of being watched. Far more intimate, somehow. As if her own shadow was in a peculiar manner “following” her.
Rowen shuddered and kicked the disturbing concept out of her head.
She had bigger problems to worry about.
“Damn.”
She cringed, felt like smacking her forehead with the heel of her hand. She’d left home in such a hurry this morning she couldn’t remember if she’d put out any Kibbles for Princess. Definitely hadn’t taken her out for a potty walk. Coming home to a puddle or worse was not among her favorite things to do. And letting the animal go all day, and possibly part of the night if an emergency came up, without food was unconscionable.
Thinking of her spoiled and pampered Maltese made Rowen smile no matter how irritating the domineering animal could be. She’d had the arrogant little piece of white fluff for two years, having rescued the dog after its original owner had been murdered and no one else had wanted a pet. Especially one who wore a genuine rhinestone collar and sported pink toenails.
The elderly woman’s body hadn’t been found for two days and Princess had stayed right beside her master the entire time, not leaving her side to drink or eat even though both bowls had been full and waiting. Now that was loyalty. Everyone should have someone or thing that cared that much. She supposed that was how she ended up taking the prissy pooch home. Rowen was tired of being alone.
According to the dog’s registration papers and the veterinarian who’d provided her health care, she was almost five years old now.
Rowen loved her like a child.
Her smile faltered. Memories she’d thought she had laid to rest three years ago filtered into her mind as if she’d flipped that switch with the mere mention of children. She forced the thoughts away, refused to loiter in that part of her past.
There was plenty of time for finding the right life partner and starting a family. It wasn’t as if thirty-one was that old. But on mornings like this one, she felt a hundred.
After parking she made her way along the slender cobblestone byway to the eighteenth-century row house she called home. Rowen had inherited the brownstone, once the home to servants of the wealthier Beacon Hill residents, from her grandmother, who was purported to have been a direct descendant of one of those servants. Rowen’s family was immensely proud of its heritage, however lacking it was in the historically privileged blue blood of the area. Her mother would say, “Who needed blue blood when you had greenbacks?” Her mother’s marriage to Rowen’s father, a rich Irishman, had infused the family with a healthy dose of financial security if not a royal lineage.
A genuine smile slanted across Rowen’s lips. This was Boston, after all, the city that gave new meaning to the phrase melting pot.
The steep cobbled alley that led to her front door was lit at night by gas lamps and embellished year round with overflowing flower boxes. From pansies in the spring to mums in the fall, there was always something blooming.
