even more than the news of the murders.
There were at least a dozen men and women dressed in Goth attire: black frock coats, top hats, leather pants, long boots. One of them smiled right at me. He showed off a set of sharpened, very nasty looking fangs. He had on bloodred contacts that glowed. He seemed to know who I was. “Dude.” He smirked. “Welcome to hell.”
There was nothing I could do about the ghouls. I kept on walking toward the Bellagio. These strange role-players seemed to have no qualms about being at the crime scene. Were the killers here? Were they watching? What did they expect to see next? What did the murders mean?
I hoped that the Vegas police or the FBI was filming the crowd gathering outside the hotel. I figured that Kyle would have taken care of that. I was here for one reason: I can put together details at a murder scene that other cops usually can’t. It was why Kyle Craig had asked for me. He understood my strengths, and probably also my weaknesses.
The suite where the couple had been murdered was large and relatively tasteful by resort standards. The first thing anyone entering the bathroom would notice was a marble bathtub in a tinted-glass window overlooking a manmade lake and several fountains.
Two bodies were in the tub. I could see the tops of their heads and a couple of bare feet. As I got closer, I saw that the man and woman had been bitten and also cut several times. The nude corpses were eerily white.
There hadn’t been anywhere to hang them inside the suite.
There wasn’t much blood in the tub itself, but it had been stoppered. The room was buzzing with police activity. Too much to suit me. There were LVPD detectives, paramedics, crime-scene scientists, a pathologist, the coroner’s investigative team, and the FBI, of course.
I needed quiet.
I studied the pale, pathetic bodies for several minutes. As was the case with all of the victims so far, the man and woman had been attractive.
Perfect specimens. Chosen for that reason? If not, then why?
The girl looked to be in her early twenties. She was petite, blond, slender, probably under a hundred pounds. The span of her shoulders was only about a ruler’s length. Her breasts were small and had been bitten, almost shredded. There were bite gouges up and down her legs. The male appeared to be in his early twenties as well. He was blond and blue eyed, with a corn-fed look; his body was toned and sculptured. He too had been bitten. His throat had been slashed and so had his wrists.
I could see no defensive bruises on their hands.
They hadn’t fought back,
had they? They knew the attackers.
“You saw the ghouls lurking outside?” Kyle asked. “The semihuman freak show?”
I nodded. “It’s daylight, though. The ones out there must be harmless. The ghouls in their crypts are the ones we need to find.”
Kyle nodded, then he walked away.
After most of the police technicians left I wandered around the hotel suite for several hours. It’s a ritual for me, part of my own obsession. Maybe I feel I owe it to the dead. I stopped and I stared out at the view of the lake that the victims had enjoyed. I noticed everything — the creamy whites, blushing pinks, and sixties Parrish yellows that colored the room. Framed mirrors spotlighted by recessed lights. Fresh fruit and flowers.
The victims had unpacked and put away their clothes. I went through them: Bob Mackie dresses, high-heeled shoes by Jimmy Choo and Manolo Blahnik, a couple of skirts. Expensive, chic, the best of everything.
The last thing either of them had expected was to die.
A stack of fifty- and hundred-dollar markers from the Venetian and New York-New York were in plain view on the dresser. The killers had left the chips. Also two full vials of cocaine in the woman’s purse. A carton of Marlboro Lights.
Was it to tell us they weren’t interested in money and drugs? In gambling? In cigarettes? What were they interested in — murder? Blood?
Ticket stubs were
There were at least a dozen men and women dressed in Goth attire: black frock coats, top hats, leather pants, long boots. One of them smiled right at me. He showed off a set of sharpened, very nasty looking fangs. He had on bloodred contacts that glowed. He seemed to know who I was. “Dude.” He smirked. “Welcome to hell.”
There was nothing I could do about the ghouls. I kept on walking toward the Bellagio. These strange role-players seemed to have no qualms about being at the crime scene. Were the killers here? Were they watching? What did they expect to see next? What did the murders mean?
I hoped that the Vegas police or the FBI was filming the crowd gathering outside the hotel. I figured that Kyle would have taken care of that. I was here for one reason: I can put together details at a murder scene that other cops usually can’t. It was why Kyle Craig had asked for me. He understood my strengths, and probably also my weaknesses.
The suite where the couple had been murdered was large and relatively tasteful by resort standards. The first thing anyone entering the bathroom would notice was a marble bathtub in a tinted-glass window overlooking a manmade lake and several fountains.
Two bodies were in the tub. I could see the tops of their heads and a couple of bare feet. As I got closer, I saw that the man and woman had been bitten and also cut several times. The nude corpses were eerily white.
There hadn’t been anywhere to hang them inside the suite.
There wasn’t much blood in the tub itself, but it had been stoppered. The room was buzzing with police activity. Too much to suit me. There were LVPD detectives, paramedics, crime-scene scientists, a pathologist, the coroner’s investigative team, and the FBI, of course.
I needed quiet.
I studied the pale, pathetic bodies for several minutes. As was the case with all of the victims so far, the man and woman had been attractive.
Perfect specimens. Chosen for that reason? If not, then why?
The girl looked to be in her early twenties. She was petite, blond, slender, probably under a hundred pounds. The span of her shoulders was only about a ruler’s length. Her breasts were small and had been bitten, almost shredded. There were bite gouges up and down her legs. The male appeared to be in his early twenties as well. He was blond and blue eyed, with a corn-fed look; his body was toned and sculptured. He too had been bitten. His throat had been slashed and so had his wrists.
I could see no defensive bruises on their hands.
They hadn’t fought back,
had they? They knew the attackers.
“You saw the ghouls lurking outside?” Kyle asked. “The semihuman freak show?”
I nodded. “It’s daylight, though. The ones out there must be harmless. The ghouls in their crypts are the ones we need to find.”
Kyle nodded, then he walked away.
After most of the police technicians left I wandered around the hotel suite for several hours. It’s a ritual for me, part of my own obsession. Maybe I feel I owe it to the dead. I stopped and I stared out at the view of the lake that the victims had enjoyed. I noticed everything — the creamy whites, blushing pinks, and sixties Parrish yellows that colored the room. Framed mirrors spotlighted by recessed lights. Fresh fruit and flowers.
The victims had unpacked and put away their clothes. I went through them: Bob Mackie dresses, high-heeled shoes by Jimmy Choo and Manolo Blahnik, a couple of skirts. Expensive, chic, the best of everything.
The last thing either of them had expected was to die.
A stack of fifty- and hundred-dollar markers from the Venetian and New York-New York were in plain view on the dresser. The killers had left the chips. Also two full vials of cocaine in the woman’s purse. A carton of Marlboro Lights.
Was it to tell us they weren’t interested in money and drugs? In gambling? In cigarettes? What were they interested in — murder? Blood?
Ticket stubs were
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