Dark Changeling Part 6

Father Hale, too, stood up, removing the sacramental stole. "I suggest you see a psychiatrist."

Roger swallowed the obvious reply that leaped to mind. Instead, with a bitter smile, he turned and walked out.

SOON AFTER HIS confrontation with Father Hale, Roger received an unexpected call from Lieutenant O'Toole. "Doc, we have ourselves a suspect in that serial murder case."

Roger sat up straight in the padded leather office chair where he'd been dozing when the telephone had interrupted his lunch break.

"Excellent. How did you manage to track him down?" He wondered whether the profile of the hypothetical killer that he'd a.s.sembled from the police reports and a rereading of Krafft-Ebing'sPsychopathia s.e.xualishad been of any help.

"Didn't. It was pure dumb luck." O'Toole sounded dis-gusted. "He confessed, for G.o.d's sake!"

"Not unheard of," Roger said. "The 'stop me before I kill again' syndrome. Some criminals commit their crimes precisely in order to be punished. On the other hand, irrational guilt can drive people to confess crimes they didn't commit." Catching himself lecturing, he stopped short. O'Toole knew as much as he did about false confessions, maybe more."Yeah, we get the crazies. That's exactly why I called you. The details this guy gave us fit the murders, but we can't be sure." He emitted a nervous cough. "Plus, his lawyer's bringing in a consultant to pa.s.s on the suspect's competence to stand trial. So the D.A.'s going to ask you to check him out for the pro-secution. That okay with you?"

"I'd be glad to." Roger's hand, clenching the phone receiver, began to ache; he deliberately relaxed his grip. So he would finally get to meet Sylvia's supposed "outlaw vampire."Maybe. Or maybe it's a false alarm, after all. Nevertheless, his mouth went dry with excitement.

"Great! The D.A.'s office will contact you later today to set it up, probably for tomorrow sometime. I just wanted to touch base with you first."

"Can you give me a general idea of why his competence is in question?"

"Personally, I think the lawyer's laying the background for an insanity defense." Over the phone, Roger heard the detective tapping a pen against the receiver. "But I have to admit the guy is a little weird. He didn't want a lawyer; his married sister practically forced one on him. He hasn't given the cops one minute of trouble. He doesn't react to anything much, sits around staring at the walls like he's in a trance. Only thing that got him worked up was the mention of bail. Said he didn't want to be let out, can you beat that?"

"Oh? Did he say why?" The whole profile didn't fit Sylvia's claim of a serial killer vampire. Nor did this behavior sound much like the human psychopath Roger had postulated in his report. He reminded himself that the chance of a false confession was better than even.

"Said he wouldn't be safe on the outside."

"What's the suspect's background?" Not that he needed to know any of that to evaluate the man's mental balance, but he couldn't suppress his curiosity. He wanted to know how closely this self-confessed murderer matched Sylvia's hints.

"Security guard at M.I.T., name of Albert Warren, age fifty-two, not married," said O'Toole, again tapping his phone as if the sound stimulated his thought processes. "Usually works the night shift. He managed to give us some on-target times and places for the crimes, and being he lives alone, he doesn't have anybody to alibi for him, but he doesn't really fit that profile you worked up.

Of course, that's just your statistical average, right?"

"True, this kind of prediction is far from an exact science," Roger said.

"Listen, if you find out anything useful when you examine the perp, you'll let me know, right?"

"Of course. I'll call you immediately afterwards, either way." Roger hung up, his thoughts drifting to Krafft-Ebing's examples of subjects addicted to "infliction of pain during the most intense emotion of l.u.s.t."Is that what they've got locked up downtown? Or do they have something even less human?

Shoving aside these futile speculations, he considered whether to tell Sylvia her "vampire" had been arrested. No-why upset her until he was certain the suspect had indeed committed the murders?

THAT NIGHT, driving with Sylvia through downtown Boston, he found her in an unusually communicative mood. She asked him whether he hadn't been lonely before the two of them had met.

The question touched too closely upon memories of his childhood that had sprung to mind while reviewing the case histories of blood fetishists. Roger had to spend several minutes sorting out his thoughts before he could reply. Sylvia waited quietly, with uncharacteristic patience.

"If I was, I didn't know it," he said, rolling down his win-dow to let in the summer night breeze. "As the only child of parents well into middle age-Mother and Dad were in their late forties when they adopted me-and a pretty strange child at that-" "Strange?" He could almost see Sylvia's ears perk up.

"I was a solitary introvert, with no idea how to relate to other children."But not "hypochondriac" and "neurasthenic" like those pathetic specimens in the textbooks. Aside from his food allergies and sensitivity to sunlight, Roger had never been ill in his life.

"Even at a Catholic high school run by Jesuits, an academic overachiever with no social skills doesn't score high in popularity. My strength and reflexes didn't help, since I couldn't stay out in the sun long enough to apply them to something useful, such as football." He smiled at the memory of the day his more athletic cla.s.smates had taunted him too far, causing his temper to break out with devastating effect. Being left alone from then on had been well worth the demerits he'd received for fighting.

"You didn't mind that?"

With a shrug Roger said, "I came to terms with it. Maxi-mized the things I did well, won Latin compet.i.tions for the school and so forth. I enjoyed the company of older people and had easy successes with the young ladies from the girls' academy down the road-surprised me almost as much as it must have annoyed my rivals. No, I didn't miss having a more 'normal' up-bringing. I a.s.sumed that was the only way to live. Wishing for something different, even later, as an adult, would have been like-" he flashed her a self-mocking smile-"wanting to change into a bat. It never occurred to me."

The car inched along clogged streets past Quincy Market, with its open-air stalls selling everything from produce and flowers to fish and meats. Even after dark, shoppers crowded the sidewalk between the rows of displays. Aromas of fruit, fish, fresh-ground coffee, and the occasional nauseating whiff of garlic scented the air. Among the storefronts that lined the alley, Roger glimpsed a butcher shop with a sign in the window, "Fresh-killed goat, whole or half."And people think buying fro-zen blood is peculiar!

Sylvia wrinkled her nose at the flood of odors. "You must have wondered about your special powers. Other teenage boys didn't see auras, read emotions, or seduce girls with a look and a touch."

He shrugged his shoulders as if the memory weighed on him like a poorly balanced backpack. "Of course I did. I learned quickly to use them-and hide them. And naturally I wondered why I was-strange. But as for not being human-my imagi-nation didn't run wild to that extent, and it still doesn't."Not quite true. If I weren't entertaining the idea, I wouldn't have gone to Father Hale. The priest's rejection still left a bitter taste in his thoughts. He braked, waiting for the traffic light to change.

"That's where we differ," she said, still unusually serious. "I always knew what I was, and I had a family that understood my needs-even if not exactly what ephemerals would call a family. Going to Radcliffe, then living here after graduation, I've missed that companionship. Meeting you has helped." That was the most she'd said at one time about her background, whether real or fan- tasized. With an impish grin she added, "Even if you are incre-dibly square."

"So you did have a childhood?" he said, hoping to take advantage of her willingness to talk.

She gave an impatient sniff. "Of course we have a child-hood. We just don't have the same family structure h.o.m.o saps do." She stretched and wiggled in her seat. "Have you been practicing that disappearing act?"

"Once or twice. I'm almost afraid of it," he confessed.

"You still doubt your own sanity, don't you?" She sounded both impatient and incredulous. "Look, I can prove one thing-we both see auras. It's not your imagination or mine." She dug a pen and pocket notebook out of her purse. "Choose a couple of people on the street. I'll write down what I see in their auras and then give you my list. You tell me if you picked up the same things."

"Well-I have to admit that's a sound scientific approach."

"Gee, thanks," she said with her wolfish grin. "And I trust you to answer truthfully when I hit the target. Go ahead, pick two people at random."

He glanced over the throng of pedestrians and said, "All right, how about the plump woman at the flower stall and that black man crossing the street?"

"Fine." After staring at each of the two subjects for a few seconds, Sylvia jotted in her notepad. "Here." She handed him the list. Not bothering with the dome light, Roger read her notes in the glow from nearby street lamps: "Woman-dull yellow with muddy gray blotches around the chest area-sick with some-thing, maybe breast cancer. Man-deep reddish pink, with darker vermilion swirls around his head-probably has a headache-high blood pressure?"

Roger exhaled a long breath and gave back the paper. He felt as if he'd plunged into water over his head, and the undertow was dragging him out to sea.

"Well?" The teasing lilt in Sylvia's voice proved that she sensed his stunned reaction. "Do your observations agree, Doctor?"

"You know they do."I'm not deranged. I actually do have some kind of ESP. "I suppose I should thank you."

"After you get over the shock? I won't hold my breath."

They headed into the heart of the North End, where the cooking smells from scores of Italian restaurants forced Roger to roll up the window and turn on the air conditioner. Just as well, since he heard thunder in the distance, and a sprinkle of raindrops spattered onto the windshield. Shortly the car turned in front of the courtyard in front of the Old North Church. A wind sprang up, plucking a few leaves from the trees to whisk them across the brick pavement.

Roger couldn't help recalling the girl whose body had been found here. The memory of his nightmare made a sour taste rise in the back of his throat. "Fighting traffic isn't my idea of a pleasant evening," he said. "Why did you suggest we come down here?"

"Just cruising. You know I like to pick up tourists." She glanced toward the plaza just ahead. "Hey, look over there."

The Citroen's headlights illuminated a skinny teenager slouched on a stone bench under a tree near the equestrian statue of Paul Revere. The boy looked up as the car slowed at the curb.

"Stop a minute," Sylvia said. "Maybe he wants a ride."

"You can't be serious. He's only a child."

"I'm going to check him out anyway. If he's old enough to be interested, he's old enough."

"Didn't you get all you needed last night?"

"Oh, Roger, don't be so stuffy." She unlatched her door and leaned out, as he resignedly put on the brakes. The boy stood up and took a couple of steps in their direction. "Need a lift?" Sylvia called.

He bent over to peer past Sylvia at Roger. "Uh-sure, that'd be cool."

She scooted over. "Well, get in. This is my Uncle Roger, and I'm Sylvia."

Uncle? Sylvia must have decided to drop her age a few years.

"Thanks, man," the boy said, leaning forward again to address Roger. "Name's Rico." Raindrops beaded his hair. He wore a T- shirt, slashed off at mid-chest, with a picture of the rock group Kiss. If the outfit was an attempt to look tough, it hadn't succeeded.

His curly, over-long black hair and delicate features made him look more like Hawthorne's Marble Faun than an extra fromWest Side Story.

"Where are you headed, Rico?" Sylvia brushed his finger-tips lightly with hers.

"Home. My cousin picked up a girl and ditched me. I have to catch the T."

"No problem, we'll drop you at the station," she said.

Taking the hint, Roger put the Citroen in gear, circled around to a southbound street, and headed toward Faneuil Hall while Sylvia had her way with their pa.s.senger. The musk of arousal tinged the boy's sweat. By the time they'd reached the subway entrance, Roger's head throbbed from clenching his jaws. The combined aromas of blood and s.e.xual excitement in the confines of the car formed an irritant he still hadn't learned to deal with.

When Sylvia brought the boy out of trance, he said, "You're something else. How about giving me your phone number?"

"I'm too old for you," she said, her right hand still playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Don't go putting me on! Couldn't be more than a couple of years' difference!"

Giving Sylvia a sidelong glance, Roger realized that dressed as she was, in jeans, a halter, and sandals, she did indeed look no older than eighteen, rather than her actual late twenties.

"How old are you, Rico?" she asked.

"Seventeen."

Small for his age,thought Roger.Probably something of a misfit in his subculture.

When Sylvia showed no sign of yielding, Rico persisted, "Come on, who cares about a year or two? I never ran into anybody like you before. You make me think of that poem, you know, 'She walks in beauty, like the night.' I'm not trying to lay any big moves on you. We could meet in the park and, you know, ride the swan boats, or whatever."

Quoting Byron? Definitely a misfit.

Sylvia laughed, "All right, I give up. I don't go out in the daytime much, but you can visit me tomorrow night." She delved into her purse on the floor, tore a sheet off the notepad, and scribbled her address.

Rico glanced at it, shoved it into his side pocket, whooped, "All right!" and jumped out of the car, slamming the door on the way.

Roger noticed that his legs wobbled as he meandered toward the MTA station.

Following Roger's gaze, Sylvia said, "Quit worrying. I didn't drink that much. It's the energy drain. He'll be fine in a couple of hours."

A car honked behind them. Shifting into gear and driving away, Roger glared at her in speechless indignation. Impulsive though she was, he'd never known her to do anything this foolish.

"If I'd been alone with Rico," she said, "I'd have let him come. But I knew that would annoy you. Oh, well, maybe next time." She licked her lips.

"'Annoy' is hardly the word!"

She refastened her seat belt with a sensual undulation of her hips. "You disapprove," she mocked. "You think I'm greedy, immoral, reckless, and a total airhead."

"I wouldn't use such unprofessional language, but I do think you've set yourself up for trouble. How could you even consider giving a victim access to your home? What has got into you?"

She leaned back, hands clasped behind her head. "I think I'm drunk."

"Impossible."

"Because it's outside your uptight experience?" she said. "You can't imagine how refreshing that was-how different from older men. As for taking them home, don't you ever do that?"

"It wouldn't be safe." "Why not? You just make them forget afterwards. And in your own place you can relax, create the proper atmosphere."

"Atmosphere?"

"Candles, music, maybe satin sheets or an embroidered quilt or other special decorations. Look, you know a feeding isn't complete without emotional satisfaction. You have to plan for that. Grabbing a quickie in a car or an alley isn't always enough."

He shook his head.Might as well try to deliver a moral lecture to a cat. "Sylvia, you're a shameless hedonist."

"Now you're catching on." She didn't attempt to justify herself further. On the way home she gazed out the window and sang an obscure Elton John song about a wistful revenant named Lady Samantha.

Chapter 6

The next day on his lunch hour, Roger caught a cab for the short trip between his office and the Charles Street Jail. The antiquated gray building with its barred windows bore a depressing resemblance to a medieval fortress. As always, Roger braced himself before he stepped inside, but no amount of preparation really cushioned the shock.

When he entered the vast central atrium with its seven-story-high ceiling, a torrent of noise crashed over him. From the multi- leveled tiers of cells, the cacophony of hundreds of voices bounced off the bare walls. The racket seemed to drill straight into the center of his skull. Odors of urine, vomit, and disin-fectant oozed from the very walls.

Still worse, the emotional atmosphere made him feel suffocated-so much anger and fear packed into such an overcrowded s.p.a.ce.

The negative emanations from prisoners and staff alike clotted around him like smog on a hot, windless day. Behind the thunderous din of too-loud voices, he heard a man alternately sobbing and cursing, someone else pounding on a wall in monotonous cadence.

He forced his breathing to a slow, even rhythm.