Blood of Eden Page 3

  This was not the job for me.

  I swallowed. At least a dozen times. I breathed through my mouth and closed my eyes. I concentrated on taking slow, deep breaths. And still, I couldn’t stop it. I puked. In front of Chief Peyton, as well as the other members of the PBAU, and the local FBI contact, and a whole passel of Baltimore’s finest men in blue.

  Little had I known, but getting up close and personal with a recently deceased person was not the same as seeing one that had its hair done, makeup on, and was posed in an appropriately peaceful manner, snug in a coffin.

  I was ready to crawl back in the Suburban and die of embarrassment.

  Chief Peyton was nice enough to compliment me for not contaminating the crime scene. Then, kind soul that she was, she suggested I accompany JT in interviewing a witness who claimed to have seen the victim collapse. The witness was standing at least twenty feet away.

  After doing what I could to eliminate all signs of my shamefully weak moment, I headed in the direction Chief Peyton had indicated, quickly locating the pair.

  JT greeted me with a nod before turning back to the witness. “This is Sloan Skye.”

  The witness, a woman wearing a dress at least four decades old, turned bloodshot eyes my way, giving me a quick assessing glance before looking back at JT.

  “Can you tell us what you saw, Mrs. Zumwalt?” JT asked.

  “Miss Zumwalt,” the witness corrected, her wispy gray hair whipping into disarray as an almost imperceptible breeze blew through it. “I saw a woman walking from that direction.” She pointed a shaking hand toward a tall redbrick building hidden by a small grouping of trees. “I was going this way, toward Centre Street. I collect the cans and bottles people throw into the street. You know, just doing my part, keeping the city clean... .” Her words trailed off, and her eyelids slid over her eyes.

  “Miss Zumwalt,” I asked, “what happened next?”

  Miss Zumwalt’s eyes snapped open. Looking a little confused, she glanced around. “Oh. Yes. Where was I?” Her hands disappeared into her pockets.

  “You saw a woman. Coming this way.” JT pointed toward the redbrick building.

  Miss Zumwalt fingered her mouth. “Yeah. She came from that way. We passed each other here, at the intersection. A few seconds later, after I turned the corner, I heard something behind me. A dull thump like a heavy sack being dropped. When I turned around, she was lying on the ground, just like she is now.”

  JT scratched some notes in his notebook. “Then you didn’t see the victim fall?”

  “No, I guess I didn’t.” The witness swayed slightly. She blinked in slow motion.

  Swaying. Slow reflexes. Bloodshot eyes. Shaking hands. Was this witness credible? Regardless of my doubts, I took notes on both what the woman said and what she did.

  I asked, “Did you happen to notice if the woman was bleeding as she walked toward you?”

  Miss Zumwalt’s forehead crinkled into deep grooves. “Bleeding? No. But ... now that I think about it, she didn’t look right.”

  “In what way?” JT asked.

  “She was kinda pale. And I think she was sweating. With this cold snap—it was downright chilly this morning, for June—and dressed the way she was, she should have been cold, not hot.”

  I jotted, sweating, pale. “Did you see her carrying anything? A purse?” I asked, recalling the one useful detail I’d retained from the crime scene.

  “No.” The woman paused. Nodded. “I take that back. Yes. She had a purse.”

  “What did it look like?” JT scribbled more notes.

  “Brown.” Miss Zumwalt tapped her chin, then shook her head. “I’m sorry. That’s all I remember. The bag couldn’t have been big. That would have stood out. But it was big enough for me to see it. So, I’m guessing medium and brown. Or maybe it was black.” The witness sighed. “I don’t remember. I looked at her face, not her purse.”

  “It’s okay. You’re doing fine,” I reassured her. The details the woman had been able to give us were remarkable, especially considering her state. I had a sneaking suspicion she existed on a primarily liquid diet, and it wasn’t coming from the local soup kitchen. I’d seen my share of hard lifetime alcoholics to recognize one when I saw it. “Did you hear anything? Gunfire? A struggle?”

  Miss Zumwalt shook her head again. “No gunfire. I would’ve ducked for cover if I’d heard a gun.”

  “Okay. Thank you for answering our questions.” JT flipped to a fresh page in his notebook. “Do you have a phone number where we can reach you if we have any more questions?”

  Miss Zumwalt’s eyes brightened. She ran a hand over her mussed hair, catching a thin tendril and curling it around her finger. “No, but you can always find me at St. Edith’s during lunchtime. They serve the best soup. Maybe you’d like to join me sometime?” She gave poor JT a coquettish smile.

  “Thank you for the invitation, but I’m afraid I can’t. It’s against agency rules.” JT glanced at me. “Do you have any other questions, Skye?” I shrugged. I couldn’t think of any. “Thank you again, Miss Zumwalt. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “I hope you catch whoever killed that nice woman. It’s terrible of me to say this, but I’m grateful it wasn’t me. You never know if you’ll be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m thinking I almost was today, just like my friend Lulu.” She made the sign of the cross over her chest. “God rest her soul.” The fear in Miss Zumwalt’s eyes couldn’t be missed. “Lulu was buying some cigarettes in a 7-Eleven when it was robbed. Bastards shot her. For no reason.”

  Again, I could relate. Once, years ago, I was almost mugged on campus. A man came out of nowhere and grabbed me. I had no idea what he was going to do. Luckily, a campus security officer saw it. He dashed to my rescue, and the man ran off. I’d never felt so helpless, vulnerable, or terrified before.

  “We’re going to do our best to help the police catch whoever did this. I promise.” I wrote down St. Edith’s, and JT and I started back toward the rest of the team. I saw Chief Peyton talking to the local FBI field office liaison. Agent Fischer was talking to a couple of Baltimore police officers.

  “I wasn’t sure about that witness when we started,” I admitted before we were within earshot of the other agents. I didn’t mention Miss Zumwalt’s obvious flirting, figuring JT probably dealt with that kind of thing all the time. He clearly knew how to handle it.

  JT nodded. “It’s probably alcohol. But she gave us some good details. I wish she’d seen the victim collapse.”

  I chewed on my pencil eraser as I reread my notes. “The purse was a good catch. I don’t remember seeing the victim’s handbag. Maybe it was a robbery. Or she could have collapsed. Miss Zumwalt thought she might have been ill.” I took a quick glance around. “This doesn’t look like the best neighborhood. Someone could have stolen her handbag after she passed out.”

  “The witness saw no blood. That would suggest the bite was an old wound.”

  I stood next to a parked police car, intentionally positioning myself so I couldn’t see the body. “Not necessarily. Puncture wounds don’t always bleed, or if they do, they don’t bleed for long.”

  “Sure, but a puncture striking the jugular?”

  I shrugged. “Could have missed the major blood vessels.”

  “I guess it’s possible.” JT stared over my shoulder, in the general direction of the dead body.

  I cleared my throat. “I think I’ll go find Chief Peyton, ask her what she’d like me to do next.”

  “Sure.” JT gave me a knowing smile. “It gets easier, Skye. I promise. The first body’s the worst.”

  “Thanks.” I swear, I was so embarrassed my cheeks were hot enough to melt lead. I’d hoped he hadn’t seen me throw up. So much for that.

  JT, bless him, didn’t say another word about my weak stomach. “The ME’s here. Before I talk to him, I want to double-check and see if a purse has been found. We need to identify our victim.”

  “Has her car been located?” I asked. />
  “Probably not, but we can check the meters and run the plates of any cars parked at the ones that are expired.”

  “What about a bus?”

  “Looks like there’s a stop back there, so that’s a possibility. I’ll be looking at maps of the area later, once we’ve finished up here.”

  I took one sweeping look around, at the old brick and concrete multistory structures crowded together. There had to be hundreds of people in the neighboring buildings. Which one had the victim been headed for when she’d died? And why had the killer chosen this location for the crime?

  The traffic wasn’t heavy, but it wasn’t light either. And there were pedestrians walking around, people gathering at the bus stop, businesspeople walking to and from cars. It was a busy intersection, the meeting of not two but three roads. Behind me sat a homeless shelter; in front, some kind of large, sprawling building. To the left and right were a deli, beauty salon, and church. To me, it seemed like a very risky place to jump someone.

  As I approached Chief Peyton, I overheard part of the conversation she was having with Agent Nelson from the Baltimore FBI field office.

  Nelson was saying, “There haven’t been any similar deaths reported, that I’m aware of. That’s why we couldn’t get the BAU in here. The locals don’t think it’s an FBI case.”

  “You don’t agree?” Chief Peyton asked as she gave me a slight nod, signaling for me to stay put and listen.

  Nelson added, “Something just doesn’t sit right with me. I’m hoping you’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  “We’re going to do our best.” Chief Peyton’s phone rang, and she glanced down at it, smiling. “Just a minute.” When Nelson acknowledged her with a nod, she stepped aside, out of both his earshot and mine, and flipped open the phone to answer.

  That left me standing next to an agent I didn’t know, an agent who had seen me throw up. I might as well have been wearing a big scarlet letter N for “Newbie” on my chest.

  I had no idea what to say. I tried to push aside my discomfort by focusing on the case.

  Our job wasn’t necessarily to gather evidence; that was the work of the local detectives and agents. We were there to interpret the evidence they uncovered, to determine if a paranormal element was involved in the crime. If there was one, we were to provide a profile of the creature responsible. It was all very X-Files.

  But, of course, we didn’t have a profile yet. So, instead of standing there feeling out of place, I turned to look back in the direction the victim would have come from.

  That’s when I noticed the sign. The blue rectangle with a capital H in white.

  “Excuse me, Agent Nelson, but is that a hospital?” I indicated the building on the opposite side of the street.

  “Yep. That’s Good Samaritan.”

  Could that be a coincidence? My mother didn’t believe in coincidences.

  The victim had looked as if she might be sick.

  She’d collapsed within eyesight of a hospital.

  Seemed like the hospital might be a clue.

  I asked, “Has anyone checked to see if our victim was a patient?”

  Nelson nodded. “We checked both the ER and the cashier. Nobody fitting the victim’s description was seen in the emergency room or clinic. Nor was anyone fitting her description discharged this morning. However, visiting hours start at nine. She could have been visiting a patient.”

  “I see.” I took a few more notes.

  Chief Peyton gave my arm a tap, letting me know she was back. “There may not have been another death like this in Baltimore, but there has been one in a town close by. Agent Nelson, the rest of my team will stay here with you and follow up. I’m going to take Skye and see what we can learn from the first victim.” She didn’t wait for Nelson to respond before she started toward her Suburban. “Hurry up, Skye, we need to pay a visit to the hospital before the victim’s body is released to the family.”

  “Another death?” I echoed, trying to keep up. For a woman who needed three-inch heels to stand eye to eye with me, Chief Peyton sure could move fast. “Do you think we’re looking for a serial killer?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I’m hoping the pathologist can tell us something useful. Let’s go.”

  Many have puzzled themselves about the origin of evil. I am content to observe that there is evil, and that there is a way to escape from it, and with this I begin and end.

  —John Newton

  3

  Hospitals aren’t my favorite places. I hate the smell, that cloying combination of antiseptic and blood. The sounds of moaning patients, squeaking shoes, and chirping monitors. Certainly, the sight of fresh blood isn’t high on my list of favorite things either.

  So, of course, because hospitals make me uneasy, I had to be dragged to the very bowels of one on my first day on the job.

  Down in the basement, where patients never tread.

  Who would ever think that something surrounded by sand, silt, and clay could be so white? The floors, the walls, and the ceiling of the basement were stark white. The only color breaking the blinding glare were the little signs pointing the way through the maze of identical hallways to such thrilling locations as records. Accounting. And, of course, the morgue. We, however, had no need for the signs. We had a personal escort, a security guard who said very little as he led us to our destination.

  I’m guessing I looked a little pale by the time we reached the morgue. Chief Peyton took one look at me and said, “If you’d rather stay outside, I understand.”

  Bless her.

  “However,” she continued, “I brought you along for a reason, and I’d like you to at least try to come in.”

  Urgh.

  I’d had one unfortunate episode with a recently deceased person today. Did I really need another one so soon? The answer, of course, was no. But there was this little problem. A job with the FBI, particularly the BAU, was going to involve regular exposure to dead people. Sooner or later, I was going to have to get over the wooziness.

  Sooner was definitely better than later.

  It was decided; I would go in.

  Pulling my lips back in what I hoped was a passing attempt at a smile, I said, “Of course, I’ll come in.”

  “Excellent.”

  In we went.

  The pathologist who had conducted the autopsy was waiting for us, with the body laid out on the metal table, lights fully illuminated. Thankfully, a sheet covered the body from head to toe.

  “Thank you for meeting with us.” Chief Peyton offered the doctor a hand.

  The doctor gave it a shake. “Not a problem. Bob Davis.” Dr. Davis looked at me.

  “Sloan Skye.” Standing as far back as possible, I gave a little wave. “The room’s kind of small. I think I’d better stay out of the way.”

  Dr. Davis nodded and turned his attention back to my boss. I surmised he was used to people reacting the way I had. “I have a Caucasian female, thirty-one years old. This was an interesting case, unique. I don’t know exactly what you’re looking for, or how it might be tied to your case in Baltimore, but I’m more than happy to share my findings.”

  Chief Peyton moved a little closer to the table. “Thank you. I’m anxious to see what you discovered.”

  The doctor uncovered the victim’s head, neck, and chest. Even from a distance, the rash covering the woman’s upper body was still visible. “This patient died of—”

  “Typhoid?” I asked.

  “Yes, this patient consumed food or water tainted with the bacterium Salmonella enterica typhi and later died from complications,” Dr. Davis explained. “Intestinal perforation and encephalitis.”

  “But what about the puncture wounds on the neck you told me about?” Chief Peyton leaned over the table.

  The doctor pointed to the side of the patient’s neck farthest from Chief Peyton. “They’re located here, just under the right ear. They are odd. Deep and fairly large. Bite wounds, not clean punctures. The skin is torn. But it doesn’t a
ppear they played a role in the patient’s death. Whatever made them missed the major blood vessels.”

  “Just like our victim in Baltimore.” Feeling okay at the moment, I moved a little closer, to get a look at the wound.

  “Had the patient recently traveled out of the country?” Chief Peyton asked.

  Dr. Davis picked up a clipboard and skimmed the chart. “The family said she hasn’t.”

  Peyton inspected the rash closer. “And that didn’t strike you as odd?”

  “Roughly four hundred Americans contract typhoid fever every year,” I commented, reciting a statistic I’d read a few years ago.

  The doctor gave me a raised-brow look. “That’s correct. So, no, it didn’t. But what did strike me as odd is why this generally healthy patient, with no underlying health conditions, died from a disease with a relatively low fatality rate. I also question why she wouldn’t have seen a doctor before it got to this stage. Treatment is generally successful. It isn’t invasive or expensive.”

  “Did you mention your concerns to her family?” Chief Peyton asked.

  Dr. Davis set down the clipboard. “No. I felt it was better to let things be. I know it’s difficult accepting loss. Why make it worse by giving the family a reason to wonder if the death might have been prevented?”

  Whatever the reason for the woman not seeking medical care, the way I saw it, her death was obviously caused by a pathogen. Not a vampire.

  Case closed.

  “One more question,” Chief Peyton said. “What about blood volume? Was it low?”

  Dr. Davis took a look at the chart again. “On the low side of average, no lower than if she’d donated blood the day before.”

  “Okay. I guess that’s it for now. Thank you, Doctor.”

  He pulled the cover over the body and shook Chief Peyton’s hand again. Within a handful of minutes—thank God—we were on our way back to the team’s temporary home away from home, a conference room in Baltimore’s Central District PD.

  We’d just pulled up in front of the building when Chief Peyton’s phone rang, pulling me out of the book she’d handed me when we left the hospital, The Element Encyclopedia of Magical Creatures, by John and Caitlin Matthews. Fascinating reading, but her phone conversation was more interesting. From her end, I figured something major had happened. I hoped it didn’t mean we’d be making another trip to a morgue tonight.