Kiss of Death

Frost would have inserted a metal probe through the skin and into the victim’s liver to get the all-important core body temperature. While some forensic pathologists prefer to take the rectal temperature so they’re not piercing the skin and organs, obviously Frost is in the liver-temperature camp.

“That time ties in with our caller.” Sloan pulls herself to standing with some effort.

“What did the witness see?” I ask her.

“Lights, like torches, moving, and then later on a circle of smaller lights. I haven’t been to interview him yet, but he’s next on my list.”

I flick the ring on my little finger. “Sure does sound ritualistic.”

“Yup. Why do you think I called you in?” Her response is a little terse.

I look around at the scene. “What else have you got?”

“The ranger who found her is over there.” Sloan nods at a tall bearded man in his early thirties. “He was careful with the crime scene, careful trekking in and out, and we’ve managed to find quite a few distinct footprints nearer to the body.”

“Any idea how many sets?”

“Too early to tell. But apparently this clearing is a common stopover point for walkers. It’ll be hard to tell if the prints are from last night or earlier in the week.”

“Any in a circle?”

She shrugs. “We’ll know more in an hour or two.”

“You ID’d the girl?” Rosen bends down to take a closer look at her face.

“Yes. Sherry Taylor.” Sloan leans over the body. “There was an APB put out for her earlier today. She’s twenty years old, and lived in Brentwood with her parents, who reported her missing this morning.”

I chew on my bottom lip. “You’ve done the death knock?”

She sighs and nods. “Just got back. The parents were too distraught to talk, so I’m giving them an hour or two before we start questioning them. I’m hoping they’ll give us the formal ID this evening or early tomorrow. But I did take a head shot for them. It’s their girl, all right.”

“I’d like to sit in on any meetings you have with them, if that’s okay, Detective. I need to know as much as possible about Sherry.”

She nods. “I know the drill, Anderson.”

“Great.”

I take another look at the body, noticing her nakedness in every sense of the word—no makeup and no nail polish, which is unusual for a young woman. Did the killer or killers remove these things? It might tie in with the sacrifice angle—she had to be pure.

Sloan moves us away from the body.

“Ever seen anything like this before?” I ask her.

“No. I’ve seen a lot of bizarre things in my time, but nothing that implicates vampires. You?”

“My vampire viewing’s limited to Buffy.”

She gives a brief chuckle before letting out a heavy sigh. “The vampire mythology has always held a sense of intrigue, but it’s everywhere now.”

I nod. “And vampires are part of our consciousness from an early age. Even Sesame Street has The Count.”

“Humph…I never thought of that.” She looks back at the body. “Young women like Sherry…they think vampires are cool.”

I stare at the body, too. “I bet Sherry Taylor didn’t think it was cool when she was running for her life.”

Two

Sunday, 12:30 p.m.

Our caller lives on El Medio Avenue, overlooking both Topanga State Park and Temescal Gateway Park. Sloan and I pay him a visit together, leaving the crime-scene techs and Sloan’s partner, Detective Carey, to finish processing the scene. Rosen also leaves, opting to go back to the office and finish some paperwork, and Frost will be heading off with the body soon, too. Every forensic pathologist is different, but an hour or so at the scene is plenty for most.

Sloan and I take my car, and I turn off Sunset onto El Medio Avenue. The incline starts immediately, and within less than half a mile we’re on the crest of a large hill. From the road, the houses seem like larger suburban blocks, and their impressive views are hidden behind their bulk. It’d be nice to have a state park in your backyard. Especially so close to downtown L.A.

“What do you think one of these would go for?”

Sloan lets out a whistle. “Dunno…not exactly in my budget.” She peers out the window for a second look. “You’d have to be talking five to ten million, maybe more.”

“Ouch.”

“Uh-huh.” She pauses, looking at the street numbers. “We’re almost there. Third house on the right.”

I pull into the curb outside number 922.

Sloan unbuckles her seat belt. “We’re looking for Mr. Heeler.”

The house is a gray weatherboard, with white easels and window frames. It’s set back from the road a little more than some of the other houses, with a large concrete driveway leading to a double garage under the main residence. We walk along the driveway, up the two porch steps and knock on the white door.

A man in his late fifties answers. “Yes?” With one word, one breath, the stench of stale alcohol hits me. Great.

“This is Agent Anderson, and I’m Detective Sloan from the LAPD.” We both show our IDs.

“Of course.” He gives them a cursory glance with bloodshot eyes. “I’m Andrew Heeler. Please come in.”

Heeler is wearing khaki pants, a black shirt and bare feet. His graying hair is short, accentuating his round face and dark brown eyes. He takes us past a staircase and a living room on the right, into a large kitchen and open-plan space that looks out onto a deck…and the park.

“Wow,” I say. “What a view.”

He stops and looks out the windows. “Yes. It’s magnificent.” He sighs. “Except when kids are fooling around down there.”

“The people you saw were young?” Sloan asks.

“I don’t know. I’m just assuming.” He turns around to us. “Tea, coffee?”

Sloan and I both accept the offer of a coffee.

“Take a seat if you like.” Heeler motions toward a large black leather couch.

Once we’re both sitting, Sloan asks Heeler how long he’s lived here.

“Over fifteen years now.”

We start off with idle chitchat, ready to move to the more serious questions as soon as is polite and strategic. There’s no reason why Mr. Heeler would be on edge, but it doesn’t do any harm to make sure he feels at ease despite the official presence.

Sloan leans back into the couch. “You married, Mr. Heeler? Kids?”

“Widowed.” He flicks the brewer on and comes over to sit opposite us. “And I’ve got one son who’s twenty-five.”

I eye the telescope on the deck. “You’re a star-gazer?”

“Sometimes, yes. Although it only tends to be a couple of times a month these days. Just laziness, I guess.”

I smile. “Is that what you were doing last night?”

A few beats of silence go by before he responds. “Yeah.” He seems uncertain, like he’s trying to piece the events together. “I think it was around midnight…I went out to use the telescope, but then the lights in the park caught my attention.”

“Can you take us through exactly what you saw, Mr. Heeler?” Sloan asks.

“Um.” He stares out the window. “I went out to have a look at the stars—” he points toward the balcony “—and was adjusting my telescope’s position when I saw something out the corner of my eye.” He waves his left hand off to the side. “There were about six or seven lights.” Another pause. “Looked like torches. They were moving. I went to take a closer look, but it was too dark, despite the full moon. All I could see were lights and shapes…figures.”

“Your telescope looks pretty powerful, Mr. Heeler,” I say. “You couldn’t see any more detail?” The telescope is very thick, and my understanding is that the larger the diameter the more magnification.

“Oh, I wasn’t looking with my telescope. It’s far too powerful for that. I got out my binoculars.” He moves back into the kitchen. “I can’t believe…” He pauses midsentence, a cupboard door open and one coffee mug in his hand. “I can’t believe a girl was murdered.” He shakes his head and gets another two coffee cups out. “I thought it was kids, fooling around. I never thought…”

“Of course, Mr. Heeler. We understand.”

We wait in silence for a few minutes while he organizes the coffee and then heads back over to us.

Sloan takes the cup he hands her. “So could you see if the figures were male or female?”

He hands me my coffee. “No. Too dark, too far away.” He starts to sit down but then bounces back up. “Sorry, cream and sugar?”

“Cream for me,” I reply.

“Both for me.”

He places his cup on the coffee table and grabs a bowl of sugar and some milk from the kitchen, putting them both out on the table. “Where was I?”

Sloan empties a heaped teaspoon into her coffee and stirs. “You couldn’t see if the figures were male or female. It was too dark, too far away.”

“Ah, yes.” He takes a sip of coffee. “I figured there was no point calling the police just for some kids playing around in the park. I gave up on the stars because of the cloud cover, but finished my drink on the deck before coming back inside to watch TV.”

“What were you drinking last night, Mr. Heeler?”

Sloan’s question seems to take him by surprise. Eventually he tells us it was vodka.

Sloan leaves it for the time being. “You told the park ranger that you saw a circle of lights?”

“Yeah, that’s right. I fell asleep on the couch and woke up around quarter after two. When I was locking the balcony door I saw the lights. I actually think it was candles rather than torches the second time.”

Candles? A circle of candles is an instant, striking visual.

He stares at his coffee, mesmerized. “Although I was half asleep at that point.”

We have to ask ourselves the question a defense lawyer would ask Heeler if we put him on the stand—half asleep or in a drunken stupor?

He takes another sip of coffee. “This morning I started thinking about the lights and decided maybe I should call the park and let them know.” He shakes his head. “But I didn’t think it was serious. I thought maybe there’d be beer bottles or other trash that the rangers might want to clean up.”

Sloan gives him a nod. “Mind if we have a look from your deck?”

“Sure.”

The view is even more spectacular when we make our way out, with an expanse of trees and greenery stretching for miles. Just looking at the valley makes me take a deep breath—clean air in L.A. At least, it feels clean.

“That’s where I saw the lights.” Heeler points down, right about where I’d expect our crime scene to be from this angle. Maybe he wasn’t that drunk after all.

“Have you got those binoculars, Mr. Heeler?” Sloan asks. “I’d like to see what you saw.”

“Sure,” he says and heads inside.

Sloan leans on the deck railing, facing me. “What do you make of him?”

I wince. “Not exactly the most reliable witness.”

“Did he fall asleep on the couch or pass out?”

“He has got the spot about right, though.” I point to the area.

“True.” Sloan pauses. “If it was a circle of lights, what do you think that means? For the investigation?”

I raise my eyebrows. “I’m sure we’ve come to the same conclusions…some sort of a ritual or sacrifice. Could be that Sherry was in the center of that circle, dying or dead when Mr. Heeler saw the lights—candles or not.”

Sloan is silent but gives a small nod. I know she’s at least entertaining this possibility, otherwise she wouldn’t have requested a Bureau profiler.

A minute or so later, Heeler returns with the binoculars. He holds them out, not sure who to pass them to.

Sloan tips her head to one side. “You go.”

I take the binoculars and scan the terrain, looking for the crime scene. Within less than ten seconds I’ve found it, but I can see what Heeler means. While I can see there are people moving around and I’d be able to count them and even determine their gender, if it was dark that would be impossible. Even assuming they were holding torches or candles. “It’s a good view, a good vantage point, but in the dark…” I hand the binoculars to Sloan.

She focuses them on the scene. “I see what you mean. It was a full moon last night, but lots of cloud cover.”

Back inside, Sloan asks Heeler if he’s ever seen anything suspicious before.

He shakes his head. “Not like that. I know the park is closed from dusk to dawn, but people do get in. Occasionally I might hear something—people yelling, that sort of thing. I imagine it’s frequently underage drinkers…maybe teenagers looking to have sex?” He turns the last part into a question.

“Yes, that’s right, Mr. Heeler,” Sloan answers. “The park rangers often find empty bottles, but mostly around the entrance, not this deep into the park. And they have also interrupted a few…passionate moments.” She drains the rest of her coffee. “I think that’s it.” She looks to me for confirmation.

I nod and we head for the door.

At the door, Sloan turns back to Heeler. “There is one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“How much do you think you drank last night, Mr. Heeler?”

He looks at his feet and kicks the ground. “I did see something.”

“You admitted to being half asleep and under the influence. How can you be sure you saw a circle and candles last night?” Sloan’s pushing him, like a lawyer would.

Leaning one hand on the door frame he stares at the ground. “I guess…I guess I can’t be one hundred percent sure, can I?” It didn’t take much for Heeler to cave.

We both thank him for his time.

Back in the car, I start the engine. “Doesn’t look too good.”

Sloan shakes her head. “He’d be hopeless in court, and that’s if we buy his story.”

“He was obviously a little drunk last night, but he did pick the right spot.”

“Mmm…” Sloan’s not convinced. “His call did lead to the body, but I think a healthy amount of skepticism is warranted about the other details.”

Sloan may not believe Heeler, but I do. After all, I have the added benefit of last night’s dream. I have to assume I was Sherry, running away from multiple perps and I definitely saw lights and vampire fangs.

“Let’s say he’s right.” I pull the wheel hard and U-turn, heading back down El Medio Avenue toward Sunset Boulevard. I’d programmed the Taylors’ address into my navigation system before we left the park, so now I follow the directions to their Brentwood house. “He thought there were about seven or eight torches, so that could be the number of perps we’re dealing with. And that could tie in with this group, After Dark.”

“Do you think After Dark could be a cult?”

“Maybe. It’ll be interesting to see the dynamics. Is it a cult or just a group of like-minded individuals? Did the cops who worked the trespass case interview any of the other members besides the two they caught? Or get some other names, even?”

“They got the leader’s, one Anton Ward. Someone should have sent that stuff across to Rosen. You didn’t get it?”

“Sorry, yeah. I haven’t had a chance to look through it yet. It’s on the backseat.”

“The two offenders were Larry Davidson and Walter Riley of WestHo. They were fined for trespassing, but that was the end of it. The investigating officers flagged the possible wider vampire angle but felt that both Davidson and Riley were harmless, and there’s nothing illegal about ‘being’ a vampire. The two admitted to being part of a group called After Dark, run by Anton Ward, but stuck to their original story—that they were in the park alone.”

“Even though the ranger saw other people running off?”

Sloan nods. “Yup.”

“So they were protecting the group. Either of their own volition or under orders.”

“Yeah.” Sloan’s thoughtful. “A single leader makes it more likely it’s a cult, yes?”

“Not necessarily. While one of the characteristics of new religious movements is an enigmatic leader who has complete control over his followers, most everyday groups have some sort of leadership hierarchy. A school has a principal, a board of directors has a chairman and even a group of hobbyists will have one main person who directs the action.”

Sloan turns to me. “We’re hardly talking schools, corporations or hobbies here, Anderson.”

“I know. The cult angle is a definite possibility.”

Silence for a beat before Sloan says, “Even if After Dark is a cult, it doesn’t mean they’re involved in anything illegal, let alone murder.”

I stop at traffic lights on Sunset. “Point taken. And I have to admit I don’t know much about the vampire subculture, although I know it’s associated with the Goth culture.”

“Me, neither. Nightlife in L.A. is always interesting.” She smiles. “According to the files, Davidson and Riley had been to a Goth nightclub before they were arrested.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Maybe we should check it out…check out their nightclub scene.” I stifle a smile, imagining Sloan and I dressed like we are now and flashing our badges at a Goth club.

Sloan smoothes down the fabric on her pants. “I know we’ve got the so-called fang marks, but I’m more interested in her love life as a starting point.”

Sloan’s going for the most common angle—the boyfriend or husband did it. She’s also not putting much faith in Heeler as an eyewitness, but she could be right about him.

“I agree we need to check out any boyfriends or exes, but I’d still like to know more about this scene. We could talk to the managers or bar staff at these clubs. See what they know about After Dark.” I pause, my mind jumping ahead to the evening. “Maybe even drop by tonight, when they’re setting up…”

Sloan’s nose crinkles. “Maybe. But like I said, I’m more interested in the men in Sherry’s life, not to mention building a timeline of her movements last night. What happened between 9:00 p.m., when she left her family home, and her entrance into Temescal Gateway Park?”

Sloan’s thinking of the case like most cops would—trace the victim’s last known movements. And while we do need to do that, my interest as a profiler focuses more on human behavior, including group dynamics and the lifestyle of a subculture our victim may have been involved in.

“What if Sherry Taylor was a Goth? Could be she was at one of the clubs herself last night.”

Sloan shakes her head. “Not if the family photos I saw this morning are anything to go by.”

“She could have been hiding it from her parents, or maybe it was recent.” I’m starting to feel like I’m flogging a dead horse, but my dream points toward multiple perps, not a boyfriend.

We sit in silence for a bit before I say, “The parents reported her missing this morning, right? Shortly before the ranger found her body?”

“Uh-huh. It was logged at eight this morning. An officer took the report over the phone, and issued an APB for Sherry and her car. But it would have been a few days before the report made its way to the Missing Persons Unit.”

I nod. The procedure for a missing persons case varies depending on the situation. If Sherry had been five years old or if there had been evidence of a struggle in her home, resources would have been thrown at the case immediately. But as a twenty-year-old woman, chances were that she simply stayed over at a friend’s or boyfriend’s house and didn’t tell her parents. Her name would have been in the system; but only if the parents were insistent enough would someone have checked the hospitals and police system this morning to make sure Sherry hadn’t been hospitalized or arrested. And then if Sherry still hadn’t turned up, the case would have been assigned to someone in the LAPD’s Missing Persons Unit within a couple of days. Their next move would have been to interview the parents and close friends, start making inquiries at her workplace and maybe on Wednesday or Thursday they would have started with credit card traces and phone records. Now, with Sherry dead, Sloan will start the ball rolling on all of those things, though, sadly, toward a different end than finding her.

The navigation system prompts me to take a right, and within a few minutes we’re pulling up at the Brentwood home of Mr. and Mrs. Taylor. As we drive up to the gated entrance, the house is visible in the distance. It’s a large two-story home, bagged white with a distinctive Mediterranean feel, wood-stained window- and door-frames and an outside timber shutter on each window.

Sloan presses the buzzer at the gate and after only a few seconds a male voice answers.

“It’s Detective Sloan from LAPD again, sir.”

“Right…come on in.” The voice is distracted; I assume it’s Mr. Taylor’s.

A brick-paved driveway snakes toward the house, past beautifully landscaped gardens. We follow the driveway and park near the front door, opposite a small fountain. The water feature is blue-tiled, with white mosaic-style images of mermaids on the internal walls. Small umbrella palms line a path from the driveway to the front door.

We’re not even up the two steps when a man in his mid to late forties opens the door. He wears thick but trendy framed glasses, a red T-shirt and black jeans. His face is plagued with despair and I know instantly that I’m looking at Sherry’s father.

Sloan clears her throat. “Thanks for seeing me again, Mr. Taylor.”

He nods.

“This is Special Agent Anderson from the FBI.”

He tries to force a polite smile, but it comes out more like a grimace as he shakes our hands. “Come in.”

He leads the way through a foyer section of the house. I’ve changed back into my regular work shoes, and they make a loud clipping sound on the slate, the noise triggering a vision.

Sherry opens the front door, takes off a pair of high heels and tiptoes along the hallway.

The vision is probably an accurate insight of Sherry coming home late one night, or perhaps it was a regular Friday and Saturday night routine for her. Regardless, I doubt it’s of consequence to the case. It certainly doesn’t give me a sense of what might have happened to her last night.

The house is very light and mostly open—a staircase to the right, almost immediately at the entrance, and to the left the space is barely separated into rooms. From here I can see a living room, dining room and expansive kitchen. Mr. Taylor takes us through the first room, which seems like a formal living room or sitting room, through the dining room and into the kitchen. To the right of the kitchen is another living space, which opens up onto a large deck with double doors and a swimming pool. He takes a seat on one of the leather couches and we sit on the couch opposite him.

Sloan props on the edge of the couch. “Is your wife here, Mr. Taylor?”

“Um…yes. She’s upstairs…lying down.”

“It would be better if we could talk to you together.”

He rubs his hands up and down his thighs. “I don’t know if Mandy’s up to it, Detective.”

“Please…it is important. Would you mind asking her if she could come down? Even for a little while.” Sloan’s voice is both sympathetic and authoritative. She realizes it’s much more likely for a mother to know about a young woman’s comings and goings than a father.

Taylor nods in an absent manner and he heads up the stairs.

“Still in shock.” Sloan leans back on the couch.

“Yes.” I look around at a few family portraits. “Looks like there are two girls. Wonder where the other one is.”

“College age, so chances are…”

I nod. “I don’t know if we’re going to get anything useful out of them in this state.”

Sloan shrugs. “I’d like to get this moving sooner rather than later.” She looks at her watch. “And we’ve still got a few visits to get through today.”

Footsteps are audible coming down the stairs and we’re both silent.

Mr. and Mrs. Taylor enter arm in arm, although it’s obvious she’s leaning heavily on him. She’s dressed in expensive-looking casual wear that could double as gym gear. A common look in L.A. Black leggings show off her slender but muscular frame, accompanied by a halter-neck top and sweater. Her mass of red curls is pulled into a ponytail and a few stray curls hang at her face. A glance at her eyes tells me she’s had something to take the edge off the pain or to help her get closer to oblivion—perhaps Valium or she could have knocked back a few drinks.