Kiss of Death

At my desk I open the file and turn over the first few crime-scene photographs. Rosen printed them out on regular paper, but the digital images are high resolution. The next document in the file is on Sherry Taylor, starting with the missing persons report. According to the report, she’d told her parents she was going out with Desiree Jones last night—but Desiree was with her family and had no idea she was Sherry’s cover. I bet that shocked Mrs. Taylor. And despite this, she still seemed so confident that she knew her daughter’s associates and comings and goings. You’d think her faith would be starting to crumble a little bit. So where was Sherry from 9:00 p.m. to midnight last night? At the Goth nightclub like Todd Fischer said? Or was there some other mystery date? These are questions we need to answer, but first things first…the file.

I read through the three-page missing persons report filled out by Officer Saporo from the LAPD. Even though she’d really only been missing for a few hours when the parents reported it, Saporo still did it by the book. He wasn’t too worried about a twenty-year-old still being out at eight on a Sunday morning, but there’s no legal requirement to wait twenty-four hours or any other specified time in California. Saporo classified Sherry’s disappearance as Missing/Lost rather than as a runaway, parental abduction, stranger abduction or disaster victim. While it’s possible she was abducted by a stranger, there was no evidence to suggest that. According to the form, Sherry Taylor was last seen by her parents leaving the house at nine last night. She was wearing tight Guess jeans with an eveningwear-style, short-sleeved top—black with lots of beading—and a leather jacket. The clothing doesn’t help us much, given Sherry was found naked, although it does tell us she wasn’t dressed for a Goth nightclub…at least not when she left her parents’ house. So she either changed after she left, or Todd lied.

The next section of the form relates to any companions the missing person was with, but in the case of Sherry she left the house alone and we don’t know who she may have seen after that—except for Todd. Information covering Sherry’s car has been completed in the next spot, including the fact that her Toyota Celica hasn’t been found. I give Sloan a call to confirm.

“Sloan, it’s Anderson. Don’t suppose Sherry’s car was at our crime scene?”

“No. It doesn’t look like she drove herself to Temescal Gateway Park. Unless someone else drove the car away.”

“And her cell phone wasn’t found?”

“No,” Sloan confirms. “According to the parents, they were ringing her cell every ten minutes or so, from about seven this morning. It was going straight to voice mail.”

“Does it have a GPS unit?”

“No.” She pauses. “I do have some news.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Our footprint experts have finished on-scene and identified three different sets of footprints that could be part of a circle around the body. Two are only partials, but one is more complete.”

“Go on.”

“They’ll run them against shoe databases, but we’ve got a women’s size eight and what looks like a men’s eleven and a men’s eleven or twelve.”

“It’s a start.” Although the shoe sizes are all very common. Hopefully something more specific will come from the imprints themselves.

“Problem is these prints were found amongst a lot of others. Given how much that clearing was used, any defense attorney’s going to smash them in court.”

I grimace. If Sloan’s repeating the forensic expert’s words “could be part of a circle,” she’s right—that’s not good enough for court. “Okay, thanks.”

I hang up and move back to the form and the details of the complainant—in this case Mr. and Mrs. Taylor—and then on to the more detailed information about Sherry. Again, nothing particularly stands out. The last two sections are for forensics data, but they’re blank, as you’d expect when the report had just been logged. Soon enough they would have added credit card checks and phone records and then, if suitably concerned that foul play was a factor, they would have assigned a computer technician to start the laborious process of looking for clues on Sherry’s laptop. But for a twenty-year-old, that may have been weeks away.

Next in the file Sloan pulled together for Rosen and the Bureau is all the information on the trespass charge and the preliminary information they dug up on Anton Ward, once they made the link between the two trespassers, After Dark and Ward. The file contains a printout of Ward’s driver’s license, as well as an article LA Weekly did on him and After Dark a few months back. It’s a feature article with a large photo of Ward and on the other side of the page is the After Dark logo. It’s a pentagram enclosed in a circle with the word After written above it and Dark below it.

According to the article, Anton Ward was born Brett Simons in Virginia. He was educated at Stanford, but inherited his parents’ substantial fortune when they were both killed in a car accident when he was eighteen. Ward is thirty-two, single, with no children. A large photo for the article shows me he’s extremely good-looking, with raven-black hair that drapes across his dark blue eyes and pale skin. Could be hair dye, contacts and makeup. Or maybe the LA Weekly Photoshopped the file. Who knows?

I ring up Mercedes Diaz from the Bureau’s Cyber Crime Division. Mercedes is my workout partner and a good friend. “Hey, Mercedes.”

“Hi, Soph. What’s up?”

“Sorry to bug you on a Sunday, but do you mind running a background check for me?”

“Sure thing. Hold on a sec while I fire up my laptop.”

“You mean it’s not on?”

She laughs. “Hey, I’m not that bad.”

In my experience, most computer techs are addicted—in and out of work. Unlike the chef who never cooks at home, computer analysts seem to spend countless hours on their computers.

“Okay. What do you want?”

“Give me everything you’ve got on Anton Ward. According to an LA Weekly article he was born Brett Simons in Virginia but you better check that, too.”

“Police, travel, education, investments, newspapers?”

“All of it.”

“Okay.” She’s already typing speedily on her keyboard. “I’ll e-mail you everything I find. Give me about thirty minutes, an hour tops.”

“Man, you guys are fast.”

“It’s not us…it’s the computers.”

In reality it’s both. The computers may store the information, but techs can get in, and out, quickly.

“What you working on anyway?” she asks.

“Murder case. Temescal Gateway Park.”

“Sounds like you’re having a good weekend.”

I smile. “You could say that.”

“Keep an eye on your BlackBerry.”

“Will do.”

I hang up and decide to start by researching the different clubs before moving on to Ward and After Dark. I soon find a Web site that lists Goth clubs around the world and do a quick check for L.A. On Thursday nights it’s Perversion in Hollywood, Fridays is Ruin, Saturdays is Bar Sinister and Sundays is Malediction Society. If Todd Fischer is telling us the truth Sherry must have come directly from Bar Sinister. I ring the club and leave a message, asking for a return call as soon as possible.

Both Malediction Society and Ruin are run out of the same place on Wilshire—the Monte Cristo. Looks like I’ll be heading down there tonight—if I decide to go through with it. The clubs don’t seem to have dedicated Web sites, but they’re all on MySpace and Facebook. Malediction Society’s page features an advertisement-style layout, with posters of upcoming events and DJs that play at the club. The other clubs use a similar approach.

Next I move on to Ward and After Dark. My Google search comes up with a few articles on the group and the man himself, but nothing much that’s not already in the fledgling file. Next, I log into my minimalist profile page on Facebook and do a search for Anton Ward. Sure enough, I find a few Anton Wards and soon pinpoint the group leader. The profile image on Facebook has him dressed in tailored pants and a skintight plum sweater, leaning on a grand piano. The image is more conservative than I’d imagined—like he’s trying to show off his wealth and hide any more Gothic tendencies. It’s also a very small picture—I can’t access his full details unless I send him a friend request that he accepts. And, for the moment, I want to fly under the radar. If I decide it’s worthwhile, I may set up a fake Facebook profile to see if I can get additional info. Next I search on his group’s name, After Dark. I discover that Ward’s set up a Facebook page, which I can view without having to join. I read the main blurb:

After Dark is a group of enlightened individuals who have embraced their real calling in this world—vampirism. Based in L.A., the group is headed by the self-made Anton Ward, who saw the need to band together with his fellow vampires and give them somewhere safe to meet. After Dark meets once a week and provides a mentoring program for all its members. The organization also helps people cross over into their new lives as vampires and matches vampires with willing donors. At the moment, our exclusive group is physically based and we purposely keep numbers low. However we will shortly be launching an online group so that After Dark can have a national and global presence. For more information, e-mail [e-mail].

I have a quick look through thumbnail pictures of the page’s fans and the other basic information that Ward has posted on the page. He hasn’t included a lot of details about the group or its members; rather, he’s covered the basics and requested that people e-mail him with their interest in the forthcoming virtual group. It’s not exactly an empire, but it could feed his ego, if not his wallet.

Next I search MySpace. With no need to “friend” him first, I find Ward’s profile page quite quickly and this time have instant access to his vital statistics—at least those he self-reported. Then there’s also a longer “about me” section, a link to his blog and some more pictures. I flick through these images and find some that better fit my mental image of the man, including one in which he’s wearing contacts that make his eyes glow eerily.

He’s got two hundred and twenty friends on MySpace, including quite a few of the Goth-inspired clubs. Overall, the theme for women is definitely corsets, dark hair, pale faces and red lips.

I could spend hours clicking the friend links and reading about Ward’s online network, but I’ve got too much to get through before hooking up with Sloan again. Plus I’ve got enough initial info on him for now. While I’ll reserve final judgment until I meet Ward and his group members, at this stage I see two possibilities for Anton Ward. One, he’s a conman, someone who saw an opportunity to surround himself with devoted members who pander to his ego. Or two, he believes whatever teachings he may pass on to his members, believes he’s a vampire. Guess I’ll find out which soon.

Either way, until I discover more about Anton Ward and his group, it’ll be difficult to classify them. On the surface they seem to fit some definitions of a new religious movements—they’re a small, non-mainstream group that revolves around a single leader. NRMs are often associated with extremist behavior and their lifestyle is usually seen as unconventional in some way, and Ward and his group tick that box. Vampirism is extremist behavior, even in today’s society where it’s got a chic factor. But are they a cult? Does Anton Ward have complete control over his followers? The group didn’t come onto the law-enforcement radar until Riley and Davidson were arrested—no hint of illicit or illegal activities, no missing person reports filed by family members, and so on. And even if they are an NRM, it doesn’t mean they’re violent or capable of murder. Many NRMs function with no incident. It’s just that the ones that go spectacularly and tragically wrong get lots of media attention.

The question is, then, if After Dark is a cult, is it a destructive one?

A destructive cult tends to have one charismatic leader, uses deception in recruiting, uses thought-reform methods to effectively brainwash its members, is isolated from the rest of society, distinguishes between their kind and the rest of the world and strictly controls members’ daily routines. But from what I know so far, this group isn’t isolated, geographically at least. Riley and Davidson live in WestHo and Ward lives in Los Feliz. And having not met Riley or Davidson, it’s difficult for me to decide if they’re the “type” to be attracted to a new religious movement. From a psychological perspective, cults can give people a sense of belonging and a sense of purpose—two things people are striving for these days. Likewise, an NRM can guide people in their behavior—tell them what’s right and wrong—and some individuals would rather feel guided, controlled even, than alone. But if After Dark is a destructive cult, its members could be convinced that killing a woman in a ritualistic way is okay, even required. Members don’t usually question their leader’s instructions. Charles Manson and his “family” are a classic example. In 1969 Manson convinced four of his members to kill Sharon Tate and four of her friends. These cult members followed their leader’s directions without question, despite the fact that Tate was five months pregnant. They believed Manson represented the Second Coming and was infallible; and he convinced them that the act of killing another human being was simply releasing them from their physical bodies. Murder was not a heinous crime in their minds.

Jonestown is another famous example of the hold a charismatic leader can have on his disciples—and its disastrous results. Reverend Jim Jones founded the People’s Temple of California and even managed to rub shoulders with some of America’s most powerful individuals. Before long, nine hundred and seventeen of the cult’s members were killed in what initially looked like a suicide pact, but investigators soon realized that about two hundred died voluntarily and the rest were murdered by fellow members under the direction of Jones. Even those that killed themselves did so at Jones’ direction. Such is the power of charisma.

I check my e-mail and notice that Mercedes has sent me the full file on Ward, but before I look at that I decide to research new religious movements a little more, concentrating this time on the typical personality types of members.

An hour later, I check in with Sloan.

“How’s it going?” I ask.

“Getting there. I’ve put through all the paperwork for Sherry’s credit card records and phone records, plus I’ve logged a request for a computer forensic technician to get onto Sherry’s laptop.”

“Great. And the DNA?”

“Personally dropped it in.”

I fill in Sloan on my recent activities, including the online information I found out about the clubs.

“It’s a whole other world, huh?”

“You bet. Tonight’s Malediction Society and I thought I might pop in around seven to talk to the staff.” I’m hoping to find a manager or someone there, but if I decide to go tonight as a Goth, I’d also like to get the lay of the land before I turn up in a part of town I don’t know very well.

“You do know it’s Sunday night, Anderson?”

“I know. But the next Goth night isn’t until Thursday.”

She’s silent for a bit. “I guess it can’t hurt. If Todd is telling us the truth, it makes sense to check out the Goth angle, too.”

“Uh-huh. I’ve also got some info on Ward. I haven’t reviewed it yet myself, but I’ll e-mail it through to you.”

“Thanks.”

“If Sherry Taylor did go to a Goth club last night, it must have been Bar Sinister. Hopefully there’s surveillance footage somewhere to prove it. I’ve left a message on the club’s answering machine.”

“Good. Let’s see if Todd Fischer’s story checks out.”

Sloan’s keeping herself open, a little, to the possibility that vampires were involved in the murder, but at the same time she’s running down one of her prime suspect’s stories.

We arrange to meet at Malediction Society before hanging up. Time to find out more about Anton Ward. As I’d expect, Mercedes has been thorough. She was able to confirm many of the details in the article, including the fact that Ward was born on September 7, 1977 and his real name is Brett Simons. He changed his name to Anton Ward when he was twenty.

Her search on birth records brought up a copy of his birth certificate, which lists his parents as Laura and Jack Simons. They had no other children, and died when Ward was eighteen. She’s also e-mailed me copies of their death certificates, a few newspaper articles on the car accident that killed them, as well as the police report for the crash. The report notes that it looked like Jack Simons fell asleep and veered off the road. His wife died instantly and he was announced dead on arrival at the local hospital. Neither speed nor alcohol was involved in the accident.

Jack Simons was a wealthy entrepreneur, who ran businesses in real estate, both residential and commercial. He was responsible for several large developments on the East Coast, covering Massachusetts, New York, Rhode Island and Virginia. He was also a large player in the stock market and on his death his estate was valued at over $300 million. While ten percent went to charity, the rest went to his sole heir, Brett Simons, aka Anton Ward.

I’m just about to move onto Mercedes’ findings from the property records when my BlackBerry buzzes. I hit Answer without looking at the display. “Agent Anderson.”

“Hi, honey. It’s me.”

“Hi, Darren.” I know it’s cliché, but just hearing his voice makes me feel warm and fuzzy. Detective Darren Carter and I met on a case that took me to Arizona a year and a half ago and we’ve been doing the long-distance dating thing for just over three months now.

“I’m at the airport. Cab, given you’re not here?”

Uh-oh…I totally forgot. “Yeah, if you can grab a cab that’d be great.” I chew on my bottom lip.

There’s silence for a beat before he says, “You forgot I was coming, didn’t you?” There’s a hint of annoyance in his voice.

“No… Kinda.” I take a breath. “I’m on a case. Murder victim, found this morning.”

“You’re working on a Sunday? Thought it was just us homicide cops who worked hard.”

“Ha, ha—you’re off duty…not exactly working hard.”

“Yup. Three days off to spend with my lovely girlfriend.”

I wince, wondering how much time I’ll actually get to spend with Darren in the next seventy-two hours. I avoid that particular topic. “I’ll be home in a couple of hours. Grab a cab and let yourself in.” I take a quick glance at my watch—6:05 p.m. We say our goodbyes and hang up.

Back in the file, property records indicate Ward owns two residential houses—one here in Los Feliz and an apartment in New York. And according to Mercedes’ search of companies, Ward is on three boards, including being chairman of two of his father’s original companies. Mercedes has provided copies of the short bios posted on these companies’ Web sites, from which I glean that he attended private school and studied a Bachelor of Arts at Stanford University, taking courses in art, art history and history. The only thing on the police system for him is a DUI in Virginia shortly after his parents died. He lost his license for six months and has kept his nose clean since.

Looks like he moved to L.A. in 2001, a year and a half after he finished college. He has kept some of the family businesses running, but seems to mostly live off investments. Then again, it can’t be too hard to draw a good salary from $270 million. No gun licenses or hunting and fishing licenses and nothing else in the system.

I lean back. We haven’t found anything suspicious on Anton Ward, but you wouldn’t expect much from a law-abiding citizen. The LA Weekly article provides more of a personal insight into the man, and I reread it. Apparently he never watches television, comes from a Latvian background, and is into art, classical music, chess, fine dining and red wine. Of course, it had to be red wine. He spends four weeks a year in Europe and can’t stand people with poor personal hygiene or who are badly dressed. Most of the article is about vampirism and After Dark, but throughout the piece these snippets of more personal information are revealed. Then again, everything he says fits an image—the image of an old-world, well-educated European male. I mean, how many American men in their thirties are into classical music, chess and red wine these days?

Five

Sunday, 7:00 p.m.

I head across to the Monte Cristo on Wilshire, the location of Ruin on Fridays and Malediction Society on Sundays. The bar itself doesn’t open until 10:00 p.m., but hopefully there’ll be someone there, setting up the club. It’s 7:00 p.m. by the time I arrive, spot Sloan and get a parking spot. It takes us another fifteen minutes to find the entrance, which is down a laneway, despite the club’s official address being Wilshire. The place is all shut up but we pound on the big metal door nevertheless.

“Nice neighborhood,” Sloan says sarcastically. The outside of the Monte Cristo and the surrounding area is certainly nothing to brag about, but maybe that fits in with the Gothic scene.

Three posters are plastered on the door: one for Cherry Pie on Thursdays, a lesbian night; one for Ruin on Fridays; and one for tonight. A few event-specific posters are also up, such as the next full-moon party. Looks like we’ve come to the right place.

We bang on the door again and keep at it until eventually someone opens it a crack.

“What?” A woman comes partially into view. Even with only a sliver of her face and body visible, I can make out legs and long black hair.

I hold up my FBI ID. “I’m Special Agent Sophie Anderson from the FBI and this is Detective Sloan from the LAPD.” Sloan also holds her badge up to the crack in the door while I continue. “We’d like to talk to you about the Gothic and vampire communities here in L.A. and about some of your patrons.”

The door opens fully. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were cops.” The annoyance in her voice is gone. “Can we talk while I work? I’m running behind. I’ve got to finish setting up and get home to tuck my little girl in.”

“Sure.”

Sloan and I follow her in.

“Are you the manager here?” I ask.

She snorts. “No. But I do most of his work.” She turns around. “I’m the bar manager, Cheryl.”

Cheryl’s tall, at about six-two, although a few inches of that is high-heeled boots that come up to her thighs. She wears skimpy black hot pants and a burgundy bodice, strapped tight. Her dark black hair is long and straight, with a heavy fringe.

“Are you a vampire, Cheryl?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Nope. And personally I think it’s all crap. But we get lots of people in here who think they are vamps.”

“After Dark?” Sloan is struggling to keep up with Cheryl’s strides.

“Sure. Most of them come in here—if not every Friday and Sunday at least a couple of times a month. Including their leader, Anton Ward.”

“You know how many people are in the group?”

She shrugs. “There’s about twenty in Ward’s house.”

“House?”

“Coven, house, clan. It’s what they call themselves.” Cheryl ducks under the side of the bar. “You ladies want a drink? On the house of course.”

“Water, if you’ve got it.”

She smiles. “Guess you’re still on duty, huh?”

“Yeah.” Sloan lets out an exaggerated sigh. “I’ll have a water, too.”

“Two waters coming up.” Cheryl bends down into a fridge directly beneath her and places two bottled waters on the bar. Sitting on the bar stools, Sloan and I open the drinks.

“Are there lots of vampire houses?”

“Sure.” Cheryl pauses, looking around the bar. “Sugar syrup.” She grabs a bag of sugar and pours some into a jug, and then takes out a kettle and plugs it in. “I guess there’s about four bigger houses that I know of for sure. But even two or three vamps just hanging out might call themselves a house.”