Blood Harvest (6 page)

Chapter 6

Los Angeles. 2:30 A.M.

California weather never fails to disappoint in its ability to be spontaneous. The cool, dry night had developed into an unseasonable downpour three minutes earlier. By the time Steve Jacobs arrived on the scene at
The Inferno
the rain had stopped, leaving a clean but humid feeling to the surrounding area. Steve was not the first investigator from the LAPD to arrive. He may have, in fact, been the very last as the immediate surroundings were now at least two cars deep in rows of flashing red and blue siren lights. The accumulation of ambulances along with marked and unmarked police cars forced Steve to park his old (or as he liked to say “unpretentious”) Toyota Celica over a block away. At least this way he didn’t have to worry about any of the city vehicles scraping its faded but still good looking paint job.

Steve parked in an alleyway perfumed with the garlic smell of the Korean restaurant whose back door was left open to the alley, not as an entrance for customers as much as a reprieve from the heat of the kitchen for the staff. Above the door a yellow electric sign cast a sulfurous glow.

Steve ran his fingers through his wavy dark brown hair which hadn’t been combed since he got out of bed half an hour ago. He had received the call a couple of minutes before 2:00 A.M. and was shocked to hear the Captain call him personally. Despite enjoying a close, and more often than not, supportive relationship with his superior, the Captain had other experienced detectives who he communicated with in a more official manner. It was the strain and unease in the Captain’s voice that concerned Steve and which preempted any of his questions about the call. Without a second thought he raced from his desk and arrived at
The Inferno
on the Sunset Strip in a record 30 minutes.

Exiting his car, Steve did a quick inventory of the detective gear he had so rapidly pushed into his pockets before rushing out the door. His firearm was securely in its holster attached to his belt at his side; his gold detective’s badge was clipped to the front of his belt so he wouldn’t have to constantly flash it from his pocket as every uniformed officer tried to block his entrance on the way into the scene. Not that he would blame them, of course, since he was dressed in the very civilian looking apparel so common to most Los Angelinos: denim pants, brown hiking boots, T-shirt inscribed with the artistic renderings of tribal tattoo patterns popular in today’s slacker-style fashionables. He felt the small Steno notepad in the right rear pocket of his pants, along with a small mechanical pencil he knew he needed to make notes on whatever important information he might come across.

It was only when his left hand grazed against the hard rectangular object in his rear left pocket that he hesitated. The flask held slightly less than eight ounces of fluid, but it would be enough to get him through the evening in case his hands started shaking and he needed to calm his body in front of another bloody spectacle. Steve knew that in the years since he had joined the force his constitution had improved somewhat in the face of the gruesome and senseless violence committed on a regular basis in the city. Still, whipping out the flask while on duty made his fellow officers uncomfortable. It wasn’t as though they didn’t understand; God knows they all needed alcohol after witnessing the aftermath the city seemed so eager to produce. It was Steve’s blatant disregard for discretion that actually made them so ill at ease. Most of the policemen knew, or at least had heard, about Steve and were sympathetic enough to allow him this one rather major breech of protocol, as long as he didn’t get sloppy of course.

Steve never got sloppy, or drunk, or even tired when he was doing his job.

Ever.

Steve looked from the alley to the cascade of flashing lights less than one hundred yards away, nodded and pulled the flask from his pocket. He unscrewed the top and sniffed the contents, which sent a shiver throughout his entire frame. One swallow would be all he needed; as the spiked concoction burned its way down his throat he felt his whole body release the tension that had built up since being summoned a little over half an hour ago.

He replaced the top of the flask, shoved it back into his pocked then engaged the car alarm and walked toward the commotion of red and blue. Uniformed policemen circled the outskirts of a ring of paramedics who seemed to be continually wheeling bodies out of the club and into a row near multiple ambulances. The entire area was sectioned off with the yellow plastic “Police Line, Do Not Cross” ribbon while detectives and forensic specialists mulled over the victims and the surroundings at the entrance to the club.

The closer Steve approached the more he began to detect an odor getting seemingly stronger. The odor was mild, but reminded him of his childhood visits to the zoo, specifically, his visits to the elephant enclosures. He stopped to allow his badge to be identified by the uniformed officers who let him pass under the police tape. He made his way toward the entrance to the club. As he passed through the castle-like double doors he froze in his tracks—the full weight of the scene came crashing down with his first clear view of the club.

The special effects lights had been switched off and the general fluorescent lights switched on. Under normal lighting the mystique of the club vanished, leaving something akin to a school gymnasium with wet bars. Bodies turned the scene into a surreal war zone. Most, he guessed, had been moved onto makeshift triage cots while others had been neatly lined in side-by-side rows with attending medical personnel hovering over a few individuals. Clearly the number of victims was more than the current number of professionals could handle.

“My God,” he thought. “What the hell could have happened here?” Unconsciously Steve began to reach for the flask in his rear pocket, but caught himself as a voice called out to him.

“Hey, Steve!”

Steve knew the voice. It belonged to Chris Barnes, a longtime friend who worked for the LA County Coroner’s office.

“Chris,” Steve said warmly as the two slapped hands together in a familiar handshake. “What, they got you out working nights now?”

“Nope, still on days, but Peterson’s got the flu so I’m pulling a double for the next few days…and nights.”

“I hate to say it, but you may be pulling a triple from the looks of things,” Steve said while scanning the area.

“What’cha mean?” Chris laughed with a frown of confusion.

Steve looked at Chris, now confused as well by the response his statement had received.

“Well, with all of these bodies, you and your crew are going to have your hands full.”

“What?!? They better not expect me to…” Chris paused, “Oh, you don’t know? Did you just get here?”

Concerned, Steve acknowledged, “Just now and no I haven’t a clue what’s going on.”

“Oh, well let me tell you. None of these poor souls will be meeting me in the basement anytime soon.”

The “basement” Steve knew was Chris’ nickname for the Coroner’s office where he spent most of his working hours. Steve could tell by the excitement in Chris’ eyes that something extraordinary was going on. Chris wanted him to ask. He seemed almost giddy with the knowledge he was privy to information Steve didn’t have yet. Steve played along. He always liked Chris’ sense of humor and the two of them were fast friends. Steve often thought that spending all day and night with the dead made Chris…well…eccentric would be the polite way to put it. Chris seemed to stop breathing in anticipation of the question he knew Steve would ask; he appeared hardly able to contain himself.

Steve let the silence drift a moment longer, wondering briefly if Chris was really holding his breath and if so, would he soon turn blue. Finally he guessed, “None of these poor souls will be seeing you because…they’re dead and can’t see?” Steve thought this might have been the punch line Chris was looking for.

“No!” Chris said abruptly, “and frankly I am shocked…SHOCKED… that you would say something so cold and callous in relation to these poor people,” Chris blurted with what Steve was almost certain was mock indignation. He then turned his back to Steve and stared at the ceiling in a pose of maximum offense.

Taking in a deep breath Steve tried to calm himself.

“Okay! You’re right, I should be more sensitive. I’m sorry.” Steve gave in with a slightly mocking apology.

“And you should be. Stealing one of my best dead person punch-lines is tantamount to a stoning offense amongst us ghouls.” Turning back to Steve with a smile on his face, Chris continued, “They won’t be seeing me because they are NOT dead.”

Stunned and wide-eyed, Steve spun to the multiple supine figures, looking again at their apparently lifeless bodies strewn all over the floor of the club.

“None?” Steve stammered, feeling a little guilty for not being more uplifted by the news of the lack of death in the room.

“Not a one. As far as I can tell they all seem to be physically fine with strong vitals signs and no apparent trauma.”

“Then what?”

“Can’t say as I know, but the Captain and Commissioner are trying to keep a lid on the whole thing. You may have noticed the lack of the press and paparazzi.”

Steve nodded, too dumbfounded to speak.

“Anyway, I was pretty much dismissed as soon as I arrived. After all, there’s no need for a coroner when there are no dead bodies. I was on my way home when I ran into a paramedic friend of mine and decided to hang around and help out. I guess curiosity got the better of me.”

“I can certainly understand why.”

“No kidding. Well, my friend left me alone with one of the victims long enough for me to do a basic vitals exam.”

“And?”

“And if all of the victims here are in the same condition as the one I examined, then we have some rather diabolical happenings going on.”

Steve’s breathing was getting faster, “Well! Don’t keep me hanging! What….” Steve broke off in mid-sentence, “did the Captain dismiss you?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Then you’d better go. The Captain is making a beeline right for me and considering the history between you two….”

“Oh man, I am so gone.” Without another word Chris turned on his heels and walked off in the opposite direction from the oncoming Captain.

Calling after him, “We’ll talk tomorrow, all right?”

Chris waved the back of his hand at Steve without turning around.

“Jacobs.” The Captain addressed everyone by his or her last name.

“Captain.” Steve returned the greeting.

“Was that Barnes you were talking to? I sent him home half an hour ago. What’s that weirdo still doing here?”

“Yes sir, but you know those guys from the basement have to be a bit off in order to do what they do.”

Steve watched the Captain as he stared off into the direction Chris had gone. The Captain was medium, just medium—medium height, medium weight, medium build. Coming from a Mediterranean background he looked more like an Italian mobster than the good half Greek, half Portuguese boy he was raised. He hunched over slightly when he walked even though he had no physical impairment.

The rain continued to fall, but subsided into something more like a mist than the previous downpour, but the Captain ignored it completely as he stood seemingly mesmerized by the night. A couple of times Steve averted his eyes from the Captain to scan the area, only to look back at him in confusion.

“Sir?”

After a few more awkward moments of silence the Captain finally spoke in a shaky, broken whisper. “Have you ever felt Jacobs, that when you stare into the darkness… I mean… is it possible on any level… that the dark is staring back at you. I don’t mean someone in the dark watching from the shadows. I mean the dark itself.”

The Captain’s words had an eerie seriousness to them, completely out of character for this hard-edged, tough-as-nails veteran of the homicide division. The Captain had seen more than his share of incomprehensible violence, gore and subsequent death to the point he had become sufficiently numb to such things. He wasn’t being cryptic with his question. Steve knew that something, perhaps something inside the club, had spooked him. He had seen it happen only once before and the Captain had philosophically questioned Nietsze’s aphorisms on that occasion as well.

“No sir, not really; I always seem to find someone or something tangible when I look for it.” Steve continued, “In all the cases I’ve closed and all of the many more you have closed, haven’t you always found that there tends to be an unremarkable, albeit often disturbing, resolution.”

The Captain waited a few moments, considering Steve’s words.

“I used to believe the same as you.” He sighed deeply and shook his head, almost as if in resolution to some forgone conclusion.

Steve was perplexed. He knew the Captain was a man of facts. Theory had its place in police work, but the reality of the work was the dredging up of tangible evidence against the individuals who committed crimes. No jury could convict on speculation, theory or informed guesses.

“I’m not…what exactly are we talking about, sir?”

“I guess what I am trying to say to you Jacobs, is that despite my better judgment and experience, despite everything I have been through…”

The Captain drifted off as if lost in a daydream. Steve shifted uncomfortably waiting for the Captain to finish his thought. Blinking rapidly the Captain shook himself out of the daydream. Turning quickly he put his arm around Steve’s shoulders as he led him toward the club entrance.