Hunter's Blood Special Edition (Cursed by Blood Saga) (16 page)

Martinez caught sight of his dour
faced superior. Detective Sergeant Michael Shaw flashed his badge and crossed
the police barrier, nodding to the uniformed officers operating the perimeter.
He crouched under the yellow police tape, stepping carefully to avoid the
frozen footprints dotting the sidewalks like potholes. With a grunt, he stood
up, straightening his coat. “Whadda we got, Martinez?”

The young detective flipped his
notebook open, his breath puffing out in clouds of wet smoke. “Multiple
homicide, Sergeant. Nine bodies, six inside the club and three out on the
sidewalk. Injuries appear to be severe with possible D.O.A.s. Triage paramedics
are still calling it.”

Wind gusts cut down the street like a
razor, slicing into the back of his neck and setting his teeth to chatter. He
turned his collar up and brushed the snow from his hair and shoulders, leaving
his shearling suede coat dotted with damp splotches. Melting snow had mixed
with freezing rain, turning most of the East Village into a gray, slushy
puddle. Plummeting overnight temperatures had left the normally vibrant streets
coated in black ice. If the cops weren’t careful, some of their own would head
to the hospital along with the victims from this latest bloodbath.

Inside what was left of the bar, the
CSI unit sifted through the rubble, recording evidence, and a thick tension
pressed down on everyone while they waited for additional ambulances to arrive.
It was a sure bet, a call was put out to more than one EMS Corps based on the
look of things.

“Any witnesses or statements yet?”
Shaw asked, stepping over broken glass and bodies, careful not to step in any
of the blood. Dark smudges were evident under the Sergeant’s eyes, despite
wind-reddened cheeks and at least a day’s worth of stubble. His mud brown hair
looked as if frustrated fingers had raked through it a hundred times.

“No, not one, and the bartender’s dead
too. No security camera either. It’s as if someone came in and went postal on
the whole damn place, then disappeared without a trace. Inside, it’s tore up
pretty bad as well, blood everywhere except in each vic…” Martinez stopped
short.

At Shaw’s raised eyebrow, Martinez
cleared his throat. He wasn’t being a wiseass, nor was it mere speculation. He
knew
the victims had been drained dry. The young detective frowned, wincing a
bit at what Shaw would think after the medical examiner’s final report
confirmed what he let slip. How would he explain himself? A good guess? He
didn’t think so.

Martinez’s hand went to his mouth, and
he gagged slightly.
Christ!
What the hell was that stench?
He
knew it was more than just the blood and gore. It was happening again. There
was something underlying all this, something beneath the obvious that didn’t
seem to register with anyone else.

Hunches were nothing new in police
work. Most detectives had a blue sense, a gut feeling when it came to solving
difficult crimes, but Martinez’s uncanny abilities went way beyond hunch.
Things had been curious on and off for the last six months, ever since he made
detective. He had been one of the youngest officers promoted to the squad in
quite some time, and from that point, his sixth sense, or whatever it was, had
shifted into overdrive. Sometimes it was a blessing, like when his squad
located that missing six-year-old last month. Other times, not so much.

Either way his extrasensory
revelations made certain members of his squad a bit nervous. They already
thought of him as half a freak, referring to him as
the dog
behind his
back because of the things he could sense. However, unlike bounty-hunter and
reality TV star, Duane ‘Dog’ Chapman, it wasn’t out of respect for his skills.

The hair on Martinez’s neck and arms
stood on end, but there was no way he was saying anything else to Shaw about
what he sensed. He’d heard it all before. “Hey, Martinez, maybe you should put
in for the canine unit… we heard they add a lifetime supply of dog chow to your
bennies when you retire!”
Ha. Ha. Ha. No, thank you.

Remarks like those taught Martinez to
keep his cards close. Tall and handsome, with piercing green eyes and dark wavy
hair, he carried himself as if he could own the world if he wanted, but the
truth was, he was a loner, and preferred it that way.

The shrill sound of sirens shook him
out of his passing reverie. The ambulances had arrived along with the Medical
Examiner. As the man stepped out of the car, Martinez’s eyebrows shot up. Their
Duty Captain had clearly called in the big guns. He watched as the man greeted
the chief M.E., calling Shaw over to give the brass a run through of what they
had found so far. The M.E. nodded, before heading inside with his team. As per
protocol, the injured were assessed and then transported to the nearest
hospital, with D.O.A.s going directly to the main morgue at Bellevue. Of
course, Martinez already knew there were all dead.

A uniformed officer pushed past the
others and walked toward him, urgency written all over his face. “Detective,
you’d better come with me. CSI found another victim. He’s still alive, if just
barely,” he said, pulling Martinez’s attention back to the scene.

“Where?” he shot back, shoving his
notebook into his breast pocket.

“Behind the bar,” he answered.

The man led the way through the blown
out door, his face pale against his blue uniform. His underlying green pallor
made his rookie status patent, and the poor cop kept wiping his nose and mouth
with the back of his hand.

The two moved past CSI photographers,
to stand just behind the crisis unit, as the medical team prepped the victim
for transport.

“Can he talk? I need a word with him
before you take him,” Martinez asked, leaning over the EMT lieutenant as he
worked.

The lead EMT shook his head. “I doubt
it. His throat’s pretty torn up, and he’s lost a lot of blood. If there’s any
chance at saving him, we’ve got to move now. Either talk as we walk, or ride
with us to the hospital. Your call, Detective.”

The victim’s hand shot out grabbing
Martinez’s arm. His eyes were wild, and he clawed at the oxygen mask over his
nose and mouth.

“Take that thing off his face!”
Martinez yelled, but no one moved to take the mask away.

The man’s fingers clutched at the
Detective’s coat, his mouth working beneath the clear plastic trying to form
words.

“It’s going to be all right, sir.
We’re taking you to the hospital,” the EMT said, shooting Martinez a dirty
look. “We’ve got to go, NOW!”

The injured man wouldn’t let go of
Martinez’s coat. He opened his mouth again, his eyes pleading, but a series of
gurgled rasps were the only sound that escaped.

EMTs pried the man’s hand from
Martinez’s coat, and then moved like lightning out the door, loading him into the
waiting ambulance.

Shaw walked back. “Did he make a
statement?”

Martinez’s gaze followed the
ambulance’s flashing lights as it turned the corner, the telltale
whoop-whoop
of its siren echoing in the air. “Yeah. It was garbled, but I managed to make
out what he said.”

“Well?”

The detective took a deep breath and
turned to face his superior. “He said it was the devil,” Martinez answered, his
eyes trained on the sergeant.

The corners of Shaw’s mouth pulled
down, and a disgusted sound escaped his lips. “Great. Just what we need,
another crazy complete with hallucinations,” he said, stamping his feet for
warmth. He shoved his hands into his pockets again. “It’s gotta be drug
related, either that or he’s psychotic. Lowlife mutt probably knows he’s gonna
die and is panicking about paying the devil his due.”

Martinez frowned. “Maybe. Except it
didn’t look like drugs or psychosis to me. The guy was terrified. Whoever or
whatever did this scared the crap out of him.”

“Look, I’m sorry for the guy, but it
doesn’t really matter. Unless he spouts something that will actually help, I’m
not wasting man-hours collecting gibberish. You know how I feel about that kind
of supernatural claptrap.”

Martinez nodded, but kept his mouth
closed.

Sticking a piece of gum in his mouth,
Shaw shook his head at the bloody mess mixed with the dirty snow around their
feet. “Heard from dispatch on the
QT
that this case follows the same
profile as two others this month. Been talking to the other squad leaders, and
there’s a pattern to these homicides, Martinez, at least that’s what
headquarters is thinking. In my eyes, the fact that O.C.M.E. brass is here
tonight confirms it. I don’t see how they’re going keep the lid on this much
longer, and the Captain’s already breathing down everyone’s neck about not
having any leads. Don’t know exactly how we’re going to handle this.”

Martinez wrinkled his nose and
coughed. He had no idea either.

***

“What Do You Mean You Have No Leads?”
Police Commissioner, Stan O’Neill, yelled as he paced back and forth behind
his desk, his normally ruddy complexion getting redder by the minute. Sweat
glistened beneath his receding hairline, and his usually impeccable appearance
was unkempt, his suit as rumpled as his demeanor. “I thought we found a
survivor. Is he able to talk? Why hasn’t his statement been taken?”

“He didn’t make it, sir. He died while
in route to the hospital,” Shaw said, drawing his meaty hand across his
forehead.

“This is a nightmare, a fucking
nightmare. I didn’t spend thirty years of my life being all about the job, to
have this sort of thing happen on my watch.” Rubbing his temples, O’Neill
exhaled.

With his back to his deputies, he
faced the windows, his hands folded across his chest. One Police Plaza and the
grounds of Park Row had always been
a symbol of the interconnectedness
of the NYPD and New York’s five boroughs. But even the river, steel gray and
foreboding in the distance, seemed to mock that premise this morning, instead
mirroring the anxious faces of the men sitting around the office.

Shifting nervously in their seats, no
one spoke. They had all been summoned, pulled from every source O’Neill could
think of to get a handle on what was happening in the city.
His City.
The best of New York’s Finest—Intelligence, Strategic Initiatives, Operations,
and the office of Legal Matters—all were staggered by the situation.

“Please, sir, if I can…” Bureau Chief,
Mark Phillips, began, only to be cut off in midsentence. He was the Commanding
Officer of Detectives, so technically, it was his ass in the hot seat, but the
situation did not bode well for any of them.

“I don’t want to hear any excuses! Do
you have any idea who I have screaming at me about this? Threatening me with
things, you don’t want to know. Senator Ned Kelly. That’s right. Senator,
‘I
own everything in this country’
Ned Kelly. His cousin’s kid just happened
to be one of the victims at this latest bloodbath down in the 9
^th
precinct.”

“A Kelly, huh? What the hell was he
doing at a dive bar off Avenue B? If he’s anything like the rest of them, five
will get you ten it was off the charts kinky,” Deputy Tom Fay snorted.

Phillips’ head jerked left. Everyone
knew Fay was a first class putz, but now wasn’t the time to be missing a
filter. Still snickering, the dumbass didn’t even pretend to look embarrassed.
Deputies were historically political appointees, but since becoming
Commissioner, O’Neill had been hardcore when it came to the men and women he
surrounded himself with, demanding they all spent time on the job. Fay’s
wiseass remark made it clear
he
was no more than a political favor.

O’Neill stopped pacing and slammed his
hands on his desk. Glaring, he eyeballed everyone in the room. “Who the hell
cares why? Perhaps he was a fan of slumming it. The only thing that matters now
is that we don’t look like a bunch of incompetent idiots. This stops now. We
need handle on this and quickly. So gentlemen, not to put too fine a point on
the matter, we need to solve this pronto! Any suggestions?”

The silence in the room was deafening,
and even Fay kept his trap shut for once. Phillips looked around. Most of the
men present had held shields for many years, but it seemed clear that years of
being suits’ had dulled their instincts, either that, or they didn’t want to
risk their cushy jobs to O’Neill’s wrath.
Well, screw that.

Phillips was still close enough to the
job to want to get his hands dirty, and this shit stunk to high heaven. “I have
an idea, sir, but it’s a little unorthodox,” he offered, mentally steeling
himself for what he knew could end up being tantamount to career suicide.

O’Neill slumped down into his chair
and loosened his tie. “At this point, I’d be willing to listen to just about
anything. We’ve had three major incidents in the last month leaving seventeen
people dead, one the relative of a political powerhouse. The press is on the
verge of a feeding frenzy, and we have absolutely no leads. It’s a miracle
we’ve been able to keep a lid on this thus far—however, I have no other fingers
left to plug up the leaks, so for God sake spit it out Phillips. I’m all ears.”

“We could bring in a psychic.”

As expected, the reaction from his
colleagues was less than enthusiastic, but Phillips ignored their sarcasm,
keeping his eyes trained on the Commissioner’s silent expression.