I rode in the front of the Taurus beside Agent Theresa Jensen, leaving Bloodstone alone in the back seat. I kidded myself that I'd chosen the front seat because the air conditioning is always better up front, but the fact was that Bloodstone's cold fury was sucking enough heat out of the air that I'd have been frozen stiff if I'd ridden back there. I didn't even try to talk to him, and Agent Jensen stopped after a couple of monosyllabic answers that I translated into a "just drive" hand signal.
Bloodstone had every right to be angry, with this latest serial murder performing the rough equivalent of crossing high power lines. When the FBI had originally come to him to ask him to consult on the serial killing, he'd been very reluctant to do so. One condition of his agreeing to work with them was complete anonymity. He'd said that if the Deathdealer were to learn he was on the case, things would change, and for the worst, and he did not want to bear responsibility for that.
The FBI had agreed and had given us copies of all their files, which we agreed to keep confidential. What they gave us, while exhaustive, was not enough for Bloodstone. He wanted to be able to touch the actual cards the Deathdealer had left behind to see if he could pick up any sensations from them. While I don't believe in any of that psychic stuff, Bloodstone clearly thought psychometric examination of the evidence would be helpful. The Feds refused that request, claiming they didn't want evidence contaminated, which frustrated Bloodstone no end.
What the Feds wanted from him was interpretation and analysis of the tarot card spreads left behind with the victims. Each of the victims had been a blonde Caucasian woman with blue eyes in her mid-20s, well educated, fit, successful in business. Their trades varied from exotic dancer to Realtors, account executives to business entrepreneurs. The killings had taken place all over the country, at roughly six month intervals.
The Feds couldn't find any connection between the women, but that was no real surprise. Serial killers tend to fixate on a particular prey model and go after it. The FBI was hoping the card spreads, comprised of eleven cards, would provide some sort of clue as to the killer's background or his interaction with the women.
Something.
Anything.
Bloodstone got nothing. The killer always used a new deck with each killing, and none of them were unique or special enough that their purchase would have attracted attention. He never used the same style of deck twice. The spreads, while laid out rather haphazardly, were clearly positioned post mortem. The card selection, with the exception of the significator - a card used in readings to represent the subject of the reading - appeared to be completely random and utterly without value.
This drove Bloodstone up a wall, which made my life a living hell. Normally I function as Bloodstone's aide, but while he was working with the Feds, I was his amanuensis, and heavy on the slave part of the word's origin. I took down more dictation that dead-ended, building his frustration and mine. I got to hoping someone else caught the Deathdealer because if I got my hands on him, he'd be shuffled, cut and dealt in short order.
That, of course, was bad enough, but things quickly got worse. The New Times, a local entertainment weekly with Pulitzer pretensions had then obtained computer files that included autopsy photos from victims, and full reports that included facts the Bureau had withheld to be able to sort fakes from the genuine article. What they published was contained in the files we'd been sent and, while they admitted the files were transmitted to them electronically, we got a call from Agent Jensen almost immediately.
I took it and reminded her that because Merlin Bloodstone - occultist and reluctant immigrant from the 19th century - doesn't like computers, she gave us hard copy of everything. We didn't have it in electronic form. She started investigating where any leaks might have occurred, but the damage was already done.
Sheriff Doug Hastings, who has found press conferences to be a prime tool in crime fighting, ripped into Bloodstone as the source of the leak. In an orgy of self-congratulations, he accused Bloodstone of being a publicity-seeking, opportunistic mountebank. Hastings added that he'd say Bloodstone was in league with the devil, but he didn't want Satan calling up to protest the association. That remark really hacked me off, mainly because I'd said it about Sheriff Doug during one of his visits to Bloodstone's office.
So, in the center ring of a media circus, Bloodstone's involvement in the Deathdealer case was exposed. The fact that he couldn't offer any help underscored the mountebank remark, which angered him, and fed back into his sense of dread concerning the Deathdealer. Bloodstone lives in a reality that doesn't always interface well with the real world, but I knew that in his world, he was feeling that this latest death was somehow his fault.
The fact that it occurred only four months after the last killing, which pointed to an escalation of the killer's cycle time, left me wondering if the Deathdealer weren't throwing down a gauntlet. It wouldn't quite be in keeping with the accepted psychology of a serial killer, but the rules governing their behavior are somewhat loose, and exceptions to them are bound to crop up. The Deathdealer had been exceptional through his spree so far, which sent a chill coursing down my spine.
It didn't help matters that Jensen took us to a house on the north side of Camelback Mountain. From the front door I could see Casa Chaos. Bloodstone looked back at his home as he alighted from the car, and I was fairly certain he was wondering how his nemesis could have been so close and yet he felt nothing.
Wordlessly we followed Agent Jensen. At the doorway we donned booties over our shoes and pulled on latex gloves. Mine hung on my hands like a senior citizen's skin - my hands are small - but Bloodstone's just layered a corpse-like pallor onto his slender, long-fingered hands. He flexed his hands down into claws, then uncurled them again slowly and deliberately.
Jensen opened the door to the faux-adobe mansion and a blast of cold air slammed into me. "Private security found her when they responded to a silent alarm at 3 AM. The killer had cranked the AC down, making sure the body cooled off faster. It makes time of death analysis tougher, though I hope the coroner will be able to peg it from stomach contents." She hesitated. "If we find the stomach, that is."
Even with that sort of preparatory remark, even after having seen autopsy photos of previous victims, there was no way to be ready for what I saw. It pretty much boiled down to a sunken living room, carpeted in white, with a red ocean in the center of it. What once had been a woman rose like an gray island out of that ocean. Blood splatters trailed over the walls, furnishings and ceiling like a galaxy of red stars swirling in a white sky.
The woman, who, as nearly as I could make out, was naked, lay on her back, with her hands up above her shoulders, arms bent at the elbow. Her legs were bent, too, with heels together. Her position reminded me of the position of those frogs we dissected in high school, and she'd been laid open about as effectively. The only things missing were the little paper labels attached to the organs that had been removed.
Instead of those labels, though, I could see tarot cards. One on her forehead, one in each palm, one over her pubic hair, and a trio crisscrossed on her exposed sternum. In addition we had one each on her heart, liver, lungs and womb as they were laid out to the right of her body, in a line paralleling the edge of the couch.
It surprised me that I didn't immediately turn and vomit, because I knew I should have. There was something about her, though, the way she lay there, that removed her from humanity. She'd gone from being a person to a victim and even a piece of evidence. It gave me some distance, and that was a distance I was happy to maintain.
The three of us were not alone in the house. Paradise Valley PD was there, with their forensic team photographing, measuring, taking samples, dusting for prints and all the other things they do. Bloodstone drifted forward as if we were alone, however, approaching the body slowly and reverently. He stepped down into the living room, to the edge of the crimson sea, and squatted. He closed his eyes for a second, then shook his head.
My boss slowly rose, turned and stripped off his gloves. "This isn't a Deathdealer murder. You know that."
A little bit of color drained from Jensen's face. "I suspected."
"You knew. You arrived at my house at eight, which was eleven back at Quantico. The agents there told you this was not a Deathdealer case before their first cups of coffee had gotten cold."
"They weren't on site." Her arctic eyes tightened as she stared down at him. "I needed to be sure."
I frowned. "What am I missing here?"
Bloodstone glanced at me momentarily. "He used the Halloween tarot."
"Oh." So far, the Deathdealer had never repeated use of a deck of cards. He'd used the Halloween Tarot in the fourth murder, two years ago, in October. The use of the Halloween Tarot at that time had been taken as a clue, but no seasonal factors matched up with any of the other killings. "The significance of his using that deck," Bloodstone had concluded in a dead-end memo, "is that it was easy to find, especially at that time of year."
Bloodstone looked up at Jensen. "Had you told me the name of the deck, I could have dismissed the connection in my office. Connor could have done it over the phone. Now, if you have no further use for me..."
"Look, Dr. Bloodstone, I feel bad about not being able to help you out through this whole thing. I want to make amends, and I will. Right now, though, I need your help." She pointed past him to the body. "That was Syndi Rooker. She's dead, and whoever killed her wanted to make it look like the Deathdealer did it. You know, as well as I do, that the moment the press and Sheriff Doug get wind of this, there's no chance of conducting anything even approaching a good investigation. We finger a suspect and his lawyer will be protesting that we're looking for a scapegoat because we can't stop a monster. There's already reasonable doubt built in and with juries made up of folks who aren't smart enough to get out of jury duty, chances are justice won't be served here."
"You want me to help you solve her murder, then."
"I need you to, yes." She nodded. "You saw the cards. There's a message there this time, isn't there?"
Bloodstone gave her a curt nod. "There is. Misdirection, certainly."
"That's why this one is going to be tough, and we have to move fast. Longer we take, the better the chances he has of covering up any mistake he made."
Bloodstone tapped a finger against his lips. "If I am to help you, we will have to do this my way. You will interview her close associates, of course, and I will want to be a part of that process. At my home. In my office."
The FBI agent stiffened. "That would be highly irregular. I don't know if my superiors...."
"Tell them you'll clear the murder in time for national headlines on Sunday."
She blinked. "What did you see that I didn't?"
"Many things, but whether or not they are relevant remains to be seen." The diminutive occultist shrugged. "It is very clear to me, however, that solving this murder quickly is vital. If we don't catch the murderer swiftly, the press will tally this body up to the Deathdealer. The Deathdealer won't like that. With his cycle being so close, I don't want to see what he will do to vent his ire, do you? We will have to prevail, we have no choice."