At this, Delaplane pursed her lips. “If you’re referring to the FBI action, the SPD had nothing to do with that. I’ll turn the floor over to Special Agent Pendergast to, ah, explain.”
Pendergast stepped forward. “I’m afraid that was a dead end. The rites involved animal blood, not human.”
“What kind of animals?”
“Ducks, apparently.”
There was a rash of snickering at this detail.
“No connection was found to the current case, and no apparent laws were broken by the, ah, worshippers, and as such their names cannot be released.”
He stepped back and the commander came forward to handle more questions, pointedly ignoring Betts, who was waving his hand and becoming increasingly agitated when he was not called on. Finally, he simply shouted out a question. “Commander, what do you say to reports that these killings are remarkably similar to the legends of the Savannah Vampire?”
Delaplane fixed him with a steady eye. “Vampire, did you say?” she asked in a tone one might use to humor a child. “Mister…”
“Betts. Barclay Betts, anchor for—”
“Mr. Betts, if you’re asking me if we think these killings are the work of a vampire, the answer is…wait for it…no.”
Another titter rippled through the crowd.
“However,” Delaplane continued, “it might be the work of a person, or persons, drawn for unhealthy reasons of their own to Savannah…and its legends. The Bee Street raid is a case in point.”
“How was the blood drained?” Betts continued. “And to what purpose?”
“We believe a tool called a trocar, similar to a large-bore needle, was inserted into the femoral artery of the leg. As to what purpose, we have no idea yet.”
When Delaplane tried to move to another questioner, Betts continued. “Is it true that all the blood was sucked out…every drop?”
She arched her eyebrows and fixed him with a steady gaze. “Every drop was taken. We’re analyzing how it might have been done.” Before Betts could continue, she said: “Mr. Wellstone?”
Coldmoon saw a handsome figure in an impeccable suit—gray hair at the temples, horn-rimmed glasses, every inch the professor—nod in acknowledgment. “I have a question for Special Agent Pendergast,” he said in a patrician drawl. “Agent Pendergast, I understand you’re one of the FBI’s leading experts on deviant criminal psychology, especially as it involves serial homicide. Do you think the perpetrator is, in fact, a deviant serial killer?”
Silence fell as the crowd awaited Pendergast’s answer.
“Serial killer?” Pendergast finally said. “Perhaps. Deviant? Perhaps not.” He paused. “Perhaps what we are seeing is the expression of a certain kind of normative psychology, not deviant so much as a deviation from our expected standards.”
“What do you mean by that?” Wellstone asked.
Amen, Coldmoon thought.
But Pendergast said nothing more, and with that Delaplane concluded the press conference.
21
STANDING IN THE MUCK, Commander Alanna Delaplane slapped at a mosquito and cursed under her breath. The dog handler, Boris Strawbridge, was moving ahead of her, his boots squishing along the riverbank as he forced his way through the thick vegetation. Twist, the giant bloodhound he had brought, had the longest tongue Delaplane had ever seen on a dog. The powerful animal’s leash was clipped to a belt around Strawbridge’s waist to keep his hands free for pushing aside vegetation. Behind, she could hear the distant rush of traffic as it crossed the river on the Victory Drive Bridge, but the trees and bushes were so thick she couldn’t see the span. Where they were—along the marshy shores of Sylvan Island—might as well be the damn Amazon jungle for all its impenetrable thickness and whining bugs. The big bloodhound was snuffling about listlessly, more interested in trash that had washed up than any scent connected with the Ellerby homicide.
The body had to have entered the river somewhere, and while it might have been thrown off the nearby bridge, that seemed unlikely, as the roadway carried Interstate 80 traffic and was almost continuously traveled day and night. Dumping the body would have involved hoisting it over a tall cement guardrail, across a breakdown lane, and over a wall: too much time, too many opportunities to be seen. Delaplane figured the body had been dragged down to the river and left there, and judging from where it was found, it might have been anywhere along this stretch of shore. She wondered how the dog could smell anything above the stench of swamp gas and mud coming up from the river, but Strawbridge hadn’t seemed to think it was a problem.