Cerulean Sins

57



Heinrick was sitting behind the small table, slumped back in the chair, which is actually harder than it looks in a straight-backed chair. His carefully cut blond hair was still neat, but he'd laid his glasses on the table, and his face looked younger without them. His file said he was closer to forty than thirty, but he didn't look it. He had an innocent face, and I knew that was a lie. Anyone who looks that innocent after thirty is either lying, or touched by the hand of God. Somehow I didn't think Leopold Heinrick was ever going to be a saint. Which left only one conclusion--he was lying. Lying about what? Now there was the question.



There was a Styrofoam cup with coffee in front of him. It had been sitting long enough that the cream had started to separate from the darker liquid, so that swirls of paleness decorated the top of the coffee.



He looked up when Zerbrowski and I entered. Something flickered through his pale eyes: interest, curiosity, worry? The look was gone before I could decipher it. He picked up his glasses, giving me a blank, innocent face. With his glasses back on, he came closer to looking his age. They broke up the line of his face, so that the frames were what you saw first.



"You want a fresh cup of coffee?" I asked him as I sat down. Zerbrowski leaned against the wall, near the door. We'd start out with me questioning Heinrick to see if I got anywhere. Zerbrowski made it clear that I was up to bat, but no one, including me, wanted me alone with Heinrick. He had been following me, and we still didn't know why. Agent Bradford had guessed that it was part of some plot to get me to raise the dead for some nefarious purpose. Bradford didn't know, not for sure. Until we knew for sure, caution was better. Hell, caution was probably always better.



"No," Heinrick said, "no more coffee."



I had a fresh cup of coffee in one hand and a stack of file folders in the other. I placed the coffee on the table and made a show of arranging the pile of folders neatly beside it. His gaze flicked to the folders, then settled serenely back on me.



"Had too much coffee?" I asked.



"No." His face was attentive, blank, with a touch of wariness. Something had him worried. Was it the files? Too large a stack. We'd intended it to be too large. There were files at the bottom that had nothing to do with Leopold Heinrick, Van Anders, or the nameless man that was sitting in another room just down the hall. It was impossible to have a military record with no name attached, but somehow the dark-haired American had managed it. His file was so full of blacked-out spaces that it was almost illegible. The fact that no one would give our John Doe a name, but they would acknowledge he was once a member of the armed forces was disturbing. It made me wonder what my government was up to.



"Would you like something else to drink?" I asked.



He shook his head.



"We may be in here a while."



"Talking is thirsty work," Zerbrowski said from the back.



Heinrick's eyes flicked to him, then back to me. "Silence is not thirsty work." His lips quirked, and it was almost a smile.



"If sometime during this interview you want to tell us exactly why you were following me, I'd love to hear it, but that's really secondary to why we're here."



He looked puzzled then. "When you first stopped us that seemed to be very important to you."



"It was, and I'd still like to know, but the priorities have changed."



He frowned at me. "You are playing games, Ms. Blake. I am tired of games."



There was no fear in him. He seemed tired, wary, and not happy, but he wasn't afraid. He wasn't afraid of the police, or me, or going to jail. There was none of that anxiety that most people have in a police interrogation. It was odd. Bradley had said that our government was going to just let Heinrick go. Did he suspect that--know that? If so, how? How did he know? Why wasn't he the least bit afraid of spending time in the St. Louis jail system?



I opened the first file. It held grainy copies of old crimes. Women Van Anders had slaughtered in foreign countries, far from here.



I laid the photos out in front of him, in a neat row of black and white carnage. In some of the photos the quality was so bad that if you hadn't known you were looking at human remains, you'd have never guessed. Van Anders had reduced his victims to Rorschach tests.



Heinrick looked bored now, almost disgusted. "Your Detective O'Brien has already shown me these. Already marched out her lies."



"What lies would those be?" I asked. I sipped my coffee, and it wasn't bad. It was fresh, at least. As I sipped, I watched his face.



He folded his arms across his chest. "That there are fresh murders here in your city like these old ones."



"What makes you think she's lying?"



He started to say something, then closed his mouth tight, his lips a thin angry line. He just glared at me, pale eyes bright with anger.



I opened the second folder and began laying out colored photos just above the old black and whites. I laid them out in a line of bright death, and watched all the color drain away from Heinrick's skin. He looked almost gray by the time I sat back down. I'd had to stand to reach the ends of the table, to lay out the photos.



"This woman was killed three days ago." I got another file out of the stack. I opened it, and fanned the photos on top of it, but didn't put them with the stack. I wasn't a hundred percent sure I'd be able to match the photos back to the right crime. They were supposed to be marked on the back, but I hadn't marked them personally, so I didn't want to risk it. Once you get into court the lawyers get damned picky about evidence and stuff.



I pointed to the file pictures. "This woman was killed two days ago."



Zerbrowski stepped forward and handed me a plastic baggie with a handful of polaroids in it. I tossed the baggie across the table so that it slid by him, and he caught it automatically before it hit the floor. His eyes were very big when he saw the top print.



"Those women died last night. We think there were two victims, but truthfully we haven't finished putting together the pieces, so we're not a hundred percent certain. It could be more, or it could be just one woman, but that's an awful lot of blood for only one woman, don't you think?"



He laid the baggie of polaroids carefully on the table, so that they didn't touch any of the other photos. He stared at all the pictures, his face gone death white, his eyes huge. His voice squeezed out like it was an effort to breathe, let alone talk. "What do you wish to know?"



"We want to stop this from happening again," I said.



He was staring down at the pictures, as if he couldn't look away. "He promised he would not do it here. He swore that he could control himself."



"Who?" I asked, softly. Yeah, the government had given him a name, but that was the same government that wouldn't give our John Doe one.



"Van Anders," he whispered the name. He looked up, and there was surprise underneath the shock. "The other detective said you knew it was Van Anders."



Great. Nothing like giving your suspect more information than he's giving you.



I shrugged. "Without eyewitnesses it's hard to be certain."



Something like hope sparked in his eyes and he started regaining some of his color. "You think this might be someone else? Not Van Anders?"



I riffled through the files again, and Heinrick flinched. I found the thin folder with the picture of Van Anders and the two women. I flashed him the picture. "Van Anders with the victims from last night's slaughter."



He winced at the last word, and the color that had been seeping back into his face drained away again. His lips looked bloodless. For a second I thought he might faint. I'd never had a suspect faint on me before.



His voice was a hoarse whisper. "Then it is him." He laid his forehead on the table.



"Do you need some water, something stronger?" I asked. Though truthfully, black coffee was as strong as I could give him. There were rules about giving liquor to suspects.



He raised his head, slowly, but he looked awful. "I told them that he was crazy. I told them not to include him."



"Told who?" I asked.



He sat up a little straighter. "I agreed to come here against my better judgment. I knew the team was assembled too quickly. When you rush such a task, it ends badly."



"What task?" I asked.



"To recruit you for a mission."



"What mission?" I asked.



He shook his head. "It doesn't matter now. Some of our people got you on tape raising a man in a local cemetery. He did not look alive enough for what my employers wished. He looked like a zombie, and that is not good enough."



"Good enough for what?" I asked.



"To fool people in the country that their leader is still alive."



"What country?" I asked.



He shook his head, and a ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "I will not be here long, Ms. Blake. Those that employ me will see to it. They will either work to free me soon, with no charges, or they will have me killed."



"You seem calm about that," I said.



"I believe I will go free."



"But you're not sure," I said.



"Few things in life are certain."



"I know one thing that's certain," I said.



He just looked at me. I think he'd said more than he'd planned to say. So he was going to try not to say anything.



"Van Anders will kill someone else tonight."



His eyes were bleak when he said, "I had worked with him years ago, before I knew what he was. I should not have believed him that he was in control of his rage. I should have known."



"Are your employers just going to leave Van Anders here to butcher more women?"



He looked at me then. Again, I couldn't quite read his expression. Determination, guilt, something.



"I know where Van Anders is staying. I will give you that address. I know that my employers would wish him dead now. He has become a liability."



We got the address from him. I didn't hurry out after it, because unlike the movies, I knew I wouldn't be allowed in at the capture. Mobile Reserve, St. Louis's answer to SWAT, would be the ones running the show. When you have people that can go in with body armor and fully automatic weapons, the rest of us are just outclassed.



I opened one last file and showed him the man they'd crucified against the wall. "Why did you need Van Anders to do this? Not his kind of kill."



"I don't know what you are talking about."



He was going to deny it, fine. Even if we could have pinned it on him, I doubt we could have kept him long enough for a trial. "We know you and your team did this. We even know why." If Bradley was telling the truth, I did know.



"You know nothing." He sounded very sure of that.



"You were ordered to kill him because he ran. Ran away from people like you, and people like Van Anders."



He looked at me then, and he was worried. He was wondering how much I knew. Not much. But maybe it was enough. "Whose idea was it to crucify him?"



"Van Anders's." He looked like he'd swallowed something sour. Then he gave a small smile. "It won't matter, Ms. Blake, I'll never see trial."



"Maybe not, but I always like to know where the blame goes."



He nodded, then said, "Van Anders was so angry when we shot him first. He said what good is a crucifixion if the person isn't struggling." He looked at me with haunted eyes. "I should have known then what he meant to do."



"Whose idea were the runes?" I asked.



He shook his head. "You've gotten the last startled confession you shall get from me."



"There's still one thing I don't understand." Actually, there were lots of things I didn't understand, but it's never good to appear confused in front of the bad guys.



"I will not incriminate myself, Ms. Blake."



"If you knew what Van Anders was capable of, then why bring him along? Why make him part of the team, at all?"



"He is a werewolf, as you have learned from what he does to his victims. There were those who believed you were a shape-shifter, as well. We wanted someone that could manage you without risk of infection, if you fought us."



"You were planning on kidnapping me?"



"As a last resort," he said.



"But because Balfour and Canducci didn't like my zombie, the plan is off?"



"Those names will do for them, but yes. We had reports that you could raise zombies that thought they were still alive and could pass as human. My employers were very disappointed when they saw the tape."



I owed Marianne and her coven a thank-you note. If they hadn't gotten all witchier-than-thou on me, I'd have raised a fine, alive-looking zombie, and I might even now be kidnapped, and at the mercy of Van Anders. Maybe I should send Marianne flowers, a card just didn't seem to be enough.



I tried some more questions, but Leopold Heinrick had given out all the information he was going to give. He finally asked for a lawyer, and the interview was over.



I stepped out into the main area, and it was in chaos. People yelling, running. I caught the phrase, "officers down." I grabbed Detective Webster of the blond hair and bad coffee. "What's happened?"



O'Brien answered for him. "The Mobile Reserve Squad that went out to pick up Van Anders--he cut them up. At least one dead, maybe more."



"Shit," I said.



She had her jacket on and was digging her purse out of a drawer.



"Where's Zerbrowski?"



"He's gone already."



"Can I catch a ride?"



She looked at me. "Where to? I'm going to the hospital."



"I think I need to be at the crime scene."



"I'll take you," Webster said.



O'Brien gave him a look.



"I'll be at the hospital later. I promise."



O'Brien shook her head and ran for the door. Everyone was leaving. Some would go to the hospital. Some would go to the crime scene and see if they could help there. Some would go sit with the families of the downed officers. But everyone would go. If you really wanted to commit a crime in any city, wait until there's an officer-down call, everyone drops everything.



I'd go to the scene of the crime. I'd try to help figure out what went wrong. Because something had gone very wrong if Van Anders had taken out an entire squad from the Mobile Reserve. They're trained to handle terrorists, hostage situations, drugs, gangs, biochemical hazards; pick your nastiness, and Mobile Reserve can handle it. Yes, something had gone terribly wrong. The question was, what?



58



I'd seen enough of Van Anders's handy work to be prepared for the worst. What I saw in the hallway wasn't even close to his worst. Compared to the other crime scenes, it was almost clean. There was a uniformed officer standing next to the window at the end of the hallway. The window was almost completely free of glass, as if something large had been thrown through it. I turned away from the thought of one of the city's finest plunging to his death. Other than the window, there wasn't much else.



A sprinkling of blood on the pale brown carpet in the hallway. Two blood smears on the wall looked almost artificial, overly dramatic on the off-white walls. That was all. Van Anders hadn't had time to enjoy himself. One officer was dead, maybe two, but he'd just had time to kill them. He hadn't had time to cut them up. I wondered if that made him angry? Did he feel cheated?



There was a trickle of police in the hallway, but the sound of voices from the open door of the apartment was as murmurous as the sea. A sorrowful, angry, urgent, confused sea.



The apartment was pristine, untouched. There had been no fight inside. All the trouble had started and ended in the hallway.



Detective Webster had come up with me. He was still in the doorway, because there wasn't room to walk into the room. Every homicide has more cops than you think it needs, but I'd never seen a crowd like this. It was nearly wall-to-wall people like at a party, except that every face was grim, or shocked, or angry. No one was having a good time.



Zerbrowski had called my cell phone in the car on the way there. Everybody was wanting answers, answers about the monsters, answers that he couldn't give, because he didn't fucking know. His quote, not mine.



I debated on whether to yell for Zerbrowski or call him back on his cell phone. I don't usually mind being short, but this time I couldn't see through the crowd, and I sure as hell couldn't see over it.



I glanced at Webster. He was damn near six feet. "Can you spot Sergeant Zerbrowski?"



Webster suddenly looked even taller. I realized that he'd been slumping, artfully, the way some tall people do, especially if they got tall early and didn't like it. Standing with his shoulders back, and trying to gaze across the crowd, he was at least six one, maybe an inch more. I'm usually a pretty good judge of height.



"He's on the far side of the room." He suddenly seemed to shrink, shoulders rounding, almost like his spine compressed before my eyes.



I shook my head, and said, "Can you get his attention?"



He got a mischievous grin on his face, a look that Zerbrowski and Jason had made me dread. "I could put you on my shoulders, then he'd spot you."



I gave him a look that wilted the grin into a smile. He shrugged. "Sorry." But it was the kind of sorry I'm used to, the one Jason always gives when he's not sorry at all.



Either Zerbrowski is more psychic than I thought, or he was trying to get away from the man who was dogging him. It was one of the Mobile Reserve officers in full combat black, body armor still in place, but he'd lost his helmet, his mask, and his eyes were wild. The whites kept flashing like a horse's when it's about to bolt.



Zerbrowski saw me, and the look of relief on his face was so pure, so happy, that it almost scared me. "Officer Elsworthy, this is Anita Blake, Marshal Anita Blake. She's our preternatural expert."



Elsworthy frowned, blinking a little too rapidly. It was as if it took longer than it should have for the words to filter through and have meaning. I'd seen enough shock to know the symptoms. Why wasn't he at the hospital with the rest of his squad?



Zerbrowski mouthed, "Sorry," to me.



Elsworthy blinked at me, his brown eyes didn't even look like they were focusing, as if what he was seeing was somewhere inside his head. Shit. A moment ago he'd been yelling at Zerbrowski, now he was staring at things that we couldn't see. Probably reliving the disaster. He was pale, and there was a light dew of sweat on his face. I was betting he would be clammy to the touch.



I put my face close to Zerbrowski, and spoke low, "Why isn't he at the hospital with the others?"



"He wouldn't go. Said he wanted to ask RPIT how the hell a werewolf can grow claws when it's still in human form."



I must have reacted to the question, because Zerbrowski suddenly gave me a look through the rims of his glasses. "I told him it wasn't possible for a shifter to gain claws while still in full human form. Was I wrong?"



I nodded. "A shifter has to be really powerful to be able to do it. I've only known a handful that could do partial change while they pretty much looked human."



Zerbrowski lowered his voice even more, "It might have been good to know that before they busted in on Van Anders."



"I thought a minimum of one person from each squad went down to Quantico for the big preternatural class and lecture."



"They did."



I gave him a disgusted look. "I don't go around assuming that I know more about the monsters than the freaking FBI."



"Maybe you should," Zerbrowski said softly.



The way he said it took the heat out of my words. I couldn't really get angry with Elsworthy standing there blinking like an innocent come to slaughter.



"Is it hot in here?" Elsworthy asked.



Actually, it was, too many people in too small a space. "Detective Webster, take Elsworthy out into the hall for a breath of air, would you?" '



Webster did what I asked, and Elsworthy went without a single complaint. It was as if he'd used up all his anger before I got there, and now all that was left was the shock and the horror of it all.



Zerbrowski and I stayed in our little corner. "What went wrong?" I asked.



"I've been yelled at by Elsworthy, but even better, Captain Parker. He's waiting at the hospital for me to get my ass down there and explain to him how the hell Van Anders was able to do what he did."



"What exactly did he do?"



Zerbrowski dug his ever-present notebook out of his jacket pocket. The notebook looked like it'd been rolled in the dirt, then stepped on. He ruffled through it until he got to the pages he wanted. "Van Anders cooperated completely when they came in. He seemed surprised and didn't know why anyone would want to arrest him. He was handcuffed, patted down, and the two tactical officers, Bates and Meyer, led him out into the hallway, while the rest of the squad reformed and made sure the rest of the apartment was clear." He glanced up at me. "Standard procedure."



"So when did it stop being standard?"



"Then it gets a little confused. Meyer never came back on the radio, at all. Bates started yelling, officer down, and something about, he's got claws. Elsworthy and another officer got out the door in time to see Van Anders clear enough that they both swear he had claws but was in full human form." Zerbrowski gave me a look. "Truthfully, I was ready to think Elsworthy, and . . ." He turned a page of his notebook, "Tucker, were seeing things."



I shook my head. "No, it's possible." I shook my head again and fought the urge to rub my temples. I had a headache starting. "The lycanthropes that I've seen do this, the claws just whip out. It's like having five switchblades suddenly appear. There wouldn't have been anything for the officer, Bates, was it? to see."



"Meyer, Bates is still alive."



I nodded. Names were important. It was important to remember who was dead and who was alive. "Van Anders stabbed Meyer. When the claws shot out of his fingertips, he used them like knives."



"Apparently Kevlar doesn't stop lycanthrope claws," Zerbrowski said.



"Kevlar isn't made to stop a stabbing attack," I said, "the claws acted like blades."



He nodded. "Van Anders used the officer as a shield, held him on his claws like a . . . puppet, is what Elsworthy finally said."



"He should have gone to the hospital with the others," I said.



"He looked fine when I got here, Anita, honest. I don't blame them for not forcing him to go."



"Well, he doesn't look fine now."



"We can give him a ride to the hospital when we go."



I looked at him. "Why do I think that we are going to the hospital for more than just a show of moral support?"



"You're just perceptive as hell tonight."



"Zerbrowski," I said.



"I told Captain Parker that I'd be right along once Marshal Blake showed up."



"You bastard."



"He's asking questions about the monsters that I don't have the answers to. Maybe Dolph would, but there is no way I want him to be here. We managed to quiet down the worst of what happened in the interrogation with your furry friend, but if Dolph loses it in a public setting . . ." He just shook his head.



I agreed with him. "Fine, I'll go with you to the hospital and see if I can answer the captain's questions."



"Ah, but first ya gotta see this." He was actually smiling, and it wasn't a place for smiles.



"See what?" I asked suspiciously.



He turned without a word and led the way down the hallway towards the empty window. Webster had taken Elsworthy in the opposite direction so that they stood as far from the window as the hallway allowed. Good for Webster.



When we were close enough, my eyes started looking at something besides the window. There were two neat bullet holes in the wall near the window at the end of the hallway. Mobile Reserve's weapons can go fully automatic at the flick of a switch, but they're trained to do it one bullet at a time. With two officers down, and a monster on the loose, they'd remembered their training.



Zerbrowski motioned the uniform back, so we had some privacy. There was almost no glass on the carpet, because it had all gone outside.



"Did Van Anders throw someone through the window?"



"He threw himself," Zerbrowski said.



I stared at him. "We're twenty stories up, even a werewolf isn't going to walk away from that kind of fall. It may not kill him, but he'll be hurting."



"He didn't go down, he went up." He motioned me closer to the window.



I didn't like the window. It had a very low sill, almost low enough to step through. That gives a better view, but without glass in the metal frame, there was nothing but empty air between me and a very big fall.



"Careful of the glass, and don't look down. But trust me, Anita, it's worth leaning out just a little, and looking up. Look at the right side of the window."



I placed a hand against the wall and found a place in the metal that was glass free so I could get a grip. The air was beating against me, like eager hands ready to snatch me away. I'm not afraid of heights, but the idea of falling from them, well, that I'm afraid of. I fought the almost irresistible urge to look down, because I knew if I looked down I might not be able to look out the window at all.



I leaned out, very carefully, and at first I didn't understand what I was seeing. There were holes in the side of the building, all the way up, as far as my eyes could follow. Small holes at regular intervals.



I eased myself back in, carefully, watching for glass as much as a fall. I frowned at Zerbrowski. "I saw the holes, but what are they?"



"Van Anders did a Spiderman on them. The sniper and observer were set up on the opposite side of the building. There was nothing they could do."



I felt my eyes go wide. "You mean the holes are where he shoved his hands into the building, and climbed up?"



Zerbrowski nodded, and he was smiling. "Captain Parker was screaming that he didn't know werewolves could do that either."



I glanced back at the window. "Captain Parker isn't the only one that didn't know. I mean they have the strength, but they get cut and scraped and break bones even. They may heal quickly, but it hurts them." I looked up at the ceiling as if I could still see the upward march of holes. "Being shot would have hurt like hell."



Zerbrowski nodded. "Will he need to see an emergency room, a doctor, something?"



I shook my head. "I doubt it. If he's strong enough to do a partial change, then I'll have to assume that his healing abilities are on the high end. If they are, he'll be healed within a couple hours, maybe less. If he changes form, when he's human again, he'll be good as new."



"They've put the word out to all the emergency and urgent care places, just in case."



I nodded. "Can't hurt, I guess, but I don't think you're going to catch him that way."



"How are we going to catch him, Anita? How do you catch something like this?"



I looked at him. "Did you ask the upper brass what they thought of using werewolves to track him?"



"They vetoed it."



"I think you might find them in a more receptive mood now."



"You think your friends will be nice on a leash for me?"



"I was really thinking I'd been holding the leash." My phone rang, and the sound made me jump. I flipped it open, and it was a voice I didn't recognize. I don't talk to the chief of police all that often.



I did a lot of yes, sir, and no, sir. Then the phone was buzzing, and I was left with Zerbrowski staring at me. "Were you talking to who I think you were talking to?"



"They've issued a court order of execution for Van Anders."



Zerbrowski's eyes were wide. "You are not going after him alone."



I shook my head. "I hadn't planned on it."



He looked like he didn't believe me. I actually had to give him my word I wouldn't try to pop Van Anders without backup. I'd have backup. The police chief had told me over the phone that they'd go along with the werewolf tracking idea. I'd have backup--if I could persuade Richard to give them to me.



I asked for some plastic evidence bags and raided Van Anders's dirty clothes drawer. I used gloves, not to keep my scent off them, but because I didn't want to touch anything that had touched Van Anders's body. I sealed the clothes in the bag, and hoped it would be enough to help the werewolves track him. We'd come back and start around the foot of this building. Van Anders might have climbed up, but he had to come down somewhere.



Zerbrowski drove me, Officer Elsworthy, and himself off to the hospital, so Captain Parker could yell at us both. Bates had died on the operating table.



Zerbrowski had to take the tongue lashing, because a sergeant doesn't outrank a captain. I took it, because I smelled the fear on Parker. I didn't blame him for being afraid. I think we were all afraid, every single person in the hallway. Every person in the apartment. Every policeman, and woman, in town should have been afraid. Because when something like this happens it's still the police that have to clean up the mess. Well, the police, and your friendly neighborhood executioner. We were all afraid, and we should have been.