I was sitting in a Starbucks with a new friend of mine, the old detective, Aaron King.
I had met Aaron recently through another acquaintance of mine, Jim Knighthorse, a character who worked out of Orange County. All three of us had been brought along on a case involving a missing girl, led by another Orange County detective, a young woman named Samantha Moon. Four detectives working one case, and we did eventually find the girl, with Aaron King and Samantha Moon seeing the case through to the end.
Samantha Moon was someone I thought about often. Beautiful, perky, but shrouded in a mystery. Something haunted her. What it was, I doubt I would ever know. Aaron King and I talked a little about the case of the missing girl, and about Samantha Moon and her own possible secrets, but Aaron was keeping quiet about her. My instincts told me that he knew something he wasn't revealing. At least, not yet.
I switched the subject to my case at hand. I needed another investigator to bounce some ideas off of, especially now that I had recently been faxed the autopsy report. A report that had been disturbing in more ways than one. I would have picked Hammer to speak with, but Hammer was fairly closed-minded. I needed someone with an open mind.
A very open mind.
After all, I was beginning to think that something very, very strange was going on here.
Aaron King seemed enigmatic himself. The old guy was good looking enough, and projected a confidence that I completely lacked. He sat across from me in a wobbly outdoor chair, drinking a hot coffee, black. No frills. I decided that Aaron King looked like someone I knew, but I couldn't place him. Not now. And, really, I didn't care.
I caught him up to date on the case, keeping to the facts. And next caught him up on the autopsy report Hammer had faxed to me just that afternoon. A report that included the method of death: multiple stabbings.
Aaron cringed as if he's burned his tongue. "He was a bastard, for sure. They have him on Death Row?"
"Yes."
"Good."
I nodded and next brought up a peculiar aspect of the slaying. "He had used a silver knife."
King's eyes narrowed. "A strange metal for a knife."
"It was a silver butter knife."
"So he grabs the first weapon he sees."
I nodded. "Maybe. Except the knife was in the upstairs bedside drawer."
"Helluva place to keep a butter knife."
"Lots of people keep weapons by their beds."
"But a butter knife?" asked King.
"Maybe the man liked toast in bed."
King shook his head. Glendale Boulevard was thick with cars and exhaust. The exhaust wafted over us. It was a sad testament to our city living that neither of us coughed nor waved it away. King said, "Did the husband ever give a confession?"
"He never spoke to the police. In fact, he never spoke to anyone."
"So we'll never know why he kept a butter knife in his upper drawer next to his bed."
"Probably not."
"And yet he stabbed her...how many times?"
"Seventy-two times."
King whistled. "That's rage."
"By the time the police arrived, she had been drained of most of her blood."
"I would think so." King shivered and looked sick. I didn't blame him.
"The husband then staged the scene to make it look like a break in."
"Dumb ass."
I nodded. "He was arrested within the week."
King set his drink down. In fact, he even pushed it away. "So what's your concerns, Spinoza?"
I took a deep breath and wondered how much I should tell him. I finally decided that I needed to bounce some thoughts off of someone, some slightly disturbing thoughts, and the enigmatic old guy seemed about as good a choice as anyone.
So I told him about my discoveries inside the casket, about the evidence that seemed to indicate someone had been knocking on it from the inside, and the seasoned detective looked at me sideways for a long time before answering.
"You're yanking my chain, Spinoza."
"No."
"And the wood was split?"
"Directly behind the damaged padding."
He was quiet some more and we both listened to a motorcycle rumble by. Not quite a Harley, but it sure wanted to be. When the noise maker was gone, King spoke. "Something must have been hitting it pretty hard to split the wood."
"Hard and perhaps sustained."
"Are you telling me that you think someone was buried alive in that thing?"
"I'm not sure what I'm telling you."
"Does any of this relate to the silver butter knife."
"I don't know," I said. "Maybe."
"Silver, as in a werewolf?"
"Or a vampire."
"Silver kills both?" asked King.
I thought back to my last big case a month ago. "I think so, yes."
King leaned forward and there was a wild look in his eyes. Something else flashed at me, some distant memory, or recognition, but I couldn't place it. He said, "Are you telling me that you think Evelyn Drake was a vampire or a werewolf?"
"I'm not saying anything," I said. "The evidence speaks for itself. So how come you don't look more surprised, King?"
He looked away, sipping his coffee. "Let's just say this isn't my first vampire."
