IV. Forensics
The play of headlights across the restaurant windows prompted Donovan to check his watch. Less than fifteen minutes? You'd think he was waiting for this to happen.
He glanced back at the room's overturned tables, cordoned off by yellow police tape. Wade and Holtz were working the room, looking for telltale fabrics and fingerprints. Good men, but not the top of their field. For delicate situations like these, Donovan didn't request the best and brightest. Too much of the truth made his job very difficult.
"Hey guys," Donovan said, motioning them over with a gesture. "The Bureau forensics guy is coming in to take a look. He isn't going to want any distractions. You two take a break until I call for you, and don't breathe a word of this to anyone." Donovan added a special emphasis to the last sentence, cowing their minds into servility.
Wade and Holtz departed without a word as Wainwright entered. Donovan wished he could coerce the thoughts of this man as he did his associates. Wainwright didn't understand the concept of maintaining appearances. He stepped into the restaurant with his reddish-black trench coat swirling, a black button-down shirt and slacks visible underneath. A large black doctor's bag hung from one arm. God, he's carrying a cane.
Desmond Wainwright, the Sheriff of Charlotte. It wasn't the city's law enforcement post, but instead the traditional title held amongst their kind. It was Wainwright's duty to look into threats to the peace and secrecy that surrounded their ancient society. And most importantly, it was left to him to dole out the punishments due.
"What's the scene, Donovan?" he said, sparing no time and moving to the koi pool.
"Good to see you too, Wainwright," he replied. "Two dead. The female's in the back."
"How were they found?"
"Daughter of the couple called the station when they were late getting home. A squad car came by and found this. Place doesn't have cameras or any real security system." Most places in this part of town didn't. The safety of protection rackets was much more reliable than technology. Not that it would have helped here.
"No witnesses," Wainwright pondered, "a blessing or a curse?"
Wainwright was a forensics nightmare. Whereas Donovan's two investigators were thorough, preserving evidence with tweezers and latex gloves, Wainwright made a point to touch everything with his bare hands. He slid his fingers across the clothes the store manager wore, and touched the overturned table and chairs. He even swirled his hands in the waters of the koi pond they had found the manager floating in. All the while, he moved his lips, mumbling words that Donovan could not hear.
Many people called Donovan a cynic and skeptic, but he couldn't imagine why anyone bought into this talk of magic. Clan Tremere, to which Wainwright belonged, was rumored to possess a mysterious blood magic, but Donovan called it a ruse. Blood was a potent tool for all Kindred. The Tremere may have different uses for their vitae, but calling it sorcery was laughable. Greenbacks claimed that he once saw a Tremere elder set a man on fire with a thought and an evil glance. Then again, Greenbacks also swore that the Japanese government routinely placed spying devices in their import cars. Donovan wouldn't argue that Clan Tremere as a whole was very perceptive and knowledgeable, but that didn't mean their parlor tricks were anything to hold faith in.
Wainwright picked up his bag, apparently finished with the dead man. The pair moved to the back of the room. "Any obvious signs?" Of our kind, he means.
"Savage puncture wounds on the female's neck, and there's almost no blood."
Wainwright knelt down for a close examination of the woman's body. As Donovan watched, the Sheriff rubbed a finger under the woman's eye, taking a small smear of blood with it. He lifted it to his nose and sniffed it, and then slowly licked it from his finger.
"You know, if you're hungry I could have my men pick someone up."
Wainwright fixed him with a withering stare. Donovan dropped his gaze to the body, reminding himself that Wainwright had no sense of humor. Wainwright pulled a vial from the inside of his doctor bag and held it up to the light. As it swirled around, Donovan could see the crimson fluid within. The Sheriff removed the stopper and splashed blood onto the body.
"Type A negative," Wainwright said, breaking the silence. "It won't fool a DNA test, but for casual examination it should be fine." Donovan was positive Holtz would never discern the difference. Wainwright pulled out a pen knife to complete the deception.
"Whose feeding grounds does this fall under," he asked, slicing open the bite marks. "Clan Brujah? This could have been hunger-related."
Donovan nodded. The hunger for blood was something all Kindred shared. Donovan was near-religious in dealing with his; he could not chance losing control. Even so, there were times when the seductive scent of blood would awaken the animal in him. Not everyone was up to the task of holding such urges in check.
Wainwright closed up his bag, finished with his inquiry. "Let me know if your men discover anything we missed. And have a talk with the Brujah primogen. See if he knows about this slaughter. Maybe one of his own got sloppy."
"Are you sure you want me doing that? Marcone hates me." Hatred was putting it lightly.
"It isn't a social call. It's their grounds, so they take a share of the responsibility. Just go and find out what he knows." Wainwright must have caught the look in Donovan's eyes. "If he causes any problems, remind him you're there on my behalf."
He knows they won't give a damn what I say, Donovan thought, and that's probably why he's sending me in his place. Wainwright and his damn tests. Wainwright stopped at the door before leaving.
"Keep your eyes open, Donovan. This may not be as simple as it seems."
"Why? Did you find anything odd or out of place?"
"No. And that's what worries me."
