Violets Are Blue

alternative trappings. Was he a poseur himself? Or was Peter Westin a real vampire?
    “The mythology of the vampire goes back thousands of years,” he told me. “It’s present in China, Africa, South and Central America. And central Europe, of course. For a lot of people here in America it’s an aesthetic fetish. It’s sexual, theatrical, and very romantic. It also transcends gender, which is an attractive idea these days.”
    I felt it was time to stop his spiel and focus on the murders. “What about the murders — the actual violence taking place here in California and Nevada?”
    A mask of pain came over his face. “I’ve heard Jeffrey Dahmer called a vampire-cannibal. Also, Nicolas Claux, who you may not be familiar with. Claux was a Parisian mortician who confessed to murders in the mid-nineties. Once he was captured he took great pleasure in describing eating the flesh of corpses on his mortician’s slab. He became known all over Europe as the Vampire of Paris.”
    “You’ve heard of Rod Ferrell in Florida?” I asked.
    “Of course. He’s a dark hero for some. Very big on the Internet. He and his small cult bludgeoned to death the parents of another member. They then carved numerous occult symbols into the dead bodies. I know all about Rod Ferrell. He was supposedly obsessed with opening the gates of hell. Thought he had to kill large numbers of people, and consume their souls, to be powerful enough to open up hell. Who knows? Maybe he succeeded,” Westin said.
    He stared at me for a long moment. “Let me tell you something, Detective Cross. This is the absolute truth. I believe it’s important for you to understand. It is no more common for a vampire to be a psychopath or a killer than it is for any random person on the street.”
    I shrugged. “I guess I’d have to check your research statistics on that one. In the meantime, one or more vampires, real ones or maybe just role-players, have murdered at least a dozen people,” I said.
    Westin looked a little sad. “Yes, Detective, I know. That’s why I consented to talk with you.”
    I asked him one final question. “Are you a vampire?”
    Peter Westin paused before he answered. “Yes. I am.”
    The words cut through me. The man was completely serious.

Chapter 28

    THAT NIGHT in Santa Barbara, I was just a little more afraid of the dark than I had ever been before. I sat in my hotel room and read a touching novel called
Waiting
by Ha Jin. I was waiting as well. I called home twice that night. I wasn’t sure if I was lonely, or still feeling guilty about missing Damon’s concert.
    Or maybe Peter Westin had frightened me with his vampire stories and books, and the haunted look in his dark eyes. At any rate, I was taking vampires more seriously now that I had met him. Westin was a strange, eerie, unforgettable man. I had the feeling that I would meet, or at least talk to him, again.
    My fears didn’t go away that night, and not even with the first light of morning shining brightly over the Santa Ynez Mountains. Something quite awful was happening. It involved twisted individuals or maybe an underground cult. It probably had something to do with the vampire subculture. But maybe it didn’t, and that was even more disturbing to think about. It would mean we were in a totally gray area with the investigation.
    By seven-thirty in the morning, my rented sedan was easing into soupy fog and then the morning traffic. I was singing a little Muddy Waters blues, which nicely matched my mood.
    I left Santa Barbara and headed toward Fresno. I had another “expert” to meet.
    I drove for a couple of hours. I got on 166 at Santa Maria and continued east through the Sierra Madres until I reached Route 99. I took it north. I was seeing California for the first time and liking most of what I saw. The topography was different than back east, and so were the colors.
    I fell into a comfortable driving rhythm. I listened to a Jill Scott CD. For long stretches of the road trip I thought about the way my life had been going over the past couple of years. I knew that some of my friends were starting to worry about me, even my best friend, John Sampson, and I wouldn’t exactly classify him as a worrier. Sampson had told me more than once that I was putting myself in harm’s way. Sampson even suggested that maybe it was time for a career change. I knew I could go with the FBI, but that didn’t seem like much of a change. I could also go back into psychiatry