WARNING - this may be disturbing. The killer masquerading as a priest is not intended to disparage Catholicism, not any of its sacred rites.

Mea Culpa - 2001 by Mom-Ra

* * * * * * * *

Nick aimed the remote at the answering machine and listened to his messages.  They were fairly routine; Natalie had called to bug him about taking his vitamins, Tracy wanted to know if he could give her a ride, if they were called to work, because her car was in the shop.  The next message was from Vachon.
 
"You'd better change that outgoing message, because if I hear, 'I'm either in bed or incommunicado' one more time, I swear, I am going to scream." 


The next message was presumably, also from Vachon. The caller just screamed, rather theatrically and hung up.  Laughing, Nick punched up Vachon's phone number, screamed, and slammed the phone down. 


A few minutes later, Vachon was banging on the door.
 
"What took you so long?"  Nick asked, opening the door for him.
 
"I stopped at the liquor store."  Vachon replied, hefting the paper bag tucked under his arm.  "And I brought in your mail."  He handed Nick a sheaf of letters and circulars, then went into the kitchen and started poking around in the cupboards.  
"Have you got anything like a cocktail shaker?"

"Look in the cupboard next to the stove.  What do you want one for?"

"None of your business."  Vachon told him, "It's a surprise.  So, stay out of here, read your letters, or something." 


Humming snatches of a Depression-era pop tune, Vachon looked through the well-appointed kitchen.  As he took out the glasses and ice, he wondered why Nick even bothered to have things like plates and silverware, or a stove.  Part of keeping up his mortal appearances, Vachon supposed.  Maybe it was for Natalie's convenience. 
"Anything interesting in tonight's post?"  he asked.

"Nah, just bills and junk mail.  Oh, wait.  Someone sent me a postcard."  Nick said, happily.

"Fan mail from some flounder?"

"What?"

"Never mind."  Vachon brought over the shaker and two cocktail glasses.  
"Who's the postcard from?"
 
"Janette."  Nick showed him the card.  It was from Edmonton, home of the world's largest mall.  "I think she misses me."
         
"I think she misses shopping."  Vachon teased.  He noticed the gold bracelet on Nick's arm.  "I've never seen you wear that before."

"I just got it."  Nick held out his arm so Vachon could look at the bracelet.
 
"Very nice.  A gift from an admirer?"
 
"Um ... yeah."  Nick said casually, but watched Vachon's reaction carefully.  
"LaCroix gave it to me."

"Oh."  said Vachon, with a wistful smile, and set the glasses carefully on the coffee table.  "Well, if you and Mr. Wonderful are on speaking terms again, I guess you won't have time for-"

"What are you talking about?"  Nick interrupted.

"Well, you don't want to be messing around with me, if-"

"That's not true." Nick said, quickly.

"Don't say that unless you mean it."
 
Nick gave Vachon a little shove, "Course I mean it, you dope."

Vachon shoved him back, "So, how's that gonna sit with LaCroix?"

"Well, we have an agreement."  Nick told him, "He stays out of my private life, and I stay out of his."

"Yeah, right.  He'd just as soon arrange to have me incinerated, as look at me."

"No, he wouldn't.  He likes you."

"If you say so."  Vachon shrugged, "Well, he did tell me once that he likes the idea of it."
 
"I'm sure he gets all sorts of voyeuristic pleasure from it."  Nick said, with an evil grin.

"Eeeewww!"  Vachon wrinkled his nose, and giggled.  "Whatta pervert!"


He gave the cocktail shaker a little swirl before he poured out the drinks. 
"Care for a drink before dinner?"

"Just a short one.  I'm on call tonight."  
Nick studied the russet beverage Vachon handed him.  "What is it?"

"Bourbon, mostly."  Vachon raised his glass.  "This was the speciale de l'maison, at this place I used to go, in New Orleans."  He pronounced it N'alins.
 
Nick returned the salute.  "Somehow, I can't imagine you in New Orleans."
 
"I lived there, had a big house and everything.  That's where I met Urs."  Vachon tasted his drink.  "And, it's called N'alins, by the way.  Only people who've never been there say New Orleans."
 
Nick sampled his blood and bourbon, then remarked, in a stately largo, "I spent many years in New Orleans.  Only Cajuns and other riffraff pronounce it N'alins."

"Careful, sweetie."  Vachon crooned, "Your pedigree is showing." 


He went to set his glass on the coffee table and noticed an envelope on the floor. 
"Hey, you dropped one."  he said, reaching for it.  "Uh-oh, it's from the police department.  Have you been a bad boy?"
 
Nick took the envelope from him.  "It's my paycheck."
 
Vachon made a face.  "I'll bet you laugh when you take that to the bank.  'Oh, just throw it on the pile.'"  he said, airily.  "What do you spend your money on, anyway?"  
He gestured around the loft, "I mean, you've got a nice place and all, but hardly one befitting a ... gentleman of your means."
 
"I can't live extravagantly,"  Nick explained, as he refilled their glasses, "even if I wanted to.  It might seem like I was on the take."

"Oh, right.  The cop thing.  So, what *do* you spend your money on?"

Nick shrugged, "I dunno.  Clothes, I guess."

"You make me sick."  Vachon leaned back on the sofa and put his feet on the coffee table. 


Nick went to get something out of the cabinet under the stairs.  When Vachon turned around to see what he was up to, Nick had the sight of his 35mm trained on him. 
"Aww, Nick, cut it out."  he protested, as Nick advanced the film and shot another photo. Vachon rolled his eyes, but played along, satirizing a fashion model's haughty posing.

"Basta, paparazzi."  he said, after a few minutes, shooing Nick away. 
"No more photographs."
 
Nick petitioned to take a few more.  "I want to paint a portrait of you."

"Why can't I just pose for it?"  Vachon asked, as he went into the kitchen, to mix up another round.

"Right.  Like I'd be able to get anything done."


Vachon was pleased by Nick's backhanded compliment and flirted playfully with him, until Nick gently grasped his wrist and led him over to the brick wall beside the fireplace. 
He took down a carved wooden mask which hung from a piece of re-bar sticking out of the wall, then directed Vachon to hold onto the short rusty spike. 
"Like this?"  Vachon asked, scampering up the wall.

   
Nick looked up from fiddling with the camera.  "No, not like that ... just reach up and hold it with both hands." 

Vachon backed against the wall and grabbed the re-bar.  He was just tall enough to hold on to it, without rising up on his toes.  He stretched up a little, arching his back; the motion tightened his belly.  The long, clean lines of his body flowed from his throat and finely sculpted collarbone, down his chest, to his flat belly and lean, muscular legs.  He smiled at Nick. 
"How's this?"
 
"Yeah, that's perfect." 


Vachon heard the soft, mechanical sounds of the camera shutter opening, the whirr of the film advancing, and Nick's footsteps, as he slowly walked on every side to get different shadow effects.  Suddenly, Vachon dropped his arms and leered at Nick. 
"Ohhh ... I know what you're doing." 

Nick grinned back at him.  "Take your shirt off." he whispered. 

Vachon slowly peeled off his tee shirt, then closed his fingers over the re-bar; his movements were sinuous and implicit.  He tipped his head back slightly, looking heavenward and wet his lips.  Nick took a rapid series of shots and Vachon played to him, ignoring the camera. 	


Nick wasn't accustomed to drinking hard liquor.  He was beginning to feel light headed, and Vachon's frankly erotic display was having a visible affect on him.  Vachon responded to Nick's arousal; he opened his mouth and let his fangs descend.  His eyes began to glow, not with the topaz fire of ordinary hunger; they burned with the deep gold of bloodlust.  Nick looked up from the viewfinder, and scolded him.
 
"Hey, I can't take your picture, if you're going to be like that."
 
"I can't help it.  This is so incredibly sexy."  Vachon splayed his hand over his belly and slid his fingertips into the waistband of his jeans. 
"I've got something for you."  he murmured, "Put that camera down."

"Okay," Nick laughed, "I guess I have enough, for now." 


He had hardly set the camera down, when he was slammed against the wall, pinned by Vachon's forearm pressing into his throat.  Nick could have easily overpowered the younger vampire, but he knew that wasn't part of the game.  Vachon released his hold on Nick's throat, then shoved him into the wall again.  The rough brick surface bit into his shoulders.  Nick closed his eyes and let the vampire within emerge.  He moaned quietly when he felt his fangs lengthen; he'd come once more to love the ache of transformation.


The sound of ripping cloth made him open his eyes.  Vachon was tearing Nick's shirt open with his teeth.  His beautiful lips were drawn back in a snarl.  He lunged at Nick, and tore at his throat to quench the rage and lust and violent hunger that burned hot in his undead body.  Nick gasped from the pain, but leaned into the bite and opened his mind to let his consciousness flow into Vachon.  Hastily, he pushed Vachon's hair out of the way, and plunged his aching fangs into the side of his neck.  Their minds and hearts merged as the blood-bond took them.  


Perhaps the intensity of Vachon's feeding broke something loose inside Nick, because he felt his control slipping away, and memories and feelings he'd hidden away from himself, came roaring out from the dark corners of his mind.

Don't ... Nick felt an echo of Vachon's voice.
  
"Yes," Nick breathed, "please ... take me." 


Nick began to remember.  At first, faint and far away, then memory became a vision; and the faces of his family appeared to him.  First his sister, more dear to him than anyone, then his parents.  He saw his father, so quiet and serious, the gentlest, most loving man he'd ever known.  Next, he saw his playful, exuberant mother, and a terrible sense of loss filled his heart.  He'd seen each of them laid in the grave, and now he couldn't help but imagine them in the ground, the flesh falling from their rotting corpses, leaving nothing but bones.  Each of them gone so long ago, while he lived on and on and on. 	

Then he saw the mortals he'd known and befriended.  Some he had even come to love.  He saw golden Alyssa, his wife; dead by his hand.  Loneliness and misery engulfed him, as the flood of memory grew stronger, and the walls of another, darker, more secret place began to erode and crumble.

The barriers were swept away, and Nick saw the faces of his victims.  Some had been bewitched by his charm, and had come willingly to him, the lust and heat and musk of them had increased his pleasure of the kill tenfold.  Others Nick had chased or hunted down, and he had reveled in their fear and anger.  He had given no thought to these people, beyond satisfying his own hunger.    

Consumed by waves of agonizing guilt, he tried to push Vachon away from him, and break their blood-bond, before the terrible vision overtook him, as well.
"Let go," he pleaded, in a hoarse whisper, "Vachon, stop!"
 
But Vachon clung stubbornly to him, taking in the weight of Nick's grief and despair.  He fell to his knees, pulling Nick down with him. 


Nick had no idea that Vachon was crying, until he felt his bare shoulders shaking with sobs.  He began to pull back from his own black thoughts to release Vachon from the desolation of his awful memories.  Nick wrapped his arms around his lover and eased him to the floor.  Comforting him as best he could, he held Vachon close, stroking the back of his head, murmuring soft nonsense.  As Vachon fed from him, Nick forced himself to think only of how much he cared for him, and through their blood-bond, he felt the sorrow lift from Vachon's heart.  Love and gratitude swept away the emptiness, not the lusty joy of carnality, but the touch of one soul to another, true and pure.


Vachon grew calmer.  Slowly, he lifted his head and rolled off of Nick, exhausted, breathing in ragged gasps.  He felt Nick touch his shoulder, heard him call softly. 

"Vach? Are you okay?"

"I need to blow my nose."

Nick ripped off a piece of his torn shirt and Vachon mopped his face with it. 
"Oh, did I do that?"  he sniffed, touching the shredded fabric.  Abruptly, he punched Nick's arm. 
"You big jerk!  No one's ever made me cry like that." 

Nick grabbed him and hugged him tight.  "I'm sorry ... I'm so sorry."

"No, It's okay,"  Vachon said quietly, and buried his face in Nick's shoulder.  
"I'm glad it happened, kind of."  An impish grin lit his tear-streaked face. 
"No wonder you're so screwed up, keeping all that locked inside you.  I mean, I'm surprised you haven't gone nuclear on somebody, or lost your mind completely."  
He raised his face to Nick's, and his voice softened.  "You have to face those feelings and deal with them, Nick. Just releasing the pain isn't going to be enough, you know."

"I know."  Nick searched Vachon's eyes, still anxious about the emotional onslaught he'd caused.  "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yeah, I'm okay."  Vachon shrugged, "Just a little down.  I think I need to go someplace crowded and noisy."

"In a minute."  Nick whispered, kissing the tears from Vachon's face.


* * * * * * * *


Vachon was unusually quiet as they drove to the Raven.  Nick glanced over at him and got a half-hearted smile.  He reached to turn on the radio, thinking some music might cheer him. 
"Wait,"  Vachon said, "I have a surprise." 


He produced a CD, it flashed in the streetlight as he held it up.  He opened the glove box with a flourish and was about to put the CD in, when Nick interrupted, to ask him what the hell he was doing.  Vachon pointed to the glove box and Nick peered inside.  A CD player had been installed there. 

"Where did that come from?"  Nick asked.
 
"I put it in, the other day, while you were asleep."

Before Nick could flip out, Vachon hastened to reassure him, "Relax, I didn't hack up your baby.  The ol' rez rocket's still in one piece."
 
"Umm ... thanks.  That was nice of you."  Nick was somewhat mollified. 


Vachon fed the CD into the player.  "Look, you can operate it with the remote, or use the radio controls."  The music seemed to perk him up, as he demonstrated the various functions of the system for Nick.  
"Boy, you sure had a lot of junk in that glove box."  he said, pulling a large manila envelope from under the seat. 
"I stuck it all in here.  Wanna see what I found?" 


Vachon rummaged through the envelope, and dug out an old drivers license of Nick's, from a former, rather bookish incarnation. "I just loooove your Poindexter disguise, Mister *Forrester*."  Vachon taunted, waving the license at him, "Where'd ya get those glasses?  What were you supposed to be, anyway?  Some kind of librarian?"

"Vachon, I am trying to drive."  Nick said with exaggerated patience.
  
"Why are you hanging onto this thing?"  Vachon asked.  "I mean, it's a terrible picture of you, and if anyone found it-"

"Oh, knock it off.  I didn't even know it was in there."

"You should burn it, or something."  Vachon put it back and shoved the envelope under the seat.  "Hey, look!"  he pointed further down the street, "Babe off the port bow!" 


Tracy was walking a little way ahead.  She was casually attired, with her straight blonde pageboy pulled up into a ponytail.  Nick eased the Cadillac next to the curb lane and Vachon hollered at her in a rough accent.
 
"Hey, Mama!  Wanna go for a ride in our love machine?" 

Tracy walked faster, clutching her shoulder bag a little tighter.  At the corner, Nick pulled over to the curb, tapped the horn, and Vachon hopped out, calling to her. 

"Jeez, girl! You need to work on your peripheral vision." 
He held the door open for her and she slid in, next to her partner.  "Didn't you see this bus trailing you?"
 
"It is *not* a bus."  said Nick, affecting a wounded tone, "It's a boat."  


Opening the glove box, Vachon said, "Trace, check it out! You know what this means?" 

Tracy looked at the CD player and grinned at him.

"No more Nightcrawler!" they screamed together, gleefully.  Nick pointedly ignored them.


Tracy peered closely at Vachon.  She'd spotted his tongue stud. 
"You didn't."  she said reproachfully.

"Awww, chill out, Dorothy.  You're not in Kansas anymore."

"A pierced tongue,"  she sniffed, "is hardly considered outr� anymore."

"It's not a fashion statement."  Vachon countered.  He ran the tip of his tongue slowly over his lower lip.  His demonstration brought a warm flush to Tracy's cheeks and a pulse of heat between her legs.


She stole a quick glance at Nick, hoping he hadn't noticed.  With shaking fingers, she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.  To cover her growing embarrassment, she engaged her partner in a bit of work-related conversation.  Vachon turned the music up louder and perched on the back of the seat, singing along at the top of his voice.  The detectives took the hint at once and changed the subject. 


The Cadillac moved slowly through traffic, drawing admiring glances from other drivers and passengers.  Vachon pretended the attention was directed at him, and waved and blew kisses to anyone that so much as glanced at the convertible.  Tracy swatted his knee, then yanked him back down onto the front seat. 
"Are we going somewhere,"  she asked, "or are we just driving around?"
 
"Vachon wants to go someplace noisy."  Nick volunteered.

"I've heard about this club over on Duncan."  said Tracy, "It's called the Raven.  Ever been there?"


* * * * * * * *


The music was loud and the club was packed.  Nick threaded his way through the crowd, with Vachon and Tracy following close behind.  They had despaired of finding a place to sit, when a group of fledglings stood abruptly and left their table at Nick's approach.  Vachon scowled at him, but Nick denied having anything to do with the fledglings' sudden departure.


A waiter came over, to ask what they were having.  When Tracy tried to order a strawberry Daiquiri, Vachon wouldn't let her, begging that she order something, anything else. 
"I don't want to be seen with someone having one of those umbrella drinks in here, Trace."

"Would a rum and Coke be okay with you?"  Tracy asked tartly.  


Before Vachon could reply, LaCroix materialized at the waiter's shoulder. 
"Well, Detectives."  he purred, "I hope you're not planning on turning my club into police headquarters."  

Vachon steepled his fingers together and did a dead-on impersonation of Nick's master. "Shouldn't you have an eye on that bartender?  I'm certain he's been dipping into the till." 

Nick kept his eyes on LaCroix, to see if he would rise to Vachon's bait; he sensed the elder was in a rare, playful mood.  Risking his displeasure, Nick ventured to tease him, also. 
"Would it kill you to be nice for five minutes?" 

LaCroix's chilly smile deepened.  "Very well, five minutes."  Turning to Tracy, he sketched a small bow.  "I beg your pardon, mademoiselle.  A little joke between Nicholas and myself.  Enjoy your evening." 


Tracy shuddered, as he drifted back into the crowd.  "Who *was* that guy?"

"Just a friend."  Nick said, quickly. 

Vachon winked at Nick and drawled, "LaCroix is one of Nick's dearest, oldest friends." 

Tracy furrowed her brow, "LaCroix?  Isn't that-" 


Nick was spared any further inquiry, for at that moment his pager went off.  "Come on, Tracy."  he stood up and put some money on the table. 
"Our presence is required elsewhere." 

Tracy looked doubtfully at him.  "You actually heard your pager?  In all this noise?"
 
Vachon tapped her shoulder.  "Hey, Trace ... your purse is beeping." 


She dug out her pager and sure enough, it's tiny light was flashing the dispatch number. She knew Vachon's supernaturally enhanced hearing was acute enough to pick out the pager's faint signal from the din of music and boisterous sounds from the crowd, but how could her partner have heard it?


* * * * * * * *


The swings and slide, and other playground trappings made a surreal backdrop for the grisly scene marked off by sawhorses strung with official yellow tape.  Nick held the barrier up for Tracy, then ducked under it himself, just as the panel truck, the one the guys from the lab referred to as the 'meat wagon', drove up.  As Tracy and Nick walked toward the crime scene, illuminated by a bank of portable lights, she caught scraps of cynical, off-color banter.  She supposed it was one way of dealing with the tension; the crude jokes tossed back and forth by the uniformed cops and tech crew.  Maybe it kept the job from eating their hearts out.  She glanced at the tall, pale man walking beside her. He never made remarks like that; he was always professional and detached.  
"Nick? How do you get used to this?"  She gestured toward the knot of officers and lab people milling around the body.  "Doesn't it ever get to you?"
 
Nick shook his head.  "You never get used it.  At least, you hope you don't."  He turned to face her.  "But, you learn how to cope with it.  And you do the job."   	


Natalie motioned them over and held up a plastic evidence bag containing a videocassette.  A slight frown creased her smooth forehead. 
"Looks like our home moviemaker is at it again." she told them.  
Nick clenched his jaw and shoved his hands into his pockets.  So much for detachment, thought Tracy, giving him a quizzical look.  

Nick sighed, then explained, "A couple of years ago, some creep was strangling young girls.  He'd videotape the whole thing, then call in, hinting where the bodies would be found.  After six months or so, he stopped.  He was never caught and we never heard from him again."  He turned to Natalie, "Could this be a copycat?"
 
She shook her head. "No, it's the same guy, all right.  He used the same brand of videotape, the same school uniform.  Those details were never released to the press." 


They stood over the body, a young girl, fourteen, maybe fifteen.  She had been laid carefully on the ground, arms down at her side.  Her face was concealed beneath heavy, almost theatrical make-up.  She had been dressed in a sluttish parody of a schoolgirl's uniform.  Her clothes looked untouched, her hair had been brushed.  Except for the dark bruise around her throat and the bluish tinge of her skin, she might have been asleep. 	


Nick closed his eyes, focusing his otherworldly senses, to see if any trace of her killer might be lingering.  He felt the tingling chill of another ... LaCroix was nearby, beckoning to him.  Nick walked slowly toward his master, making a pretense of examining the area, when a man leaned over the tape barrier and trained a camera at the girl's body.  Nick closed his hand over the lens and pulled the camera away from the man's face. 
"You know better than that."  he growled at the photographer. 

"Hey!  You can't do that!"  the man protested. 

"Sure I can."  Nick smiled predatorily, "Now, get lost."

"Oh, I get it."  the journalist smirked, "Okay, Detective, I'll make it worth your while."  When Nick scowled at him, he backpedaled furiously, "We're talking career opportunity, here.  A picture of you, taking charge of the crime scene, strictly front page stuff.  Whaddya say?  I mean, a little good press, couldn't hurt, right?" 


Nick didn't want to waste any more time with this vulture.  He stared intently at him, then pitched his voice low, it became seductive and enthralling. 
"Listen to me ... you have to leave."  
The photographer's watery eyes glazed over and his shoulders drooped.  He was completely under the vampire's spell.  For a moment, Nick relished the power he had over this mortal, his chosen prey.  How easy it would have been, to will this man to come to him, he would not be able to refuse the silent summons. 	


Struck with a delightfully wicked idea, Nick had difficulty suppressing a smile. 
"Elvis has been sighted in a video store, over on Dundas."  he whispered. 
The man blinked, stumbled backward a few steps and sprinted away.  Nick felt Natalie punch his shoulder.
 
"Elvis?"  she grumbled, "You're terrible." 
"Well, I got rid of him, didn't I?"  he returned.  "Stay here, Nat.  I want to check on something."

Nick ducked under the barrier and went toward the trees overhanging a row of benches along the play area.  LaCroix was waiting in the deep shadow under a large oak. 
"Nice night for it."  he murmured, as Nick came up to him.
 
"I don't have time for games, LaCroix.  You wanted to see me?"
 
A smile twisted the elder vampire's lips.  "Isn't that what this is?" he gestured elegantly toward the grim activity behind the yellow tape.  "A game, a diversion?"  He didn't get the rise he'd expected out of his prot�g�.  "No, I suppose not.  You're always so serious, Nicholas." 	


LaCroix looked over at the busy forensics team and sighed, "Deplorable, isn't it?"  There was no irony, no trace of amusement in his voice, as he said, "That such a monster should roam, like a noxious weed, destroying young girls, 'ere they have a chance to bloom." 
Nick looked curiously at him.  The gruesome details of homicide investigations normally delighted his mentor, but then, LaCroix never did hold with murdering children.  Sensing that Nick was chafing to get back to work, LaCroix came to the point of his visit.  He handed Nick a blue nylon backpack. 
"This belonged to the girl." 


Nick peeked inside. There were some books, a purse, a pair of jeans and a pink sweatshirt.  He glanced up quickly, biting back the questions he wanted very much to ask.  He had learned, the hard way, not to pry into any of his master's doings.  Although LaCroix was enjoying Nick's frustration, he graciously gave out a small hint. 
"Don't worry, Nicholas, he's in very capable hands."  Before Nick could voice any objection, he said, quietly, "He will never hurt anyone again." 


Nick's conscience was divided; there were the mortal rules he tried to live by, warring with the inflexible code of his own kind that he must adhere to.  LaCroix laid a hand on his shoulder. 
"Go through the motions of your investigation, if you must, but I will deal with him, in my own way."  By that, he meant their conversation was over.  He turned away and seemed to vanish.  Nick looked off into the direction LaCroix had taken. 

"Thank you."  he whispered, then turned back to the yellow tape, the harsh lights, and a dead child.


* * * * * * * *


"Do we really have to watch that?" Tracy asked uneasily, glancing at the videotape, as it was checked into the evidence locker, along with the girl's belongings.  Nick looked sympathetically at his young partner.  She was a good cop.  She had worked hard to prove her own merits had earned her a place as a homicide detective, not because Captain Reese was sucking up to her father.  She was still trying to become toughened, to insulate herself against the horrors that were a routine part the job, horrors such as the videotape she was so reluctant to view.	


"Well, yeah."  Nick said, "We're supposed to watch it.  We might get some idea who this psychopath is."  Nick had watched the other tapes, which had so far revealed nothing the police could use. 


Filmed behind a two-way mirror, each girl, sick with terror, had tearfully applied rouge, mascara and lipstick, as a harsh, electronically distorted voice directed her to transform her sweet face into a perverted caricature of a prostitute's brazen glamour.  Her tormentor would rail at her, calling her Jezebel, a harlot, coercing her to kneel and confess her sins.


As the sobbing girl knelt, her assassin would come into view, dressed in a priest's cassock and surplice, and an executioner's hood, to lead her in prayer and supplication.  He would remove the fanon from around his neck, kiss it and strangle her with it, as he gave last rites.


It was always the same, sickening ritual.  The same words, the same room; the walls draped with heavy, dark red fabric, empty, except for the dressing table.  Only the girls were different.  Different physical characteristics, different ethnic and cultural backgrounds, they even went to different schools.  While none of the girls had been junior civic leaders, or outstanding students, or athletes; neither were they runaways, or in any serious trouble.  They were just regular girls, ordinary kids, with ordinary lives ... they went to school, hung out with their friends, and were murdered by a deranged man with a grotesque obsession.


* * * * * * * *


Natalie started the tape recorder and checked the microphone.  She glanced at the tray of instruments, then at the girl's body, covered with blue sterile drapes, on the stainless steel autopsy table.  Dr. Lambert was gowned, gloved and masked.  The garb was one way Natalie distanced herself from the grim realities of being Chief Medical Examiner for the Crown.  She pulled the drape back and began her initial examination.  The work drew her in, and soon she was absorbed, piecing together her part of the puzzle that might bring a killer to justice. 


She looked up from the autopsy table as Nick came in. 
"So, what have you got?"  he asked, avoiding looking at the body on the table.

"Caucasian, female, mid-teens-'

"Fourteen."

Natalie gave him a sharp glance.  "Fourteen years old... apparent cause of death was asphyxiation.  I haven't recovered any blood or hair samples, other than the victim's.  No signs of sexual violation."  Natalie clicked off the tape recorder.  She decided to take advantage of Tracy's conspicuous absence from the morgue.  
"Okay, Nick.  Where'd you get the backpack?"

"I've already told you.  I found-"

"How did you find it?  No personal belongings of the other victims have ever been recovered at the crime scene."  She walked around the table to stand directly in front of him.  "You know something.  What is it?" 

Nick spread his hands and tried one of his most disarming smiles, but she wasn't buying it. "Don't give me any of that, Detective. Just tell me." 	
 

Nick bit his lip and scowled at the floor.  He trusted her completely; she was his friend and colleague.  He'd told her nearly everything about himself, but she was asking him to break faith with his master. 
"I can't tell you, Nat."  he sighed, "Let's just say the girl's backpack was found at the crime scene, and leave it at that, okay?"

Natalie narrowed her eyes at him.  "Why am I getting the feeling that another vampire is involved?"
 
"I never said that."

"You didn't have to.  Listen, Nick.  You can't just look the other way, while the Community, or whoever, metes out some kind of vampire justice."

He put his hands on her shoulders, speaking earnestly, "Nat, don't keep on about this, please.  I can't interfere ... and neither can you." 


It was Natalie's turn to sigh.  This wasn't the first time she'd lied, or withheld evidence to protect Nick's secret, and she was getting tired of it. 
"It's not right, Nick."

"Isn't it?"  he gestured angrily at the body on the table.  "She was fourteen, Nat."  He turned abruptly, heading for the door.

"Hey, where are you going?"

Without slackening his pace, he said, over his shoulder, "Tracy and I have to go see her parents."
 
Natalie stood looking at the doorway long after he was gone.

<TBC>

    
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