One hour later. We were all still there, tense, horrified, not believing what was happening. To me, everything seemed unreal. The lights were too bright. Everyone was talking too fast and moved as if on fast-forward. Nothing was at the right speed.
And my thoughts couldn’t keep up with what I knew to be true.
Winks was dead. My friend. A guy I had known most of my life. Dead. I would never see him again, never laugh at one of his crazy schemes or stupid jokes. Never see his goofy smile or hear him laugh.
Delia was crying hysterically. I knew I should take her home, but she refused to leave. I stayed with her, hugging her, holding her when her crying started to make her whole body shake.
Winks’s mom huddled with Art and Marie. She had a stunned look on her face, her eyes glassy, kept in a gaze at the floor. Marie brought her a cup of tea, but she asked for bourbon.
Winks’s dad lives in Kansas City. I didn’t know if he had been called yet or not. “It’s like a bad dream,” Mrs. Winkleman kept repeating. “A bad dream and I’m going to wake up. Rich can’t be gone. I know I’ll wake up.” She asked Marie for another glass of bourbon.
Art had somehow gotten Spencer to bed. Despite the tension of the night, the little guy had been yawning his head off, and he didn’t put up much of a fight when Art picked him up and carried him to his bedroom.
There were Linden police officers everywhere. At first, they had demanded we all leave the crime area. But then one of their officers said we could stay. “The crime scene is already polluted,” he told two other uniformed cops.
I hugged Delia and asked her for the tenth time if she’d like me to drive her home. She was hesitating, wiping her eyes, then crying some more, and I think she was deciding that it was time to leave.
But a serious-looking gray-haired man in a long blue overcoat, despite the warm spring weather, strode across the living room and stopped in front of Winks’s mom and Art and Marie.
“I’m the medical examiner,” he announced. “Anderson.”
Two cops, one in uniform, one plainclothes, stepped up to hear what he had to report. He turned away from Winks’s mom and gave his findings to them.
“He’s been dead about two hours, give or take. I found bruises on his neck. And then something strange.” Anderson glanced at Winks’s mom. I could see he was deciding whether to tell the next part in front of her. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said. I guess he realized he had been all business and kind of cold.
He turned back to the officers. “I found something strange. Cuts on the face. And two sets of puncture marks on the throat.”
The plainclothes officer, an older man, nearly bald, pale with faded gray eyes and a sad hound-dog expression, tapped the medical examiner on the arm. “Two puncture marks or two sets of puncture marks, Sid?”
“Two sets.”
The uniformed officer spoke in a whisper. But I could still hear him across the room. “You mean like in a vampire movie?”
Anderson shrugged. “His throat was definitely bitten. But even in the shaky light from my halogen beam, I could see that the puncture marks don’t match.”
“He was bitten by two different people?”
The medical examiner shrugged again, the shoulders of his overcoat bunching up around him. “Don’t ask me if his blood was drained. Let’s not make this a horror movie just yet, okay, gentlemen?”
The officers nodded.
“I’ll get him in the lab. Then I can tell you more. But for now, I can definitely say the kid didn’t die of natural causes.”
Anderson turned back to Winks’s mother and Art and Marie. “Again, I’m so sorry. I’m going to need to examine the boy. There is a strange circumstance here that I need to investigate. And I—”
“You mean Rich was murdered?” his mother cried.
The ME ran a hand through his gray hair. He lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “It . . . wasn’t natural causes. I’m so sorry. I can tell you more later.”
Mrs. Winkleman let out a cry and knocked her bourbon glass off the table. It hit the floor and bounced twice but didn’t shatter.
Anderson lowered his head, turned, and walked out of the house. He had a stooped kind of walk, as if what had happened was weighing him down.
The plainclothes cop cleared his throat loudly, to get everyone’s attention. “I’m Detective Emanuel Batiste.” He pointed to the uniformed cop. “He’s Sergeant Anthony. We need to hear more about this visitor Rich received. This girl.” He raised his eyes to Art. “Do we need to wake up your son? Did he get a good look at the girl?”
Art appeared horrified at the idea of waking Spencer. He raised a hand as if signaling halt. “No,” he said. “Spencer didn’t see her. We already questioned him. Spencer was in his room. He says he only heard them. He never saw the girl.”
I was tempted to tell Batiste that he should talk to Morgan Marks. But I stopped myself. I had no proof that Morgan had been here. It was just a guess on my part.
I was sure the police would get around to questioning everyone Winks knew, including Morgan. It wouldn’t be right of me to send them after her with no proof at all.
Besides, the whole vampire thing was weird and terrifying. How could I accuse Morgan? She is beautiful and likes to hang out with every guy we know. But so what?
Who wouldn’t want that kind of attention from a bunch of guys?
Just because she is a flirt. Or maybe even a total slut. That didn’t make her a . . . I could barely think the word . . . vampire.
“Maybe your son can remember what Rich and the girl talked about,” Batiste said. “Any clue at all . . .”
“He’s only four,” Art said. “I’m sure he’s scared already. Tonight was traumatic for him. We’re going to let him sleep.”
“Can you talk to him in the morning?” Marie suggested.
Batiste exchanged a glance with Sergeant Anthony. “Yeah. Sure. Tomorrow will be fine. We don’t want to traumatize the little guy. But he seems to be the only witness.”
“This isn’t happening,” Winks’s mother said, shaking her head. Her cheeks were puffy and tear-stained. A fresh glass of bourbon trembled in her hand.
Batiste turned to Delia and me. “Do you have anything to add? You came late. You discovered the body. Anything else? Do you know anything else that might explain . . . anything?”
“Can you give us a list of his friends?” the other cop asked.
Before we could answer, Delia’s phone rang. Her ringtone sounds like an old-fashioned telephone bell. It made us both jump. The phone slipped from Delia’s hand and bounced onto the couch.
She bent to pick it up. It continued its steady ring.
Delia stared at the screen and her eyes went wide. “Omigod!” she cried in a high, shrill voice. “Omigod! It’s Winks! Winks is calling!”
