I couldn't blame him for beingskeptical . This was the third police interrogation I'd participated in duringthe past week, and even I had trouble believing that I had no worth-while information to share.

How had I managed to involve myself in so many sit-uations where I appeared to be a chess piece being moved around on some cosmic board by unseen hands?

Somebody obviously had delivered the blood-covered material in the manila envelope. All I did was open it and make the report to the police. To the best of my knowledge, I hadn't purposefully lost my memory, strolled away from The Crypt and crawled into a disgusting mausoleum to take a nap in an occupied coffin. And, unless I've been abducted by aliens, causing me to have missed time, all I did this morning was come to my office.

But, I realized my protestations of unaware innocence might be wearing pretty thin for theauthorities right about then.

Finally, Lieutenant Bullock emerged from my office, motioned to the ever-patient detective who'd continued to rephrase his questions in ways he thought might elicit addi-tional information from me, and they shared an animated, whispered conversation.

The detective nodded and ambled over to the officers still questioning Midnight and Ronald. Lieutenant Bullock ap-proached me, frowning.

"I'd like a private word, Dr. Knight. Is there a lounge area or break room on this floor?"

I'd prepared myself for many possible opening lines from her, but that one took me completely by surprise, which I'm sure was written all over my face.

I pointed past the elevators. 'There's a small lounge area inside the women's restroom. Will that do?"

She nodded and launched herself down the hallway, indi-cating I should follow.

When we reached the restroom door she paused, pivoted and called to a uniform officer standing in thehall.

"Greenfield!" She motioned to him then pointed to the floor at her feet. "Here. No one comes in."

We waited while the officer stationed himself outside the bathroom.

Lieutenant Bullock pushed open the door, held it while I entered and surveyed the small lounge area.

My curiosity morphed into nervousness when she'd as-signed the officer to stand guard at the door. At least that was what it appeared he was doing. She hadn't mentioned it specifically, but if no one could come in, it wasn't likely I could get out without obstruction either.

"Sit," she ordered, pointing to a red leather couch.

I sat. The dried blood on the seat of my pants crunched like cardboard.

She paced in front of me for a few seconds, her hands clasped in back, then stopped. She assumed a military style stance, feet so many inches apart, shoulders back.

I was totally out of my depth.And my comfort zone. I had absolutely no idea what we were doing in the women's bathroom, or why she'd taken me aside. I wasn't sure where to look, so I focused on her sturdy, black shoes.

I met her eyes when she finally spoke, her voice quiet.

"This is awkward for me, because it flies in the face of everything I believe in. Not only am I about to give police information to a civilian, but I also intend to raise an issue that will sound crazy and might reflect poorly on me as a law en-forcement professional. Although, as a psychologist, I suspect you're used to having people tell you questionable stories."

She was silent again for a few seconds, then loudly cleared her throat.

"Stevens has been spinning some wild yarns about vam-pires.Or, wannabes, as he calls them. He says there's quite a community of them here in the centralDenver area.

"He's got some bizarre theories, but he keeps the details to himself because he thinks I won't believe him. But what he doesn't know is that I've been following the same trail of deaths that he has, and I've come to similar outrageous conclusions."

I shrugged. "If he's keeping his theories to himself, how do you know what conclusions he's reached?"

She lifted her chin. "Let's just say I stumbled upon his notebook one day when he was using the computer down-town, and eyeballed enough pages to get the drift. Plus, I'd overheard enough of his strange telephone conversations to whet my appetite for more information."

I raised my eyebrows. "So, you're fundamentally saying that you read his private papers?"

She made a swatting-away-a-fly hand motion.

"Don't go there. The bottom line is that he believes there are actually such creatures as vampires. And the evidence supports it.

"Stevens thinks my interest in this case is due to the fact that my friend was one of the firstDenver victims, and he's right. Webster's murder does play into it. But that's not where it started for me."

She brought her arms up and crossed them in front of her chest.

"I was a street cop inNew York ten years ago when these murders began to pop. Long story short, I found my partner's body drained of blood. The perpetrator was never appre-hended."The victim in your office was killed by the same method as all ninety-six others. He was drained of blood."

I blurted out, "Ninety-six others? I haven't heard any-thing about ninety-six murders. The news said there were five bodies. And there was no mention of the cause of death."

She nodded."Ninety-six all together, twenty-six inDen-ver .Twenty-seven now. We haven't released that information to the public. I'm sure you can appreciate how the average citizen might react to finding out there's a serial killer who somehow removes the victims' blood while they're still alive.

"But there's another piece of this sick puzzle, and that's what I want to talk to you about."

I pointed to myself. "Me? I've already told the detective everything I know."

She pulled a small chair from the corner, arranged it in front of me and sat. She leaned back and rested one ankle on the opposite knee.

"Let's just call this a professional consultation between a law enforcement expert and a psychological expert.A psycho-logical expert who calls herself 'The Vampire Psychologist'."

I realized I'd scooted up to the edge of the couch cushion and forced myself to slide back. All the muscles in my neck and shoulders were tight and I rotated them in an attempt to relieve the pressure.

"Okay. We're having a professional consultation. Go on."

She studied me, her face blank. I wondered if she played poker, because no one would be able to read her if she didn't want to be read.

"Remember I said that all the bodies had been drained of blood? In almost all the cases there wasn't adrop of the victim's blood to be found at the scene. Out of the ninety-six cases, only two bodies were covered with blood. The first was the body of Emerald Addison, and the second, the young man lying on your office floor."

She cocked her head, put both feet on the carpet and leaned forward.

"Any thoughts about the one thing both those murders have in common?"

I didn't care for the direction of the conversation.

"You're saying that I'm the common denominator?'"

She nodded. "Very good, doctor. But that's not the in-teresting part. The blood found all over Emerald Addison wasn't hers. I'm not sure if I could even call it human."

"Are you saying she was covered in animal blood?"

She stood, replaced the chair in the corner and paced again.

"That's what we initially thought. But whatever the blood-like substance is, it doesn't have the necessary ingredi-ents to be classified as mammal at all.

I'd be willing to wager that the blood all over the victim in your office isn't his. I think we'll discover it's a match to what we found in theAddison case."

I rose and paced in the square she hadn't claimed, making CI don't know' gestures with my hands.

"I don't understand. Where would the blood come from if not from the victim?'"Well, doctor, that's where you come in. As a psychol-ogist, give me your professional opinion about why a killer might leave his own blood, or some synthetic liquid that looks like blood, at the scene of his crimes?"

I paused and thought.

"It would be symbolic.Metaphorical. If it only hap-pened in two of the ninety-six cases, then something about those two cases was more personal for the killer. There was a reason for the killer to either spill his own blood or give that impression. Maybe something religious . . ."

I froze in mid-sentence and stared at Lieutenant Bullock.

I tried to wrap my mind around the notion of Brother Luther as the murderer of ninety-six people. The same Brother Luther I wrote off as a harmless windbag.

But if Brother Luther was the murderer, what about the bodies being drained of blood? That fit more with a vampire than a religious fanatic.

Maybe Brother Luther had a partner who was a vampire.

But, his telephone rants allcenteredaround his hatred of vampires. None of it made any sense.

Frowning, Lieutenant Bullock stepped in front of me.

"What? Why did you stop? Did you think of something?"

I nodded and sighed.

"Yes. I think you and Special Agent Stevens and I need to get together right now for a serious talk. I want to tell you about some phone messages I've been getting, and you and Alan have to come clean with each other."

She narrowed her eyes and studied me for a few seconds, then bounded toward the exit. "This way."

Chapter 22.

The next few hours were madness.

While I was in the bathroom with Lieutenant Bullock, the police had sealed off my entire office building.

I didn't have to imagine the reactions of the other occu-pants to the news that their Monday morning schedules had been completely disrupted, because they informed me in no uncertain terms.

The normally sedate building manager had bolted up the stairway before the police blocked it off and he was livid.

He blustered over to me, shaking his head emphatically, wagging his index finger in the air.

"This won't do, Dr. Knight. Everyone is very upset. This is the second time in a week the police have been called to your office. This is a reputable building and I have other tenants to consider. I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ter-minate your lease and ask you to vacate.

"I haven't been allowed inside your office yet, but from what I've been able to determine, the space is no longer in the same condition it was when you rented it. I hope for your sake that your insurance is up to date and sufficient."

I opened my mouth to protest, but the words died in my throat. He was right on all counts. I just stared at his red face and watched the veins pulsing on his forehead as he launched into the second act of his diatribe, and felt very sorry for myself.

Two weeks ago I was a successful, respected psycholo-gist with a calm, predictable life. Things might have been boring, but they were sane. No vampires, religious zealots, quest-obsessed FBI agents, mausoleums, dead bodies, or ru-ined offices. Why couldn't I have taken up yoga or belly dancing?

Something that didn't come with an outrageous dry cleaning bill.

"Are you the building manager?" Lieutenant Bullock barked from a few feet away, as she marched toward us.

He pursed his lips and nodded.

She handed him a business card. "If you have com-plaints about the way this investigation has been handled, please register them at this phone number. Dr. Knight was simply being a law-abiding citizen, reporting a crime. I think you might want to consult your attorney about the legality of evicting her."

She turned her attention to me, placed her hand on my upper arm and eased me away from the trembling manager.

"Please come this way, Dr. Knight. Some of the clients you had scheduled for this morning are waiting downstairs. One of the officers will walk down with you."

I didn't know which amazed me more: her lecture to the building manager, his barely repressed rage or the fact that she was being nice to me.

After giving an explanation to my anxious clients, telling them I'd call to reschedule as soon as I had a new location, and facilitating several mini therapy sessions to ease their concerns, I contacted the rest ofthe clients I'd scheduled for the afternoon to fill them in on the situation.

In the middle of making those calls, I thought about the two new vampire clients on my schedule for that night. I had no way of contacting them. They'd only left messages on my voice mail informing me of their intention to come.

Maybe I should drop by The Crypt and leave a message for Devereux. Who knew if the place was even open during the daytime?

But that would have to wait until later. First, I needed to go back upstairs to check on Midnight and Ronald.

They'd been thoroughly and persistently questioned and had the dazed appearance of abandoned puppies waiting to be rescued.

Since their interrogation was complete for the moment, Lieutenant Bullock arranged for them to be taken home. I accompanied them downstairs and suggested we meet at my home the next day.

They both nodded, and Midnight gave me a quick hug.

As they drove away in the back seat of the black and white, Lieutenant Bullock and Alan entered the lobby. He'd retrieved my burgundy purse and matching briefcase from the hallway and had draped the long strap of the purse over his shoulder. He rested his hand on the top of the bag, as if carrying a purse was a normal, everyday thing. Observing the nonchalance with which he carried the fashion accessory made me smile for the first time in hours.

An eternity later I sat in my living room, stretched out in my incredibly comfortable oversize chair, my lower body attired in the finest orange, police-issue pants,the latest in paper footwear dangling from my toes. I thought about the events of the last few hours.

My trip to the police station had been the second in as many days and I could say with complete certainty that I'd rather be sucked on by vampires than return there again. Well, one vampire, anyway.The chief didn't intervene this time.

As soon as we reached her office, Lieutenant Bullock snagged a passing officer, pointed to my pants and ordered, "Get Dr. Knight some clean pants and shoes, show her where to change, bag what she's wearing, then bring her back here."

I caught Alan's trademark smirk as the officer guided me down the hallway.

When I returned to her office in my neon pants, Lieu-tenant Bullock and Alan were in the middle of a shouting match, precipitated, I gathered, by her disclosure about his notebook.

They stood nose to nose, enjoying the verbal equivalent of a pissing contest.