Stacy: The vampire

At the morgue, Morales was on duty—a younger, tanned doctor, much more cheerful than Kowalski.

"What do you need today, muchachos?"

Adam and Steven exchanged glances.

"Where's Kowalski?" Steven asked.

"He's not here today. I'm on shift at the clinic."

"Got it. We're here for the body of Dahlia Graves."

"Ah, of course, Miss Dahlia. Come with me."

The two followed Morales into a neutral-colored room. The young coroner pulled back the sheet, revealing a tanned body, covered in deep purple bruises. There was a cut on the mouth and swelling around one eye. The deceased was a woman, somewhere between 25 and 30 years old, weighing about fifty kilos and measuring around 1.68 meters. There were no signs of makeup or the usual adornments worn by prostitutes. At first glance, Adam wondered if Morales had removed them while preparing the body.

If she weren't in such a state, one could say she had been beautiful in life.

"A tragedy, isn't it?" said Morales as he put on gloves. He then pried open the dead woman's mouth and shone a small flashlight inside, revealing that part of her tongue was missing.

Steven groaned.

"What the hell? Did someone cut out her tongue?" the young officer asked in horror.

"Maybe. But look here—she's also missing a tooth. Probably got knocked out during the beating. As for the tongue, she could have bitten it off herself in a moment of agony. It's terrible, but I've seen it before."

Morales lifted the eyelids, revealing green eyes. That triggered a small alarm in Adam's mind. He had just spotted a pattern.

"So, Dr. Morales, would you say the cause of death was the beating?" Steven asked.

Morales scoffed.

"I was wondering how she didn't die sooner, given all the internal injuries. See, these marks aren't exactly fresh. She suffered internal bleeding at some point, but still went on living as if nothing had happened until she finally collapsed."

"How is that even possible?" Steven asked.

"Come on, officer. Dahlia was a woman of the night. You know what she did for a living. She was probably beaten by her pimp and kept working like usual—until she died."

"And she wouldn't have felt pain?" Adam asked, curious.

"Well, she could have been drugged. These girls use all sorts of substances to endure their routines."

"And the place where she was found… a garden?" Steven flipped through the files in his hands.

"The garden of Saint Junípero Church. The priest nearly had a heart attack—almost ended up on my table too."

"Did you say Saint Junípero?" Adam, who had been merely curious before, was now intrigued. There was something unusual about this case.

"Yes, Saint Junípero."

Before leaving, Adam asked to see the victim's neck. With great care, Morales lifted her hair, exposing the skin. He didn't need to explain why—Steven understood immediately. There weren't just one, but two puncture wounds on the deceased's neck.

"Did you notice this?" Adam asked Morales.

"Yeah, I saw it. But it's unrelated to her cause of death—just some random injury."

"A random injury? You've never seen something like this before?" Steven questioned.

"No, not that I can remember."

Before leaving, Morales asked, "You guys have a suspect, don't you?"

"Yeah. A pimp named Mack Del Rio. Why?"

"Because I've heard of him. This isn't his first victim. He's never been charged, as far as I know, but whenever the police get close, he gets tipped off. If you're going after him, better go undercover. Leave the patrol car, take one of your own. Just a tip."

Adam and Steven thanked him and left.

On the way, the two talked.

"He said he's never seen that before."

"No, Adam. He said he doesn't remember. Only we know Penelope had the same marks. And only we know she's still alive. Do you think Jack is hiding something about this?"

"Everyone hides something. Sometimes it's nothing important. But the coroner said those wounds weren't what killed her."

"Yeah, but Morales isn't Kowalski. To him, this is just a job. For Kowalski, it's his life." Adam said.

"I don't think he doesn't care. I just think he's inexperienced—like us. So, what are we doing about the car?"

"Don't worry. My car's at a garage along the way. We'll go undercover and corner that bastard."

At the garage, Adam was stunned.

"There's no way I'm being seen in this." He laughed.

"Oh, come on, Abrax. The car's almost brand new. A little flashy, but it'll do." Steven was excited.

"Steven, the car is orange. Not black, not gray—orange. Someone in a plane could spot us from above."

"Hey, don't insult Agatha! And it's not orange—it's tomato red, okay? Fresh paint. I picked the shade myself. Great taste, right?"

Adam burst into genuine laughter.

"Agatha? That's your car's name?"

Steven looked embarrassed but answered,

"Yeah, every car needs a woman's name. Or would you rather be inside a man?"

"Hahahaha, Steven, this is why no one takes you seriously. You already stand out enough with that hair. Did you really need a tomato-red Plymouth Fury?"

"If you don't stop laughing, I'll shoot you. Now get in—we have a scumbag to find."

During the ride, Adam flipped through the case file. The body had been found in the church garden. The victim had been wearing a long beige dress, with her hair in braids. No nail polish. Short nails. No makeup. Meaning she had arrived at the morgue just like that.

She was twenty-eight years old, according to her file. Born in Mexico, but not Mexican—her parents were Romani.

"She was a gypsy… Interesting." Adam muttered.

"Yeah. Did you see her record? She'd been working as a prostitute since she was fifteen. How is that even possible? When I was fifteen, my biggest concern was finding weed at school." Steven laughed.

Adam stared at him.

"I swear to God, I have no idea how you became a cop. Did you see her clothes? The ones she was found in? They don't seem like what a working girl would wear."

"I did. Maybe she wasn't on the job that night. Maybe that's why her pimp beat her—she refused to work." Steven guessed.

"That would be too simple, don't you think? Who called the cops? Do you know?" Adam asked.

"The priest, apparently. He found her. What is it? The punctures? That's what's bothering you?" Steven asked.

"Not just that. Her profile—black hair, long, tan skin, neither too tall nor too short… green eyes. Green eyes. I've seen this before."

"Let's talk to that women-trafficking scumbag and find out what happened." Steven said.

The neighborhood where the pimp was located was a residential area, full of empty warehouses and storage units. There were also several strip clubs and women offering themselves on street corners. A group of devout churchgoers, who were actively involved in city hall, was responsible for this. They fought so hard that they managed to push all the "filth," as they called it, out of the city—after all, decent people couldn't live alongside that.

Women practically threw themselves in front of Steven's car, but when he rolled down the window, they almost ran away. Adam laughed even harder at this.

They parked near an alley and walked up the street. Steven even tried asking a few women about the guy, but those who didn't roll their eyes and walk away simply said, "I don't give information to a junkie."