“Detective?” Cormac said.
“Yeah, I’m here,” she said. “This fits all the pieces we have. Looks like I have some reading to do to figure out what really happened.”
He managed to sound grim. “Detective, you might check to see if there’ve been a higher than usual number of miscarriages in the neighborhood.”
“Why?”
“I used the term ‘vampire’ kind of loosely. This thing eats fetuses. Sucks them through the mother’s navel while she sleeps.”
She almost hung up on him because it was too much. What was it Kitty sometimes said? Just when you thought you were getting a handle on the supernatural, just when you thought you’d seen it all, something even more unbelievable came along.
“You’re kidding.” She sighed. “So, what—this may have been a revenge killing? Who’s the victim here?”
“You’ll have to figure that one out yourself.”
“Isn’t that always the way?” she muttered. “Hey—now that we know you really were holding out on me, what made you decide to remember?”
“Look, I got my own shit going on and I’m not going to try to explain it to you.”
She was pretty sure she didn’t really want to know. “Fine. Okay. But thanks for the tip, anyway.”
“Maybe you could put in a good word for me,” he said.
She supposed she owed him the favor. Maybe she would after she got the whole story of how he ended up in prison in the first place. Then again, she pretty much thought he belonged there. “I’ll see what I can do.”
She hung up, found a phone book, and started calling hospitals.
Hardin called every hospital in downtown Denver. Every emergency room, every ob-gyn, free clinic, and even Planned Parenthood. She had to do a lot of arguing.
“I’m not looking for names, I’m just looking for numbers. Rates. I want to know if there’s been an increase in the number of miscarriages in the downtown Denver area over the last three years. No, I’m not from the EPA. Or from 60 Minutes. This isn’t an exposé, I’m Detective Hardin with Denver PD and I’m investigating a case. Thank you.”
It took some of them a couple of days to get back to her. When they did, they seemed just as astonished as she was: Yes, miscarriage rates had tripled over the last three years. There had actually been a small decline in the local area’s birth rate.
“Do I need to worry?” one doctor asked her. “Is there something in the water? What is this related to?”
She hesitated about what to tell him. She could tell the truth—and he would never believe her. It would take too long to explain, to try to persuade him. “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t talk about it until the case is wrapped up. But there’s nothing to worry about. Whatever was causing this has passed, I think.”
He didn’t sound particularly comforted, and neither was she. Because what else was out there? What other unbelievable crisis would strike next?
Hardin knocked on the Martinals’ front door. Julia Martinal, the mother, answered again. On seeing the detective, her expression turned confused. “Yes?”
“I just have one more question for you, Mrs. Martinal. Are you pregnant?”
“No.” She sounded offended, looking Hardin up and down as if to say, how dare you?
Hardin took a deep breath and carried on. “I’m sorry for prying into your personal business, but I have some new information. About Dora Manuel.”
Julia Martinal’s eyes grew wide, and her hand gripped the edge of the door. Hardin thought she was going to slam it closed.
Hardin said, “Have you had any miscarriages in the last couple of years?”
At that, the woman’s lips pursed. She took a step back. “I know what you’re talking about, and that’s crazy. It’s crazy! It’s just old stories. Sure, nobody liked Dora Manuel, but that doesn’t make her a—a—”
So Hardin didn’t have to explain it.
The daughter, Teresa Martinal, appeared where she had before, lingering at the edge of the foyer, staring out with suspicion. Her hand rested on her stomach. That gesture was the answer.
Hardin bowed her head to hide a wry smile. “Teresa? Can you come out and answer a few questions?”
Julia moved to stand protectively in front of her daughter. “You don’t have to say anything, Teresa. This woman’s crazy.”
“Teresa, are you pregnant?” Hardin asked, around Julia’s defense.
Teresa didn’t answer. The pause drew on, and on. Her mother stepped aside, astonished, studying her daughter. “Teresa? Are you? Teresa!”
The young woman’s expression became hard, determined. “I’m not sorry.”
“You spied on her,” Hardin said, to Teresa, ignoring her mother. “You knew what she was, you knew what that meant, and you spied to find out where she left her legs. You waited for the opportunity, then you broke into the shed. You knew the stories. You knew what to do.”
“Teresa?” Mrs. Martinal said, her disbelief growing. The girl still wouldn’t say anything.
Hardin continued. “We’ve only been at this a few days, but we’ll find something. We’ll find the bolt-cutters you used and match them to the cut marks on the padlock. We’ll match the salt in your cupboard with the salt on the body. We’ll make a case for murder. But if you cooperate, I can help you. I can make a pretty good argument that this was self-defense. What do you say?”
Hardin was making wild claims—the girl had been careful and the physical evidence was scant. They might not find the bolt-cutters, and the salt thing was pure television. And while Hardin might scrounge together the evidence and some witness testimony, she might never convince the DA’s office that this had really happened.
Teresa looked stricken, like she was trying to decide if Hardin was right, and if they had the evidence. If a jury would believe that a meek, pregnant teenager like her could even murder another person. It would be a hard sell—but Hardin was hoping this would never make it to court. She wasn’t stretching the truth about the self-defense plea. By some accounts, Teresa probably deserved a medal. But Hardin wouldn’t go that far.
In a perfect world, Hardin would be slapping cuffs on Dora Manuel, not Teresa. But until the legal world caught up with the shadow world, this would have to do.
Teresa finally spoke in a rush. “I had to do it. You know I had to do it. My mother’s been pregnant twice since Ms. Manuel moved in. They died. I heard her talking. She knew what it was. She knew what was happening. I had to stop it.” She had both hands laced in a protective barrier over her stomach now. She wasn’t showing much yet. Just a swell she could hold in her hands.
Julia Martinal covered her mouth. Hardin couldn’t imagine which part of this shocked her more—that her daughter was pregnant, or a murderer.
Hardin imagined trying to explain this to the captain. She’d managed to get the werewolves pushed through and on record, but this was so much weirder. At least, not having grown up with the stories, it was. But the case was solved. On the other hand, she could just walk away. Without Teresa’s confession, they’d never be able to close the case. Hardin had a hard time thinking of Teresa as a murderer—she wasn’t like Cormac Bennett. Hardin could just walk away. But not really.