Chapter 8

Mike Tannenger was having a bad day. Not only was he called in on a Saturday afternoon when it wasn't his weekend to cover Homicide, but the 'last-barbecue-of-the-year' he was hosting had turned into a disaster when another couple he was friends with had brought their ten month old Dalmatian with them. Their totally-out-of-control and much-too-excitable 'darling' nipped his kid because he'd pulled its tail and ended up knocking over the barbecue grill and ruining thirty dollars worth of meat, much of which it ate.

He threw his hat onto a cabinet next to his desk.

"Okay, Sarge, what'cha got?" he demanded as he sat down heavily, rolling the desk chair backward a foot.

"Well, there was this shooting last night," Sarge said, dropping a folder onto the desk in front of Mike. "It was an attempted homicide. One of the victims has disappeared. Her name's Béla Wilson."

"Béla Wilson?" Mike replied. "We've met; young girl, owns that strip joint over on Fremont."

He looked through the file, quickly absorbing the basic facts.

'How does a woman, badly wounded, lost a lot of blood, just get up and walk away?' he thought, trying to assess what he was looking at. 'Why does that sound so familiar?'

Then he remembered. There had been a weird case, months ago, that was still partially unsolved – they'd found the killer but not his last victim. A wild animal had mauled and killed a serial killer. The victim had disappeared, presumably dragged off by whatever or just walked away. The body was never found.

'That's still impossible!' he thought.

But yet, it had happened. And now, a badly wounded victim of another attempted murder had disappeared – again. A possible answer occurred to him. He picked up the phone and dialed four four.

"Charlie," he said into the phone, "Do you have the victim's clothing from the shooting last night? ... No. The lady that disappeared from ... Yeah. That's right. Was a blood sample taken at the scene? ... What? ... It was typed at the hospital? ... Why would they do that? ... Huh. Makes sense.

"The other thing I need," he continued, "is the blood type from the May killing where the victim disappeared ... You remember that one? ... What was unusual? ... Okay, thanks." Mike hung up the phone.

A few minutes later, Mike hung up the phone, again, after having called the hospital and gotten the results from their typing of the missing victim's blood. They had used samples from the gurney in the ambulance, typing it so they would be ready to take care of their missing transport when, and if, she was ever brought in.

Mike Tannenger sat at his desk for several minutes, his mind working to fit a puzzle together that was starting to have too many outside edges that didn't fit together.

'The blood types of both victims were the same: O Rh negative, ' he thought. 'Could it have been the same victim both times? The only difference in the two blood samples was that the second victim, Béla Wilson, according to the hospital, was pregnant.'

He remembered talking to Béla Wilson a day or two after the May incident. She certainly didn't look like someone recovering from multiple stab wounds, but her blood type was the same as the missing victim's.

'The first missing victim, ' he corrected himself. Now, she was missing, too. 'Or, was she missing – again?'

'It isn't possible, ' he decided, again. Maybe the two victims were related. If so, it was possible that one was protecting the other. 'But, why? Does she have a sister? And why would either of them be afraid to come forward?'

Picking up the phone, he dialed the lab a second time. "This is Mike again. Were fingerprints taken from the ambulance last night?

"Damn. Okay, thanks."

He got up from his desk and grabbed his coat. It looked like he had some legwork to do. He drove down to the Target Club, though it would be two more hours before it opened.

He stepped over the yellow 'Crime Scene – Do Not Cross' tape, past a paunchy, middle-aged man setting up a small folding table on the sidewalk. On the ground, waiting to be put on the table were some candles and a photograph of the Wilson girl in a skimpy costume.

He stopped, and watched the man work. The man, noticing Mike standing there, stopped working and looked at him. His eyes were moist.

"I'm settin' up a little memorial for Miss Béla," he explained. "I seen people do it on TV for some kid that got hisself killed. I figure this is the least I can do.

"She didn't deserve what happened to her," he added. "She didn't deserve a lot of things that happened to her.

"I watched it happen, you know," the old man continued, sounding tired and old. "I ... I've treated people mean before, but this was just plain murder. How could someone get any pleasure from doing something like that?"

Mike thought the burly old man might completely break into tears.

"We haven't found her yet," he said, trying to console the old man. "She might still be alive."

He gripped the old man on the shoulder for a moment, then turned and went inside, looking for Frank.

"Mr. Tabor," Mike called out. "You in here?"