Blood Harvest by Michael Weinberger Read Free Book Online Page B

common to most Los Angelinos: denim pants, brown hiking boots, T-shirt inscribed with the artistic renderings of tribal tattoo patterns popular in today’s slacker-style fashionables. He felt the small Steno notepad in the right rear pocket of his pants, along with a small mechanical pencil he knew he needed to make notes on whatever important information he might come across.
    It was only when his left hand grazed against the hard rectangular object in his rear left pocket that he hesitated. The flask held slightly less than eight ounces of fluid, but it would be enough to get him through the evening in case his hands started shaking and he needed to calm his body in front of another bloody spectacle. Steve knew that in the years since he had joined the force his constitution had improved somewhat in the face of the gruesome and senseless violence committed on a regular basis in the city. Still, whipping out the flask while on duty made his fellow officers uncomfortable. It wasn’t as though they didn’t understand; God knows they all needed alcohol after witnessing the aftermath the city seemed so eager to produce. It was Steve’s blatant disregard for discretion that actually made them so ill at ease. Most of the policemen knew, or at least had heard, about Steve and were sympathetic enough to allow him this one rather major breech of protocol, as long as he didn’t get sloppy of course.
    Steve never got sloppy, or drunk, or even tired when he was doing his job.
    Ever.
    Steve looked from the alley to the cascade of flashing lights less than one hundred yards away, nodded and pulled the flask from his pocket. He unscrewed the top and sniffed the contents, which sent a shiver throughout his entire frame. One swallow would be all he needed; as the spiked concoction burned its way down his throat he felt his whole body release the tension that had built up since being summoned a little over half an hour ago.
    He replaced the top of the flask, shoved it back into his pocked then engaged the car alarm and walked toward the commotion of red and blue. Uniformed policemen circled the outskirts of a ring of paramedics who seemed to be continually wheeling bodies out of the club and into a row near multiple ambulances. The entire area was sectioned off with the yellow plastic “Police Line, Do Not Cross” ribbon while detectives and forensic specialists mulled over the victims and the surroundings at the entrance to the club.
    The closer Steve approached the more he began to detect an odor getting seemingly stronger. The odor was mild, but reminded him of his childhood visits to the zoo, specifically, his visits to the elephant enclosures. He stopped to allow his badge to be identified by the uniformed officers who let him pass under the police tape. He made his way toward the entrance to the club. As he passed through the castle-like double doors he froze in his tracks—the full weight of the scene came crashing down with his first clear view of the club.
    The special effects lights had been switched off and the general fluorescent lights switched on. Under normal lighting the mystique of the club vanished, leaving something akin to a school gymnasium with wet bars. Bodies turned the scene into a surreal war zone. Most, he guessed, had been moved onto makeshift triage cots while others had been neatly lined in side-by-side rows with attending medical personnel hovering over a few individuals. Clearly the number of victims was more than the current number of professionals could handle.
    “My God,” he thought. “What the hell could have happened here?” Unconsciously Steve began to reach for the flask in his rear pocket, but caught himself as a voice called out to him.
    “Hey, Steve!”
    Steve knew the voice. It belonged to Chris Barnes, a longtime friend who worked for the LA County Coroner’s office.
    “Chris,” Steve said warmly as the two slapped hands together in a familiar handshake. “What, they got you out