Read Online Dark Eye by William Bernhardt - Free Book Online
Authors: William Bernhardt
Tags: thriller
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Paris, complete with a fake Eiffel Tower (like the original, only better-lit). By the end of the decade, the pendulum had swung back again and Vegas was refocusing on its old reliable: vice. This has always been a city of addictions-booze, drugs, sex, money, risk-and now they were back in fashion. Most of the new resorts focused on providing premier shopping or replicating high-dollar vacation spots. Truth was, most of the chumps who came to Vegas had never been to Europe and would be bored stiff at the real Bellagio. But they loved the chance to pretend to be cosmopolitan sophisticates-with girlie shows and free drinks, of course.
The Transylvania had come in about the same time as Treasure Island and the Excalibur. With a choice spot just up the Strip from Circus Circus (now there was an interesting concept-Gambling for the Whole Family!), it had done a brisk business, specializing in those with a taste for the outré. Most of the joint was more tongue-in-cheek than terrifying. Scary more in the sense of, say, Disneyland’s Haunted Mansion than, say, a Jason movie. That showed in the galleries, too. That was another hot Vegas trend-everyone wanted a exhibition. The Bellagio had originally sported Steve Wynn’s art collection. The Venetian had a Guggenheim museum. Mandalay Bay had art treasures collected from around the world. And the Transylvania had a series of ballroom galleries exhibiting re-creations of various fright classics such as
Frankenstein, Dracula,
and
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
This gallery was dedicated to Edgar Allan Poe. I didn’t know enough about his work to identify most of the references. But there was a spooky Victorian house, crumbling and decayed, with a façade that looked like a human face-windows for eyes, et cetera. There were cobwebs and skeletons and, of course, the requisite graveyard, which was where I found Chief O’Bannon, crouched on the floor examining something in a tiny evidence baggie. He was surrounded by a swirl of activity, at least a dozen forensic technicians carefully combing the site with dusters and infrared lights. Chemical swabs. Tweezers. I wondered if they knew about me. For a brief moment, I thought about turning tail and running before I was spotted. But that’s not my style. That would be too sensible.
One of the techs approached O’Bannon. Tony Crenshaw. His specialty was dactylograms-that’s
fingerprints
to the rest of the world-but he was so good O’Bannon let him mess around in hair and fiber and pretty much anything else he wanted to do. I decided to keep my mouth shut for a moment-a novel idea, for me-and just listen.
“We’ve gone over the box pretty carefully, sir. Lots of good trace evidence.”
“From the victim?” O’Bannon asked in his usual gruff manner. “Or the killer?”
“Certainly from the victim,” Crenshaw said, wincing slightly. “But we’re hoping we’ll get something from the perp.”
“What have you found on the girl?”
“Hair. A few latent prints. Blood.”
“How much?”
“Not a lot. She does not appear to have been wounded in any significant way.”
“Anything else?”
Crenshaw hesitated a moment. “Sir… have you looked inside the box?”
“Briefly.”
“The inner side of the lid?”
“No. Why would I?”
“Claw marks.”
O’Bannon squinted. “Like a wild animal?”
“Like she was desperate to get out. The marks match the victim’s fingers, which you may have noticed were raw and bloody.”
His eyes narrowed. “You mean-she was still alive when-”
Crenshaw nodded grimly. They both looked as if they were about to be sick. I crept forward to get a look at the box they were talking about.
Just below O’Bannon, sticking out of the mock graveyard adjoining the haunted house, was an open coffin. With a very scratched inner lid.
“Christ,” O’Bannon said, wiping his brow. “What have we got now?”
Crenshaw shook his head and went back to work. O’Bannon did the same, but I could tell he
The Transylvania had come in about the same time as Treasure Island and the Excalibur. With a choice spot just up the Strip from Circus Circus (now there was an interesting concept-Gambling for the Whole Family!), it had done a brisk business, specializing in those with a taste for the outré. Most of the joint was more tongue-in-cheek than terrifying. Scary more in the sense of, say, Disneyland’s Haunted Mansion than, say, a Jason movie. That showed in the galleries, too. That was another hot Vegas trend-everyone wanted a exhibition. The Bellagio had originally sported Steve Wynn’s art collection. The Venetian had a Guggenheim museum. Mandalay Bay had art treasures collected from around the world. And the Transylvania had a series of ballroom galleries exhibiting re-creations of various fright classics such as
Frankenstein, Dracula,
and
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
This gallery was dedicated to Edgar Allan Poe. I didn’t know enough about his work to identify most of the references. But there was a spooky Victorian house, crumbling and decayed, with a façade that looked like a human face-windows for eyes, et cetera. There were cobwebs and skeletons and, of course, the requisite graveyard, which was where I found Chief O’Bannon, crouched on the floor examining something in a tiny evidence baggie. He was surrounded by a swirl of activity, at least a dozen forensic technicians carefully combing the site with dusters and infrared lights. Chemical swabs. Tweezers. I wondered if they knew about me. For a brief moment, I thought about turning tail and running before I was spotted. But that’s not my style. That would be too sensible.
One of the techs approached O’Bannon. Tony Crenshaw. His specialty was dactylograms-that’s
fingerprints
to the rest of the world-but he was so good O’Bannon let him mess around in hair and fiber and pretty much anything else he wanted to do. I decided to keep my mouth shut for a moment-a novel idea, for me-and just listen.
“We’ve gone over the box pretty carefully, sir. Lots of good trace evidence.”
“From the victim?” O’Bannon asked in his usual gruff manner. “Or the killer?”
“Certainly from the victim,” Crenshaw said, wincing slightly. “But we’re hoping we’ll get something from the perp.”
“What have you found on the girl?”
“Hair. A few latent prints. Blood.”
“How much?”
“Not a lot. She does not appear to have been wounded in any significant way.”
“Anything else?”
Crenshaw hesitated a moment. “Sir… have you looked inside the box?”
“Briefly.”
“The inner side of the lid?”
“No. Why would I?”
“Claw marks.”
O’Bannon squinted. “Like a wild animal?”
“Like she was desperate to get out. The marks match the victim’s fingers, which you may have noticed were raw and bloody.”
His eyes narrowed. “You mean-she was still alive when-”
Crenshaw nodded grimly. They both looked as if they were about to be sick. I crept forward to get a look at the box they were talking about.
Just below O’Bannon, sticking out of the mock graveyard adjoining the haunted house, was an open coffin. With a very scratched inner lid.
“Christ,” O’Bannon said, wiping his brow. “What have we got now?”
Crenshaw shook his head and went back to work. O’Bannon did the same, but I could tell he
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