“You’re probably talking about my son, Barry. Come on in the house, I need some coffee. We can talk.”

Mr. Johnson poured the coffee, so thick it practically slid into the cups.

“Barry’s a good boy, you mind. Just a wee bit messed up in the head. He was a soldier, don’tcha know. A damn good one, from what I hear.”

“What branch of service was he in?” Taylor asked. She pretended to sip from her cup-coffee wasn’t her favorite thing in the world.

“Marines. First Gulf War. He’s a chemical engineer by training, but he ended up in the infantry. Boy can handle a weapon-I taught him young, they buffed him up. Parris Island, then SOI at Camp Geiger.”

“SOI?” Taylor asked.

“School of Infantry. He came home in one piece, but the mind wasn’t all there, if you know what I mean. Gulf War syndrome, they call it. He’s on a full disability discharge and gets regular checkups at the VA hospital. They’ve been doing a nice job keeping up with him, actually. Once his momma died, God rest her soul, it’s just been the two of us. He gets lonely, I know that. I try to keep him busy, but he spends a lot of time on his computer or out in his sheds.”

“You weren’t concerned when he didn’t come home last night?” McKenzie asked.

Johnson poured himself another cup of sludge. “Naw. He likes to carouse, sometimes. He’s got himself a widow woman up near Pleasant View. She was the wife of a friend in his old unit. He goes up there to see her at night, once in a while. She’s a nice girl, churchgoing. Bit soft in the head herself, but they manage. When I came home from the grocery yesterday and he wasn’t here, I just assumed he was up with her. Guess y’all had come to take him away though, huh.”

“That’s right.”

“So are you going to tell me what he’s done, or do I need to ^uess?”

Taylor hated giving bad news to parents, regardless of the age of the child or their misdeeds. “Sir, your son has claimed that he was involved in the murder of seven teenagers in Green Hills on Halloween night.”

He shook his head. “Nope. Wasn’t my boy. He was here with me on Halloween.” The small mouth shut firmly.

“He also claims that he’s the king of the Vampyre Nation,” McKenzie said.

The old man closed his eyes briefly, shook his head. His voice was soft. “That’s just his sickness. He came back from that war all kinds of messed up in the head, talking about vampires sucking the blood out of his body. Started sleeping all day and roaming around at night. Filed his teeth into them stupid fangs. I never saw no harm in it-he doesn’t do anything. He talks to some of his kind on the computer some. They have themselves a fine old time. But he’d never hurt a flea.”

“Sir, you understand that we will have to execute this warrant regardless. Your son knew details about the crimes that weren’t released to the press. And he was caught on film at several of the crime scenes. So we know he wasn’t home with you.”

“Must’ve left after I went to sleep. I have a scanner in the living room. He likes to listen to it. I’m sure he heard about it from that and decided to go check it out.”

“Sir, I appreciate that, but we’re going to have to search the house anyway. We’d best get on with it.” She stood, plunked her cup in the kitchen sink. “I’ll just go get Sirnari.”

McKenzie stayed put with the old man. She knew he was going to pump him for more information, left him to it.

Marcus and Simari were ready to get going, both leaning impatiently against Si man’s patrol car. Max was leashed and had his nose to the ground, quivering.

“Marcus, why don’t you start in the house. Mr. Johnson mentioned his son likes to putter in the sheds, I thought Simari and I could take a look at them.”

He nodded and pushed off the car, taking a set of purple nitrile gloves out of his pocket as he left. Taylor watched him go, then turned to Simari.

“So, think Max can do a little snooping for me while we’re here?”

“Of course. Drugs?”

“That’s what I’m hoping. Let’s go look around.”

They took a path that led to the right of the house, curving back toward the hills. The backyard was as tidy as the front-azaleas and hydrangeas and crepe myrtles cut back for the winter, dogwoods and tulip poplars spread across a vast expanse of still-green lawn.

“Man, he must spend hours on this,” Simari said. Max had his nose to the pea-gravel pathway, snuffling.

“I bet it’s beautiful in spring. I love dogwoods.”

“Why, LT. How romantic of you.” They shared a laugh, the gravel crunching beneath their boots as they walked. The sheds were one hundred yards ahead, three of them, low to the ground, painted red with white trim, like the side of a barn.

They passed a small fire pit, the scorched remnants of leaves and twigs gathered at the edges, like someone had stuck a stick into the hole and stirred. Simari held up, let Max smell it. He didn’t hit, so they kept going.

When they were twenty yards from the sheds, Taylor saw Max begin to vibrate. “Something here,” Simari said.

“Yeah, no kidding. Does he have different signs for different kinds of dru^s?”

“No, but he’ll bark when he hits something he knows. He’s great with pot and cocaine.”

Taylor could smell the acrid scent of acetone, and stopped. “How’s he do with meth?” she asked, just as Max let out a vicious howl. ”He’s pretty good with that, too,” Simari said, eyebrow raised in a dry salute.

Thirty-Four

Max had been right on the money.

The three sheds in the back of the Johnsons’ property held a sophisticated methamphetamine lab. After a quick glance inside, Taylor pulled back and got the warrant amended, called in the experts from the Narcotics Unit to come and take the lab apart. Meth labs were tricky, dangerous territory for those who didn’t know what they were doing-and not much better for those who did. She glanced into all three sheds carefully. Two held all the tubes and barrels she recognized, all flammable, with box after empty box of pseudoephedrine thrown into the overflowing trash cans. The last shed was equipped as a chemistry lab. For cooking up batches of dosed Ecstasy, perhaps? She put a priority rush on everything.

Mr. Johnson had said his son was a chemical engineer. He obviously wasn’t too soft in the head if he could still cook meth.

She went back to the house. The commotion had Mr. Johnson upset-McKenzie was trying to get him calmed down. Taylor caught his eye and signaled for him to come join her.

A few moments later, they were standing on the porch of the Johnson house.

“Meth lab in the back,” she said. “Has he given anything more on Barent?”

“Either he’s a twisted old man and a brilliant liar, or he really does turn the other cheek.”

“Probably a bit of both. Marcus find anything?”

“Yeah. You should probably go on up there. I’ll keep Mr. Johnson from getting in the way. We’re going to be late for Ariadne.”

Two large, white vans were pulling into the driveway. The drug boys were here. Taylor hoped they didn’t all get blown up.

“Lincoln can handle her for the time being. I’m willing to bet money that this is the source of our tainted drugs. The third shed looks like a chemistry lab. I’ll bet that’s where the Ecstasy came from.”

“That would be a nice coup, wouldn’t it?” He smiled at her, and she smiled back.

“But why in the world would he turn himself in, knowing we’d come up here and find all this?”

“Honestly, I think the man is in a bad way. From what his father tells me, he’s had a terrible time since he got back from the war. Apparently, he was the sole survivor of a tank explosion-the tank got hit by a SCUD missile. They were providing cover for his unit and it all went to smash. He mustered out after the war, but he’s never been the same since that event. He went steadily downhill from there. Gulf War syndrome is tricky-they don’t know if it’s caused by something that was in the air over there, a bacterial infection, heavy metals, chemical weapons or what. It can manifest physically or emotionally.