He opened his eyes and saw him standing on the other side of Debra’s bed. A tall, cadaverous-looking man. As thin as a skeleton. Or a survivor of a World War Two Jewish ghetto.
Or maybe an anemic Count Dracula.
Lieutenant Dimitri Yankovich’s pale skin, matched with his deep black eyes burning brightly in his skull, always made Turner think of Count Dracula. He hovered over the sleeping Debra like the fabled monster, his face an unreadable mask. How long Yank had been in the room he had no idea. Somewhere in the night, he had fallen asleep in the chair beside her bed. Never heard his boss enter the room. Had no idea how long he had been there.
The lieutenant’s eyes looked up and drifted over to crash into Turner’s face. A cadaver staring at the living. The man’s eyes sent quiet chills do
