by Ryk E. Spoor
“I love you, Jason. Be careful.”
“Always am. Bye.”
I glanced through the peephole, then stepped back, unlatching the door. “Come in, slowly.”
Once the man in the doorway was fully in view and my CryWolf glasses showed nothing but human, I relaxed and put my gun back into its holster. “Sorry, but I think you understand that in this case, I’d better be double-paranoid. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”
Lieutenant Kevin Ferrin was one of the most… coppy-looking cops I’d ever seen. He could have stepped out of any movie featuring the boys in blue—regular features, trim but tall, short brown hair and sharp brown eyes, a uniform that looked just pressed, and an awareness of his surroundings without seeming to search them. He shook my hand and took the indicated seat as I closed the door. “Sorry for bothering you, I know you’re busy.”
“Busy, but not off-duty. You don’t have anything new for me in the case right now, do you?” Ferrin had already sent over the actual arrest reports and preliminary CSI workup of the area.
“No, nothing like that.” He looked slightly embarrassed. “It’s actually a different subject. I mean, it’s another investigation, but it’s kind of strange and I thought, well, since you were already in the area…”
“No problem. The strange has become my profession, and if you’ve got something you’ve been butting your head against without results, I can take a look at it. I don’t make any guarantees, but it can’t hurt.”
He relaxed a bit. “Okay. Here goes.”
The problem didn’t take long to lay out. In a city the size of Los Angeles, murder is hardly unusual from the point of view of any policeman, unless it’s a murder that remains unsolved. This is not unheard of, of course, and most policemen have at least one or two that they’ve never gotten a satisfactory answer on, but still it’s unusual.
What Lieutenannt Ferrin had was something very different. Twenty deaths in eleven separate incidents over the past year or so, and three of them completely unsolved.
“But you’re putting them in the same category as the solved ones?” I said. He nodded. “That can’t be the official position.”
“It’s not,” he said bluntly. “If this was an official investigation, I’d have asked you to come down to the station and look at the stuff first. Technically, only the three unsolved ones are still being worked on. But…”
“There’s a similarity? The others were done in a similar way?”
He shook his head. “Everything from kitchen-knife stabbings to apparent heart attacks or poison.” He looked uncomfortable as he said it.
“Common factors, then?”
He wobbled a hand like a seesaw. “The only clear-cut one I could say would be age. None of the victims are under the age of eighteen or over the age of about twenty-five.”
I studied him. “Look, instead of making me poke at you, why not just tell me what’s bothering you about these cases?”
He hesitated, then gave an explosive, frustrated curse. “That’s the problem. I just don’t know. Except…in our line of work, you just get a general sense of things, you know? You see crime day in, day out, and most of the time, things make sense. Even when they’re confusing at the start, once you get the answers you say ‘oh, right, that’s how it was,’ and everything’s clear.
“Well, not with these. Take this one: Jessie and James Roquette.” He pointed to a picture of two bodies—one a very pretty girl lying in a pool of blood the color of her very long hair, the other a slender young man whose good looks were marred by the black hole in his forehead just below his hairline. “Newlyweds, known each other for years before that, no serious trouble—couple speeding tickets, liked partying, maybe into the swinging lifestyle, but still devoted to each other. No one knew anything about a problem between them. Friends called them an inseparable team—nothing even rumored. They throw a big party, next day, they’re found in the kitchen by a neighbor, Jessie with a knife in her gut and James with a bullet in his head. Prints all over the place, but forensics doesn’t come up with any alternative answers. Jessie’s even got some of James’ skin under her fingernails, and it matches pretty close with scratches on his’ hands and arms. The gun was theirs, and it was kept right next to where Jessie ended up, so it seemed clear. He attacked her, they fought, she got knifed, went down, but got the gun and blew him away before she died. But…”
“But?”
“Just…it doesn’t quite work for me. James was a little farther away; a little off from where I’d have expected him to be in that scenario. And you don’t do much moving after a thirty-eight slug ricochets around your brainpan. Times of death seemed a little off, almost as though Jessie had kicked off a little bit before James, which would make it kind of hard for her to have done any shooting. The TOD estimates are always wide plus-or-minus, of course, so there was overlap.” He shook his head.
“So then we look at this guy, Joe Buckley; twenty-two years old, perfect health, dating a few girls—who all knew each other and didn’t seem to be particularly worried about it—on the rise in one of the movie studios’ development groups, goes to a big bash, comes home, found dead the next day without a mark on him.” The accompanying photo showed a brown-haired young man lying peacefully on his back, just a slight unnatural paleness indicating that there was anything wrong. “There was evidence that he might have had some company that night, but nothing conclusive. The tox screen came back with a big fat zip—along with the rest of the ME’s workup. He said, ‘The only problem with this guy is that he ought to be walking around alive and he’s dead.’ So it was listed as death due to natural causes, some kind of heart condition.”
“Okay, so you’ve got those and some others which are considered solved, but your gut says otherwise.” I didn’t sneer at gut feelings; they have saved my ass more than once, and for a cop they were critical. “Why do you associate them all as a group?”
“To start with, they’re all in the same general geographic area.” He pulled out a map of a high-rent area of the city. “I don’t have proof there aren’t any outside this area. I mean, there’s only so much of the city my cases are going to cover—even the werewolf’s case is around there. But it’s just…of all these cases, only one of them really convinced me that there was a motive for murder, and I don’t like the way it ended up. I don’t believe it. So I’ve got at least ten different cases, three unsolved, and all of them without a single believable motive except something like ‘crime of passion.’ And none of them—not one—with any witnesses at all. The most we got is someone hearing the gunshot in one case. But no one hearing arguments, plans for violence…and the forensics are always…well, they support the verdict, where there is one, but there’s always something funny about them to me, even if no one else really sees it. Oh, and never any living perp. If we’ve got a clear case of murder involved, both the victim and the killer are dead, mutual assured destruction.”
I got the picture now. “That’s not common, is it?”
“Not common at all. One out of ten? Twenty? More? Maybe the killer gets hurt, but he or she walks away. Most people don’t expect murder, so when the time comes, they’re not ready to defend themselves. And the murderer’s got the advantage, unless he’s going to talk and threaten like some TV villain. So…most murderers don’t end up as corpses, at least not before they’re convicted.” Kevin Ferrin looked relieved; I suspected that this was the first time he’d been able to articulate some of his concerns with these cases, and he was glad to find that I was taking him seriously.
“Well, Lieutenant, I don’t know if there’s anything I can do, but give me what you can and I’ll take a look. It’s an interesting problem, anyway.”
The lieutenant gave me a quick, grateful smile. “Thanks, Mr. Wood. I’d really appreciate it. Even if all that you can do is tell me that I’m worrying about nothing, I’d feel better knowing someone else has looked it over. I’ll get the files out and you can look ’em over at the station.�
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“My pleasure.” I let him out and reflected on the fact that it was, in fact, a pleasure. The problem with Angela wasn’t going to have a very good outcome. Either I’d succeed and a wolf would go free, or I’d fail, which would be depressing and possibly set a dangerous precedent. Lieutenant Ferrin’s problem might offer a chance of ending in a way I could feel good about.
I ordered dinner, and then picked up the phone to call Syl back. There was going to be more to talk about than I’d thought.
Chapter 93: Proving Her Identity
“Y’all sure this is a secure line, Wood?”
“Absolutely.”
Sheriff Baker sighed. “All right, what is it?”
“I’m sure you know what I’m doing right now.”
He laughed. “Yeah, I guess I do. Defendin’ Miz Tanmorrai in court. That’s gotta stick in your craw.”
“I’ve got my reasons for doing it. I need some information from you, though.”
“If it’s to help the lady, sure. What do you need?”
“I know that there used to be a real Sheriff Baker, and you took his place, just like a lot of wolves did with other humans in Venice. But the Maelkodan had her own human shape, besides the ones she could steal from you.” I was deliberately not mentioning what Angela/Tanmorrai had told me. “What about you wolves? Do you have your own unique shapes or not?”
“Well, now, of course we all do. The big furry one. But you mean a human shape. Yeah, we do. When we’re young, we practice shapeshifting into human form and everyone chooses one that’s theirs.”
“Is this a surface shift or a full shift?”
“Oh, it’s a complete shift when you’ve mastered it. No way you humans can tell us from yourselves, except with your little toys.”
“And do you trade off these forms? I mean, could Angela use yours, or you hers at some point?”
“Never,” he said immediately. “It’d be like shifting to imitate the actual wolf. We get to choose our appearance, and so the selected one belongs to us and it’s…very rude to take someone else’s shape without permission.”
“Sort of like copyright or trademark, then?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, you might put it that way, but the penalties are a lot steeper. Like it’s generally an insult worthy of at least two cuts, and if you do it in a way that might affect something they’re doing at the time, it’s a killing offense, maybe even referrable to the King.”
“So any traces we find to prove her background really do have to be hers.”
“Hell, yeah. Especially her. No one would mess with her.”
“I did notice she called you ‘little Hastrikas’ like, um, Virigan did. Is she an Elder like him?”
His voice was deadly serious. “Not like him, no. Ain’t any like him, well, maybe two left, but nobody knows for sure. But still, she’s old enough, she goes back almost as far as your friend Verne, I think. No one knows for sure, ’cept of course the King and the…” he stopped abruptly. “Anyway, you got what you need?”
I really wished he’d finished what he’d been about to say, but I didn’t want to push it. “I think so. We have to prove she’s the person she says she is.”
“You already got most of this from her, didn’t you?”
Point to the sheriff. “Some of it. But I had to get confirmation. From another wolf. And you played it straight before.”
His voice was not friendly. “Because you have us in a silver trap, Wood. And because the King has required us to maintain a cold, rather than hot, war. For now. But when he decides it’s time to kill you, I will be very happy to watch.”
“I don’t doubt it. But don’t hold your breath. Thanks anyway.”
He hung up without saying I was welcome, which was rather rude, but I’d gotten what I needed from that call, assuming he was telling the truth. I thought he probably was; not only was it consistent with what Angela had told me, but the additional details made sense. I was, slowly, starting to get an idea of how the wolves’ society worked. It was ugly, cold, and vicious, but that really wasn’t much of a surprise. And at least the information would be useful.
Project Pantheon, through one of Achernar’s associates, had come through beautifully. Angela’s background was indeed faked, up to eight years ago. She was clearly a fictional person whose existence was created specifically for the little wolf currently residing in the local lockup. This made winning the case at least possible.
It was, however, still going to be a bitch and a half. I looked down at the dossiers on the table. This was the summary of the important people at the trial—namely the judge and the selected jury. Had this been a lesser crime, it would probably have been weeks or months before we got to this stage, but the high-profile, bizarre nature of the case had ensured that everything was going to move quickly. There were already protesters demonstrating on both sides of the issue. We were going to need an insane amount of high-level security. I had already received death threats for daring to defend a wolf, and heartfelt compliments for my open-mindedness. It was a circus, no doubt about it, but one with a deadly theme.
Convincing the jury was going to be difficult. The prosecution would no doubt paint this as a deliberate premeditated murder, manipulated by Angela for her own macabre gain. Trying to fight that was going to require walking a serious tightrope because there was truth in the suggestion that she was manipulating the situation for the wolves’ gain. The last thing I needed was to have that come out in testimony. Rosenfeld, Opal, and O’Brien had handled the jury selection, something completely out of my depth, and we thought they’d managed to eliminate the worst possible choices. Realistically, though, there weren’t any good juror choices for us, aside from a couple of “furries,” which had been weeded out by the prosecution.
We had assembled a list of Angela’s more important clients. She’d balked at first, but came around once I pointed out that these men were most likely to try and affect the outcome of the trial. I had to get a handle on who they were and how they might try to influence it. On the one hand, they wouldn’t want word of their involvement to get out, and so they’d have a reason to want Angela out of the way. On the other hand, if they couldn’t be sure she’d be executed—and quickly—she had the potential of striking back against them by giving names, dates, and times, and who knew what else she might have learned? So, in that sense, they had every reason to see her set free (and maybe arrange an accident for her afterward). The result of that list was that a lot of our challenges in jury selection were based on knowing they were somehow connected to one of Angela’s clients.
I looked down the list and sighed. There wasn’t much point in looking it over again. About all we’d managed to achieve was to make sure that the jury was as reasonably well-educated as possible; this trial would be better served, for my purposes, by those who were more subject to intellectual rather than emotional argument.
I sat up suddenly. “But I’d better not neglect that emotional side!”
I had a few calls to make.
Chapter 94: Opening Statements
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Prosecutor David Hume began, “we are all aware of the unique nature of this trial. In my time as an attorney, I have prosecuted and, on occasion, defended people who might be described as monsters. In this case, we are dealing with a monster in literal fact. The defendant, Angela McIntyre, is not human, despite the innocent appearance she displays for the court. She is a werewolf, a creature capable of taking on any shape for her own purposes, a monster that feeds upon human flesh and perhaps more. Werewolves are known to have killed many hundreds of people, perhaps many times that many, and even with all the technology at our command, it is difficult to either capture or kill these beings. Many people believe that we should be exterminating them, wiping them out as we would destroy some disease. The honorable court, however, has determined that, given the werewolves’ status as thinking beings, there is sufficient precedent to justify a trial. We recognize the reasons f
or this decision, and the State is confident that it will make no difference in the ultimate outcome.
“In this trial, we will demonstrate that the killing of Frederic Delacroix was the result of a cold-blooded hunt, and possibly part of something even more sinister. Angela McIntyre never intended to allow Frederic Delacroix to live once he had served his purpose; his actions, provoked deliberately by the defendant, were meant to allow her to kill him with impunity. She was never in actual danger from Delacroix, and therefore, any contention of self-defense is ludicrous. It is dangerous for us to make any other conclusion; permitting a trial and defense for such a creature is directly counter to the proper welfare and defense of the state and its people—its human people—by providing, for creatures who have an admitted view of humans as prey, a means to escape the consequences of their actions.” Hume gazed at the jury, trying to make eye contact with each of them to show his clear and forthright nature. “This is undoubtedly one of the most important trials any of us has ever seen, or will ever see. Remember that during your deliberations.” He paused a moment longer, turned and nodded to me.
I stood up slowly, then walked to the front of the packed courtroom. Flashes popped; despite some argument against it on both sides, there really hadn’t been any chance to make this a closed courtroom. Whatever happened here would be recorded for posterity. So I’d better look good.
“You all know who I am,” I said quietly. “I’m Jason Wood. These monsters, as the prosecutor calls them, are the reason you know me. I lost one of my best friends to their King. He nearly killed me in a hospital, where my wife was in critical condition as the result of an encounter with one of his people. I am not their friend. I think it’s important you understand that.”
The faces of the jurors were intent. I’d memorized all of them: Lucy Aluquerre, Jim Sherry, Darrin Brown, Maria Mendoza, Tony Sestin, Frank Kovalsky, Alfred Flint, Petra Hamilton, Alle Schumacher, Gladia Baley, Steven Jackson, and Verna Stout. I also met each of their gazes squarely. “I didn’t take this job to side with monsters. I took it because there’s something more important at stake here. This is a matter of justice. Whatever she is, Angela McIntyre was not planning to kill Frederic Delacroix that day, or any other. She was simply living her life, doing her job. Frederic Delacroix decided that this wasn’t enough, and tried to force himself on her. She defended herself—as the law allows her to do—with whatever weapons she had to hand. The fact that those weapons were more effective than Mr. Delacroix would have expected simply means that she was able to escape with minimal injury.”