Werewolves in London (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 3)

by M. L. Hamilton

  “So all we have is a man, possibly homeless with a full head of dark hair, a full beard and a green jacket. He smells unwashed or of cigarettes and he howls like a wolf,” said Radar, rubbing his neck.

  Caleb lounged in a chair at the head of the table.

  “The green jacket might be significant,” said Bambi.

  Caleb shook his head. “It’s common. St. Mungo’s, a homeless charity, gives out jackets on a regular basis. We tracked the jacket back to them and they’ve given out thousands over the years. It’s army issue, bought in surplus.”

  “Have you taken the video to them?”

  “Yes, they can’t identify the assailant. He fits the description of many different individuals. It’s a grainy, poor quality video and I myself can’t make out any distinguishing characteristics.”

  Peyton rubbed at her eyes. She was tired and they’d been staring at the board for hours, gaining nothing. She looked at her phone. She wanted to call Marco and her mother. Last night she’d been too tired and had simply texted them that she’d call the next day. She wanted to talk to Marco especially.

  “What about the howling? Did you ask them if they’d ever come across a homeless man inclined to howl?”

  “Well, that’s a start. We can go out to St. Mungo’s tomorrow and show them the video again, and the pictures Gordon Bell took on the bridge, and ask them about howling.”

  “Lycanthropy has its origins back as far as the Greeks,” said Tank.

  Caleb frowned, but the Ghost Squad turned to listen to him.

  “Modern scientists believe the origin for the myth may have come from a number of places. In the 60’s, there was some belief that werewolves were afflicted with congenital porphyria, a disease that makes a person photosensitive and with reddish teeth. Porphyria sufferers often have psychosis, but this theory was later dismissed because most mythological illustrations portray werewolves to look like actual wolves. Other scientists have postulated it might be hypertrichosis, a condition where the sufferer grows excessive hair, but there’s no psychosis involved in that condition and it’s relatively rare, which wouldn’t account for the pervasive myths surrounding werewolves in almost every culture.”

  “Most recently, however, many researchers have begun to wonder if the origin doesn’t rise out of rabies contaminations. The fact that lycanthropy is passed by biting may in fact make epidemiological sense if rabies is involved.”

  Peyton smiled at Caleb’s open mouthed expression.

  “So, what I’m hearing you say, Tank,” she offered, “is that our assailant is probably mentally ill?”

  “Exactly.” He smiled at her.

  She felt a flush of pride. She was learning to speak Tank.

  Radar’s brows rose. “That’s awesome.”

  Caleb frowned at him. “Awesome?”

  “Yeah, we can’t ID him, he strikes regularly, and now we can expect he’s mad as a hatter.”

  “Ah, irony? Yes, it is awesome.”

  “Okay, let’s call it a day. Tank, you’ll come with Abbott and me to St. Mungo’s tomorrow to show them the pictures and you can explain what you just told us. Bambi and Sparky, I want you to go to the bridge where Rianna Cooper died and check it out, then talk to the boyfriend.”

  “There are a number of merchants who ply their wares around the Wibbly Wobbly,” said Caleb.

  Peyton blinked. “I have no idea what any of that means.”

  “There are street vendors selling crap at the Millennium Bridge,” translated Bambi. “He’s suggesting we talk to them.”

  Caleb gave her a sultry smile. She returned it. Peyton shot a look at Radar.

  “And the boyfriend?”

  “He’s studying Shakespeare at the Globe. I’ll arrange a tete-a-tete with him tomorrow. You might talk with him first.”

  Peyton held up a hand indicating they’d take care of it. Bambi grabbed Peyton’s arm. “It’s going to be so much fun. We’ll take the tube and learn how to navigate like a true Londoner. I’ve always wanted to see the Globe.”

  Peyton smiled at her.

  “You’ll want to get an Oyster card in the tube station. That way you can ride without worrying about buying tickets.”

  “Oyster card it is,” said Bambi, tugging Peyton to her feet.

  Radar pointed a finger in Peyton’s face. “You stay with Bambi. Do you hear me? You don’t have a weapon and you don’t know shit about this city.”

  “I thought you were getting me a sharpened stick.”

  “Don’t be smart, Sparky. I’m serious. I don’t like you going out without a weapon.”

  “Are you kidding? After the training you’ve given me, I’m ready for anything.” She winked at him and turned for the door.

  * * *

  Marco pushed the button on Abe’s lab door and it swished open. Stepping into the lab, he realized he hadn’t been here in a long time. When he and Peyton worked together, they made regular treks to Abe’s lab to consult with him.

  A body lay spread out on Abe’s metal table, the chest cavity gaping. Abe leaned over the body, peering inside, his black dreadlocks swinging forward. He looked up and a smile bloomed across his face. Marco noted that he wore a sensible grey collared shirt; however, when he looked closer he could swear he made out the silhouette of an elephant on it.

  “Is this the John Doe?”

  “Yep.”

  The man was in his late twenties, early thirties, trim, about 5’11” with dark brown hair and a square jaw. He was Caucasian, even though his skin had a gray cast to it.

  “Did his fingerprints pop on IAFIS?” asked Abe, reaching for a long pointed stainless steel instrument.

  “No, are you sending his DNA to CODIS?”

  “That I am.” He gave Marco a critical eye. “Why do you want to punt this one to Central?”

  “Adams thinks it’s best.”

  “Well, I don’t. Something’s hinky here.”

  “You said that on the phone. What?”

  Abe picked up an evidence bag. Inside was a single bullet. “I fished this out of his pelvis.”

  Marco looked at the bullet. “That can’t be right.”

  “Why?”

  “Central recovered a vintage Webley Vickers at the scene. Does he have two bullets in him?”

  “No, just the one. I’ve checked on x-ray too.”

  “This is a .357 magnum. You’d use it in a Smith & Wesson or a Winchester, not a Webley Vickers. The Vickers shoots a .455, big ass bullet.”

  “The .357 magnum’s what killed him, but that’s not all.” Abe moved to the upper chest. “Here’s the entrance wound. What do you notice?”

  Marco shrugged. “What should I notice, Abe?”

  “Come over here. I ran it through our new program. It projects the path of a projectile through a body.” He stripped off his latex gloves and grabbed a stool, reaching for a second one for Marco.

  Marco eased down on the cold metal surface, dragging his leg into place.

  Pulling the laptop over to himself, Abe watched him from the corner of his eyes. “You hear from Grey yet?”

  “No.”

  Abe looked closer at him. “You think of calling yourself?”

  “He said they’d call when they had an opening.”

  “You’re in pain.”

  “Abe, the program!” Marco pointed at the screen.

  Abe exhaled, then turned to the keyboard, scrolling with the mouse. He made a few clicks, bringing up an animation of a man’s body. “So I plug in all the vitals, size, weight, skeletal structure.”

  “Okay.”

  “Then I try out different scenarios based on the wound path I found on autopsy.”

  “Got it.”

  “How tall do you estimate Peterson to be?”

  “Um, I think I read he’s six three.”

  “And a rough estimate of how far away from the victim he might have been when he shot.”

  “He said he heard a noise and came down the stairs, startling the guy in t
he living room, so let’s say he shot from the bottom of the stairs, about 40 feet from there to the blood stain.”

  Abe clicked on his program. “Watch.”

  A projectile flew across the screen and struck the animated man in the upper chest. It knocked him back quite a bit and he toppled over onto his backside.

  “That doesn’t look right,” said Marco. “There wasn’t splatter and the blood stain was almost a perfect circle right beneath the body.”

  “It doesn’t fit the tract of the bullet through the body either.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean the bullet entered in the upper chest, but it went down through the lung and lodged in the pelvis.”

  Marco frowned. “Wait. That means the bullet had to be shot from above the John Doe.”

  “Right. If I follow the path through the body, I have to place the assailant at 9 feet minimum.”

  “Are you saying someone shot him from the second story?”

  “That’s what I’m saying.” Abe played the animation and the bullet went through the body. The John Doe swayed, then collapsed on his knees and dropped face forward. Abe swiveled on his stool. “It’s worse.”

  “How’s it worse? We don’t have the right gun. We don’t have the right scenario.”

  “The bullet isn’t what killed him, well, not entirely. When the bullet entered his lung, it caused a tension pneumothorax, collapsing of the lung. The lung began to fill with blood called a hemothorax. There’s a slim chance he might have survived if he’d had help immediately.”

  “What?”

  “I’m telling you he suffocated, Angel. He suffocated on his own blood.”

  “How long would that take?”

  “I’m not sure, but long enough to call an ambulance.”

  Marco closed his hand into a fist. “So you’re saying, he lay there bleeding, unable to breathe for what? A half-an-hour, an hour?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Carol Peterson said she called 911 as soon as she heard the shot fired.”

  “What’s the time between the call and the arrival of the ambulance?”

  “I’ll have to look, but I didn’t notice anything excessive.”

  “Then if the time was less than ten minutes between the call and arrival, they let the John Doe lay there, gasping for air for at least half-an-hour before they called for help.”

  “Well, shit.”

  “Yep, well, shit, Angel.”

  * * *

  Peyton lay back against the pillows in her hotel room, holding the phone in front of her. She watched the icon, hoping Marco would pick up. She was so tired, she just wanted to sleep, but not before she got to see him, talk to him. Wearing his jersey just wasn’t enough tonight.

  The video finally connected and his handsome face filled her screen. “Hey.” She couldn’t stop the smile that spread across her lips.

  “Hey, sweetheart, how’s London?”

  “Big and noisy and pretty terrific. History’s just everywhere you look. They have plaques on the buildings, documenting different attacks during the World Wars.”

  “Any leads on your werewolf?”

  “No, he attacked again last night. The girl survived, but she’s a mess, Marco. They don’t know if she’s going to make it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She didn’t tell him they couldn’t carry guns and she wouldn’t carry a taser. No need to worry him. “We’re going to interview Rianna Cooper’s boyfriend tomorrow at the Globe theatre.”

  Marco gave a nod. “Not sure what that is.”

  “According to Tank , the Globe theatre’s where Shakespeare staged his plays.”

  “Holy shit.”

  Peyton laughed. “Actually, this one was built in 1997, but it’s an exact replica of the original.”

  “What happened to the original?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to ask Tank.”

  “Are you going to get all Shakespearified while you’re there?”

  “Who knows, I might come back quoting Romeo and Juliet or something.”

  “Doesn’t that end badly?”

  “Most of them do.” She braced her chin with her fist. “I miss you.”

  He gave a sigh. “I miss you too, sweetheart. A lot.”

  “Tell me about your case.”

  “Later. What time is it there?”

  “Midnight. Are you still at work?”

  “Yeah, Carly quit. I don’t have a secretary again.”

  “She quit? You didn’t fire her?”

  “She didn’t give me the chance. She said you inspired her to quit.”

  “Me? How?”

  “Because you’re pursuing your dream.”

  Peyton lay her head back against the pillows. “Why do I feel so lonely then?”

  He gave her a sultry smile.

  “How’s my dog?”

  “Being spoiled by Abe. I hope you won’t mind that he’ll likely be the size of a Rottweiler when you return.”

  “Don’t let him make him fat, Marco.”

  He laughed. “I won’t. Shouldn’t you get some sleep?”

  “Yeah, in a minute. Talk to me until I drift off, okay?”

  “Where’s your roommate?”

  “She’s out with the cop from Scotland Yard. I don’t think she’s coming home tonight. They’ve been panting after each other since we landed.”

  “That’s pretty damn fast.”

  “You have no idea. Bambi is totally your type.”

  “My type?”

  “Yep, blond and buxom and blue eyed. Barbie doll beautiful. Your type.”

  He smiled again, sending her heart racing. “I don’t have a type, sweetheart.”

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  “Not anymore. You’re my only type.”

  Peyton giggled. “That was so good.”

  “I know. I’m smooth as chocolate, I am.”

  She snuggled down into the pillows. “Mm, such sexy talk, Captain D’Angelo.”

  Marco gave her an amused frown. “What sexy talk?”

  “Chocolate,” she purred, slowly closing her eyes.

  CHAPTER 10

  “I don’t want to stay here.” Charlie wrapped his arms around himself and shivered. The room had two twin beds and a window with wire mesh embedded in it. Besides that he got a shelf, a pair of rubber shoes without laces, two towels, a washcloth for brushing his teeth, a tube of toothpaste, a plastic cup, and two different sets of blue scrubs. When he used both sets, the attendants would provide him with two more.

  His mother ran her hands down his arms. “It’s only until you get well. They’re going to make you well here.”

  “Where’s Da?”

  “He couldn’t get away.”

  Charlie knew that wasn’t true. After the last incident at the school, his father feared him, didn’t want anything more to do with him.

  Who cares?

  Charlie flinched when Niles’s voice intruded in his thoughts. His mother caught it and her hands fell away.

  “They’ll make Niles leave you alone,” she said, dropping her voice, as if everyone here didn’t already know Niles talked to him.

  “I want to go home. Why can’t I go home?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “This is the only way, Charlie. You need help. We can’t do it anymore. We can’t protect you.”

  She meant they couldn’t protect everyone else.

  “I won’t do it again. I won’t fight back.”

  She gave him a grim half-smile. “I don’t think you can help it, can you now? I know you try, but it just doesn’t work, does it? Niles starts talking in your head and you do what he says.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  She stepped back from him. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I have to go. You’ll like it here. They have a football pitch.”

  Charlie frowned. When had his mother ever seen him play football? He sat on the bed and clasped his hands between his knees, shivering again. He hated it here.<
br />
  She came forward and kissed his forehead. “I’ll come up and see you during holiday.”

  He gave her a wounded look. During holiday? That was months from now.

  She’s never coming back. She’s abandoning you.

  “Holiday?”

  “Please don’t fret. It’ll be here before you know it.” She backed toward the door. “Get well, Charlie. Get well, darling.”

  He watched her back out of the room, then she turned and practically ran down the hallway. He curled over, wrapping his arms around his stomach. She was leaving him. Niles was right. She was never coming back.

  “Okay, bub,” came a male voice, and Charlie looked up to see a hulking man in blue scrubs standing in the doorway. He had a nametag on his chest. “Off wif ‘em duds and into your scrubs.” He tugged on his shirt as if Charlie couldn’t understand the words. He slid a plastic bucket over to Charlie. “Fold everyfin’ nice and neat and put it in here.”

  Charlie lifted his chin.

  Tell him to fuck off. Tell him to go screw himself.

  “Fuck off,” said Charlie in as strong a voice as he could muster.

  The attendant heaved a weary sigh. “Don’ make it be like that, bub. Don’ make me stripe you. It innit as much fun as you’d fink.”

  Charlie’s eyes widened. Was he serious?

  Let him try it, said Niles, but Charlie was sure the huge man wasn’t kidding.

  * * *

  A knock sounded at Marco’s door and Devan poked his head inside. “You trying to piss me off, D’Angelo?”

  “Sure. Why not.”

  “I told you to bounce this case over to Central.”

  “Take a seat, Adams. I hate having a lawyer loom over me. Makes my digestion all messed up.”

  Devan slumped into his regular napping chair. “I was up at 2:00, 4:00 and again at 5:30, so don’t play coy if you value your man parts. I’m not thinking straight.”

  “I think it was your man parts that got you into this predicament, if I remember right.”

  “D’Angelo!”

  “I’m not handing the case over to Central.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  Marco grabbed a paper out of the file he’d been reviewing and slid it across the desk to Devan. “The Webley Vickers is not the murder weapon. Ballistics confirmed it today. The Webley Vickers hasn’t been shot in ages.”