I’m not kidding or exaggerating, it really was a damned good cup of coffee.
"Well, Sam came up with a notion that our vics might be lycans or vamps, so we're meeting up with some corpse grabbers that have come up with a blood test to differentiate."
"Corpse grabbers?" Gerry raised a black bushy eyebrow at Quinn.
"Coroners, sir."
"Ah. Rather heavy term there, O'Reilly."
"I know. I just figured it was apt." Quinn shrugged and reddened.
"Oh, I didn't say it wasn't amusing. I merely called it heavy. Just remember we count on those corpse grabbers to help us do our jobs. Alienating them will only cause us problems later down the road. Catch my drift?"
"Yes, sir." Quinn shifted uncomfortably in his seat and I felt bad for him.
He wasn't a mean guy. He's not the sort that makes fun of others. He's really more the kind of guy who would step in and take the side of someone being called a name.
"So, we have the meeting with the priest, Sheila and James are checking on camera footage from the surrounding stores, Josh is looking into the blood typing kit, and here is the forensics report." I handed him the file with the reports and test results inside.
"Huh, says here we got all kinds of fingerprints and fibers including some believed to be from our killer. Nothing in the database to match those, though." He sighed and rubbed his thick hand over his eyes. "Nothing is ever easy in this stupid business."
"Anything on the vics? Do we have IDs yet?"
"Not yet. The clothes he leaves behind screams prostitute. The DNA on the clothing matches the pieces of people in the bathtubs. At least we've got that much. I'll have Grace ask her team to run DNA profiles to check for lycan/vamp status."
"Is it possible he's an Americans for a Were-Free America nutjob?"
"I don't know, Sam; I suppose anything is possible, but the AWFA doesn't really stand behind violence like this." Quinn held up his hands at my withering glance.
"No,” I hissed. “They just train nutjobs how to kill and then let them go in and ruin society while pretending they don't know them."
So maybe I wasn’t the best person to look at the organization with a neutral eye. Mostly because the AWFA was on my shit list.
"Don't let this get personal, Reece," Gerry cautioned.
"It's always going to be personal when someone wants to threaten my life because I got bit and can't be human anymore. I didn't choose this shit and it pisses me off that there are people who would kill me because of it." I took a deep shuddering breath and did my best to calm down.
I needed to run, my jaguar was so close to shifting again that anything could set her off. Too much stress always made me a little … well, shifty. Tonight, I would let her go. I'd give her free run on my land, surrounded—blessedly—by a large cement wall the original owners had put there. All twenty-six acres (twenty-five and 3/4, if you want to be technical) were walled in. I knew when I ran I couldn't climb them, even if I wanted to, because of how high they were.
The folks who started the orchard had slaves and this wall had been their way to prevent them from escaping. There had been a few diaries that came with the property explaining the history and telling the story of the land. It wasn't as horrible as I had been prepared for, but it still was quite sickening.
The Garretts were known as kind people in their day. Maybe it's just me, but I find those who didn't treat people as nothing more than workhorses a helluva lot kinder. Though, in those days, folks were considered kind if they kept families together. The Garretts did that and even paid their slaves some wages. Granted, they didn't pay much, but the fact they paid at all set them slightly apart from others.
There was a small group of houses on the property where the slaves lived that actually had proper stoves for heating as well as for cooking. Many of these cottages had fallen into ruin, but there were two that had been well preserved through the years. One contained a small diary that belonged to a young girl who had been sold to the Garretts by her uncle.
She talked about how her new owners had brought in professors to teach the slaves to read and write. My heart hurt to read it. I have always been of the opinion that human beings can't possibly own one another.
I hadn't learned about the past of my house until after the papers were signed. I don't know if I would have bought it if I had known everything prior to purchase. I still love my land, and my home, but I don't like that it was built on the backs of slaves. No matter how well treated they were for the time period they were still not treated as people.
Slavery is a very dark stain on the soul of humanity. Sadly, it's a stain that is still spreading to this day. Taking down sex slave rings had been something I'd helped with from time to time. Talk about heartbreaking work, seeing people shattered on a day to day basis wears on you. The agents that worked human trafficking day in and day out tended to burn out quick. There's only so much evil one can encounter before it starts to eat at your soul.
I'd been so lost in my thoughts I was only brought back into the case in front of me by Gerry's grunt.
"That's interesting." He squinted at the report and handed it to Quinn, pointing at a section.
I peeked over Q's shoulder.
"Does that say they were all drugged first?" Gerry asked him.
"Rohypnol. He may hate them, but there are drugs out there he could have used that would have made them pliable without rendering them nearly unconscious. It doesn't make sense."
"He didn't want to kill them but felt that he had to. Remember what Josh said he told the priest?" The answer hit me and I felt the need to blurt.
"What'd he say?" Gerry asked.
"Grisly told the priest he was a warrior of God and only doing what God wanted him to do." I really think I understood what made Grisly kill these women.
"And?"
"Don't you see, Q? He thinks he is an agent of the Lord, and as such he wants to slay the evil doers with mercy and love in his heart."
"So he's knocking them out before he tears them into pieces?"
"He's been feeding them, too," Gerry said quietly.
"What?" I felt even sicker than I had before.
"Stomach contents ... well, food that hadn't been completely processed in amongst the other, uh, bits, include steak, redskin potatoes, and carrots.”
Understanding hit and Quinn’s face turned ashen. “Jesus, he’s giving them a last meal."
“Yeah, it happens. What’s the big deal?” Gerry looked just as confused as me.
"He's administering last rites."
"Huh?" I turned to Quinn for an explanation.
"He’s giving them the same sort of chance for redemption that we give prisoners here in Alabama, as well as in other death penalty states. He doesn't just think he's saving the world, he thinks he is judge, jury, and executioner."
"How does he know they're lycans? How can he tell? I mean I can smell another shifter or a vampire, but how can he—” I broke off when I realized what we had missed.
We'd been thinking about how much he hated supernatural beings, but we hadn't stopped to think why.
"Sam, what's the matter?" Gerry looked at me but I couldn't speak.
Thoughts were whirling in my head and I had to get them straight before I could bring them up.
"Give her a second, Chief, she's thinking. See the smoke pouring out of her ears?"
If I could have stuck my tongue out I would have, but I was too busy with my thought train.
If Grisly's vics were all lycans or vampires that would mean he either could smell it on them or he followed them around and waited for them to shift. A shifter could go weeks without changing; a vamp could go even longer.
"We need to find out if all his vics are supers, ASAP," I fairly shouted.
Supers is a blanket term we sometimes used for all supernatural creatures, aka non-humans.
"Okay, I'll call Josh. Why?"
"If he’s killing hookers, how does he know they're supers? He could have followed th
em for weeks before killing them, but there had to be some way for him to know for sure they weren't human. The only way I can think of that being possible is if he is a shifter or vamp himself. Think about it; we know he's killed at least three lycans. Why would he only attack shifters?"
"We can assume someone is targeting lycans for three reasons. One, they lost someone to lycanthropy. Two, they watched a lycan attack and possibly kill someone. Three, they were bitten themselves." Gerry looked extremely uncomfortable.
He was spot on and it could be a bad situation for lycans, not to mention the super community at large, if the news got hold of this.
"Do you think this is deliberate?" I shuddered from the chilling thought.
If it was, if someone was this determined to cast a bad light on supers, then we were as good as screwed. Once the humans picked this story up, and blew the bed right off us, AWFA would run with it and make it sound as though Grisly was the hero and we were the villains.
I could see them now pointing at our dead hookers' photos and bringing up the fact that these women had sex with countless men and never told them they were infected. It wouldn't matter that the virus wasn't active if we weren't furry; they'd form a lynch mob and it'd be Salem all over again.
"I sure as hell hope not." Gerry swiped his massive brown hand over his face and brought it back up to pinch the top of his nose where it met his brow.
He looked far older than his forty-eight years. His black hair had started graying long ago and worry lines had deepened into wrinkles. He'd lost weight recently and his clothes hung limply on his tall frame. I was starting to worry about him.
He'd been fantastic to me when I was still getting used to things around the office. When those who hated supers came to him to complain about me he told them to stop being racist, though species-est would probably have been a better term, and he reiterated to them my arrest rate, which was higher than anyone in our department.
I owed it mostly to the fact that I couldn't let puzzles go until I solved them. I didn't like leaving anything unsettled or undone. Not even laundry, and everyone knows that laundry sucks.
"We have to go and meet with the preacher,” Quinn added. “Should we meet up again afterwards, Gerry?"
"Yeah, hopefully Josh will give me some more insight and the good father will give you some, too. Then, we can figure out where to go from there.”
"Sounds like a plan." I stood, cradling my mug with both hands, and walked to the door.
I stepped out and headed back to the break room to wash out my mug. I drank the remaining coffee from it, washed it, and grabbed two disposable to-go cups. I filled the travel cups with coffee and the appropriate cream and sugar for me and Quinn, then quickly walked to my desk to leave my ceramic mug there.
"Took you long enough," Quinn chided.
"Well, then, I guess you don't want your cup of coffee to go?" I held the cup over the wastebasket and acted like I was going to drop it in.
"I apologize. Thank you for my coffee, you wonderful, amazing, totally beautiful lady," Quinn said sweetly in the manner of a petulant schoolboy.
"You're welcome." I grinned.
Without another word we moved to the door and the parking structure beyond to go and interview the priest who had been asked to absolve our murderer.
Chapter 5
"IS IT BY THE EXPRESS OIL?”
"No, I think it's near Starbucks. I hate these chain stores."
"Holy shit, Sam, are you becoming a hipster?" By his shit eating grin I knew Quinn was just screwing with me.
"Yup, that's it exactly. Just remember, I was a hipster before there were hipsters. Also, watch the language, we're in God's parking lot."
"Sorry, God."
"Good man. Now, let's go talk to a priest about some whores."
"Sounds like a line from a western."
"Bad or good?"
"I don't know, let's find out." Quinn reached ahead and opened the heavy wooden door for me.
"Thank you."
"Welcome."
The church was gorgeous. Like many Catholic churches in Alabama it looked more like a cathedral than a church. The stone and woodwork was beautiful and gave it the feeling of being centuries old, even if it was just under a hundred.
The pews lined either side of an aisle created using different flagstone than what the rest of the floor was created with. The confessionals were at the front to the left of the altar along the wall.
I looked around for someone who worked in the church, but, aside from a little old woman who looked to be praying for someone, there was nobody there. I shrugged at Quinn and walked to the confessional. I stepped inside and pulled the olive colored velvet curtain closed behind me. I sat on the uncomfortable wooden seat and looked to my left at the little cut out to the other booth where the priest sat.
"Father? My name is Special Agent Samantha Reece. I was told someone here has some information about a man who has been killing women in the area." He was probably hoping for some juicy affair details and I'd most likely just burst his priestly bubble.
"Yes, that was me. I'm James Richmond. I took your killer's confession."
"Father, thank you for speaking with us and for breaking the seal of confession."
"I wouldn't have done so if I didn’t feel it was important. My superiors are of the same opinion, in that we believe your killer has just started and is in the grips of some religious delusion. He can't be allowed to run free hurting people the way he has."
"Oh, he's done more than hurt folks. He’s killed several women."
"So he said. I'm sorry to hear he has done such horrific things. I would have kept him here if I thought he was a little less dangerous. I have parishioners in and out all day and I don't want any of them targeted, so when he chose to run out I figured I wouldn't stop him."
"Probably smart that you didn't, padre. He isn't exactly in a delusion. We believe he's got a physical illness that causes extreme amounts of aggression. He didn't just stab or shoot a couple folks, he stripped them down into pieces, tiny bits, actually."
"Oh, my."
"That's a lot more polite than what I said when I first heard."
"I'll tell you anything I can."
"You recounted all of your conversation with the suspect to Officer Joshua Hahn, correct?"
"Yes, ma'am. I told him everything the man said to me, word for word. I have an eidetic memory."
"Excellent! Do you know which way the man went when he left here?"
"No, he didn't clue me in on any of his plans except he was going to kill more of these bad people he thinks God sent him to kill."
"Did he really seem to believe that God chose him to be His warrior?"
"Yes. He was absolutely certain his lot in life was to track down demons and destroy them. Should I alert the women in my flock?"
"No, I think that would be just a bit premature. The women he's targeting are believed to be prostitutes."
"I do have a couple working girls in here—”
"Not necessary to say anything. He's looking for a certain type of hooker."
"You mean shifters—like you?"
"What?"
"I can smell it on you. Cat of some sort, yes?"
"How did you—”
"It's a gift the Lord graced upon me. I can smell supers. Don't worry, I'm not some crazy. I don't think you guys are evil or unclean. I think you got poor lots in life."
"You're far kinder than the last priest I spoke with."
"Very few of us know about the different beings we share the world with. Those who are aware tend to stick with Old Testament thou shalt not suffer a witch to live crap. I don't find much difference between species and races. A black man is as much a person as a white, and a shifter is as much a person as a human."
"I'd love to hear more about your beliefs. I might even pop by one Sunday to hear what you really have to say about God and the bible." I doubted it, but having people accept me for being me was a rarity, especial
ly with the God squad.
Most of them really did think we deserved death for being different. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, religion was behind a lot of deaths, historically speaking. At one point in Europe's witch hunting history, redheads were hunted and killed after being labeled witches.
I wasn't a fan of organized religion, not since I was a kid and had been stuck with a foster family—for the third time—that were uber-religious. They made me kneel on a broomstick for hours and pray. To this day my knees hurt like hell when the rain rolls in. Add to that I'm now considered by most faith leaders to be a monstrous demon bent on destroying the world and you can see why religion and I were never going to get on well.
"If there is anything else I can tell you I'll call the Bureau office again."
"No worries." I slipped him my card through the opening. "Call me directly. This case takes priority for me."
"I'll be glad to help, Agent Reece. It was lovely chatting with you." I silently inhaled and passed his scent over my palate trying to ascertain what sort of creature he was.
Humans didn't have the ability to sniff us out. The fact that Richmond did made me think he wasn't entirely human. He may not even know it. He could be a partial vamp or shifter. It had been known to happen in the past. As I rolled his scent around it came up as nothing more than human. That surprised me some.
"It was great talking with you, too, Father. If he comes back in, please let me know immediately, and be very careful not to disagree too much with him."
"I will heed your advice, thank you. Oh, and Agent Reece?"
"Yes, sir?"
"He's not human. He's a shifter, like you."
"Oh, you were able to get his scent?"
"Yes, I won't admit it in court, you understand."
"His species won't even come up in court. It will never get mentioned."
"Thank you."
"No, Father, thank you. We will send a sketch artist down for you to work with." I smiled at him, stood, and left the confessional, allowing the curtain to drape back across the doorway behind me.
I walked toward Quinn, who was still standing at the back of the church.
"So, was he able to help us?"
Shifters: A Samantha Reece Mystery Book 1 Page 6