Known Devil

by Matthew Hughes

  Justin Gustainis

  Known Devil

  AN OCCULT CRIMES UNIT INVESTIGATION

  To Josephine Dougherty,

  dinosaur fan and baby woman.

  Hope you like it here, kid.

  “All sin tends to be addictive, and

  the terminal point of addiction

  is what is called damnation.”

  W. H. Auden

  “Criminals do not die by the hands of the law;

  they die by the hands of other men.”

  George Bernard Shaw

  “Revenge proves its own executioner.”

  John Ford

  I’ve never had a lot of use for elves. In my experience, they’re lazy and dumb – nothing like those drones in the stories, who supposedly work for the Fat Guy up north. I don’t like elves, and elves with guns I like even less. And when those guns are pointed at me – well, it’s like that Mafia guy on TV used to say: fahgettaboudit.

  But first, a few words from my partner.

  “So now him and this killer ogre are on top of the railroad car, dukin’ it out, haina? Bond can’t do any fancy karate moves with the train going forty miles an hour, but he’s holding his own, against this thing that’s about twice his size. You know how big fuckin’ ogres can get.”

  “Yeah, I sure as hell do. So do you, comes to that.”

  Karl Renfer took a sip of lightly microwaved Type A.

  “What Bond doesn’t know, cause he’s facing the wrong way, is that the train’s coming up fast on a tunnel…”

  Police union rules say we’re allowed one coffee break per shift, along with half an hour for dinner. Karl and I were taking the coffee break in our usual spot, Jerry’s Diner, although I was the only one at our table actually drinking coffee – Karl’s beverage preferences are a little different.

  It was just past 1am. Being open twenty-four hours, Jerry’s place gets a fair amount of undead trade, so the menu includes Type A, Type O, and an AB negative plasma that Karl says is overpriced. I was content – if that’s the word – with a cup of the dark roast that Jerry’s is infamous for. It’s not too bad with cream and sugar – a lot of cream and sugar.

  Yesterday had been our day off. Karl had spent part of it checking out the new James Bond movie, Skyfang, and I was half-listening while he told me about it.

  I gathered that Daniel Craig was fast replacing Sean Connery as Karl’s favorite actor to play Agent 007. I could see his point. Yeah, I watch those movies, too – but unlike Karl, I only see them once.

  We agreed that Craig was the first actor to play the role who looked like he might actually be a professional killer – and that’s what Bond is, when you get down to it. I’ve known a few real life-takers in my time, and thought that Craig had the attitude down cold, so to speak. Even if he did have a better tailor.

  It was just another Wednesday night, maybe a little quieter than usual. But that was before those two fucking elves came in and started waving guns around.

  One of them used a chair to climb onto a vacant table and started yelling, in that high voice they have, “Nobody move! Everybody freeze!”

  Good luck with that, shorty. Instead of acting like statues, everybody in the diner turned to see who the hell was making all the noise. Maybe that’s what the elf had really wanted, anyway.

  He looked typical for the species – around 4’6”, with the blond hair and pointed ears that they all have. I’ve seen a few try to pass for human by dying their hair and wearing it long enough to cover the ears, but they can’t do much about the fact that elves are what the PC crowd calls “vertically impaired”.

  This one was wearing jeans and a gray sweatshirt that said “College Misericordia” on the front. The part of my mind that wasn’t focused on the Colt Python he was holding in both hands wondered if he might’ve come by the shirt honestly.

  Even if he had attended Misery – as everybody calls it – I assumed the elf was a dropout. College Misericordia doesn’t graduate thieves – at least not deliberately. It’s true there are quite a few lawyers and politicians among their alums, but you can’t blame the college for that.

  The elf’s partner in crime was wearing a navy blue sport shirt and khakis. They fit him pretty well – you can find clothing in all sizes these days, from Pixie Extra Tiny to Ogre XXXXXL. This guy was pointing some kind of automatic at Donna, the cashier, who’d gone pale enough to pass for a vampire’s girlfriend.

  “Open the register!” the elf yelled. “Put the cash in this – just the bills, no coins!” He tossed her one of those fabric tote bags that the crunchy granola types do their grocery shopping with. Donna fumbled the catch, and the bag fell to the floor at her feet. I thought the elf was going to have a coronary. “Pick it up, bitch! Put the money in it quick, before I blow your fucking head off! Do it!”

  His buddy was still on the table, sweeping the room back and forth with the barrel of that big pistol. The Python fires a .357 Magnum cartridge, and it’s got quite a kick – I wondered if it had knocked the elf on his ass the first time he fired it. Assuming he ever had fired it.

  “Hands on the table!” he screeched at the customers. “Nobody move!”

  Even from twenty-some feet away, I could see that the elf’s eyes were bloodshot and bulging. I wondered if there was something coursing through his system besides adrenaline. If he’d been human, I’d have figured him for an addict of some kind. But apart from the fucking goblins – who’ve shown an unfortunate fondness for meth – human recreational drugs don’t have any effect on supernaturals. Just as well – some of them give us more than enough trouble as it is.

  Donna had finally got all the cash from the register into the canvas bag. The elf snatched it out of her hands, then turned and trained his gun on the customers, just like his buddy on the table was doing.

  “OK now, listen up!” Like we were gonna ignore him, under the circumstances. “I’m goin’ around the room now. When I get to your table, the men are gonna reach for their wallets slow and put ’em in the bag here. Then the bitches are gonna dump their purses out on the table, so I can see what you got inside. Anybody doesn’t do what they’re told, or who gives me any shit – I am gonna fuckin’ kill you and everybody with you, too!”

  He glanced toward the other elf, who was still on the table, nervously traversing the room with his gun.

  “You cool, man?”

  I thought he looked about as calm as Jell-O in an earthquake.

  “Yeah, I’m cool. Go get the fuckin’ money. I gotcha covered.”

  I wondered just how often these two losers had watched Red Pulp Fiction. Quentin Tarantino’s got a lot to answer for.

  “What’re you packing?” I murmured, just loud enough for Karl to hear me.

  “Straight silver. You?”

  “Silver and cold iron, mixed.”

  Silver bullets are good against some kinds of supes, like vamps and weres. But they’re useless on any members of the faerie family – including goblins, trolls, orcs… and elves. Karl’s gun would be useless if the shit hit the fan in the next few minutes.

  Cold iron, on the other hand, will take out any member of the faerie clan. The mixed load in my Beretta meant I’d have to double-tap each elf, to make sure he’d catch a bullet that would hurt him.

  But our situation here was kind of complicated.

  Cops are expected to protect the public at all times. That’s why we all pack a gun when we go out, even off-duty. But the public, especially the portion of it currently inside Jerry’s Diner, wouldn’t be well served by a bloodbath.

  Being undead gave Karl an edge that the elves didn’t know about. He’s faster than a human, and he’d be invulnerable to the bullets in the elves’ guns – assuming all they were packing was lead. But they mi
ght have loaded some silver rounds, too.

  Since we didn’t know what the elves’ ammo was, the smart move was for Karl and me to sit there like chumps and let those two little fuckers rob us, instead of risking a gunfight with all these civilians so close.

  But that posed a problem, too, and it was going to arise when the elf with the bag got to our table. Even if Karl and I were meek as mice, once we reached for our wallets the guns on our belts would become visible. God only knows what the elf, who was close to the edge already, would do when he saw our weapons. He might start shooting out of sheer panic.

  Besides, anything somebody else did could set one of these twitchy bastards off – anything. One of the customers could sneeze, or faint, or scratch an itchy armpit. Even worse, somebody might get a phone call.

  Karl and I were going to have to take action before something happened to push the situation out of control. We had to find some way to take these two assholes down, without anybody getting killed – especially us.

  We didn’t have long to think about it, either. The elf was just three tables away now.

  Then inspiration struck. At least, I hoped it was inspiration and not a sudden attack of stupidity.

  There were salt and pepper shakers on every table. When I was sure the two elves were looking elsewhere, I palmed the salt shaker and used my thumbnail to pry off the plastic stopper. About three ounces of salt flowed into my palm. I closed my fist, trying to hang on to as much of it as possible.

  Some species of supes are repelled by salt. Others aren’t. But nobody likes it you throw the stuff in their eyes.

  I was looking at Karl again. Vampires have super-acute hearing, so I knew he’d hear me when I whispered, “Double play. When I say ‘Please’, take out the one on the table.” Karl gave me a slight nod.

  It wasn’t long before the elf with the bag was standing in front of us. “Alright, come on, wallets,” he said tightly. “In the fuckin’ bag – let’s go.”

  I slowly turned toward him, then made my face scrunch up like I was about to cry. Like a third-grader who’s been called to the principal’s office, I said, “Pleeease.”

  Before the elf could do more than gape at me, Karl’s chair went over backwards as he came out of it vampire-fast. Half a second later, he was up on the table with the other elf before the little bastard even knew it.

  The elf standing in front of me looked up toward his pal – he couldn’t help himself. That’s when I threw the fistful of salt into his eyes.

  He screamed, dropped the bag, and brought his free hand up to cover his burning eyes. I reached over and grabbed his gun hand. Pointing the automatic away from me, I slammed his wrist down on the table, disarming him. With my other hand, I punched him in the throat.

  I heard a scream from the other elf and looked up. Karl had the Magnum now, while the elf was holding his gun hand against his chest, moaning. No surprise there – a broken wrist hurts like hell.

  My guy had gotten off easy. He was on the floor, eyes streaming, as he clutched his throat with both hands and tried to remember how to breathe.

  I stood up and pulled out the leather folder holding my badge and ID. “Police officer! We’re both police officers! Relax, folks, it’s all over.”

  We read both prisoners their rights, put them in cuffs – much to the discomfort of the elf with the broken wrist. – and called for backup. I was going to be spending the rest of my shift back at the station house. I looked forward to interrogating these two idiots once they’d been processed into the system. I wanted to know why elves – who, despite being shiftless and stupid, are normally peaceful creatures – were trying to take down Jerry’s Diner.

  I never did finish my coffee. Small loss, really.

  The paramedics checked both suspects out at the scene. With my guy, they gently rinsed his eyes with a boric acid solution, determined that he was breathing OK, and declared him fit to be arrested. The other elf’s wrist was broken, just as I’d figured. One of the EMTs put an inflatable cast on it and politely asked Karl not to handcuff that arm again. So the two of them went off to Mercy Hospital’s ER together, the elf’s undamaged wrist cuffed to one of Karl’s.

  Karl hadn’t complained about taking the damaged elf to the hospital. He wouldn’t be allowed to take part in any interrogation, anyway. The Supreme Court had ruled in Barlow v. Maine almost forty years ago that anything a suspect said in the presence of a vampire – police officer or not – was inadmissible, since there was no way to establish whether vampiric Influence was used to induce cooperation.

  Cops have learned to be careful about this kind of stuff. Nobody wants to see some scumbag’s conviction overturned because his lawyer claims there was a vampire three doors down the hall while the scumbag was answering questions.

  That meant the other elf was all mine – sort of. The Scranton PD policy says that no detective is ever supposed to be alone in an interrogation room with a suspect. A lot of other police departments around the country have the same rule. In years past, some cops had been careless or stupid and actually been taken hostage by supposedly harmless prisoners. So now you’re supposed to have at least two detectives present to carry out an interrogation.

  Since Karl was at the hospital with the elf he’d maimed, I’d have to get another detective to join me while I talked to our suspect, who hadn’t yet asked for a lawyer. His name was Thorontur Carnesin, according to his driver’s license.

  Yeah, lots of them have driver’s licenses. You won’t be surprised to learn that they mostly drive subcompacts.

  When I looked inside the Occult Crimes squad room, the only detective around was Marty Sefchik. I knew his shift would start in about an hour – which was when his partner, Carmela Aquilina, usually showed up. Unlike Carmela, Sefchik often came in early. I heard he and his wife didn’t get along so well.

  Sefchik was looking at the early edition of the Times-Tribune, but he looked up when I appeared in the squad room door.

  “Hey, Stan, what’s up? I hear you and Karl almost got taken off the count by a couple of fuckin’ trolls with slingshots or something.”

  “They were doing a little better than slingshots, asshole,” I told him. “One had a 9mm Walther, and the other bastard was packing a Colt Python.”

  He whistled. “Serious iron.”

  “Uh-huh. And they were elves, not trolls.”

  “Get the fuck outta here – elves? When did they get all badass?”

  “I don’t know, but I was just about to ask one that very question. Wanna sit in?”

  “Fuck, yeah. Gotta be more fun than the paper.”

  “Almost anything is. OK, come on.”

  The interrogation rooms are ten feet by ten, with furniture consisting of a scarred wooden table and a few beat-up chairs. A big iron ring is screwed onto the top of each table, and a suspect under interrogation gets one wrist handcuffed to the ring. Having a hand free allows the suspect to write or hold paperwork, but makes it pretty hard to commit mayhem. And that table is bolted to the floor.

  Thorontur Carnesin had been sitting bent over, with his head resting in the crook of his shackled arm. But he sat up quick enough when we came in. Sefchik and I each pulled up a chair across the table from him.

  The elf didn’t look too good. I wasn’t surprised that he had the reddest eyes this side of Transylvania – not after the salt I’d thrown in his face. But he was sweating, and it wasn’t warm in the room, which gets AC pumped in just like the rest of the building. I also noticed some tremor in his hands that hadn’t been present in the diner. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been able to hold the damn gun steady.

  If this had been a human, I’d have said he was strung out – needing a fix of something and needing it bad. But supes don’t do drugs. Give or take the fucking goblins.

  “How ya doin?” I said. “We’ve met before, although we weren’t introduced. I’m Detective Sergeant Markowski, and this is Detective Sefchik.”

  “Yeah, hi,” the elf said. His ri
ght hand actually moved a couple of inches from the shackle, as if he’d intended to shake hands. I guess he bore no ill will for what happened in Jerry’s Diner.

  The fact his right hand was shackled meant he was a leftie, like a lot of elves are. We always leave their pen hand free, in case they feel like writing a confession.

  “You’ve been advised of your rights,” I said. “I know that, since I’m the one who did it. You understand that you don’t have to talk to us without a lawyer present.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I know. It’s cool.”

  “Your name’s Thorontur,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  “People call you ‘Thor’?”

  “Yeah – how’d you know?”

  “Lucky guess,” I said. “Mind if we call you that? It’s less of a mouthful than ‘Thorontur’.”

  “Yeah, sure. Whatever. Listen, dude, you gotta–”

  “Don’t call me ‘dude’. It’s ‘Detective’,” I said.

  “OK, sorry. Thing is, I’m feelin’ real bad, OK? I gotta see a doc, have him give me somethin’.”

  “We might be able to help you with that,” Sefchik said. “But, we call a doctor, you know, first thing he’s gonna ask is what’s wrong with the patient. So, how’re you feeling bad, exactly? You got the flu, or something?”

  “Naw, it ain’t that. I need some meds, you know?”

  A junkie. The little bastard was acting just like a human going through withdrawal. And that just wasn’t possible.

  “What kind of medication are we talkin’ about, Thor?” I said. “You under a doctor’s care right now?”

  “No, dude,” he said. “It’s just that–”

  My right palm slapped the table, hard. “I told you not to call me ‘dude’. I’m not gonna tell you again.”

  Thor jumped a little, which is what I’d intended. “Sorry, uh, Detective,” he said. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. It’s just how I talk, you know?”

  “Not in here, you don’t,” I said.