Shadow of the Moon: A Fantasy of Love, Murder and Werewolves

by Kwen Griffeth

  “What’s this dude, as you call him, look like?” Trakes asked.

  “Oh man, he’s big and dark. I mean he’s a dark dude.”

  “Are you saying he’s African American?”

  “No, no, he’s not black, man, he’s dark. He’s dark like Satan. Like the devil himself, man. His whole aura is dark, man. He’s a dark dude.”

  “What color was his hair?” Trakes sighed.

  “What color, color of his hair, I don’t know, man. He’s a dark dude. He stood in the shadows.”

  “Did you see his eyes?”

  Cat shook his head violently, “No man! He was in the shadows. He was dark. That’s all I know.”

  “Was he tall?”

  “Yeah, he was tall.”

  Stephens looked at the two officers, proud he had finally gotten a question correct.

  “What was he wearing?” The female asked. He’d forgotten her name.

  “Wearing? You mean like clothes?”

  “Yeah, like clothes.”

  Cat thought and his face pained with effort. He looked from one to the other.

  “You won’t believe me.”

  “I won’t? Try me.”

  “He wore a robe.”

  “A robe? Like a bathrobe?”

  “No, man,” Cat shook his head. “Like a robe a monk would wear. It was dark, long, all the way to his feet, and it had a hood. Yeah, that’s why I didn’t see his eyes.”

  Stephens brightened again. Correct answer number two. Trakes’ expression didn’t change. Meeker looked bored.

  “The hood was up. That’s why I couldn’t see him. He was a dark monk, man.”

  “This is a waste of time,” Trakes said and stood to leave.

  “What about Stephens?” Meeker asked.

  “I couldn’t care less,” the agent said. “He’s your property. You brought him in.”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Stephens was horrified. He reached across the table and took Trakes’ arm.

  “Please, you can’t just walk away. That dude will kill me, just like Rose.”

  Trakes turned to Meeker and asked, “Rose is the one chewed up?”

  “Yeah, and if idiot here would get around to telling his story you would see why I brought him in.”

  Trakes sat back down and looked at Stephens.

  “Last chance,” she warned. “If I stand again, I’m out of here.”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll tell ya. After the dude asked us about Eddie, which we didn’t know, he said we better find out and find out fast. That’s when the dude went after Rose.”

  “That makes no sense at all,” Trakes said and started to rise.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Stephens pleaded. “It does, it does. Rose told the dude where to get off. You know what I mean? I mean Rose told him to get the f...”

  “I get it,” Trakes barked. “Tell me what happened.”

  “The dude attacked him. He said he only needed one of us, and he attacked Rose.”

  Stephens shuddered as he remembered the attack, and his watery eyes teared more.

  “You saw this guy, the one you’re calling dude, this dark monk, attack your friend?” Trakes asked.

  “Yeah. Well, kind of.”

  She rolled her eyes and silently prayed for strength.

  “What did you see?”

  “I saw Rose run down the alley, and the dude started after him. I waited and was gonna head out of there, but Rose is... was a friend. I ran after him and when I got to the end of the alley, there was this wolf. A huge black wolf, and he was tearing Rose apart like a stuffed doll. It was horrible. That wolf had a hold of Rose and was shaking his head from side to side, blood going everywhere, and poor old Rose, who didn’t do nothin’ to nobody, was screaming and crying. Then that wolf threw him to the ground and chomped on Rose’s throat. I seen him rip the throat right out.”

  “That had to be horrible,” Trakes said, feeling a touch of sympathy for Stephens.

  “That wasn’t the worst of it,” the man said. “That wolf, and I don’t know where it came from, it looked right at me. I swear it grinned at me. His eyes, they were green, and he grinned at me. Then he trotted off down the alley and I was left all alone with what was left of Rose.”

  Trakes looked at Meeker, and the detective arched his eyebrows.

  “Please,” Stephens started crying. “Don’t make me go back out there. Don’t let the wolf get me.”

  Trakes stood up, touched Cat’s arm, and looked at the man.

  “You got family out of state anywhere?”

  “Yeah, I got cousins in Maine.”

  “Can you get there?”

  “I got no money. Not for travelin.”

  “Listen to me, Stephens,” she said as gently as she could. “I’m not going to be able to get funding for you to be put up in a hotel with an armed guard. I’ll get you three hundred dollars. That will put you on a bus and get you out of the city, at least. That’s the best I can do.”

  She turned to Meeker, “Keep him here, please, until I can get the funds?”

  He nodded.

  They left the man sobbing in the room.

  “Where you gonna get three hundred? Hubbard isn’t gonna allow that.”

  “Where do you think I’m going to get it? ATM advance on my Visa.”

  “You’re a soft heart, Trakes.”

  “Don’t I know it. Where’s the body?”

  “You don’t want to see that body. I warned you before, this one’s worse.”

  “You’re right, I don’t want to see it, but I’ve got to.”

  “Come on, I’ll carry you to the morgue.”

  Trakes told herself she was prepared to see the body. She reminded herself she had seen mangled bodies before. She had walked through what was left after a bus full of gamblers rolled over on the way home from a casino. She had helped FAA investigators measure the wreckage of a small commuter plane. She had walked with DEA agents through the mess of a meth lab explosion. She told herself the entire distance to the morgue she was ready.

  She wasn’t.

  Taking shallow breaths, she slowly walked around the body. The damage rendered some parts of the body unrecognizable. In other places, the bite marks were clear and almost pristine.

  “Have you requested a wildlife specialist to examine this?” she asked Meeker.

  “Not yet. Wanted to see what you thought before we got too deeply involved.”

  “Stephens said he saw a wolf do this.”

  “Stephens is a dope addict who could have just as well said Santa Claus did this.”

  “Yeah, he could have, but he didn’t. He said a wolf, and we’re running on the assumption a self-appointed wolf hunter did Ferreira. Could this be a wolf getting even?”

  “Oh, come on,” Meeker blustered.

  “I’m just saying.” Trakes turned to face Meeker. “Get a hold of the zoo. I want someone who knows wolf bite marks to check this out. Have them tell us what they think.”

  “How soon do you want it?”

  She glanced at the body, then again faced the detective.

  “Now, today, as soon as possible,” she said. “Jerry, we’ve been on this less than a week, and we got two bodies. I don’t know what’s going on, but I want it stopped. Don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I guess we gotta,” Meeker nodded. “But it’s kind of nice having the bad guys whack each other. It’s sort of like an area beautification program.”

  “Sometimes I forget what a Neanderthal you are.”

  Meeker smiled and spread his hands, “And here I am trying to be civic minded.”

  Trakes shook her head.

  “What are you going to do while I call the zoo?” the detective asked?

  “I’m going to invite a professor to dinner.”

  “What? So you did meet a man in the country.”

  She shook her head again, “No, nothing like that, but I’m going to ask him to examine the body and view the tape of Cat.”

  “What? He’s a college
professor. What’s he gonna add?”

  “He’s a werewolf expert. Maybe he can make sense out of what Cat told us. I mean, if he’s such an expert, wouldn’t he had seen and heard this stuff before?”

  “A werewolf expert and you managed to say that with a straight face,” Meeker smiled. “He’s good looking, isn’t he?”

  Trakes sighed, “You have no idea.”

  “Single?”

  “And planning to stay that way, I think.”

  Three hours later, Lloyd arrived via helicopter, and Meeker and Trakes met him at the JFK Helipad. The man moved with ease out from under the rotor wash created by the still rotating blades. Unlike most who disembark a newly landed helicopter, he did not bend as if he was concerned with getting decapitated. He stood tall, dressed in dark blue trousers, a white shirt, and a black jacket, and looked from Trakes to Meeker and back again. The only part of him affected by the prop wash was his hair, and the wind-blown look made him sexier in Trakes’ eyes. She couldn’t help a sigh and was glad the slowing whine of the engine hid it from Meeker.

  “It’s good to see you again, Agent Trakes,” Lloyd smiled and extended his hand.

  “And you, professor. Allow me to introduce Homicide Detective Gerald Meeker with the NYPD.”

  Lloyd gave a slight bow, extended his hand, and said, “Detective.”

  Meeker shook the man’s hand, saying, “Call me Jerry.”

  “Jerry it is. Please call me Alwyn.”

  Lloyd turned back to Trakes and asked, “You said you had something you wanted me to see?”

  “Yeah, two things, actually.”

  Lloyd arched an eyebrow, and Trakes felt a flutter in her stomach. She focused.

  “One of them is pretty nasty. It’s the remains of a reported werewolf attack.”

  Lloyd gave a single nod of his head.

  “And the other?”

  “The guy who reported the attack.”

  Again, a single nod.

  “I suggest the remains first,” Meeker said. “Then maybe dinner and a movie.”

  Lloyd didn’t understand, “A movie?”

  “We have the interview on tape. You can watch it at your leisure. I don’t think you want to eat and then view the deceased.”

  “I see,” Lloyd nodded. “I will follow your lead, detective.”

  If they expected the professor to be put off by the sight of Rose, they were disappointed. If they thought he would be squeamish, they were wrong.

  What was left of Rose lay under a sheet. It was rolled into an unused section of the autopsy bay and lifted onto an examination table. Many of the tables were already occupied and patiently waiting for their procedure to begin. Rose had already been processed and was simply waiting. Hopefully the remains, such as they were, would be claimed by family and thus save the city the cost of a pauper’s burial.

  As if he had been looking at remains for most of his life, the professor tugged on a pair of latex gloves, covered his mouth and nose with an impregnated paper mask, and pulled down the sheet. He bent over the body and inspected it. From time to time, he’d mumble sounds that neither Trakes nor Meeker knew the meaning of.

  As she watched him, Trakes thought the man displayed more emotion grading papers. He took no notes and made no comments to her. The body did not intimidate him, and he bent close a few times to get a clear look or moved parts of the body in order to see other areas. She watched those blue ice eyes, and not for a moment did they show emotion outside of curiosity.

  For one brief moment, when he was across the body from her, he glanced up and met her gaze. What his expression said she didn’t know as the lower half of his face was covered. But she realized, in that brief glance, he had seen this type of death before. The realization unsettled her.

  When he had finished, Lloyd straightened, removed the gloves and mask, then raised a hand to get the attention of a lab technician.

  “Can I help you?” the man asked.

  “Can you tell me if labs and blood work was drawn for this man?”

  “I don’t have that information on me. I’d have to look in the file. I wasn’t told to have it available.”

  Lloyd raised his hands to lower the defensiveness creeping into the technician’s voice.

  “No, of course you weren’t. No problem.”

  Lloyd removed a wallet from his pants pocket, extracted a card and gave it to the technician.

  “If you would be so kind, here is my email address,” he said. “When the results are in, forward a copy to me.”

  Uncertainty colored the technician’s face.

  “I’m not sure I’m allowed to do that.”

  “It will be fine,” Lloyd smiled. “I have been invited to the dance by the FBI.”

  He nodded toward Trakes.

  “It’ll be fine,” she agreed. “I’ll approve the release of information.”

  Relieved of responsibility, the technician shrugged, “Works for me.”

  Lloyd turned back to the tech, “One other thing. If it wasn’t done, swab the wounds, the bite marks.”

  “What are we looking for?”

  “DNA,” Lloyd said.

  “DNA? From a dog?”

  “Sammy, just do what the professor wants,” Meeker ordered.

  Sammy, the technician, looked at Meeker and remarked, “You guys get weirder every case.”

  “Just trying to keep up,” Meeker replied.

  Sammy walked away, muttering.

  “Thank you, Detective,” Lloyd said.

  Meeker replied with wave of his hand.

  The trio sat at a picnic table just inside Central Park, and while Meeker and Trakes consumed large New York hot dogs, Lloyd drank bottled water.

  “I have to tell you, professor,” Meeker said around a mouthful of dog, “the way you took to that examination, I never thought it would put you off your feed.”

  “Oh, it is not the examination,” Lloyd said. “I am particular about what I put into my body. I’m afraid what you are eating does not pass the test.”

  “He only eats real meat,” Trakes interjected.

  “Hey, a hot dog is meat,” Meeker defended.

  “They are not,” Lloyd closed the discussion.

  Forty-five minutes later, the three sat in a suite at the Hyatt adjacent to JFK. They were in the room reserved for Lloyd by Miranda. Trakes had brought a laptop computer with the appropriate cables and attached the machine to the large screen television in the room. They sat in stuffed chairs and watched the interview with Cat Stephens.

  Again, Lloyd took no notes and watched without making comment. Meeker watched the witness and clucked, snorted and made comments to himself about Cat’s mental state.

  Trakes allowed herself the liberty of repeated glances at Lloyd. She justified this by telling herself she wanted to note his reactions. In truth, she liked looking at him. During several of those glances, she caught him looking at her. Each time, she quickly looked away, and each time, her blood pressure spiked. Once, she held his gaze, and he looked at her with the same hunger Meeker had displayed for his hotdog. Her throat tightened, color rose to her cheeks, and a fine film of perspiration covered her body. She looked away.

  Lloyd watched the interview twice, and as the images of the trio turned to snow, he turned to Trakes.

  “I’d like to see the alley where this attack took place. Would it be possible tomorrow?”

  “We could take you tonight, if you want,” Meeker offered.

  “No,” the professor said with a shake of his head. “It has been a long day, and I believe I will turn in.”

  “I heard there is a full moon tonight,” Meeker chided. “Maybe you want to stay indoors?”

  “Ah. You have heard the rumor that werewolves get restless during the full moon?”

  “I believe I watched it in a movie or two,” the big detective continued the jest.

  “Don’t believe everything you see in the theaters, Detective.”

  “You mean the full moon’s
effect on werewolves?”

  “No,” Lloyd said, “that being indoors protects you.”

  Meeker tried a weak smile. Lloyd did not.

  “Good night,” he said. “Pick me up after breakfast?”

  As they rode the elevator down, Meeker turned to Trakes and asked, “I like him. He reminds me of me in my prime. What’s going on with the two of you?”

  “Nothing is going on with us, much to my disappointment,”

  Trakes sighed. “Maybe I’ve lost my touch. I keep sending the signals, he keeps ignoring them. I can’t get the man to ask me out.”

  “So why don’t you go back up there and invite him out? Say, for drinks? It is the way things are done nowadays. Women can ask guys out. The two of you are single, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Both attractive and healthy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Both alone in New York? Only the greatest city in the world in which to fall in love, or just have a wild night of sex, I might add.”

  “I didn’t realize you were such a romantic, Meeker.”

  “Romantic, hell. I just want you to get your mind back on the job. As long as you’re focused on this guy, you’re no good to me.”

  Trakes shook her head, and said nothing.

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?” Trakes said.

  “Well, are you going to go back up there and ask the guy out for drinks?”

  Trakes snorted a laugh, “All he drinks is water.”

  Meeker shrugged, “So invite him out to watch you drink. I know guys that would buy tickets just to sit and watch you drink.”

  She smiled and shook her head, “I doubt that.”

  “Harrison,” Meeker volunteered.

  “No thanks.”

  They reached the lobby and the detective stepped out and blocked the doorway.

  “I’m serious,” he said. “Go back up there and ask the man out. Hit the top of the Empire State Building. Walk along the river front, take in a show, I don’t care. Hell, with the heat the two of you generate just standing next to each other, you’ll probably never leave the room. I’ll bet he’s sitting there, wishing he’d had the balls to ask you out. Do the man a favor.”

  Trakes looked at the ceiling, twelve feet above the floor of the lobby. She studied it as if she could see through the eighteen floors separating her from Lloyd.