by C. J. Pinard
The General nodded and removed his cap, sitting as instructed. “Mr. Blackwell, I’m here about your son.”
Jim couldn’t hide his surprise. “Is that so? Do you have some information for me?”
General Frost’s usually confident appearance wavered a little bit, bordering on sheepish. “Yes, Jim. But it will require that you keep somewhat of an… open mind.”
“I am all ears, General. I just want to find out what happened to Paul, and get the son-of-a-bitch who killed him,” he said, clearing his throat to stay the sob that wanted to jerk up out of his chest.
The General nodded. “Well, sir, first I need to ask: Do you know what kind of work we do at our base in New Mexico?”
Jim thought for a minute, then replied, “Yes, you do tests on aircrafts, and I hear you do some top-secret investigations regarding craters in the earth out there.”
“Yes. All of that is true, but there are a very small number of us who are actually in charge of investigating… the strange and unusual. It’s our job to keep things that Americans cannot make sense of away from the public eye.”
Jim cocked his head to the side, interested, but serious. “Such as?”
The General looked hesitant. “Open mind, right, Jim?” At Jim’s nod, the General took a deep breath. “Extraterrestrial sightings, succubae, werewolves, shapeshifters, and vampires.”
Jim let a mirthful laugh. “C’mon, General, be serious with me here. I can handle it.”
General Frost measured Jim with a grave look. “I am being serious.”
At the General’s silence, Jim’s face also grew sober and all the blood drained from his face. “You aren’t joking, are you?” The General shook his head and Jim swallowed hard. “Tell me everything, Alexander.”
As Jim Blackwell looked around the boardroom, he spotted his chosen five: His two highest ranking FBI agents, Adam Swift and Gary Hall, and the three Special Agents in Charge (or, SACs) of the three (supernaturally) busiest areas of the country: San Francisco, Chicago, and New Orleans.
All the agents were silently staring at Jim as the boardroom door opened and General Frost walked in carrying a large metal suitcase. Jim smiled, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. He smoothed back his short black hair, then put his hands in the pockets of his suit pants.
“General Frost, thank you for coming,” Jim said.
The General removed his hat and nodded at Jim, silently coming to stand next to him.
Jim started, “Gentlemen, thank you for coming to this meeting. Today we are here because as Assistant Director, I have received permission to start a new sub branch of the D.O.J. It’s going to be called ‘The Bureau of Supernatural Investigation’ and you five have been chosen to be a part of it.”
The group let out a gasp and began murmuring amongst themselves.
Jim held up a hand. “Look, I know it sounds strange, but please hear us out. By the end of this meeting, not only will you have hard proof that we have a great need for this branch, you will feel the swell of pride knowing you are part of making history.
“Many of you know my son, Paul, was murdered three months ago here in D.C. His killer is still at large, and I now believe – no, I know – that he was killed by a vampire.”
The SAC of the Chicago office, a young man named Al Cartwright, laughed. “C’mon, Jim, with all due respect, I think your grief is clouding your judgment here.”
“Let me show you something, Al.” Jim walked to the suitcase the General had brought and entered a code into the scrolling lock, and the suitcase unlocked with a click. Raising the lid, he pulled out a brown paper sack about the size of a bowling ball, although it appeared to be quite light. He set the sack on the boardroom table and carefully removed its contents. He held a clean bony skull of a vampire up in both hands, careful to keep it from dropping.
“What in the hell is that?” Al asked, mortified.
The only difference the skull held from a normal human one was a large set of fangs where the eyeteeth should be. They were still very sharp.
“This, Al, is a vampire skull. The General and his men at the base in New Mexico collect these types of things.” He turned to face the General. “General Frost, where did you get this particular skull?”
The General cleared his throat. “A few of my airmen were out on the town one night and this thing attacked one of them.” He pointed at the skull. “One of my airmen used his service weapon to shoot the thing, but it didn’t stay down for long. He had the body in the back of the van to bring to us, believing it to be dead, when it recovered from its wounds and killed two of my men before the driver was able to shoot it again. Fortunately, my airman also had a buck knife on his belt and went through the arduous task of decapitating it while it was down. The van was a bloody mess.” He ended by shaking his head and letting out a small shudder.
Everyone in the room sat as still as statues. In the deathly quiet, you could almost hear their hearts beating.
“I thought that would get your attention,” Jim said with an amused look. He turned around and grabbed a stack of photographs while the agents passed around the skull, examining it, some of them putting their fingers to the sharp points of its teeth.
Jim laid a series of six photographs on the table.
The General grabbed the skull and carefully put it back in its sack, placing it back in the suitcase.
Jim said, “Take a look at these. In the first photograph, you will see a man. In the very last one, you will see a wolf. Look what happens in the four photographs in between.”
The men got up and gaped at the photographs of a shapeshifter transforming before the camera’s watchful eye. They let out a variety of curses.
“These cannot be real,” Agent Swift piped up. Special Agent Adam Swift was a seasoned agent out of the San Francisco office. In his late forties, he was a short, squat man with thinning brown hair, but a friendly smile. He was also damn good at his job, and had no unsolved cases.
“Oh, but they are, Agent Swift,” said Jim.
Agent Swift shook his head. “I need a cigarette.”
“One more, then we’ll let you go,” Jim said. He carefully stacked the photos and put them back in the suitcase, then removed a strange piece of metal and another photograph. He handed the metal to the first agent, who examined it, then passed it to the next.
Jim raised an eyebrow. “Ever seen anything like that?” he asked to no one in particular.
Nobody answered.
“That is a piece of an alien aircraft our men are investigating at the base in New Mexico. Best they can tell, it’s some sort of futuristic alloy material not yet known to us. Now, look at this.” He passed around a photograph of a strange creature with a large head and abnormally large eyes. It had no nose and a very small mouth, and a very thin body lacking sexual organs.
Adam Swift gawped at the photo then back up at Jim. “I’m really gonna need that smoke now.”
PART I: SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA – 1946
Chapter 2
∞∞∞
Special Agent Anthony Bianchi sat at his small desk in the Seattle, Washington FBI field office, where he had been hired five years earlier as a Special Agent. He was intently studying the photographs of a murder that occurred on a local Navy base. As he placed the photographs in neat order, he put his knuckles to his lips, his brow furrowed in concentration.
“Tony, a word?”
Agent Bianchi lifted his dark head to look in the direction of the voice. His boss, Special Agent in Charge Shane Green, was calling him from his office.
“Yeah, boss?” he asked at the doorway of the SAC’s office.
SAC Shane Green was a tall, red-haired man with a thin build. Tony was convinced he only owned three suits; a brown one, a blue one, and a black one.
“Have a seat, Tony,” SAC Green said.
Agent Bianchi nodded, sitting.
“So the San Francisco field office needs agents. How do you feel about going to California?”
“I would love that, sir,” he replied.
SAC Green smiled wide. “Great, just great. Start packing then, you’re to report in two weeks.”
Agent Bianchi stood and smiled, reaching out a hand to shake. “Thank you, sir.”
Exiting the office, he grinned to himself, happy to get back to California and the coven he’d left over two decades ago.
∞∞∞
Two weeks later, Agent Bianchi parked his car in the lot of a small square brick building in downtown San Francisco. He narrowed his eyes at the structure and pondered why it was so… unremarkable. The FBI Building in Seattle had been a tall, grand design with mirrored windows. He thought this building resembled an oversized outhouse.
He exited his large beige Chevy and made his way to the door, which was just as unremarkable, save for an address number: 2200. He glanced at the number, then at the piece of paper in his hand. As soon as he opened the door, he was greeted immediately.
“Anthony Bianchi?” the man said, holding out his hand.
“Yes, that’s me,” he replied, shaking the man’s proffered hand.
The short man had a smoldering cigarette in his left hand and wore a friendly smile. “Adam Swift. Nice to meet you.”
Adam led the way to a small room that looked much like an interrogation room and indicated for him to sit.
“Cigarette?” Adam asked as he also sat.
Tony shook his head. “No thanks, I don’t smoke.”
Adam took a long drag then tapped an ash into a heavy glass ashtray, setting it there to smolder. “So what did your SAC tell you when he informed you to report here?”
“That they needed agents in the San Francisco field office,” Tony replied matter-of-factly.
Agent Swift nodded. “I see.” He paused for a few seconds while Tony studied him. “So they didn’t tell you we’ve started a separate branch of the D.O.J.?”
“Well yes, he may have mentioned a sub-branch of the FBI, or I suppose, the D.O.J. for that matter. What’s this about?”
Adam took a deep breath, then began to cough. When he had regained his composure, he said, “The D.O.J. has started a branch called the Bureau of Supernatural Investigation. It’s something you’re going to have to keep an open mind about.”
Internally, Tony smiled. He was wondering when they’d catch on to the existence of the supernatural. He’d had plenty of experiences with vampires and shapeshifters in his seventy-plus years, but he feigned innocence. “What do you mean by ‘supernatural’, Agent Swift?”
Adam picked up the smoldering cigarette and took another long drag, measuring Tony with a serious stare. After blowing a long stream of smoke out, he replied, “Vampires, shapeshifters, werewolves, and the like.”
Tony’s eyes got big and he laughed, keeping up the ruse. “Seriously?”
Adam nodded. “Yes, apparently the Bureau thought you were cut out to handle it.” He stared intently at Tony. “So, are you?”
Tony shrugged, appearing to be indifferent and open-minded. “Sure, I’ll investigate whatever the government wants to as long as they keep paying me.”
It was hard to act so aloof when inside he was so excited he almost peed himself. He couldn’t believe he was actually going to get paid to investigate the supernatural, when as of now, he was only receiving immortality for doing the very same thing. He had to suppress a chuckle.
“Oh, good. Because we already have a job. There’s a dead body at the city morgue we’ve got to go look at.”
“Gah… dead bodies. Not my favorite. But lead the way, Agent Swift.”
Adam crushed out his cigarette and eyed Tony speculatively, thinking he’d been a little too accepting of the new agency and its odd assignment. Then he chalked it up to youth, thinking maybe he was just more open-minded than Adam had been at first, since there were so many movies and radio programs out with monsters and the like.
The truth was, Adam had almost had a heart attack that day in the boardroom at the FBI Headquarters when Director Blackwell had told him he was going to head up the San Francisco division of the BSI. He couldn’t believe his ears. He’d been working for the government his whole adult life, and was good at his job. He hardly had any unsolved cases, but the ones that were unsolved, he had to admit, were strange. After he’d had some time to think it through, he had pulled out his file of cold cases and had gone through them. He’d begun to realize that the Justice Department’s idea to start investigating these things wasn’t so far-fetched. The unsolved cases – all three of them – were the ones that kept him up at night. Two murders and a missing person’s case – were all under very strange circumstances.
The first was a grisly killing that took place in Golden Gate Park. The victim had been found with his throat ripped out, his head practically torn off. He was a local man with no family, who had just gotten out of the Army, having served his time in the early stages of World War II. The police were called in the early morning of dawn, while the low-lying fog was still sitting along the walking trails of the park where an older couple walking their dog made the horrific discovery. SFPD had determined it was most likely an animal attack. But that never sat right with Adam Swift. Wild animals did not wander into Golden Gate Park, even in the early morning deserted hours, but he could never put his finger on it.
The second was a simpler case, but just as bizarre. A body was found completely drained of blood in the back alley of McGuire’s Irish Pub off of Polk Street. The medical examiner couldn’t figure out how the blood had been drained, as there were no cuts or wounds on the young girl, yet during the autopsy, it was determined that she contained less than two pints of congealed blood in her body.
The third was the most baffling to Agent Swift. A young bike messenger had gone missing out of an alley in the Mission District. His bike was found, along with some blood, but no body. He seemed to have just disappeared into thin air. SFPD had it open as a missing person’s case, and had blamed the mob, but Agent Swift didn’t buy it. The kid was barely twenty years old, and his father was an SFPD officer and had no reason to owe anything to the mob – Irish, Italian, or otherwise.
And it now seems he may have a fourth case to add to his sleepless nights.
The agents arrived at the city morgue, which was located in the basement of the city hospital. They showed ID to the woman in the nurse’s uniform at the front desk, and were instructed to take the stairs to the basement.
Upon arrival, the lone doctor on duty, Dr. Jerry McKee, was more than happy to show them the body. Walking to several bodies on stretchers covered by white sheets, he lifted back the sheet to reveal a body drained of blood. This one, an old man.
“It’s very odd, you know. It’s just like the girl we found behind McGuire’s,” Dr. McKee said, pulling back the sheet with his right hand, while his left held a cigarette, its ash falling to the stone floor of the morgue. “I don’t get it.”
Agent Bianchi looked at the doctor and pointed to the body. “May I?”
Dr. McKee was in his sixties, with thinning gray hair and watery hazel eyes. “Knock yourself out, kid.”
Tony grabbed the corpse’s face and turned it slowly side to side. Pulling a handkerchief from his front pocket, he got very close, and with the handkerchief over his nose, looked at the neck and smiled as best he could through the stench of death. He pointed. “Look there.”
Agent Swift and Dr. McKee got in close and examined the two very faint puncture wounds on the victim’s pale, wrinkled neck.
“By golly you’re a sharp one, kid,” Dr. McKee said, setting his cigarette do
wn on the edge of a sterile metal gurney and looking excitedly at Agent Bianchi. “What made you look there?”
Adam shot Tony a warning look. Tony shrugged. “Just a hunch. Perhaps the perpetrator used some sort of tool to drain this old timer’s blood out.”
Dr. McKee picked his cigarette back up and scratched at the remaining hairs on his head. “Why on Earth would anyone want to drain this guy’s blood?”
Agent Bianchi shrugged and looked at Adam Swift. “Maybe they’re obsessed with blood. Maybe some religious fanatics or devil worshipers.”
Dr. McKee nodded and grabbed the clipboard attached to the end of the gurney and began writing, speaking out loud. “Cause of death: Exsanguination by puncture wounds to the jugular vein.”
As the two agents exited the hospital and got into their car, Agent Swift said, “How did you know to look for puncture wounds?”
Tony’s handsome face lit up with a knowing smirk. “Why, Agent Swift, you mentioned we were now investigating vampires, so why not look for teeth marks?”
Agent Swift studied Tony for a long minute, his keen investigator skills knowing there was something not quite right about his new colleague and said, “All right, Agent Bianchi, you got me on that one.”
“I’m hungry. What’s good in San Francisco?” Tony asked in deflection.
“I know a diner,” Adam said, steering the car toward Third Street.
Chapter 3
∞∞∞
The sun had set on the City by the Bay as Agents Bianchi and Swift parked in the back lot of Sal’s Diner. A chilly ocean wind blew around them and Tony pulled the collar of his trench coat higher around his neck. As they entered the quaint diner, it was fairly busy, but they found a booth quickly and slid into a squeaky red one. A waitress with blonde hair in a ponytail and a pretty smile welcomed them. “Hi, I’m Sandy. What can I get you?”
“Two coffees and menus, sweetheart,” Agent Swift replied.
She grinned extra wide at Tony, then flicked her eyes back to Adam. “Coming right up.” And she was off.