by Alex P. Berg
“Huh?” I blinked. “Oh. I think I understand the confusion. Yes, I’m angry—but not with you.”
“No?”
I shook my head. “I’m angry with the Captain. Partly for overlooking me in favor of you, I’ll admit. I’ve dreamed of heading the precinct one day, and given that homicide detectives have a good track record of being elevated to the position, I figured I had as good a shot as any. But more importantly, I’m angry with the Captain for putting you in this situation. I mean, to thrust you into a position of prominence with no warning, without training you or preparing you or vetting you to any degree, without giving you any guidelines and without extending a helping hand—it’s eminently unfair. Don’t get me wrong. I agree with him that you have the skills needed to make a great captain. You’re intelligent, observant, and disciplined. You have natural leadership qualities. You don’t take crap from anyone, and you’re a top notch detective to boot. But no one inherently understands how to run a police station after six months on the job. The Captain threw you into the fire—a fire he essentially started with all those corruption allegations swirling around the Wyverns. I’m not sure I can forgive him for that.”
Shay tilted her head. “Really? That’s what you’re upset about?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “But don’t fear. I’ll do whatever I can to help out. Paperwork? Check. Pre-screening complaints to see what’s worth your time? Check. Can’t figure out what the procedure is on a certain situation? I’ll point you in the right direction, and if I don’t know, I’ll track down someone who does. And if things get really rocky, I’ll channel the spirit of our departed former Captain and become your attack dog. Anyone messes with you, and I’ll maul them like a rabid wolverine.”
Shay smiled. “Aww… Offering to commit senseless acts of violence in my name? How sweet.”
I smiled back. “Better believe it. But seriously, anything you need. Just ask. Or don’t. I’ll try to keep my eyes open.”
Shay’s smile widened. “Thank you, Daggers. That means more than you know.”
“So we’re…okay, then? After last night?”
“You could say that,” said Steele. “To be quite honest, I’d like to kiss you.”
I leaned in a little. “You could, you know. You’re the captain now. Nobody here has the authority to stop you, and I promise not to file a harassment lawsuit.”
Steele peered to the side. “I’m not sure it’s such a good idea. People are watching, figuratively and literally. Not a good precedent to set for my first day on the job.”
I followed her gaze. Activity in the pit appeared normal on first glance, but a more thorough examination showed an increased level of surveillance focused in our general direction. Quinto and Rodgers I could deal with, but it seemed as if a good third of the pit’s inhabitants cast furtive glances our way.
I frowned. “Well, if kissing’s out, I guess casual groping is, too.”
“Don’t push your luck,” said Shay. “Perhaps we can build our way back up to that—assuming you can answer me a final, burning question.”
“With that sort of lead up, how can I say no?”
Shay gave me a nod. “What’s with the jacket?”
I snorted and smiled. “I thought you’d notice. I picked it up on the way into the precinct this morning. What do you think? Do I look dashing?”
“Oh, it looks great,” said Steele. “But I was more interested in why you bought it. Did the mice get fed up with the rents you were charging them on the last one?”
“You sound like Rodgers. No, I just thought it was time for a change. I took your comments about my appearance to heart—which isn’t to say I’m about to start wearing suits and ties to work, mind you. But I figured I could upgrade my attire a little.”
“So now you’re listening to me?” said Shay. “You do realize this means I’m reconsidering my self-imposed ban on kissing.”
“I’m normally a fan of law and order,” I said. “But hey, who am I to judge if the captain bends her own rules every now and then?”
My partner leaned in closer. Lilac perfume drifted off her neck, producing a heady aroma that roiled my thoughts and emotions. Her lips puckered, but a knock at the door derailed whatever tender moment might’ve elapsed.
Shay pulled back and called out. “Come in.”
The door opened, and in stepped a blond, clean cut, fresh-faced young man. He reminded me of Rodgers except ten years younger and with the sharp blue uniform of the city’s patrol officers in place of our detective’s whatever-you-please attire. I recognized him right off the bat.
“Hey, Phillips,” I said. “How’s the beat treating you?”
“Not too bad, Detective Daggers,” he said. “I’ve yet to be stabbed or beaten while on the job, so that’s not too bad.”
“But not while off duty?” offered Steele.
“Figure of speech, Detec—I mean, Captain Steele,” said Phillips. “Congratulations on the promotion, by the way. Much deserved, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Thank you,” said Shay. “You bring news, I assume?”
“Right you are,” he said. “Even though I’m fine, not everyone in New Welwic can say the same. There’s been a murder. Rucker Park. Cops found the guy about an hour ago.”
“Of course there was,” said Steele. “What can you tell us about it?”
Phillips pursed his lips. “Well…that’s the thing, you see. It’s sort of an odd situation. Hard to do it justice with a description.”
I lifted a brow. “Well, if nothing else you know how to get a homicide detective’s attention. You want me to check this one out, Steele?”
“By yourself?” she said. “You don’t really think I’ll let you traipse around solving murders while I’m stuck here fending off attacks from would-be bureaucrats? I’m coming with you.”
I shrugged. “Fair enough. The Captain was gone most of last week in meetings, and the rest of the 5th’s occupants somehow managed to keep the fort from burning down. We’ll snag Quinto and Rodgers, too. Phillips? I’m assuming you can show us the way?”
The young man lit up like a lantern. He not-so-secretly aspired to be a detective someday. At first I’d doubted his mental ability, but he’d redeemed himself over the last few cases in which we’d interacted. Like anyone else, he merely lacked seasoning.
“Absolutely, Detective,” he said. “Follow me.”
I gave him a nod. Steele grabbed an overcoat from a rack in the corner, and out we went.
3
Steele, Rodgers, Quinto, and I followed Phillips along a paved path that meandered through the center of Rucker Park, New Welwic’s primary—and some would argue only—attempt at convincing its citizens forests weren’t dark, fearful expanses filled with trolls, boggarts, and wart-nosed witches. The city planners had succeeded as far as I was concerned, but only by reinforcing a new stereotype, that of forests as havens for drug addicts, hobos, and peddlers of overpriced knick-knacks and lukewarm sausage rolls. We passed a few of the former and one of the latter as we wandered along under the centenarian trees’ boughs, only somewhat shaded from the sky’s meager attempts at snow by their leafless branches. After rounding the edge of a marshy pond thick with cattails and lily pads, Phillips led us off the beaten path and into the trees.
Thankfully, I didn’t have to employ Daisy’s services as a poor man’s machete. Even though the city rarely had enough funds to authorize pay raises to its crime solving civil servants, the bean counters in charge still managed to scrape up enough coppers to pay gardeners to keep the brush in line. Of course, it was also winter, so I’m sure mother nature had something to do with it.
After about a hundred and fifty feet of walking, we came to a section of trees that had been cordoned off with thin, red rope. A bluecoat stood outside the barrier, his arms crossed and his eyelids drooping.
“Hey, Franks,” Phillips called. “I brought the cavalry.”
The aforem
entioned Franks startled and threw punches at imaginary dragons before he realized what was going on. He settled back against the tree and cleared his throat—sheepishly, if such a thing was possible. “Oh. Phillips. You’re back. Head on in. Shouldn’t be anyone inside at the moment…I think.”
I gave New Welwic’s finest a two finger salute as I stepped over the rope barrier. Quinto followed suit while Steele and Rodgers chose to go under.
“Not far now,” said Phillips. “There it is.”
He held his hand out toward a small clearing in the trees. Rodgers whistled. I would’ve if I had any whistling ability whatsoever. As it was I settled for a surprised hum.
“Holy harvest, Phillips,” I said. “You weren’t kidding.”
Tied to the trunk of one of the trees bordering the clearing was a man with feathery, straw blond hair, dark eyebrows, and a straight but prominent nose. He seemed the sort who’d have no problem drawing the attention of ladies of all ages—at least in life. Death hadn’t treated him kindly, however. A jagged wound tore through the right side of his throat, exposing the muscle and tissues beneath. Blood soaked his frilly, brown suede jacket and otherwise white shirt, though precious little of it remained unstained. Given the placement of the wound and the pallor of the man’s skin, it wasn’t surprising. In addition to the gash in his neck, the front of the man’s shirt had been torn open. The blood marred it, but something black glistened on his chest.
As I neared the man, I noticed a couple more things. For one, the rope that tied him to the tree wasn’t a rope at all. It narrowed as it encircled him, coming to a tapered point at one end and having a leather-wrapped handle at the other. A wrangling expert I was not, but even I knew a whip when I saw one. The other factor I took note of was less visual and more olfactory in nature.
“Whew,” I said as I sidled up next to him. “I’m not the only who smells that, right? Phillips, how old is this guy?”
“Uh…” Phillips blinked vacantly. “Isn’t that where you come in?”
“It’s not from the body, Daggers,” said Steele as she approached the man from the opposite side. “I mean, it is, but not from decomposition. That’s a very distinctive smell. This is…different.”
Shay had a point. After a decade on the force, I’d come to know the scent of rotting flesh well. This wasn’t it. The man had more of an alcoholic cat’s litter box aroma going on, but far more pungent than that of your garden variety drunken, urine-soaked hobo.
Quinto took up a position between Steele and me. He leaned toward the body and pointed a finger at the man’s face. “What is that?”
Up close, I could see what Quinto referred to. Over the man’s now pale skin lay a thin brown film—of what, I had no idea. I lifted a fingernail and scratched at it. A piece flaked off.
“Eww,” I said.
“That’s not all,” said Steele. “Check these out.”
She pointed to his jacket and pants, which were dotted by a number of powdery, white stains. On second glance, I noticed them on his shirt as well, though they were hidden by the cloth of the same color and the copious amounts of blood.
Rodgers’ voice sounded behind us. “Guys, you mind spreading out so I can get a look?”
Quinto and I mumbled apologies and stepped back, allowing Rodgers to squeeze in between us.
He stared at the guy for a moment, his brow furrowing. “No way…”
“What is it?” said Steele.
Rodgers didn’t take his eyes off the body. “I think I know who this is.”
“Really?” I said. “Who? A friend of yours?”
Rodgers shook his head. “No, thankfully. But unless I’m mistaken, this is Chaz Willy Wilson.”
“Who, now?” said Quinto.
“The lead singer for Yellow Cobra,” said Rodgers. “You know…the rock group?”
We all stared at him. I blinked. Steele frowned.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he said. “My wife Allison’s the fan, not me. Or I guess I should say was a fan. She hasn’t dragged me to a show in years, since before the kids were born. But I’m pretty sure this is him.”
“And this band, Yellow Cobra,” said Steele. “They’re based in New Welwic?”
“I believe so,” said Rodgers. “Toured a lot, internationally even, in their heyday. Now I think they stick around locally. The last I’d heard they performed at some rock club downtown. I forget the name.”
“The Moxy?” offered Quinto.
“Yeah, that’s it.” Rodgers’ brow furrowed. “You, uh…a fan, too, big guy?”
“I didn’t say that,” said Quinto. “But I’m familiar with the club. And the band.”
“You like crooner ballads?” I asked. “I figured the only type of rock music you’d be into was that of literal rocks being smashed against each other.”
“Just because I look like I can crush rocks doesn’t mean I like listening to said activity,” said Quinto. “I dabble in all sorts of genres.”
“Well, if you’re right, Rodgers, that’s a heck of a break,” said Steele. “Identification is usually half the battle. Phillips? Who found the man?”
The blond-haired eager-beaver popped around the edge of the tree. “A jogger, Captain. One of those freerunner types. Was cutting across from Abalone Avenue, doing flips off trees and stuff when he came across the body.”
“Did you get a statement?” I asked.
“I didn’t, but one of the other beat cops did. Pretty standard stuff, as I understand it. No reason to suspect the guy. He went out of his way to flag down an officer and report it.”
“Did you search him?” I asked.
“The freerunner?” said Phillips. “Why would we?”
“The man tied to the tree, Phillips,” said Steele.
The young officer blushed. Despite his increased experience in dealing with murders, apparently he could still get frazzled. “Ah…no, Captain. As far as I know, nobody’s touched him.”
“A pristine stiff then,” I said. “If only Cairny were here.”
“She gets tired of the morgue, you know,” said Quinto. “We really should invite her into the field more often.”
Steele took Phillips’ statement as an invitation. She reached a hand into his jacket and started digging. She handed items to us as she extracted them: a brown leather change purse which still contained a number of coins based on its weight and the jingling sound it produced, a key attached to a round wooden keychain with the number ‘501’ stamped onto it, a black matchbox with the words ‘Club Midnight’ printed upon the top in a difficult to read red ink, and a small, black leather bound book without any text on the cover.
Somehow, I ended up holding the matchbox while Quinto received the book. I opened up my prize, and sure enough, it held matches. Quinto cracked the pocket-sized tome and held it to his face as Steele moved to the stiff’s pants.
“Well,” I said to the big guy. “What is it?”
He cleared his throat. “It reads, and I quote, ‘The Revenant: A Treatise on the Historical Nature and Verified Supernatural Incidents of Magic, Immortality, and the Occult.’ Fifth printing, pocket version, according to the copyright page.”
“Whoa, back it up there,” said Rodgers. “A treatise on what now?”
Steele pulled her hands back from the stiff’s pants pockets, this time empty. She lifted her fingers to his shirt, where she peeled back the blood-stuck halves to better reveal his chest. There, under another layer of dried blood, I spied the source of the black gleam I’d noticed earlier. A symbol, imprinted upon his chest—that of an ankh with pointed tips, sharp and cruel in nature.
“Uh oh,” I said. “This isn’t good.”
Steele looked away from the body, brushing her fingers against her pants to clean them. “And why is that, apart from the obvious?”
I looked at Shay, then Rodgers, then Quinto. They all looked back expectantly. “Don’t tell me I’m the only one who sees what
happened here?”
“That being?” said Quinto.
“Isn’t it obvious?” I said. “This man was murdered…by a vampire.”
Steele waved her hand. “Oh, come off it.”
“Look, I know I’m prone to sensationalism,” I said, “but consider the evidence. This man’s throat is torn open, with blood all over him. He’s carrying a matchbox for a place called Club Midnight. If that isn’t some sort of gothic nightclub I’ll eat my shoe. He also happened to be carrying a tome about the supernatural and occult entitled The Revenant. Are you familiar with what revenant means?”
“A spirit which comes back after death,” said Steele. “A ghost, specifically.”
“That’s one definition,” I said. “But to many cultures, a revenant is any being which comes back from the dead, including zombies. Or vampires.”
“How do you know so much about vampire mythology?” asked Rodgers.
“I read a lot. Mysteries and horror share the same literary milieu. I take notes. Up here, in the gray matter.” I tapped my head.
“And those notes are how you so skillfully determined we were being attacked by zombies that one time,” said Steele.
“Was I so wrong about that?” I asked. “Zombies. Golems. Walkers. Whatever you want to call them, I was more or less right. And if we’ve come across them before, why not vampires? Besides, look at his chest. You know what ankhs symbolize, don’t you? Eternal life. Why else would someone who wasn’t attacked by a vampire have that particular symbol materialize upon their chest?”
“Let’s keep the crazy magic-based theories to a minimum, why don’t we, Daggers?” said Steele. “Let’s assume you’re right, vampires do exist, and our victim here was attacked by one. Don’t you think his neck wound would be a little cleaner? This throat was torn, not pierced. And there’s blood all over the guy. A vampire wouldn’t have let that tasty life-giving fluid go to waste, would he? Besides, I’m pretty sure that ankh symbol is a tattoo.”