In Case of Carnage

by Gerry Griffiths

  “So, you were run over coming out of the hospital where you work?” Hank sat forward on the couch, taking notes.

  “That’s right. As soon as I stepped off the curb. Never even stopped. Fractured my leg in three places.”

  “And you have no idea who the driver was?”

  “No, it happened too fast.”

  “I guess we have no more questions, doctor. Thank you for your time.” Hank closed up his pad.

  The detectives stood and headed for the door.

  “Tell my brother I’d appreciate if he caught whoever ran me over.”

  Hank turned to the doctor. “One more question. Do you mind telling us where you two were born? What hospital?”

  “Saint Vincent Memorial. I believe they converted it to a small community clinic for the destitute. Why do you ask?”

  “It’s for our report.”

  Bill waited until they were outside walking to their car before saying, “I guess that rules out the brother.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  * * *

  “Watch your step. I apologize for the mess.” The elderly clerk gripped the rickety handrail as he led the detectives to the basement. A thick film of dust covered hundreds of cardboard boxes that were shoved onto storage shelves with more containers stacked on the concrete floor.

  Bill gazed at the mountain of boxes. “Sure you can find the file in all this?”

  “It may look chaotic, but I have a system.” The archivist pressed a bony finger to his lips, scanning the boxes of medical records. He shuffled over to a short stack of boxes under the basement window.

  He removed the lid from the top box.

  A few seconds later, he handed Hank a medical folder. “Hope you find what you’re looking for. Let me know if you need anything else.” The clerk climbed back up the stairs.

  Hank opened the medical file and studied the front page. “I thought as much.” He handed the folder to Bill.

  “Triplets? There’s a third brother?”

  “I don’t know. Says here he died at birth.”

  Bill fanned through the rest of the six-page file. “So where’s the death certificate?”

  * * *

  The next night, Hank and Bill staked out the supermarket parking lot, while the captain kept an eye on the killer’s recent bus stop.

  A female officer acted as a decoy, her yoga pants flared just enough to hide the weapon strapped to her ankle. She stood by the bench, pretending to wait for the next bus, keeping the detectives posted with a hidden microphone.

  It didn’t take long before she whispered, “He’s right behind me.”

  Hank and Bill sprang from their car when they heard her scream. Crossing the parking lot, they saw the captain standing in the middle of the street, the female officer lying nearby on the sidewalk.

  The detectives heard the rumble of an approaching vehicle.

  A speeding city bus barreled down the street.

  The bright headlights showcased the captain as he splattered onto the front grill, the transit bus screeching to a complete stop.

  The side door folded open. The driver bounced down the steps—the same man who’d been to the police station. “I nailed the sucker! I got the killer!”

  “You killed our captain, you idiot!” Bill grabbed the driver and wrestled him to the ground. He snapped on the cuffs.

  “My God!” Hank stared at the mangled lump of human flesh heaped in front of the bus.

  “Release him!” a voice bellowed.

  The detectives turned. They saw the captain bending to help the female officer to her feet.

  Bill couldn’t believe it. “You’re alive!”

  “Of course I’m alive. What? You thought that was me in the street?”

  * * *

  Hank and Bill celebrated closing the doppelganger case the next day by bringing the captain a baker’s dozen of his favorites from Heavenly Donuts.

  Later that evening, the night janitor made his rounds cleaning the squad room. He flipped on the office lights and spotted the pink box on the captain’s desk. His mouth watered as he picked up the trash bin and dumped the crumpled papers into the black plastic bag hanging on his cart, his eyes never wavering from the tempting box. He went around, dusting crumbs from the captain’s desktop and chair. The impulse became too much. He raised the lid and saw thirteen donuts still in the box. “Who even does that? That’s sick.”

  Each donut had one large bite out of it.

  9

  CASE NUMBER: 18-04-244

  “That guy over there keeps staring at us,” Sharon observed.

  “Who?” Crandall paused before taking another bite out of his fist-sized burrito.

  They nibbled their lunch at a small table in the middle of the mall’s food court, surrounded by fifty or more other people.

  Sharon stared at the tabletop, twirling the plastic fork’s tines in her fried noodles. “Behind you, three tables away.”

  Crandall began to turn in his seat.

  “Don’t,” Sharon hissed, peering over Crandall’s shoulder. “He’s still checking us out.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Short hair, dark blue jacket, black T-shirt, jeans.”

  “Is he still watching us?”

  “Okay. He just turned away.”

  Crandall glanced over his shoulder.

  “Ever seen him before?”

  “He doesn’t look familiar.” Crandall dumped his half-eaten burrito into the bag. He grabbed Sharon’s tray. “Let’s go.”

  Sharon grabbed her shopping bag next to her chair. Crandall stopped briefly, tilting the swinging door of a trash bin and dumping their uneaten food inside before setting the tray on top. They strode out of the food court, walking briskly between the second-floor shops.

  Sharon paused near the entrance to a clothing store. To give Randall an opportunity to sneak a peek down the corridor, she pretended to rummage through the bag she was carrying, which was full of items purchased at a thrift store earlier.

  “He’s over at the Payless pretending to look at shoes,” Crandall whispered.

  “What should we do?”

  “I say we get the hell out of here.” Crandall led the way to the escalator, and they scurried down. As soon as they reached the ground floor, they scuttled for the nearest exit.

  Crandall pushed the bar, shoving open the glass door that led outside. The couple bolted down the sidewalk and dashed out onto the parking lot as if they were being pursued by a raging tsunami.

  Their Buick was only a row away.

  Sharon glanced over her shoulder. “Here he comes!”

  Crandall had already reached the driver door and slid behind the steering wheel. He slammed his door just as Sharon reached the locked passenger door. She pounded on the window, yelling his name.

  He started the engine and unlocked the passenger door.

  Sharon flung open her door and dove into the car.

  Crandall jammed the gearshift into reverse and lurched out of the parking space. He stomped on the gas, rocketing the Buick between the cars.

  He glanced in the rearview mirror. Their pursuer raced toward a pickup truck. Crandall leaned on the wheel, hanging a hard right, steering the Buick toward the nearest exit ramp. Ahead, the traffic light changed from green to yellow, but he gunned the engine, and they blasted through the red light.

  After traveling a few miles, they got snarled in traffic, forcing Crandall to slow down. Sharon peered out the rear window to see if they were being followed.

  “Did we lose him?” Crandall asked.

  “I think so,” Sharon responded, straining to see past the cars behind them.

  “I’d better keep driving around just to be sure.”

  * * *

  At nightfall, they pulled up the narrow driveway and parked underneath the sagging carport that was attached to the small rundown house. Concrete steps led to the screened-in front porch. A waist-high chain-link fence guarded a dead patch of lawn.r />
  They entered the side door. Sharon flicked on the light.

  The kitchen stunk from takeout containers left on the kitchen counter and the sink full of dirty dishes.

  Sharon looked around the room, twitching like a pigeon on a food hunt. “We should pack up.”

  “What, now?”

  “Yes, right now.”

  “We’re paid up to the end of the month.”

  “I don’t care. It’s not safe.”

  “How about we give it another day or two?” Crandall lit up a smoke. “Then, if you still want, we’ll leave.”

  “Why? So you can have your little fun?”

  “You get off on it just as much as I do.”

  Suddenly, the room went pitch dark.

  “What the hell happened to the lights?”

  “I’ll bet it’s a damn fuse.” Crandall thumbed his cigarette lighter, following the flickering glow to a door. “I’ll be right back.” He unlocked the two dead bolts. He opened the door and descended the stairs into the gloomy basement.

  Sharon fumbled around in the dark, opening drawers, feeling inside, until her fingers closed around a book of matches and a used candle. She struck a match and lit the wick on the short, waxy nub. The tenebrous room brightened slightly.

  Somewhere in the house, a window shattered.

  “Crandall! Get up here!” She reached into her purse and retrieved a small handgun.

  The intruder stepped brazenly into the kitchen.

  “Who are you?” Sharon shouted, raising the gun. “What do you want?”

  Before she could pull the trigger, the man wrenched the gun from her, snapping her fingers like icicles. He gripped her by the throat, crushing her windpipe. She slumped to the floor.

  Crandall came up the stairs and stepped into the kitchen. “Strange. It wasn’t the fuse. Must be the—”

  The man shot Crandall dead center in the chest.

  Crandall stumbled backwards into the open basement door, knocking it shut. He fell back against the wall and collapsed to the floor.

  The shooter slumped into a kitchen chair. He stared at his cell phone for a long time before placing the call.

  * * *

  The detectives arrived to find the suspect in handcuffs. Officer Silverman stood next to the man, who was seated at the table. He eagerly relayed his report. “This is Jeremy Lambert. He confesses to illegally entering the premises, strangling the woman, then shooting the man. Afterward, he dialed 9-1-1 to turn himself in.”

  Hank looked down at Lambert. “So why’d you do it?”

  “They murdered my sister.”

  Bill took out his notepad. “What’s your sister’s name?”

  “Susan. Susan Lambert.”

  “And when was this?”

  “Three months ago.” Lambert lowered his head. “They grabbed her in a parking garage. Cameras got the whole thing. Cops traced the license plate to a remote cabin.” He glared at the two bodies on the floor. “By the time they got there, these two were long gone.”

  “What about your sister?”

  “I don’t know. They never found her body.”

  “So how did you find them?”

  “When the cops stopped calling me, I hired a private investigator. The guy bled me dry, but he finally tracked them down. I took over from there.”

  Bill crossed his arms. “How do we know you’re not feeding us a story?”

  “Did you guys hear something?” Officer Silverman asked.

  “Hear what?” Bill asked.

  The young officer stepped around the dead man on the floor. He opened the door leading down into the basement. “I think it was coming from down there.”

  Lambert sat up straight in his chair.

  “I’ll go check it out.” Hank started down, the boards creaking underfoot with every step. Cobwebs hung from the dank ceiling at the bottom of the stairwell. The oubliette cellar smelled of mold. He brushed the wall with his fingertips until he found the light switch. He flipped it on.

  A doe-eyed creature stared up at him from a grungy mattress tucked against the cinderblock wall on the damp cement floor. Shackled to a pipe, the bruised woman wore a filthy T-shirt that was too large for her emaciated frame, her hair a scraggly bird’s nest. A dirty strip of tape covered her mouth.

  Hank knelt beside her. He removed the adhesive slowly. “Don’t be afraid. I’m a cop. What’s your name?”

  Her lips trembled. “Susan.”

  “Oh my God, is your brother in for a big surprise.”

  10

  CASE NUMBER: 18-05-245

  Hank and Bill stepped gingerly into the dark back alley, careful not to tread on the gory viscera from the mutilated body.

  Hank shook his head. “This makes the fourth one in the past four months.”

  “I’m telling you, it’s the work of a werewolf.”

  “Will you stop, Bill? There’s no such thing.”

  “Then why does it only strike when the moon is full?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Bill averted his eyes from a coil of intestines that were entwined like a bed of pink snakes. Instead, he gazed at the alleyway, which looked as though a kindly butcher had chucked out scraps to feed a sorry lot of starving mongrels. He spotted a ravaged section of thigh on the ground. Pronounced bite marks surrounded the crater of missing flesh. “So why do you think the lab keeps finding traces of canine saliva on the attack victims?”

  “Probably left behind by dogs when they tried to walk off with the evidence.”

  “Only these aren’t your run-of-the-mill mutts we’re dealing with.” Bill reached into his jacket. He removed a speedloader from his belt. He offered the circular clip of .38 projectiles to Hank.

  “I already have ammo.”

  “Take them. They’re silver. You’re going to need them if we come up against a werewolf.”

  Hank held up his hand, refusing the speedloader. “I’ll take my chances.”

  * * *

  Jon leaped onto the rear porch.

  He tapped the unlit bulb over the back door. Earlier, he’d unscrewed it enough so it wouldn’t turn on—a trick to make Cynthia think the filament had blown. He knew she would ask him to replace the bulb. She often made simple requests of him, little handyman jobs to perform around her house—along with his other services.

  He opened the back door and crept into the house.

  Moonlight shimmered through the bedroom doorway and into the dark hallway.

  He stepped over the discarded clothes on the floor.

  Cynthia lay sound asleep in bed.

  Jon snuck into the bathroom. He closed the door ever so quietly and turned on the light. He admired his naked form in the vanity mirror, his muscular body sheening from jogging in the mist, his flesh speckled from head to toe with blood.

  In the billowing steam, the scalding shower spray skimmed away the smirch, the incriminating grunge swirling down the drain. Jon lathered his body. He shampooed his thick mane. Rinsing off, he imagined himself in the wild, standing under a waterfall.

  After drying himself, he crawled naked into bed next to Cynthia. She moaned, emerging from a deep sleep. She opened one eye. “Where were you?” she cooed.

  “Feeding the fish.” He kissed the tip of her delicious nose.

  “If I had a key, I could have come over.”

  “I didn’t want to bother you.”

  “I’m only next door, silly,” Cynthia whispered, gazing into his amber eyes.

  Jon reached under the covers.

  Cynthia squirmed with delight. “So, you do love me.”

  “Go back to sleep.”

  Cynthia mewled, closing her eye. She nestled her head on his hairy chest.

  Jon stared at the moon through the bedroom window.

  The moon grinned back.

  * * *

  For two hours, the detectives canvassed the neighboring buildings, knocking on doors. Hoping to maximize their chances of locating at least one credible witness, they�
�d split up to question the residents.

  Only a few people had heard the screams. Hardly anyone had bothered to go to the window, caring less what happened to a complete stranger. Those interviewed had been rude, complaining about being rousted out of bed at such an ungodly hour.

  The detectives met back at their car to compare notes.

  Hank consulted his notepad. “I found the woman who made the call. She swears she saw a large animal charging through the alley on all fours. So I am right. It is a dog!”

  “I have a guy claims he saw a naked man run out after he heard the screams.”

  “He was probably half asleep.”

  Bill whipped a bill out of his wallet. “Ten bucks it’s a werewolf.”

  “You’re on. Be the easiest ten bucks I ever won.”

  ***

  A month later, Bill stood in the squad room, staring out the office window at the full moon. Hank returned from the break room, carrying two steaming cups of coffee. He placed Bill’s mug on his desktop blotter before sitting at his own desk.

  Officer Silverman rushed in. “Did you hear what happened?”

  “No, what?” Hank swiveled in his chair to keep pace with the young man, who was flying by like a clay bird at a gun range.

  “Someone robbed the truck before it could make its delivery to our armory.”

  “What’d they get?”

  Hustling out of the room, the recruit yelled over his shoulder, “They haven’t posted it yet! The captain’s fit to be tied!”

  Bill continued to stare out the window. “Did you know lunacy is thought to be related to phases of the moon?”

  “I believe it.” Hank got up from his desk. He went over to the city street map that was thumbtacked to the wall.

  “The press doesn’t believe these are animal attacks. They’re calling him ‘The Lunar Killer.’”

  “They don’t watch out, they’re going to set off a citywide panic.” Hank studied the five pushpins on the city map. “Hey, Bill. Take a look at this.”

  Bill stepped across the room.