by Jason Rose
“The human justice system fast-tracked my father’s case. Because of the high-profile nature of the murders, the venue was moved from the small town where the murders occurred to Boston, the nearest big city. His human lawyer, the public defender, who was appointed within an hour of the arrest, claims my father pled guilty—signed a document that admits his guilt . . . another lie. My father is comatose, he’s still hasn’t spoken since the—. He doesn’t have the mental faculty to admit to anything. The whole venue transfer and confession façade was wrapped up within hours of his arrest.”
Wilson and I share a look; the whole thing sounds highly irregular.
“As soon as I learned what happened, I fired my father’s appointed human lawyer and hired Pack lawyers. It was already too late. The ink on the confession was already dry. I don’t fault the humans; they are doing what they need to do to appease the public and the families of the dead. Don’t misread me. I understand; other families, human families, were hurt by the attack on my family. They needed their justice to grieve. I don’t begrudge them that.” Adrian spits out through gritted teeth, “My father is now serving a lifetime sentence in a human prison, a place I am content to leave him. You see, my father wasn’t a good man. He did many things throughout his life I didn’t agree with. It is no secret that we didn’t always see eye to eye. He more than deserves to spend his final days in prison, but he didn’t willingly murder my daughter. He would never have done that.”
“If you’re okay with him spending his days in prison, what is it you think I can help you with?”
“My father is now being accused of a crime against the Magna-Concordat. There would be severe consequences for my family and my Pack if he is found guilty of a crime aganst the Magna-Concordat.”
“What crime?” I ask, suspecting, hoping, it’s not what I think it is.
“The murder of a Concordat citizen. The murder of my daughter.”
The room is silent as his words sink in. Not even Wilson has a smart-ass comment. The whole thing is too tragic to make a joke out of. It’s like one of those fables where something dreadful happens and then the author tries to justify the horrific action through the lens of a moral lesson. Sometimes there is no lesson to be learned. Sometimes life is just plain fucked up.
The silence is finally interrupted by Sinn. “If your father is convicted of a crime under the Magna-Concordat, your family will be shamed; they will have committed the most heinous crime a werewolf can commit against another werewolf, murder of packmate. Your family line will be dishonored, and you will be challenged.”
Adrian nods. “True, my family has suffered a degree of dishonor and my leadership likely will be challenged at the next Pack gathering. A challenge I can accept. A challenge I can win, but it’s more dire than that. Not only is it illegal to kill another member of the pack outside of a challenge—pack law specifically prohibits parricide.”
“Parracide?” asks Joycee.
“Killing of a family member or blood relative,” I answer. “I don’t understand how that makes things any worse for you? Your father did the killing, not you.”
“Pack law declares that any act of parricide by a member of the ruling family shall result in dethronement and deprivation of the entire family. The family will be barred from holding any leadership position for a thousand moons.”
“Shit!” exclaims Wilson. “A thousand moons? What is that?—like 800 years?”
I glare at Wilson. “Mr. Varulv, I apologize for my colleague. This is an unfortunate circumstance you find yourself in.”
“It’s okay. I think shit aptly describes the circumstances I’ve fallen into. And, yes, it is a long time.”
“Please forgive me for asking, I still don’t understand how we can help. Your father has already been convicted of a crime in Massachusetts. Why does it matter if he is also convicted in a Concordat court?”
“Concordat citizens are not bound by human laws. They are thought of as more suggestions than rules that must be adhered to. Through much of human history, our kind, Concordat citizens, have been treated unfairly by humans.”
“Salem witch trials,” volunteers Joycee.
Adrian shrugs indifferently. “That is one example. Historically, it has been nearly impossible for Concordat citizens to get a fair trial under human laws. Our kind is ostracized and feared. Therefore, we rarely respect or give weight to findings by human courts. Werewolves only respect the laws of the Pack and the laws of the Concordat treaty. Concordat law is clear; all Concordat citizens must be given an opportunity to defend themselves in Concordat court. Only a finding of parracide in a Concordat court would be sufficient to remove my family from power. If one of the other families were to attempt my removal based on just the word of a human court, there would be war. Wolves would be pitted against wolves and many innocents would be caught in the middle.”
“You’re concerned that a change in leadership would leave the wolves vulnerable?”
“Yes, there is a faction of wolves that wants the council disbanded. Disbanding the council would be catastrophic for my people. I am afraid that if I am stripped of my title, this faction of anarchists would take power and dissolve the government. Without a united pack under strong leadership, individual packs would be at the mercy of tyrants and those that would enslave us. Things would go back to the way they were before the council. Back to the dark days.”
“So, you need us to prove your father’s innocence?” asks Wilson with an inflection suggesting it’s an impossible ask.
Adrian ignores Wilson and looks me dead in the eyes. “Mr. Valentine, my enemies are coming at me through the courts. This isn’t a fight I can win with my teeth and my claws; I need a lawyer. I need an Advocate. I need you.”
Chapter Nine
Tuesday Afternoon
“Why are we here again?” asks Wilson, as he wanders around the drab cell. Beige painted bars line the lone window, and the only furniture is a rusty steel picnic table bolted to the floor in the center of the grey twelve-foot by twelve-foot cement room.
“Because I want to see Eirik the Butcher with my own eyes.”
Wilson stares out the window, through the evenly spaced bars, at the cyclone fences with the rows of razor wire stacked one on top of the other, placed there to eradicate any semblance of hope a prisoner might have of escaping—at least a human prisoner. If you stare long enough, the rows of metal wire intermesh meld together, and it starts to look like a kaleidoscope. “This place is fucked up. I’d rather die than be stuck in here for the rest of my life. No wonder prisoners go crazy and kill themselves,” says a shivering Wilson.
Wilson’s right; this place lacks basic humanity. The cold in this place seeps inside of you; it doesn’t matter how many layers you’re wearing.
“This is the same prison where that football player offed himself? The one that was getting sued. The one with the murder convictions. What’s this place called again?” asks Wilson.
“I don’t remember. It’s two last names I can’t pronounce, with a hyphen in the middle.”
“Why would anyone want a prison named after them?”
“It’s named in honor of two corrections officers who were shot and killed in the 1970s by an inmate whose wife smuggled guns into the prison. It’s a tribute to their sacrifice.”
Wilson turns and stares at me with a dumbfounded look on his face, “How do you even know that?”
“Wikipedia,” I answer with a smirk.
Wilson waves his hand at me, discounting my display of trivia. We’ve been through this a dozen times. He equates Wikipedia with fake news. He says it’s full of factual inaccuracies and using it is an insult to real investigators like himself. Ironically, he thinks printed encyclopedias are a fair and reliable source of information, despite the fact they could be out of date. He claims there is a permanence to things that are printed on paper which makes them inherently trustworthy. I think that’s a cute fantasy. That something is printed out onto paper merely means
that someone was willing to spend money to create a physical copy. It doesn’t mean the information on the printed page is any more correct or trustworthy. Sometimes, the fact that someone is paying to print the information onto paper casts doubt on its accuracy, at least to my way of thinking. Then again, I am a supreme pessimist and think everything and everyone is out to get me, trick me, steal from me or eat me, and they usually are.
“If I’m ever stuck in a place like this, I hope whoever my lucky lady of the moment is loves me enough to sneak me in a gun, so I can blow my own brains out,” Wilson mumbles with a slight groan.
“There is no chance anyone will ever love you that much.”
Wilson grins. “You know what they say, Colt, there is no better way to show you care about someone than to insult them. And you insult me more than anyone else on this planet. I guess that means you love me. A lot.”
“Yeah, like a dog loves fleas.”
“I’m not saying it’s a healthy love.”
The door to the cell buzzes and then the metal door opens with a screeching sound as it slides along its track into the wall, interrupting our banter. Two guards lead a prisoner into the cell. He is wearing an orange jumpsuit with the number-letter designation 26504B written across it. The prisoner is large, easily as big as Adrian, and if you look past the wicked, unkempt, grey beard, there’s a strong physical family resemblance. Unlike Adrian, whose eyes are alert and engaging, full of life, so much so, that they are almost hypnotic, there is something off about this man—it’s as if he isn’t really present, at least not in any sense that matters. His lifeless eyes stare off into space, both seeing everything and nothing at the same time. He reminds me of a mental patient who’s undergone a lobotomy in one of those old black and white horror movies on at two in the morning—you know, the kind where humans are the monsters.
The guards shackle Eirik to the table and then shuffle out. The trailing guard stops at the door and points at a red button on the wall near the door. “When you’re done, hit that button. If there is a problem—”
“Hit the button,” interrupts Wilson.
The guard stares at Wilson indifferently. “No, I was going to say pray. It’s unlikely, even if you hit that button, that we’ll get here in time to save your ass. Enjoy your afternoon.” The door buzzes and closes behind the guard, leaving Wilson and me alone with the Butcher.
Wilson’s bottom lip folds out and he shakes his head. “Fucking prison guards,” he mutters.
I nod at Wilson and sit down across from the large imposing man. “Eirik, my name is Colt Valentine. I’m a lawyer. Your son hired me.”
Eirik doesn’t speak or even acknowledge my presence. He just stares past me. Wherever he is, whatever he sees, and whatever he hears, it isn’t me.
“Boss, I don’t think he knows you’re here.”
I frown at Captain Obvious, sarcastically thanking him for his reporting of the painfully apparent with my pursed lips and wrinkled brow. Next, Wilson’s going to tell me the guy is sitting down, not paying attention and wearing an orange suit. Yeah, no shit. Wilson’s an overflowing toilet of unwanted information.
“Eirik, can you hear me?”
Before Wilson can state the obvious again, I give him my practiced shut-the-fuck-up look. A look he is more than familiar with. Wilson holds his tongue but defiantly looks away, out through the bar-filled window, towards the cyclone wire fence.
“Eirik, I need you to tell me what happened.”
No response.
“Why did you kill those people?”
Still nothing.
“Why did you kill your granddaughter?”
For a moment, a split second, Eirik’s pupils dilate and I think I see a hint of recognition—and then the moment is gone; his pupils lose focus and only a desolate stare remains.
I glance over at Wilson, practically begging for one of his stupid comments to break the silence. Instead of paying attention, he’s staring at the wire fence, probably imagining what it would be like to spend the rest of his life in prison, with no hope of escape. “Stop daydreaming and check his head for surgical scars.”
Wilson’s face takes on a sour expression. “Seriously? You want me to touch him?”
“Just do it.”
Wilson walks over to Eirik. He hesitates at first, but then, like the professional he is, begins examining the Butcher’s head and neck for markings. Eirik doesn’t react at all. After Wilson’s initial trepidation, he is more physical in his search, running his hands through Eirik’s hair and beard, searching for anything out of place. After a few minutes of carefully searching, he shakes his head and says, “This guy needs a bath and maybe some flea guard.” Wilson coughs, a reaction to inhaling Eirik’s scent a little too deeply.
“Find anything?”
“There is nothing, boss. No marks, scars, or incisions. As far as I can tell, nothing out of the ordinary.”
I nod. No marks, no scars, at least nothing a human can see. Either this guy had a severe emotional breakdown, in which case we can do nothing to help him, or he’s been exposed to a biological agent either airborne, ingested, or absorbed through his skin. Or, he’s had the equivalent of a magical lobotomy. Any way you slice it, we’re going to need an expert.
I toss Wilson the blood kit Sinn gave me.
“What do you want me to do with this?”
“I think that is self-evident.”
“I am not going to prick this guy with a needle. Are you nuts? You draw his blood!”
“I’ll do it if you want, but I have no idea how that thing works. If we are going to find out what happened to him, we need to start somewhere. A blood test is as good a place to start as any other. Considering a witch was sent to kill his son, I have a feeling that we aren’t dealing with a biological agent, and the test results will likely come back inconclusive, but I want that suspicion confirmed. You’re the military vet—didn’t they give you some medical training?”
Wilson pauses for a moment. “Fine—I’ll do it, only because I am afraid you will hurt him. I can’t allow you to injure this poor defenseless animal. If you did, I’d feel obligated to report you to the SPCA.”
I flash my pearly whites at Wilson in appreciation.
As Wilson draws the Butcher’s blood, I study the faint blue magical marking on his wrist, which tells me he’s already been served by an Advocate and has a pending Concordat court date. Adrian said as much, but I still wanted to see it with my own eyes. This magical marking will transport him to court at the designated time. We have a little less than twenty-four hours until his court date. I must know as much as possible about what caused him to snap before we make our appearance.
When Wilson is finished drawing blood, he hands me the sealed bag and I slip it into my inner jacket pocket. Once it's secured, I stand up and walk over to the red button and push it.
“We’re done?” asks Wilson.
I nod, “Not quite. I’ve seen him, now I need to see his cell.”
It takes some yelling, some threats, and a fistful of Ben Franklins, but the guards finally agree to show me Eirik’s cell. It’s just as I imagined—a sterile cement box with a metal bunk and exposed toilet. There isn’t anything on the walls, no books, nothing that shows a human being inhabits it. The bunk is made, and it looks like it’s been made for weeks. A body-sized impression is worn into the blankets. I think Eirik just lies down on top of the bed when he sleeps. I doubt he has the wherewithal to get under the blanket or sheets. I’ve seen trauma before, I’ve seen crazy, and I’ve seen grief. As a public defender, I’ve seen a lot of the darker side of humanity—this is something different. Somebody did something to him, something terrible, and I am going to find out what.
Chapter Ten
The guards give Wilson and me some odd looks as we exit the compound and walk down the desolate country road that connects the prison to the nearest town. One unnaturally skinny guard wearing a Boston Red Sox hat shouts after us, “It’s 15 miles to the nearest gas st
ation, you might as well wait for the bus. Next one should be here around midnight.”
My phone says it’s 1:30 p.m., fat chance we’re waiting ten-and-a-half hours for a bus that probably smells like piss. “Thanks, but I think we’re going to walk!” I shout back at the guard. He just shakes his head as if we’re the dumbest or craziest individuals he’s come into contact with today. Which is saying a lot since he spends his days guarding the dumb, the crazy, and the crazy-dumb. Maybe he’s right. Maybe we are crazy. All I know is that we are not taking a bus.
In college, I took a bus halfway across the country to see a girl during spring break. It was supposed to be a sure thing . . . it wasn’t. The trip sucked, my sure thing got back together with her ex-boyfriend hours before I arrived. I spent three days on a bus that smelled like a porta-potty, listening to two crack heads fight about whether Jerry Springer or Phil Donahue would win in a fistfight—you know, the kind of life-defining argument that leads to enlightenment. Although I must admit the question is a doozie, and I spent some time contemplating it myself. Ultimately, I concluded that in their primes, my money would have been on Springer. Although Donahue looks taller on television, the internet says they’re both about the same height and weight so there is no discernable size advantage. What finally tipped the scales for me was the cities they grew up in. Donahue is from Cleveland and Springer is from Chicago. It does not require much explaining— as an Oakland guy, you can’t ever root for Cleveland.
After my bus experience, I feel safe assuming every bus smells like feces and is filled with nut-jobs. I avoid them like I avoid Walmarts in the South.
“I’m not a hiker,” whines Wilson. “When I got out of the Army, I promised myself never again. Definitely not for fun. Why can’t we just turn off the road here and you draw us a gate on the nearest fucking tree?”