The Lycanthrope's Lawyer

by Jason Rose

  “Soon,” Sinn quickly replies.

  “Vampire genome project?” I ask.

  “It’s nothing. Just some genetic stuff I’m working on. Let’s get back to the office.”

  Now my curiosity is really piqued. If Sinn and I were in a better place I would press for more information. Not wanting to start another fight, I decide to let it go for now. “Hey, Tolliver,” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “One more question before we go, can you tell me anything about this sword?” Tolliver examines the sword with mild interest as I draw it and place it on the bar counter.

  “It’s beautiful. Where did you get it?”

  “It was a gift. Can you tell me anything about it?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m not really an expert on swords. Can I touch it?”

  “Sure.”

  Tolliver reaches and touches the handle and then quickly withdraws his hand. “Ow, it burns!” He shakes his hand out vigorously like he just touched a hot stove. “Fascinating!” Tolliver’s eyes are now wide with excitement. “Does it burn you when you touch it?”

  “No.”

  “Other people?’

  “It burned Sinn when she touched it.”

  “And the burn mark took several hours to heal,” adds Sinn.

  “Fascinating. Anybody else?”

  “I’m only aware of one other person touching it, a werewolf, and it cut him clean in half.”

  “In half?” asks Tolliver, eye as wide as dinner plates.

  I nod.

  “Did it cauterize the werewolf flesh?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer, surprised by the question.

  “You really should have checked.”

  “My bad,” I deadpan. “I’ll be sure to check next time I cut someone in half.”

  “Please do.” Remarks Tolliver as he touches the blade again and again jerks his hand back in pain. “Hot. Absolutely fascinating.”

  Do you know any other words than fascinating?” I ask sarcastically.

  Sinn frowns, and Tolliver looks confused. “Other words?”

  I sigh. “Never mind. Can you tell me anything about the sword?”

  “Not much without further study.” Tolliver takes another puff and blows the smoke across the surface of the blade. “I can tell you it’s giving off a ton of raw energy—the hairs on my neck are standing up.”

  “Is the energy dangerous?”

  “Probably.”

  “Radioactive?”

  “Don’t know. Could be.”

  “That’s just awesome. Really assuring.”

  “Isn’t it? Can I keep it . . . to study? I’ll give it back when I’m done. I want to cut some stuff with it.”

  “Not right now, maybe later. I think I want to keep it with me until this case is over.” Although it’s probably dosing me with cancer-causing radiation and with my luck, I’ll probably grow a third eye on my back, I have a feeling I’m going to need it.

  Tolliver shrugs in disappointment.

  “One other thing,” I ask.

  “Sure, what?”

  “I have to know, what were you doing with the crystal?”

  Tolliver frowns. “The crystal?”

  “Yeah, the one you were juggling during your examination of Eirik?”

  Tolliver picks up the baseball-sized crystal off the bar counter. “This?”

  “Yeah, that.”

  “It’s just a pretty rock. It’s cold to the touch, calming. It helps me think. Do you want one? They’re not that expensive. I have a good crystal guy. I can get you a good price.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Wednesday Evening

  “Colt, Sinn, you’re back! You got to see this!” As Sinn and I step through my gate, arriving in the center of our office, we are accosted by an excited Josie urging us over to her computer screen.

  “What are we watching?” asks Sinn.

  “Just watch.” Joycee clicks play on a news clip.

  A news anchor, a pretty woman of indeterminable age and ethnicity, wearing a bright red dress, professional in all but its color, is standing in front of the prison Wilson and I visited, the one Eirik Varulv is supposed to be housed in, and is addressing the camera:

  Eirik Varulv, the man often referred to as the Pittsfield Butcher, has escaped from prison. Eirik Varulv pled guilty earlier this year to the murder of nine people, including his own granddaughter in a Pittsfield Hotel. He was sentenced to life in prison. According to prison spokesmen, Varulv was in his cell last night at bed check. When the guard opened the cell to take him to breakfast this morning, he was gone. The prison is still investigating how he made his escape. They are not ruling out inside help. The police have set up checkpoints and are sweeping the nearby woods.

  A picture of Eirik Varulv fills the screen.

  If you see this man, please call authorities immediately. Do not approach him. He is presumed to be armed and dangerous.

  The anchor’s face dramatically shifts from a look of concern to one of intrigue.

  Our next story involves a man, a lawn chair, and a whole lot of balloons.

  Joycee stops the video. “You want to watch it again?”

  “No,” I answer, as I glance over at Eirik. “I guess we should have returned him sooner.”

  “Boss,” calls out Wilson from behind his desk. “Good news, I found the address for Whiley MacGee’s DC apartment.”

  “We,” corrects Josie.

  “Sorry, me and the kid found the apartment.”

  “I’m not a kid.”

  Wilson sticks his tongue out at Josie. “Boss, you want to head over there and check it out? Maybe bring the kung-fu geisha with us for backup.”

  Sinn glares at Wilson. “Really? You're combining racial epithets? You want me to kick your ass?”

  “Those aren’t racial epithets. A racial epithet is derogatory. I’m not using either kung fu or geisha in a derogatory manner. I’m using them descriptively. I know for a fact you know kung fu and geisha means beautiful Asian women. Boo-yah, descriptive.” Wilson flashes a shit-eating grin at Sinn.

  “Now your mansplaining?” interjects Josie.

  “Poorly,” I add. “And geisha does not mean beautiful Asian women, you idiot.”

  “Yes, it does,” argues Wilson as he frantically types on his cell phone, presumably searching for the definition of geisha. “That’s what the nice young women at the massage parlor told me.”

  “No, asshole, it means Japanese women who are trained to provide entertainment for men. I am not Japanese and I’m not here to entertain you,” says Sinn, as she throws a capped pen across the room at Wilson, deftly bouncing it off his forehead.

  “Ouch!” yells Wilson nearly dropping his phone.

  “Nice shot!” Joycee gives Sinn a high five as both women laugh at Wilson’s expense.

  “Sure, pick on the old white guy. So original,” mutters Wilson as he pushes air at the two women with one hand, causing them both to laugh even harder. After the week I’ve had, it’s nice to see our little family getting along, even if it’s in an unconventional way.

  “Joycee, you think you can babysit Eirik while I take these two clowns to DC for some B & E?”

  Joycee frowns. “I wanna come.”

  “Next time.”

  Sinn places a hand on my shoulder. “How about we keep her on standby? He might have a computer. The three of us can jump over and check it out; if there’s a computer, you come back and get her.”

  Joycee is still frowning, I can tell she wants in on the danger. Sinn’s solution makes her part of the team, but it won’t give her the rush she’s looking for. That’s probably why Sinn proposed it. Maybe instead of trying to manipulate her into safe activities, we need to encourage her to go to a therapist so she can find a healthy release. Bottling up anger and actively seeking potentially dangerous situations can’t be healthy. Fuck me, I don’t even know if it’s my place to tell her she should seek therapy. I sure as shit wouldn’t want my friends te
lling me to go talk about my feelings with a lounge-chair quack. The last thing I want to do is push her away. Why is life so complicated? “All right, that’s a good idea. “Joycee, that work for you?”

  She sighs. “Yes.”

  Wilson hands me a printed photograph of the inside of a loft apartment. It’s a nice apartment, décor is minimalist, it looks more staged than lived in. “What’s this?”

  “Our destination. Don’t you need to see where you’re going in order to open a gate?”

  “This is the inside of his apartment?”

  “Yep,” answers Wilson, a look of pride plastered on his ugly mug.

  “I figured we were going to have to use Google street view to gate out in front of his building and then break in. How did you get this?”

  “Realtor site. House was on the market a couple of years ago, right after the remodel; these are interior pics used to entice buyers.”

  “They leave those up? Even after the apartment sold?”

  “Some sites do.”

  “That’s creepy. Good work, though. Joycee, you watch the vegetable. Lock up; we don’t need any potential guests recognizing him from the news. You two—with me. Time to see how Stratham’s doppleganger lives.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Wednesday Evening

  “What’s that smell?” asks Sinn as she places a hand over her mouth and nose. “It’s foul, whatever it is.”

  She’s right, the smell is foul. And it’s probably ten times worse for her with her enhanced senses. The scent reminds me of my childhood neighbors’ dog, how he’d smell at the end of summer. He was a long-haired mutt, his owners rarely bathed him. Indiana summers were always hot and sticky; air conditioning wasn’t something most people could afford. That poor furball would sweat through his paws and drool all over himself. The stink would build. By late August, you could smell his ripeness from across the yard. Thankfully, September would bring the rains and the stank would be washed away until the following summer. It’s funny when you reflect back on your life, with a little distance and perspective, how different things can seem. When I was a kid, I thought the world of my neighbors—they were nice people, who occasionally gave me licorice. Looking back now, I realize they were shitty people who mistreated their animals and lived in filth. I can’t believe I accepted food from them. It’s a wonder I survived my childhood.

  “I don’t smell anything,” responds Wilson. “It ain’t me. I’m all the way over here and you two are over there. Sinn, did you forget to put deodorant on this morning?”

  “You want me to hit you with another pen?” asks Sinn. “Maybe this time tip first.”

  Wilson kisses his middle finger while making moon eyes at Sinn.

  “Knock it off, you two. At least until we clear the apartment.” The loft has a wide-open floor plan with an entire wall of frosted windows that open wide enough for an adult to go sky diving. The only private areas not observable from the center of the room, where we emerged from the gate, are the bathroom and bedroom. “Sinn, you check the bathroom. Wilson, you get the bedroom.”

  I have a feeling that there’s nobody here and both Sinn with her superior scent and hearing and Wilson with his military training knew that before I gave the orders; otherwise, they wouldn’t have been acting so loose. It’s a testament to their professionalism that both Sinn and Wilson just nod and execute my orders without questioning them. They both are different and yet equally valuable to me in their own ways. In a straight-up fight, I’d take Sinn every time. The thing about Wilson is, he doesn’t believe in straight-up fights. He’s more of a schemer—the kind of guy who brings a bazooka, and a backup bazooka, to a fistfight. I’m lucky to have them both on my team.

  “Colt,” Sinn calls out. “You’re going to want to see this. There’s a body in the bathtub.”

  “You’re gonna want to see this, too!” yells Wilson. “This guy is a freak. He’s got an entire wall of sex toys, mirrors on the ceiling, three cameras pointed at the bed from different angles hooked up to monitors, a stripper pole, and a swing. A real sex swing, some circus shit, bolted to the ceiling. It’s like a porn studio in here. Holy shit, do you think he was making werewolf porn? Colt, you think he filmed himself having sex in his wolf form? Or his half-wolf form? Can they even do that?”

  “Wilson, get in here.” There’s a crash in the bedroom. “Wilson,” I shout, “You okay?”

  “Nothing to worry about, Boss. Knocked something over.”

  “I bet he was swinging on the pole,” declares Sinn while shaking her head in disgust.

  “Stop touching things!” I yell. “I don’t want you to get some weird werewolf STD.”

  “Wait, what? That’s a thing? You can’t get it from touch alone, can you?”

  “Just get in here.”

  Wilson shuffles into the bathroom where Sinn and I are waiting. “Holy IT&T? Where’s the head?”

  “Holy IT&T?” I ask.

  Before Wilson can speak, Sinn responds, “It’s an old Batman and Robin TV reference. You’re probably too young to remember it.”

  “Hey, me and him are the same age,” whines Wilson.

  “Nobody believes that. You look at least twenty years older and haggard.” Sinn grins. Despite the awkwardness between us, everything is right as rain between Sinn and Wilson.

  “Fuck you, Elvira.”

  “Elvira? Me? Really? I look nothing like her. You’re not even trying anymore.”

  “Okay,” I interrupt, “I get the IT&T reference, Information, Technology and Telepho—."

  “—No, International Telephone and Telegraph,” corrects Sinn.

  “Fine,” I stammer. Annoyed at being corrected. I hate being corrected, even when I’m wrong. “I’m still a little surprised you even watched the Batman TV show—”

  “Why? Because I’m a girl?” Sinn is staring at me, waiting for an answer.

  “No. It just seems a bit hokey for your tastes.”

  Sinn partially smirks, signaling she only half believes my attempted save. “Colt, there were like two channels back then, and Batman wasn’t that hokey for its time period. And Adam West looked good in tights.”

  “Yuck, I taste vomit in my mouth.” Wilson bends over at the waist and pretends to throw up.

  “You two clowns notice anything weird about this?” I gesture at the surrounding bathroom trying to refocus our efforts on the murder scene.

  “You mean besides the naked headless guy in the bathtub?” mutters Wilson.

  “Seriously, what’s wrong here?”

  Wilson and Sinn stop the horseplay and study the room. The bathroom is large. The floors are covered in black and white checkered tiles; white subway tiles cover the walls. A partial glass partition encloses a shower with a cement bench. A large mirror hangs above a double vanity with a quartz countertop and raised sinks. In the center of the bathroom is a large clawfoot tub in which rests a headless naked body of a male approximately the same size as Whiley, the loft’s owner.

  “There’s no blood,” answers Sinn. “The tub is empty and the room is spotless. There should be blood everywhere.”

  “She’s right,” comments Wilson as he searches behind the toilet and under the vanity, presumably looking for places where blood might hide even after a thorough cleaning. “Where’s the blood?”

  “Sinn, check the body.”

  Sinn reaches over and squeezes the victim; his skin is just hanging on the bones, almost like a husk. “It’s empty. Drained.”

  “Vampire? Werespider?” I ask. My jaw clenches as I think back to the videos I watched of Lycocide the werespider draining his victims. Killing it didn’t make me feel better like I thought it would. It just made me angry, angry I didn’t do something sooner. Angry that I couldn’t help his victims. Angry that I couldn’t help Trudy. Trudy was the office manager at the San Francisco Public Defender’s office, my former employer. She had absolutely no connection to this world except for me. Lycocide killed her because of me. Her death is my f
ault.

  “I don’t know, the head and most of the neck is gone. I’d need to see the bite marks. I doubt it was a werespider. The body is in too good of a condition. Most spiders have a hard time controlling themselves when feeding. They tend to rip their victims apart.”

  “The fucking head is ripped off?” scoffs Wilson. “You call that control?”

  Sinn shrugs. “Like I said, I need to see the bite marks. The head looks more cut off than ripped off to me. And I think that was done postmortem; otherwise, there would be blood everywhere.”

  “Unless they cleaned up,” counters Wilson as he pokes at the bloodless husk. Or drank it all. Yuck. Why do you think they took the head?”

  Sinn shrugs again. “Trophy?”

  “This might be a weird time to bring this up, but we got Eirik’s toxicology results back from the lab. I got the e-mail right before you gated us here. His blood was clean.”

  “No surprises there. It doesn’t change anything.”

  Wilson shrugs. “I know, but it would have been have been nice to find something.”

  I nod in agreement. “You think it’s our guy, the same guy from the hotel?”

  “Probably,” answers Wilson. “Right size and build.”

  “Does it really matter?” interjects Sinn. “If this isn’t Whiley, then he is probably the murderer and more importantly he is twisting in the wind. We have no leads on his potential whereabouts, and it’s unlikely we will find him before Friday’s court deadline.”

  “Yea of little faith,” says Wilson.

  “It matters,” I answer, with conviction.

  “Why?”

  “I’m an advocate, and that’s a dead citizen. It matters. I’m not going to go out of my way to solve this dick’s murder, but if our investigation leads us to his killer, I’ll help him get justice. Even the dicks of this world deserve justice. Wilson, take some pictures of the body and get close-ups of that tattoo. Let’s see if we can confirm the identity.”

  “Sure, boss, it shouldn’t be too hard to figure out if this is Whiley or somebody else based on his tattoo. I mean, I doubt very many men have a four-leaf-clover tattoo on their chest,” he says sarcastically.

  “If only we knew someone who knows what Whiley looked like naked . . .” I reply in an equally sarcastic tone.