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Full moons always brought ‘em out. And a full moon on Friday the 13th? Everyone in the squad room was a little on edge, expecting a rough night. You could smell it in the air. Kay admitted it: She was superstitious. It wasn’t anything to be ashamed of, and it didn’t mean she wasn’t also skeptical and evidence-minded. It just meant she took in the whole picture, you know? The full 360. Being a detective took a certain kind of humility, a knowing-what-you-don’t-know. There were more things in heaven and earth than were dreamt of in the police handbook, and Kay respected that. Ghosts? Psychics? Why not? Hot streaks? Curses? Science hadn’t figured everything out and Kay saw no harm in trying to get the invisible forces on her side.
Sure, she’d gotten teased about it … she still turned red thinking of the whole “Casper” business. And then there was the time Ed Danvers had taken her to a touring production of “Macbeth” and, to Kay’s horror, said the title out loud in the theater. She’d flipped out on him—everyone knows you don’t do that!—and several times during what was an unfortunately long and dreary production, he’d leaned over to her and whispered “mmmmmmmaaaaaaccccbe—” until she slapped her hand over his mouth before he could get the whole word out. But hey, everyone took some shit from their fellow police and she’d rather get hers for superstition rather than her sex or her sex life. And while she might be little more of a believer, well, she’d yet to meet a murder police that didn’t have a lucky coin, or a ritual, or who didn't go by the occasional hunch.
The full moon thing, though—that was real. Just ask any cop or emergency room nurse. Kay was pretty sure she’d even seen statistics about it. Occasionally some detective who liked to consider himself ultra-rational tried to normalize it. “Full moon. More light. More people out. More people out at night, more crime,” Felton once opined confidently, as the squad room nodded politely and rolled their eyes. Felton was just being Felton. Ever since those tarot cards had failed him, he’d been as skeptical as … as Dana Scully. (Kay had a few episodes of “The X-Files” taped and was looking forward to catching up on the show over the weekend. Ordinary detective shows got too many details of police work wrong, which was annoying and distracting, but the X-Files was different. And she loved Agent Scully. Girls today were lucky to have such role models. Wouldn’t it have meant the world for a little elementary-school Kay Howard to be able to see such a tough-minded, level-headed but kind woman running around in a pantsuit solving crimes and kicking butt? And a redhead at that? Yes it would have.)
The bottom line on all of it was that when the phone rang on a full moon—as it just had—Kay’s partner was even more inclined than usual to let her answer it. “Detective Howard, Homicide. Okay, okay, slow down … “ Kay took notes and tried to calm her clearly distraught caller, turning to Felton when the call was ended. “Witness to a murder near Leakin Park, said she heard a gunshot and when she looked, two men were grappling. Said it looked like one stabbed the other. Uniforms are already on their way.”
“Let’s go.”
The moon was bright, brighter than usual, and Felton was in the mood to sing every “moon song” he could think of on the drive, Kay finally joining in on “Blue Moon” and throwing in a few wolf howls for fun. “You saw me standing ah-loooooooone ow ow owwwwww!”
The uniforms were already on the scene. “What have we got?” Kay asked.
“Looks bad,” the officer replied.
Kay crouched by the body and whistled, long and low. The victim, a white man in late middle age, was ripped open from the throat to the crotch. “This guy’s not stabbed, he’s disemboweled,” Felton said.
“According to his ID the deceased is Rolf Yeager, local,” said one of the uniformed officers. “Had a revolver with him—nice, antique six-shooter—and we recovered one bullet from the ground. Looks like he got threatened, took a shot, missed, then—” the officer drew his hand down his torso and made gurgling sounds.
“Thank you,” Kay replied with a bit of sharpness. “Firearm and bullet bagged for evidence?”
“Of course.”
A sudden beam of light illuminated the silver crucifix hanging off the tattered neck of the deceased. Kay stood and shaded her eyes against the headlight glare of a van that was pulling up. She stepped aside to see the vehicle more clearly as two men hopped out.
“Uh … hi?” said the driver.
“I guess you guys got called too?” added the passenger.
“Animal Control!” Beau laughed. “What are you doing here?”
“Yeah, we, uh …”
“Got a call?”
“From a witness?”
The Animal Control guys always, always, said everything as a question. It drove Kay crazy. Fine, maybe it came off as unthreatening to scared housecats trapped in trees. To her it came of as a severe lack of courage-of-conviction. Kay shoved down the urge to holler “Did you get a call from a witness or not?!” and instead replied “What did they report?” with a surface calm only her partner could read as irritation.
“Uh, an—excuse the, uh, French—‘huge-ass coyote attacking a dude’?”
“Some dude.”
“Oh, yeah, pretty sure they said some dude? Not a dude?”
“That’s … thank you for your precision,” Kay said. “You never know what details might turn out to be important.”
“Also there was a gunshot? That’s what got the witness’s attention?”
The passenger officer gazed around the fauna-free crime scene forlornly. “I guess it ran away? The coyote?”
Felton made a mocking show of scanning the horizon. “It certainly seems to have!” Kay hid a quick smile.
“Well, congratulations, gentlemen,” she said. “I think this killer is in your domain more than ours. Sure looks like an animal attack, but let’s get the body to the ME just to be sure.”
“Another name in black for Detective Kay Howard!” Felton announced to the squad room on their return.
“Not entirely official yet—” Kay equivocated.
“On Friday the 13th no less,” said Munch.
“Maybe the polarity got reversed. Maybe that’s a lucky day now,” Kay responded. “Maybe you should hit the singles bars after your shift, John.”
“Yeah, see if you can get lucky, Munchkin,” Lewis laughed, getting a scowl in response. “So what was it?”
Felton chuckled. “Guess who showed up right after we did? Animal Control.”
“Animal Control? Uh, those guys?” Bayliss said in a pitch-perfect imitation of the AC officers’ stoner uptalk.
“Yeah? And they’d gotten called because of an attack?” Felton responded.
“Turns out my witness—who did, I have to admit, sound a little inebriated over the phone—got it wrong,” Kay explained. “It wasn’t two men struggling, it was a man being attacked by an, and I quote, ‘huge-ass coyote.’ AC got a separate call—”
“From a presumably soberer witness—” Felton added.
“Sober-er? Anyway, that’s obviously what it was, the guy was ripped to shreds. Body’s with the ME for confirmation but no way that was done by a human being. Case can be presumed closed,” Kay said. She picked up the black marker and wrote YEAGER under her name.
“I wouldn’t be so quick, Howard,” Pembleton said with a demonic sincerity. “There are conflicting witness statements to account for, after all. And it is a full moon.”
“Could have been a werewolf,” Bayliss volunteered. “Just saying.”
“We’re just saying,” Pembleton added. Sometimes Kay thought she liked it better back when Pembleton and Bayliss hadn’t gotten along so well.
“Pieter Stumpp prowls again!” Munch declaimed.
“Pieter who?” Kay didn’t especially care, but Munch so clearly wanted to be asked.
“Sixteenth-century German, accused of lycanthropy. Or, technically, murder and cannibalism while in wolf form since lycanthropy itself has never been criminalized per se, in my knowledge. Stumpp allegedly killed and ate a dozen or so children—including his own son—and a couple pregnant women.”
“So, basic serial killer,” Lewis said.
“Yes, except he was specifically accused of witchcraft and lycanthropy in addition to the non-supernatural crimes, all of which and more he confessed to after a session of good old-fashioned German torture, after which he was beaten, burned, and finally decapitated.”
“Now see, if I was a werewolf,” Lewis opined, “That would be the point at which I would kick it into high gear. If you’re being tortured—”
“—by some Krauts—”
“It’s not an ethnic thing, John, don’t go there—if you’re being tortured, and you can turn into a wolf, that for me would be the point where you do turn into a wolf—”
“Thereby proving your guilt?” Bayliss asked.
“Thereby ripping the heads off every inquisitor in the room,” Lewis finished.
“A wolf is the perfect murder weapon,” Pembleton said.
“Exactly,” Lewis replied.
“So then why was the murder committed by a puny human, according to Kay’s witness?” Bayliss asked. “If one can turn into a wolf, and so forth and so on. If I want to kill a guy, why do it with a weaker body? A weaker body with fingerprints?”
Pembleton was silent for a moment. “Because a wolf is also the perfect alibi.”
Kay laughed. “What?”
“No, think about it,” Pembleton said, warming to the topic. “Imagine you’re a werewolf. You turn into a crazed, bloodthirsty monster once a month—”
“She kinda does,” Felton said, earning himself a sharp elbow to the ribs.
“Chocolate-thirsty,” Howard muttered. Felton grinned.
“And you know this. You know this about yourself. You do not have control over your transformations, but you do have predictability. The phases of the moon are known and predictable. As, for that matter, is lupine behavior.”
“I thought lupines were flowers,” Felton whispered.
“Also an adjective meaning wolf-like or relating to wolves,” Munch whispered back.
“In which case,” Pembleton continued, turning and doing that thing he did, that thing Kay always wondered about, where it was like his whole … aura … was a cape he twirled and settled over the room, after which he owned it entirely. How did he do that? “In which case, the planful lycanthrope could set up a situation thus: Say there is a person he wishes to kill. A romantic rival, someone from whose death he stands to gain in some way. Premeditated.”
“And then?” Kay prompted.
“Then, your planful lycanthrope lures his enemy to a particular spot. One with woods nearby, to which an animal might escape. At a particular time—a few minutes before the full moon. Said lycanthrope, in human form—”
“It really sounds like a few clouds could throw a wrench in the whole thing,” Felton pointed out.
“Perhaps. We don’t know if it’s the moon itself, or the light from said moon, that triggers the transformation. Be that as it may, your werewolf invites his victim to a secluded spot. While in human form, kills him with a knife—a silent murder, so as not to alert witnesses, yet with considerable spilling of blood. Then he waits. The moon rises,” Pembleton continued dramatically. “The transformation begins. The wolf—a creature both apex predator and scavenger—finds itself instantiated beside a warm, tasty, blood-smelling sack of fresh meat. Surely transforming from one species to another takes considerable effort and leaves the transformer … hungry. The beast feeds. Any wounds made by the puny human, with his puny knife, are obliterated. The time of death is only minutes before the time of desecration, thus foiling forensic efforts. And the wolf will naturally flee when first responders arrive.”
“The perfect crime,” Bayliss said. “Except for the puny knife. And the clothes.”
“Those could be disposed of between the murder and the transformation. This is a planful lycanthrope," Pembleton retorted. "Presumably he would have scouted the murder venue ahead of time and arranged for a hiding place.”
“Who would a werewolf want to kill, though?” Lewis asked. “They got beef with vampires?”
“Same as anyone would,” Pembleton said. “A romantic rival, a betrayer, someone from whose death he sought to profit. A family enemy.”
“A tribal enemy,” Munch suggested. “A werewolf hunter, say. Blood rivalry between families going back generations. Perhaps to Romania.”
“Yeah, John, you should have taken this case,” Lewis said. “Use your Romanian and all that Old Country lore.”
“Oh, and here I thought you were saying this wasn’t an ethnic thing—”
Felton grimaced. “But why would a werewolf hunter meet someone he suspects of—werewolfery?”
“Lycanthropy,” Munch and Pembleton said at the same time.
“ … during a full moon? I mean they’d know the risks.”
“An honor thing? Old Country lore?” Munch offered.
“Because a dead human body gets investigated. Dead animals, do not,” Pembleton said.
“Okay, yeah, that too … “ Munch muttered.
“Well, this has all been very entertaining!” Kay interrupted. “But if you’ll pardon me, gentlemen, I’m going to feast my eyes once more upon the long black list of names underneath my name and—” she paused. “Go home? For a glass of wine? And some X-Files?”
Felton chuckled. “Enjoy it? Partner?” The phone rang again. “But first—do you mind picking that up?”
Kay rolled her eyes. “Fine. Homicide. Detective Howard. Hey, Josh—wow, that’s fast. What? Okay. Thanks for—okay.” She hung up, looking vaguely rattled.
“Josh from Ballistics?” Felton asked. “What case?”
“This one,” Kay replied. “Said he didn’t think it made any difference, but I might want to know that gun was a lot older than it looked—and a make he hadn’t seen before. Not American. But the weird part, the bullets, all six of them … “
“Yeah?” Felton nudged.
“Solid silver.”