Animal Behavior and Other Tales of Lycanthropy (11 page)

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Homicide detective Murphy Crane pushed his way through the growing crowd in the lobby of the Grand Victorian Hotel. Stepping out of the horde of reporters and angered guests not allowed to return to their rooms, he pulled back his lapel and revealed his badge to the uniformed officer. With the nod of his head, the man allowed him to cross the yellow caution tape and get in the elevator.

He breathed in deeply through his nose; the aroma of rum and tobacco lingered in the air.
I thought this hotel went tobacco free last year?
The elevator doors opened. He shrugged his shoulders and stepped off. A uniformed cop stood vigilante at the end of the hallway. Murphy watched the man’s gaze travel over to him; he saved the man the trouble by showing his badge as he approached. “What do we have here?” he asked the beat cop standing in the doorway, though he already knew from the smell emanating from within the hotel room.

“Two bodies, sir. We suspect murder-suicide.”

Murphy looked beyond the officer, but saw no other uniformed cop in the spacious living room. “We?”

“You passed my partner by the elevators downstairs.”

“Oh, the one keeping the press at bay?”

“Yes. The hotel manager asked us to keep it as quiet as possible until we’ve got a handle on exactly what went down. Guess he’s afraid it’ll hurt his business in these hard economic times.”

Murphy stepped into the room. “Of course he does. Tourism’s down and people have their pick. Some of the finest hotels in Florida have practically given away rooms. However, the manager has no say on what we tell the press. Got it?”

“Yes. You want me to address them?”

“Not just yet. I’ll entertain the manager so long as it suits me,” Murphy answered and his train of thought derailed.
It smells like a drug deal gone bad.
His sensitive nose picked up a faint formaldehyde aroma.
Crack cocaine, maybe
. “You and your partner were the first on the scene?”

“Yes, sir.”

“May I have your names?”

“Of course. Name’s Johnson and my partner is Talbot.”

“Any signs of drugs or money?”

“No, sir.”

“What about forced entry?”

“No, sir.”

Victim must have known his attacker then, or was expecting him
. “What about witnesses?”

“None, sir. When back-up came we covered the floor and neighboring rooms to the stairwell below.”

“Who called it in?”

“The maid, Robin Dearman. We have her in the adjoining room waiting to speak with you.”

“Excellent work. How far into the room did she make it?”

“As you can see” —the officer pointed to the two bodies sprawled out on the floor just several feet away from them— “she didn’t have to go in too far to realize what had transpired.”

“Anyone else been in the room?”

“No, sir. The scene’s ready for you to do your thing.”

“Coroner?”

“On his way.”

“Good work, officer. I’ll take it from here.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Murphy withdrew a pair of surgical gloves and slapped them on. Then, taking his notepad out of his blazer pocket, he jotted down the time he arrived, the officers’ names, and ID number. “Officer Johnson!”

“Sir?” the man said, still standing in the doorway.

“I need Talbot’s ID number for my notes.”

“Eleven-forty, sir.”

“Thank you. I need you to document who’s here, when they arrived, what they did, and when they left.”

“You can count on me, sir.”

Murphy returned his attention to the notepad, quickly scribbling every word the officer had said, then pulled his camera up to position. He focused on the two bodies and took shots of both together in the same frame and individually; knife wounds killed both men and there seemed to be no signs of a struggle, which only reinforced Murphy’s suspicion.

From what he had gathered from the hotel manager before entering the building, the victim was Calvin Davis, a young black entrepreneur in town for the marketing conference, but Murphy’s instincts told him that was just a front for his drug ring. Though there were no physical traces of product, Murphy’s nose never lied.

And if the product was here, then there was a second perp
.

It wasn’t unheard of for a drug deal to go south. Usually it was someone new to the game, someone with dreams of grandeur, believing they could score the dope without paying for it.

He took several more photos; Calvin’s tan shirt was covered in blood from the knife wound to the heart. His attacker still clung to the murder weapon, his throat slashed from ear to ear.

Takes an awful lot of will power to cut your own throat
, Murphy thought, then kneeled down to shoot another photo before putting the camera away. His nostrils flared as he caught the strange scent of a mixture of fish and gunpowder.
Couldn’t be? Could it?

In all his years and travels he had seen the darker practice of voodoo decline and become near extinct. Yet, here he was, finding the subtle traces of black magic.

It’s been nearly a hundred years since I’ve known anyone to practice it. Don’t get ahead of yourself. We need more to go on.

“Are you almost finished with the scene?” asked a familiar voice.

Murphy stood and greeted Tony Baxter, one of Florida’s leading forensics examiners. He offered his hand and Tony gladly shook it.

“So what have we got?” asked Tony.

“Too early to tell, but I think there’s more here than what can be seen.”

“You got a hunch, huh?”

Murphy smiled. “I need you to check for Tetrodotoxin in the alleged assailant’s blood stream when you do your autopsy.”

“You think he ate some bad sushi or something?”

“Or something,” Murphy said.

From the hallway he heard the static discharge of Officer Johnson’s radio. His ears tingled in anticipation.

“All units, report of one-eight-seven and possible two-O-seven on Citrus Trail. Closest unit please respond. Witness on scene claims to have seen a black man adorned in white face paint and wearing a white top hat. Officers approaching scene be on the lookout.”

Homicide and possible abduction
, Murphy thought and then wondered about the face paint and the cigar smoke in the elevator. Though he had thought it unlikely, it was too much of a coincidence. Someone was masquerading as a Bokor, the evil counter-part of the houngan voodoo priest.
I need confirmation.

“What’s wrong, Murphy?” Tony asked. “You look deep in thought. Is there something you’re not sharing with me?”

“No. But I’ve got to go.”

“What about the scene?”

“I know . . . I’m sorry, but could you wrap it up without me?”

“Yeah, man. Of course.”

“Thank you,” Murphy said, and started for the door.

“But I’m not doing the paperwork,” Tony called after him.

Murphy simply waved his hand to acknowledge hearing him.

As he passed Officer Johnson, the man held out his arm to stop him. “What about the maid who called it in?”

“Take her statement, will you?” He pulled out a business card from his wallet and offered it. “Call me if you need me. I’m heading to that one-eight-seven now.”

“But . . . how’d you . . .” He took the card and asked no further questions.

Murphy made it outside without further delay and peered up at the moon illuminating the night sky.
Two more days
, he thought, then headed toward his car. For the life of him he could not understand what Haitian voodoo was doing in the Sunshine State, and why someone would have the gall to flaunt it.

Perhaps he’s here for the same reason I am? Because outside of New York, it’s one of the largest melding pots of culture.

Thirty years ago he had moved to Homestead, Florida, to be close to the Everglades, a region dedicated to preserving wildlife. A region where he could shed the façade of man, embrace the wolf within, and roam wild without the constant fear of killing an innocent.

Though he loved being a cop, he knew it wouldn’t last much longer. Born a werewolf, he aged much slower than a man since his first transformation, and he was already dying streaks of gray in his hair to alleviate suspicion. Soon he would have to retire and possibly move on. He could collect a pension and remain in Florida for several years after retirement, but he had been the stay-at-home type before, and it didn’t take long for cabin fever to set in. He was a social creature and craved interaction.

Being a cop redefined him, the only profession that appeased both of his personalities. The rewarding satisfaction of saving and protecting an innocent, the thrill of the hunt on the heels of a perpetrator, the only thing man and wolf could agree upon. There was nothing else like it. In the late eighteen hundreds, after fighting in the Civil War, he had been a farmhand on a Louisiana plantation; during the first half of the twentieth century he was a cotton mill employee in Fall River, Massachusetts, and when the factory burnt down he moved to Oregon and lived near Williamette River, where he was a construction worker. He got out of town before the Big Pipe Project, an undertaking to reduce sewer overflows.

I suppose I could start over in another state. Enroll in the academy and work my way back up through the ranks. I would think it easier the second time around
. He smiled.

He turned off SW 344th Street and onto Citrus Trail. Guided by the swirling red and blue lights of a parked cruiser, he pulled over, turned off the car, and stepped out to greet the uniformed cop standing outside talking with the neighbors. The houses seemed even closer than usual for a Floridian sub-division; he thought for sure he could stand between them and touch both. He flashed his badge and proceeded to enter the residence.

“You don’t want to go in there yet,” the officer said.

“Why?” Murphy asked, making a mental note of the man’s ID number for his report.

“There’s a dog in there guarding the body. Won’t let anyone near it. I put a call in to animal control.”

“I’ll handle it.”

“Are you crazy? That thing’s a ninety-five pound Doberman!”

“Relax, would you. I got it.”

Murphy walked into the house and was greeted by the same mixture of rum and tobacco he smelled back at the hotel and to the low, guttural growl of an angry canine. The Doberman sat beside its master; his head leaned forward, teeth barred and ears straight up. The body on the floor lay still, eyes shut. The only sound of breathing came from the dog.

“Easy, boy,” he cooed as he slowly approached. “Who did this?”

The dog let out a soft whimper as its ears folded back. Murphy continued his approach and knelt down to look the animal in the eye and placed his hand upon its head. He made the connection and images flashed before him. A man adorned in black with skull paint on his face. An exchange of cash and white powder. The young couple sitting down to partake in the drug, while the strange man sipped his rum from a glass in his bony fingers, then puffed on his cigar. Betrayal. The couple collapsed to the floor after a single hit.

“How’d you do that?” asked the uniformed cop, breaking Murphy’s connection with the dog.

He glanced at the coffee table, but whatever drugs they took were gone without a trace. He patted the dog gently on the head, and said, “He knows an alpha male when he sees one.” He stood and turned his back to the body.

“Well . . . that’s some trick.”

Murphy whipped out his notebook and began writing. “What’s your name, officer?” he asked, ignoring the snide remark.

“Brown, sir. Eric Brown.”

“Good to meet you. So we have a male, Caucasian, no visible signs of trauma and a missing girlfriend. Is that right?”

“Yeah. The neighbor reported a man carrying out Mr. Stommel’s girlfriend over his shoulder. Looked as though she was unconscious.”

“And how did the neighbor witness this? There’s no sign of a struggle here. For all we know they let the perp in. So what got her snooping?”

“She was just taking her trash out. She claims the man saw her, smiled and winked, then went on his way as if she didn’t matter.”

“And what’s her name?”

“Kimberly Eckard.”

Murphy scribbled it in his pad.
This is more than just a two-bit criminal dabbling in voodoo. The level of arrogance is just astounding. It’s almost as if . . . . What’s his problem?
The officer’s eyes grew wide as he took a step back. Murphy turned around to see the eyelids of Mr. Stommel’s body had opened to expose white irises.

The body sat up. A whimper came from the Doberman, then it bolted to another room, its nails clicking against the wood floor.

“Mr. Stommel, are you all right?” the officer asked as his hand reached for his sidearm.

“Don’t do that. He’s not a threat.”

The officer relaxed his hand. “How do you know?”

Murphy doubted the man would understand the truth. “He’s drugged.”
Probably look at me like I’m some kind of stupid if I mentioned zombie.

This was it, the proof he needed. Should he let the zombie get close enough, he was certain he’d smell gunpowder mixed with puffer fish entrails on his breath. He thought back to the Mambo who lived in the woods that surrounded the Louisiana plantation. How introverted she was. She saw right through him when they had met, and the two became friends, each keeping the others’ secret. He probed his memories of the voodoo priestess’ teachings and the name “Baron Samedi” appeared as the veil to the past was pulled back.
The loa of sex and resurrection. The Haitian equivalent to the Ferryman with a fondness for tobacco and rum. It’s got to be him. But how? Has to be someone masquerading. It’s gotta be.