Blood Wolf’s Path

Chapter 4 – The Mysterious Death of the Mayor’s Daughter

The morning began in its usual routine. I stepped out of the “cage” – as I affectionately called my cell – got dressed, and drove to work. My pickup, which I’d left at the office, had been thoughtfully delivered to my house by the agents. Now, of course, I had to spend an hour in traffic.

The truck had been washed and filled to the brim with gas. In the glove box was a note: “Vehicle inspected and tuned up – will drive like a dream.”

And sure enough, it felt like a completely different machine. No more pulling to the right, no engine knocking, no creaky doors. They’d worked their magic – and fast. At least the FBI was good for something.

When I arrived at the precinct, Cherry was already at my partner’s desk.

“Sleep well?” I asked.

“Yeah. Went to bed early last night. There was a murder. The chief called me in and yelled for five straight minutes. Couldn’t get through to you or me. We were supposed to be at the crime scene, but they had to pull Fox in – even though he’s attached to another district.”

“Oh, that bastard Bram Fox… fine, I’ll deal with it.”

I went straight to Kozloryl’s office.

“What the hell are you doing? You gave my case to Fox! He’s not even from our precinct!” I barked, throwing open the glass door.

“Don’t start with me, idiot. I couldn’t get either of you on the phone, sent units to your places, and the streets around both of you were dug up for repairs… total mess. And this was a high-profile case. The victim was the mayor’s daughter,” Kozloryl said. He wasn’t in a good mood today – but then again, he rarely was.

“This is my case! Keep Fox out of it,” I said, stepping inside.

“He won’t touch it. The mayor called this morning asking specifically for you to handle it. Said he’d heard all about your ‘heroics’ in the student murder case. And besides, your clearance rate’s solid… damn, you’ve solved every case you’ve been given – except your partner’s murder. Or have you dug something up already?” Kozloryl’s anger was already cooling.

“Let the feds handle that one. I’m heading to the scene. Where is it?” I asked.

“Christ, Jerry! Don’t you watch TV or listen to the radio in your car? Go talk to Cherry – she knows the details. Drive to the mayor’s house. I’ll call him and say you’ll be there in twenty minutes.” He turned me by the shoulder and shoved me out the door.

Cherry and I got into my truck.

“You said your car was filthy and the engine ran rough. Sounds like it’s purring now,” Cherry noted.

“Cherry, is this an interrogation? I washed it, fixed the engine. The pulleys were squealing – five-minute swap. Did it myself in the garage,” I said casually. “Now tell me what happened – I didn’t watch the news, didn’t listen to the radio…”

“Alright, here’s the short version. The mayor’s daughter was murdered—”

“Murdered? No kidding! Had no idea,” I cut her off.

“—stab wound to the neck,” Cherry went on unfazed, “bled out. She was five. That evening the family went to bed – the mayor, his wife, the daughter, and their ten-year-old son. Around midnight, the wife woke up to get some water. She checked on her daughter and found her already dead. No cameras inside the house.”

“And outside?” I asked.

“There are some, but nothing suspicious showed up – no strange cars or people. None of the cameras point directly at the house. So it’s unclear if anyone came in. The whole family’s been evacuated except for the mayor. Forensics have been dusting for prints and collecting evidence all night.”

“Find anything?” My curiosity was piqued.

“Nothing. As if the killer never entered the house,” Cherry said meaningfully, staring at the side of my face. It was getting annoying.

“They swab the hands of the son, wife, and mayor? Oh wait – Fox was in charge. Of course they didn’t,” I said. “And stop staring at me before you burn a hole in my cheek.”

When we pulled up, Fox was on the porch chatting with the mayor.

“Well, well, well,” Fox squeaked – a scrawny man in his forties – “look who it is! How’s that investigation into your partner’s murder going?”

“No idea, Fox. As you know, the FBI’s running that one – call them and ask. This case is mine. Now get the hell out of here,” I growled through my teeth.

“Try sleeping less, hero,” he shot back. He liked to trade barbs.

The mayor stepped in. He was about forty-five, tall, lean – and obviously devastated. He looked at our squabble with disgust.

“Detective Jerry, I want you to find the killer,” the mayor said crisply.

“Of course, Mr. Mayor. But let’s speak privately.”

I took him aside.

“I’ll check the scene and talk to forensics. But let’s be honest – there was no break-in. Which means the killer was one of your family,” I said as gently as I could.

“That’s impossible! We loved her! And our son slept with us that night. My wife says he’s been nervous lately – maybe he sensed something,” the mayor protested.

“Alright. I’ll need to interview all three of you – you, your wife, and your son. I’ll visit you in a couple hours.”

“We’ll be at the Marriott,” the mayor said.

“The one on the waterfront near State Street?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. Think hard about every detail of that night and the days leading up to it. And whether you have any enemies who might want revenge.”

“Enemies? Come on! I won the election fair and square!”

“I didn’t vote for you. I don’t vote for Democrats,” I said on my way out.

Inside, the head forensic tech, old grumbler Herner, was packing up with two assistants.

“Got the prints?” I asked.

“Yeah, all done. No sign of forced entry.”

“Could they have come in through a window?”

“One on the second floor was open. The rest were latched. You can’t open those from the outside.”

“But could they have used the open one?”

“Unlikely. It’s pristine – I dusted it, checked the ledge. No footprints, no marks. Even in sterile gear, someone would’ve left something. There’s nothing.”

“Alright, I’ll check it myself. Found the weapon?”

“Nope.”

“You swab the son’s hands?”

“No. By the time I got here, the mother had already taken him away. Damn Fox…”

I tuned out his complaints and went upstairs. Cherry followed, eyeing the blood-soaked bed and carpet.

“I think this was revenge,” she said.

“Why?”

“Not a random killer. A pro.”

“Or the boy?”

“Highly unlikely. They said he slept with them – if he’d done it, he’d be covered in blood. And the mother found the girl first…”

“Uh-huh. And if you had to hide a knife, where would you put it?”

“Couch… I don’t know.”

“Lousy detective. They’d have found it there. Go to the kitchen – see if all the knives are there.”

While she was gone, I examined the room. Blood everywhere – even on the ceiling. On the long-pile carpet, a brownish stain – likely from the mayor trying CPR. The open window showed no prints or ledge marks, but I noticed the grass below was slightly flattened. You’d need a detective’s eye to catch it.

“Well?” I asked when Cherry returned.

“One’s missing – the ice-pick knife,” she said quietly.

Before leaving, I told Herner to bag the grass samples.

At the Marriott, I asked the mayor to gather the whole family. The wife resisted, saying the boy was in shock. The mayor overruled her.

She brought in a sullen Black boy. Not what I was expecting.

“My wife’s son from her first marriage,” the mayor explained.

“Right. And you say he slept with you that night, ma’am?”

“Yes… When I got up for water and checked on her, she was dying… I called my husband…”

“And you, sir – how were you woken?”

“My wife. Her face was covered in blood. She said someone killed our little girl…”

“And where was the boy then? Still in bed?”

“I don’t know… I ran straight to my daughter’s room…”

“Why all these questions?” the wife snapped – clearly hiding something.

I stood. “Last question, ma’am. Where’s your ice-pick knife? Let’s check your purse.”

“Nooo!” she screamed, falling to her knees before her husband. “Forgive me… it wasn’t on purpose…”

The pale mayor drew a revolver.

“Don’t—” I started, but it was too late.

He shot his wife in the head, then fired three rounds into the boy’s neck, then one into his own jaw.

On the way back, Cherry asked, “Why kill the boy? Black lives matter.”

“Not his son. The Black brat was jealous. The mayor was always at work, so the mother started bringing the boy into her bed. That night, he got up and drove the ice-pick into his sister’s neck. The mother found her still breathing, pulled the knife out – and that’s when the blood poured. The boy stayed clean. Instead of saving her daughter, she saved him – tossing the knife out the open window, later retrieving it and hiding it in her purse. Even without the weapon, I’d have broken them in ten minutes.”

“Poor mayor,” Cherry sighed.

“That bastard? He might’ve been a doctor and a good shot, but he was no leader. Maybe now we’ll get a real Republican in office. Now get out of my truck – grab a cab and report to the chief. I’m not driving you.”

“And you?”

“You don’t want to see me tonight – I’ll be in a bad mood. Might bite someone…”

Cherry flinched. That told me she really was involved in something. So Kuksucker hadn’t been lying about her. Time to go home and spend the night in the cage.

Hopefully no one would get killed tonight, so I could spend tomorrow digging into Krivochlen’s case – maybe finally tracing the origins of this werewolf epidemic and helping Kuksucker find a cure.

Chapter 5 – The Boston Strangler

The morning started with a dressing-down from Kozloryl… The chief was fuming and spitting insults. Droplets of spit from his bastard mouth splattered onto my new suit – the one Cocksucker had given me.

“Jerry, you’re a real piece of work. A triple homicide at the Marriott – the mayor killed his family and blew his own brains out right in front of you. How could you let that happen?” Kozloryl squealed, yanking the blinds shut.

“Me? What about your Cherry? She’s a detective too! Why aren’t you chewing her out?” I shot back.

“She just started on the force. And you know the situation… She’s Black, and I don’t need trouble with those darkies,” Kozloryl said nastily.

“You old asshole! Listen to me now – I don’t give a damn about your hang-ups. You chew me out one more time, and I’ll plant one right in your face, got it, you little prick? You and your career only went anywhere because of me and my partner – how many times did we cover your sorry ass?” I shouted.

“Now, Jerry, I—” Kozloryl faltered. My outburst hit home.

“Go to hell, mustache-face. You just drenched my jacket in your spit,” I yelled.

“Wait, let me just say—” he stammered.

I didn’t listen. I stormed out and slammed the door hard. Finally, I could say what I really thought. And most importantly, it was the truth. That worthless piece of crap had been belittling my work for years, stealing all the credit for himself. Screw him.

I was pissed – and ready to go all in. I went over to Cherry and told her we needed to talk. She flinched.

“Why so tense today, Cherry, sugar? Come on, tell me what’s up. The chief mentioned some case to me…” I tossed out.

“Oh, right. The case. Looks like we’ve got a serial killer in the city. The press doesn’t know yet – just suspicions – but it’s starting to look that way. Remember the Anna Stern case your favorite Fox handled?”

“A 40-year-old woman raped with a bottle in her own apartment, then strangled with a bathrobe belt. Investigators worked the leads but came up empty,” I recited.

“Today, two weeks later, another woman turned up dead – Linda Brown. Same MO. Rape. Strangled with stockings,” Cherry said.

“And she’s white too?” I asked.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Cherry clearly didn’t get where I was going.

“Listen up—” I grabbed her by the elbow and yanked her out of my partner’s chair – “I’m getting damn tired of your constant, scared little hints about your skin color. I don’t give a crap until you people start making it the point of every conversation. From now on, when I ask a question, you answer it – directly, without your stupid hints.” I let go, and Cherry plopped back down into the chair, her chin trembling.

“Yes, she’s white,” she nodded, almost in tears.

“So I take it the case is ours?” I asked, softening my tone.

“Yes. We can go right now,” Cherry said.

The victim lived in the southwest outskirts of Boston on Clifford Street. I lived in the same area, so it meant driving back – but with a purpose this time. I flipped on the siren. The house was cordoned off, a few people standing behind the tape. As Cherry and I approached and I flashed my badge, a man in a worn blue sweater, maybe 50, called out:

“Linda was a good person. Find her killer.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“George Servanto, sir. My family and I have lived here twenty years. We knew Linda – she was our neighbor. We often visited her…” He seemed genuinely eager to help – or at least that’s how it looked at first glance.

“Notice anything suspicious?” I asked.

“No. Just that the power went out around midnight. I was reading when it happened. A minute or two later, the lights came back on – I’d just managed to pull a flashlight from the drawer,” Servanto explained in detail.

“And does that happen often?”

“In twenty years, I can’t remember it ever happening…”

“Alright, thanks,” I said, turning toward the house.

Inside, the front door and lock were untouched. The killer had either used a pick or – more likely – the victim had let him in. No sign of a struggle in the entryway. In the living room, on the couch, the body lay face down.

The left stocking was torn, the right missing entirely. The killer had strangled her with a bathrobe belt still tied around her neck. A comb protruded from her anus, handle first.

“Well, did the bastard leave us anything?” I asked when I saw the familiar scowl of Herner, the god-tier forensic tech.

“He didn’t just leave something – he left his underwear,” Herner said, clearly itching to share.

“Good. Hopefully they stink enough for the dogs to catch a trail,” I said, encouraged.

“They did. The scent led to the road, then stopped. Likely he got into a car,” Herner reported.

“Time of death?”

“Too early to be sure – the AC was running all night. But my guess, with the cooling factored in, is between midnight and one a.m.”

“Son of a bitch – left his underwear, but turned on the AC to throw us off,” I muttered.

“Maybe it was already on,” Herner suggested.

“No – judging by the stockings and warm sweater, she was the type to feel cold. Let’s check the cameras. Cherry, call Doug Quark at HQ – he’s sharp.”

“What should I tell him?”

“Just give him the address – he knows what to do. Have him pull city camera footage. There’s a gas station nearby – maybe it caught something. Give him the timeframe Herner just told you. He’ll figure it out.”

Cherry was already grating on my nerves.

“Well, this case is a mess,” I told either myself or Herner. “Only good thing – the killer’s left-handed. Easier to track.”

“How do you know?” Herner asked.

“Look at how the stockings were torn. Definitely with the left hand.”

Here’s what I had so far: jack shit. Every night I had to get into the “cage.” I didn’t know what happened after I transformed. My Black partner wanted to kill me. America faced a werewolf epidemic only I could stop. And now this Boston Strangler wannabe was on my plate. This bastard picked victims at random – which meant catching him would be tough. I’d need luck.

“Let’s work,” I said. “Autopsy as soon as possible.”

Half an hour later, Cherry reported that Quark had called back. They’d pulled footage from surrounding streets and nearby gas stations. His team flagged several suspicious cars – their owners would be questioned soon.

The meat wagon arrived. Two guys, with Herner’s approval, rolled the victim over.

One unzipped a black body bag, then they lifted her in.

“One sec,” Herner called. “Stop – photographer!”

“What is it?” I asked – but I already saw it on the couch.

The woman had been lying on a blanket. When they moved her, the blanket slid off, revealing red letters scrawled across the upholstery:

DH + HS = DH by 01.01

“Not a word. I’ll take a sample,” Herner said.

Looks like he didn’t get the riddle. Neither did Cherry, judging by her dumb face. She had an excuse – but Herner? He’d been friends with my partner.

“Looks like we’re staying here. Search the place top to bottom. This isn’t just any murder – we’re hunting a very specific killer. I want everything on both the first and second victims. There will be more – that’s certain. Check the laptop?” I asked.

I walked over to the laptop on the coffee table and tapped the space bar.

The desktop wallpaper was a pair of shapely legs in white stockings. A Word doc was minimized – I opened it. Four lines stared back:

The monster will come

And you it will slay.

At night I shall pray

And live through the day.

Two hours later, I left Cherry and got into my pickup. This killer clearly wanted me to investigate these murders. Either he was some amateur who thought he was immortal, or a calculated psychopath trying to leave me holding the bag. DH were my initials. HS were my late partner’s. But why that strange equation?

I asked the operator to connect me to Cocksucker. Ten seconds later, he was on the line.

“Hello, Jerry Harrison,” Cocksucker greeted me.

“Hey, Cocksucker. Swear to me this isn’t one of the Bureau’s sick jokes. I’m at a crime scene – second woman dead, brutally murdered. And it looks like the killer knows me and is playing games,” I said.

“No, we don’t do that kind of thing. And remember – the first murder happened before you and I even met,” Cocksucker replied.

“That doesn’t mean much. Anyway… you probably don’t know, but in the mid-20th century Boston had a serial killer – the Boston Strangler. Same M.O. as our new friend. As far as I remember, they caught him. This can’t be coincidence. We need to find the bastard.”

“You think the Boston Strangler’s back?”

“Some nut read too much internet before bed. I’ll find him. I’m going to the archives to take a fresh look at the original Strangler case. I want you to check your channels – maybe the FBI has more than what’s in the files,” I said.

“Fine, I’ll look. But Jerry… I’ll say this up front: we don’t have time for this crap. We’ve got bigger problems. By the way, Fred Johnson – that Crooked-Dick – still hasn’t made a move on you? And what about Cherry?”

“It’s been three days. Relax. I’m on it,” I said crisply. I didn’t like his pushy tone.

“This country’s in the middle of a werewolf epidemic, son. I can’t wait forever. My boss has me by the balls and soon he’ll start pulling. You’re only free and alive because I vouched for you. Don’t let me down,” Cocksucker pressed.

“I get it. But we agreed I’d wait for Fred Johnson’s people to make the first move. Let’s stick to that plan. If it fails, we go on the offensive,” I suggested.

“Fine. You’ve got four more days. Don’t screw this up,” he said, then hung up.

I already knew about the Boston Strangler. We’d studied the case at the police academy. In short: in 1962, 1963, and 1964, thirteen women aged 19 to 85 were killed. The murders were linked into one series.