Coyle and Fang: Curse of Shadows (Coyle and Fang Adventure Series Book 1)

by Robert Adauto III

  Six months later

  Let no evil this day soil my thoughts, words, hands.

  Amen.

  Coyle finished praying and looked down at her hands. Could they accomplish what she wanted—these insignificant hands that sought her own selfish ways?

  She raised her head and closed her eyes. Took a deep breath through her nose. The kind the doctors taught her. She exhaled through her mouth. Time to focus.

  Settled?

  She squinted up at the bright sun, arched her back and rearranged her shoulder-length light brown hair into a tight bun. A few of the men looked her way, appreciating the shape of her. She was fair-skinned, graceful, petite and seemingly coy though her demeanor held a sense of boldness and tenacity. Not a trace of make-up lined her strong, yet charming face and she didn’t need a speck of it to attract men. She wore no smile across her thin lips and the shadow of a bruise lined her thin nose and into the corner of her hazel-green eyes. Her gaze shifted from the leer of the men back to the cloudless sky. The sun’s rays alighting on the bare necks of the academy trainees as they awaited their fates. All of them fiddled with their notebooks or clothes or hats, nervous before their test for detective. She wished she had brought her pipe, regardless of the looks she usually received. She liked her pipe. Other ladies liked... whatever tickled their fancy. To each their own.

  A few dirigibles—bloated constructs filled with gas and propelled by small steam engines—floated through the blue sky. Their colors varied depending on their use: Silver and blue for passengers, gray for the US Navy, white for cargo, dark gray with red glass cabins for private use. They all followed their predetermined paths, traveling to their destinations as safely as possible. She had never ridden on one and preferred staying close to the ground. If people were meant to be in the air, God would have given them wings.

  She inhaled the chilled, June air and regretted it. The reek of nearby slaughterhouses and Chinese shrimping boats resting in the sun made her pull her hand to her nose. She couldn’t wait until this was over. Both the stench and her nerves were driving her mad. Nearby church bells rang out two o’clock. She had been on the grounds since five that morning.

  Chatter about the latest body found in a Chicago-area brothel perked her ears. She took a step closer their group and inspected her fingernails as they described the crime scene: hands tied to the bedposts, a vertical incision from the neck to the lower abdomen. Vital organs had been removed, set aside and carefully dissected. The latest victim of the Ripper.

  A cold tingling sensation grew in her belly. She could envision the scene all too well, and if she didn’t take this detective spot, the bodies would keep piling up. Every corpse the Ripper left behind was a testament to the promise he’d made to her.

  An unoiled door snapped everyone’s attention to a wide gate yawning open. A frumpy applicant limped out, holding his elbow. His expression was sour under bunches of straw-colored hair. Smears of dirt ran along one side of his uniform. A pair of men followed. The tall one, built like a scarecrow, was marking a stack of papers in his hand.

  “Maybe next year, eh, Constable Marston?” The tall man chuckled and pushed thin-wired frames up his bent nose. He glanced down at his papers and mumbled something the students couldn’t hear. He shared a word with a colleague and tapped his pencil against the papers before calling out, “Constable Sherlyn Coyle, front and center!”

  “Here, sir!” she said, her skin tingling, throat dry and knees wobbling.

  This is it.

  She dabbed her forehead with a kerchief, took a deep breath and let it out through parched lips. She smoothed away the wrinkles of her uniform dress and walked to the tall man, Master Detective Meys, with a lively step. Someone bumped into her and mumbled an apology. She didn’t bother to respond.

  She stepped up to the master detective and cleared her throat.

  Was that too loud?

  He ignored her arrival, burying his nose in the stack of papers. She stood at attention, the best she could without looking like she was wracked with nerves.

  “Well, then,” Meys said. “Constable Coyle?” His tone was condescending, abrupt.

  “Yes, sir,” she answered. Sweat dripped down her back. Her eyes were riveted in his direction.

  “You ready?”

  “I am, sir.”

  He forced a half smile.

  She swallowed.

  “Gentlemen, let me introduce Constable Sherlyn Coyle. She has slight bruising across her nose, the result of her recent tussle with some of the local gang. She has no problem using her fists when provoked. You may have noticed the lack of trousers on this one,” Meys said. “Hopefully, you also noticed this constable chose to wear perfume and not cologne this morning. Part and parcel of her feminine charm, we assume. Though she may want to reconsider her choice of eau de toilette because she’s still not married.”

  Coughs and chuckles peppered the air. She stared past the men toward the jagged edges of the growing city skyline. San Francisco, the “Golden Gate City.” Were the gleaming opportunities designed specifically for men in this city? It certainly seemed like it. This morning she hoped to change that. But she was very aware of the heat in her cheeks. And, of course, everyone was looking at her.

  “Constable Coyle,” Meys continued, “is the first woman to enter the San Francisco Academy of Investigation, an establishment that has produced the bravest, finest law enforcement detectives our city has to offer. This institution serves our communities faithfully and produces tactical-minded men who work with strength, endurance, and a reverent duty to protect and serve. Constable Coyle has decided to ignore her state of being: her God-given duty to bear children and the gift of providing a home for a husband.”

  There were more than a few sneers and shakes of heads. Coyle kept her chin up while sweat trickled down the back of her neck. She did see the irony of it all, though: her desire to pass this test and work alongside men who wouldn’t appreciate her skill or hard work. They would only ever see a dress.

  “It is against our code of ethics to allow a woman to join our estimable ranks. However, she hired an attorney who found a loophole in our policies, and the courts folded in her favor,” he said.

  Hisses and grunts tumbled from behind bushy beards and mustaches. She glanced to the side and caught the master detective’s smirk. He was a showman, and she was the show. She slowly balled her hands into fists and relaxed them. She couldn’t, however, act on her base impulses. She had to apply her energy and attention to the matter at hand: the detective position.

  And not the urge to land her fist on his beak.

  “Each of you is here because you completed your studies and passed the necessary written examinations to participate in the final scenarios, which, if completed successfully, lead to the promotion of detective. All of you are competing for that title, but there are only three positions to fill, and so far Constable Mueller has taken the first. That leaves...” He eyed Coyle.

  She cleared her throat. “Two, sir.”

  “She knows her math, gentlemen,” Meys said. He waited for the laughs to fade before he turned to her. “And how old are you, Constable Coyle?”

  What part does my age play in all this?

  “Twenty-two, sir.”

  “A bit old, yet still within the range of a good marriage if you change your mind.” He turned back to his audience.

  “Two more positions available.” His voice dropped as he gazed at the field of men. “I don’t need to tell you how embarrassing it would be if she were to take a position from one of you fine gentlemen, do I?”

  Quiet hostility had grown warmer than the sun. Coyle found herself staring at her boots.

  “Let’s begin,” he said, and he rested his thin fingers on her shoulder. “Constable Coyle, let’s step inside the test arena, and I shall brief you on your scenario.”

  She turned on her heels and followed, her palms damp, her logical mind questioning.

  Do you enjoy being in the spotli
ght of humiliation? Because this may be your future.

  With a vacant gaze, she stared ahead as they walked through the wide gates and into an area populated by building facades and play-actors waiting for their cue to begin the scenario. She looked around at the large, open-air, eight-sided structure. A grandstand full of judges sat on uncomfortable-looking benches. The men squinted at her, and she couldn’t decide if it was from the sun or out of spite. They would be responsible for deciding her future. She smiled at them, knowing it wouldn’t work. She wasn’t here to change the world for femininity; she needed to be a detective for her own reasons. But they didn’t have to know that. They couldn’t know that.

  She put her mind to work and scanned the new surroundings.

  On the east end, behind her, fifteen judges sat on raised benches. Eight wore beards, five wore mustaches, two were clean-shaven. Twelve were aged well past fifty, the rest were younger than thirty. A pair spoke to each other. She wasn’t close, but she could read lips.

  An older gentleman said, “What on earth is she trying to do here? Show up our boys?”

  The other answered, “James, sometimes a girl wants to try something out of her league. I mean, do you really think she’ll solve this case?”

  The older gentleman replied, “Well, I’m sure she meant well.”

  Coyle looked away and cursed under her breath.

  To the north was a fake storefront: “James and Son’s Sundry.” Three men tried to look busy. One wore an expensive suit with worn, heavy boots. He was not an actor but a constable. Probably another judge.

  To the west was an open space with a cluster of six male actors huddling, waiting, staring at her. To the south stood a fake hotel with an open window on the second story. A heavy man smoking an expensive cigar fingered the curtains—a constable supervisor, by the look of his jowls. She was being watched from all angles.

  “As you know,” Meys said, “these scenarios are based on real events. With the assistance of Dawn Industries, we have procured gnomish technology, which reproduces the crime scene. I’d love to go into the mechanics with you, but I wouldn’t want to lose you with big words. Thanks to the generosity of the gnomish people, Dawn Industries created a special camera called a World Image Reconstruction Evaluator, or WIRE. The camera records a crime scene in every detail and allows investigators to enter the past as if it were the present. You will only enter what the camera recorded, which was taken within minutes of the crime. Using this technology, you will walk through the boundaries and be transported into the crime scene to investigate the given scenario. You will have a set time of half an hour while the judges and scorekeepers watch from their places. You may interact with the test as you would with a real crime scene. Any questions?”

  “Yes, sir. Is this scenario based on a crime we, uh, the trainees would have knowledge about?” she asked, glancing at the short, brightly colored haired gnomes standing on ladders and platforms near tripods.

  He stopped and turned. “Actually, it is based on an unsolvable crime that has stumped our best for the past six months.”

  Her throat went dry.

  “Here we are, Constable Coyle,” Meys said. “I will give you a brief synopsis of your scenario. I will explain what details you need to know, and I will not repeat myself, are we clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. She flexed her hands and listened as if her future depended on it. This was everything she wanted, the proverbial open door, and all she needed to do was follow through. Easier said than done, of course.

  God, help me.

  Meys looked down at his papers and checked his notes. His words tumbled out with quiet haste, his mouth barely opening. He stopped and looked at her with a smile.

  She blinked.

  “I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear the scenario. You were mumbling. Could you—”

  “I do not... repeat... myself. Good luck, Constable,” he said with a forced smile. “Scenario begins now! Turn on the WIRE projector.” He walked toward the viewing podium. Chuckling peppered the air. Coyle’s face went flush with heat, and she took a step after the dolt but stopped herself. Complaining was no use. She looked for help amongst the judges. Steely eyes from the men glared back at her. No help from the gallery, either. She was alone.

  Just like always.

  She turned to the bustle of activity behind her as the actors regrouped and prepared for the scenario. Gnomes on platforms pulled switches and activated the large cameras. Projectors hummed to life. Bright, silvery light transformed the plain wooden structure into a two-story pub. Colors were fuzzy, distorted. But after a few moments, the image was complete: a saloon named Maggie’s, located near the docks. She was familiar with the backwater pub and its crooked patrons from her patrols. The wood appeared old and worn. Shadow and light fell into their respective places.

  She sighed and walked toward the pub. As soon as she stepped across into the shadow, the air changed. The bright afternoon sun evaporated in the WIRE projection, and the light and shadows were replaced with a dark, chilly night. She shivered and looked behind her. The dark line of night separated her from the reality of bright sunshine. It was a bit disorientating, but she wasn’t here to investigate technology. She stepped closer to the pub and reached into a pocket for her pad and pencil— where were they? Did she drop them? She stopped and looked behind. Nothing but footsteps lay in the dirt. Were they on her dresser? She distinctly remembered placing them in her pocket this morning. Then she remembered and cursed under her breath.

  Someone bumped into me. A pickpocket. Who would do such a thing?

  She chewed the inside of her cheek and blinked. Someone cleared their throat, and she looked up at the waiting judges. She was already under immense pressure from all sides. How would she be able to think clearly and rationally? She clenched her fist and let out a loud sigh.

  The men turned at the noise, but she ignored them. When her eyes spotted what lay on the wooden porch, fear and apprehension stole her breath. It wasn’t too late to turn tail and leave. But she knew this was her opportunity, and she wasn’t going to throw it away.

  A severed head lay in a pool of blood on the porch. The shock of the mess was striking. Ugly. Gory.

  She swallowed to protect her composure and her eyes looked down. Her foot tapped the wooden slats. They felt and sounded real. Looking around brought a surreal sensation. The air smelled like oil from lanterns, dust from the rafters, and the pungent odor of gobs of blood. Pulling out a handkerchief, she pressed it up to her mouth and nose, doing her best to ward off the crushing odor.

  A headless, obese body, dressed in a three-piece white suit and lying face down, blocked the entrance. He appeared to have fallen trying to exit the pub’s door. Small chunks of flesh and congealed blood covered the white coat’s collar and shoulders. She looked at the doorframe and found blood spatter, most of it dried, but some streaks still carried a dull chocolate-red sheen. Her eyes wandered over the seemingly random patterns, the disarray of the essential fluids of life.

  She stepped inside the pub and sought answers to a single obvious riddle. How had this happened? Yes, he’d lost his head, but how? More than likely from a long sword or a swift stroke of an axe. But why couldn’t anyone else figure this out? Why was this unsolvable? This was her test to see if she belonged with them or not.

  Long, bloody flecks marked the interior walls adjoining the doorway on the left and right sides, but not above. She looked along the lower portions of the walls but found nothing useful.

  She turned aside to interview the crowd. “Did anyone see anything?” she asked, searching the faces for a response. The judges outside listened through speakers and watched her work as though the walls didn’t exist.

  “There were a lot of people, but I saw what happened,” a younger man answered.

  “Thank you. Let’s step over here, and I’ll take your statement.” She reached into her pocket for the notepad and let out a quiet curse. There would be no note-taking today. “Can you tell m
e your name, please?”

  “John Smith,” he said.

  “And what did you see, Mr. Smith?”

  “The bloke was sitting at a table inside there,” he said.

  “Can you show me?” she asked.

  He pointed at the table. A chair lay on the floor. “As I said, he was sitting right there, having a drink by himself, when he made a noise.”

  “By himself? Are you sure of that?” She nodded to another drink opposite where the dead man had sat.

  “Uh, pretty sure he was by himself,” he said. He shifted his eyes.

  She looked at the table and decided it wasn’t worth pursuing. She was on the clock, and time was a fickle construct that waited for no one.

  “You said this gentleman made a noise. What kind of noise?” she asked.

  “Kind of like ...” He looked at the others before continuing. “He made a noise like this: Ergh!” He grabbed the back of his head and closed his eyes.

  “Did he grab his head just like you did?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he continued. “He grabbed the back of his head and got up out of his chair, walked up to the door and—pop! His head came right off.”

  “Came right off?”

  “Came right off, and there he is.” He pointed at the body.

  “And no one touched him? No one came near him?”

  “No. Everyone stayed away because of his weird sounds.”

  “Did anyone strike him or throw something at him?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “And his name?”

  “Trevin something or other. Came in here frequently, he did.”

  “Trevin,” she said. “What line of work was he in?”

  The man shrugged.

  “Thank you, Mr. Smith,” she said. “Did anyone see differently?” No one answered. “Then I ask that everyone step away from the crime scene, please and thank you.”

  The men stepped away and watched her. She glanced at the upstairs windows. The constable supervisor sat and chewed the stub of his cigar.

  Coyle put her hands on her hips and chewed her lip, ticking off the facts inside her head: a man sits in a pub, has a drink with someone, grabs his neck, walks to the exit. His head comes off. And she was supposed to solve this. She rubbed the bridge of her nose and squeezed her eyes shut. How did this man’s head just—pop off? Now she understood the previous investigations dilemma.