Hard Spell ocu-1

by Justin Gustainis

  I turned and looked at him. "Sounds like there might be a 'but' lurking in there someplace."

  "How well you know me," he said with a tiny smile. "I was, in fact, about to say that I may have heard something about a new arrival to our fair city, a visitor who would seem to fit your description."

  He didn't say anything else. The silence between us dragged on for a while.

  "All right," I said with a sigh. "What do you need?"

  Barney took another sip of his drink before answering. "My brother," he said, not looking at me.

  "Algernon? Don't tell me he's been busted again."

  The little ghoul nodded glumly.

  "Same thing?" I asked. "Indecent exposure?"

  Another nod. "It is really most embarrassing," he said.

  I knew he meant it. Among ghouls, eating the flesh of the recently dead was no big deal, but having a relative who likes to wave his weenie around in front of the living is a scandal. Especially if he keeps getting caught.

  "Who filed the complaint?" I asked. "Do you know?"

  He nodded slowly. "Some woman in Nay Aug Park. I gather she was on a bench, tossing peanuts to the squirrels, when Algernon approached her and asked if she'd like to see some real…" He let his voice fade out, with a despairing gesture.

  "I'll find out who she is," I told him. "See if maybe I can persuade her to change her mind about pressing charges. You may have to part with a few bucks to make her happy."

  "Which I would do, gladly," Barney said. "Thank you."

  "You're welcome. Now, about that spellcaster…"

  "Yes, of course." He gestured with his chin toward a table in one corner of the room. "It was there, in fact, that I learned what I am about to tell you. A week ago it was, or a little longer. While waiting for a friend to join me, I noticed that two of our local wizards were conversing at a nearby table. I'm afraid I may have eavesdropped."

  I didn't doubt it for a minute. Most ghouls are incredible busybodies. That's why they make such good sources for information.

  "And what did you hear?" I asked.

  "One was saying that he had recently encountered a man downtown, bumped into him quite literally. Someone whom he had known years ago and who has since achieved quite a formidable reputation for the use of black magic. But when greeted, the man apparently said something along the lines of 'You must be mistaken,' and walked away, quite brusquely."

  "Mistaken identity, maybe," I said. "It happens, you know."

  "Truly it does," Barney said. "But the one recounting this tale said he was absolutely certain that the fellow was the one he'd known, especially after he'd heard the man speak. Apparently he has a rather distinct Irish accent."

  "A name," I said. "Please tell me that you got a name for this guy."

  "In point of fact, I did," Barney said. "Whether it's a first name or last I can't say, but the practitioner I overheard referred to him as Sligo."

  The morning sun was bright, but inside this windowless place natural light never entered. It was probably too embarrassed. The cheap fluorescents in the ceiling gave off a sickly blue-white glow that made the people – Homicide dicks, forensics techs, uniforms, the rest of them – look like overflow from a zombig for a frion.

  I pushed aside a couple of inflatable love dolls that were hanging from the ceiling and leaned over the counter to take a look at the guy who was lying on the floor. He stared back at me, the way corpses usually do. If I'm lucky, that's all they do.

  In life he'd apparently been in his early twenties, with longish blond hair and a bad complexion. There was blood on the garish Hawaiian shirt that was unbuttoned to his navel, and more of it pooled under the body.

  "Name's Peter Willbrand," one of the uniforms said to me. "Worked the counter last night, was supposed to've closed up at ten. The day guy found him when he opened up this morning, a little before nine."

  I'd been home for about three hours, and asleep for two, when the phone rang with the news that had brought me here to Fantasy Land, a depressing little shithole around the corner from the city bus station. Adult Books and Videos, the sign on the door said. Marital Aids, it said below that. Further down, Individual Viewing Booths, was followed by Supe-Friendly.

  Taped to the counter was a small poster that somebody had made on a PC, advertising what was playing in the jerk-off booths this week. In addition to the usual stuff, I noticed Ogre Gangbang 3, Werewolves Gone Wild, and something called The VILF Next Door. Guess that's what the sign outside meant by "Supe-Friendly."

  The coroner's guy on the scene was Homer Jordan, who went to Penn State on a football scholarship and still has the linebacker's shoulders to prove it. "So, how long's the corpus been delicti?" I asked him.

  "At least three hours, no more than eight. I might have a better idea after I post him."

  "Or not," I said.

  "Or not," he said with a little smile. Figuring precise time of death is a bitch for pathologists, always has been. But cops keep asking.

  "How about COD?" I asked.

  "Gunshot wound to the heart. That's officially preliminary, but, hell, Stan, you know what a bullet wound looks like, same as I do. That's what killed him."

  Fantasy Land had a string of small bells tied just above the door on the inside, probably so none of the pervs could sneak out without paying for their copies of Kiss My Whip Magazine. I heard the jangling and turned to see Karl come in, looking about as grumpy as I felt. Guess the thing with the LeFay sisters hadn't worked out.

  Or maybe it had, and that's why he was so pissed to be up early.

  Karl took his time walking over, sourly taking in the racks of magazines and paperbacks, the BluRay discs and DVDs, and the glass cases displaying every kind of vibrator, dildo, and butt plug known to man – or woman. As he got closer, I saw him looking at the poster for this week's porn videos. "What's a VILF?"

  "Means Vampire I'd Like to Fang," I said.

  "I didn't think places like this existed anymore," Karl said. "What with all the Internet porn, online sex shops, stuff like that."

  "Not everybody's as good at finding smut on the Web as you are," I said. I batted the foot of an inflated love doll and set it swinging gently. "Besides," I said, "what Internet site is gonna be able to provide a guy with one of these honeys? On short notice, I mean."

  "Yeah, and speaking of short notice, what the fuck are we doing here, anyway?"

  I pointed to my left. "Over there," I said.

  Karl bent over the counter, looked at Peter Willbrand's corpse for a few seconds, then came back. "Okay, that's why Homicide's here," he said. "But why us?"

  "Good questi. I was wondering, myself." I looked over at Homer, who didn't bother to conceal the fact that he'd been listening. "You know anything about that?" I asked.

  "I've got no idea who called you guys, but I think I know where the impulse must've come from. Here, check this out."

  Homer eased behind the counter, careful not to step in the blood pool. He produced a pair of tweezers, bent over the dead guy, and carefully pulled back the collar of his gaudy shirt.

  There were three symbols carved into the corpse's nearly hairless chest.

  I didn't recognize them, but the alphabet looked like something I'd seen before.

  Karl and I looked at each other for a couple of seconds, then I pulled out my notepad and started carefully copying the stuff down.

  When I was done, I turned to Homer. "You've got photos of this, right?"

  "Course I do," he said. "I assume you want copies?"

  "You assume right, Homes." Homer likes it when I call him that – makes him feel like he's hanging with the cool kids.

  Homer watched as I put the notepad away, then asked, "What's that stuff on his chest say? Do you know?"

  "Uh-uh," I said, shaking my head. "But I'm pretty sure I know what it means."

  "Well, what?"

  "Trouble."

  Homer grinned with delight. "Damn, I love that kind of talk."

  "I kno
w you do," I told him. "But do me a favor, will you? Peel back the vic's upper lip for a second."

  He gave me a strange look, but didn't ask any questions. Pulling out the tweezers again, he bent over the corpse, got a grip on the thin flap of flesh below the victim's nose, and lifted it up.

  All three of us stared at what Homer had uncovered, but Karl was the first one to speak. "Sonofabitch. Fangs."

  By the time I finally got home from the crime scene, I was able to grab only three more hours of sleep. Then it was time to get up again, shower, eat, feed Quincey (my hamster, who's named after a hero of mine), and head back to the squad for the start of my regular shift.

  My email messages included one from Homer, who'd managed to do the autopsy on our vic right away. Must have been a slow day at the morgue.

  Stan:

  You owe me lunch, man (and not at Mickey Dee's, ei ther) – I was planning to play golf this afternoon, not cut up a dead vamp for the Supe Squad.

  Okay: to the surprise of nobody, Mr Willbrand's death was caused by a single gunshot, bullet penetrating the left ventricle of the heart and lodging therein. Death was in stantaneous, or near enough as makes no difference. I got the round out, more or less intact. It's a. 38, but here's the weird thing: sucker looks like it's made of charcoal. That's right, something you'd use in your BBQ grill, except a lot smaller. I've sent it to the lab, and you'll get a chemical analysis from them, eventually. But I'll bet my next pay check that I'm right.

  I've heard of silver bullets – and I bet you know more about that stuff than I would. But charcoal? What the fuck is up with that?

  Love amp; kisses,

  Homer

  By the time I was finished, Karl was reading over my shoulder. "He asks a pretty good question there, near the end."

  "Sure does." I clicked the mouse a couple of times to add a copy of Homer's message to the case file. "Sts, sure. Even gold, a couple of times. Wasn't there a guy in some old James Bond movie that was known for using gold bullets?"

  "Francisco 'Pistols' Scaramanga," Karl said immediately. " The Man with the Golden Gun, 1974. Christopher Lee played him. Based on the last of the Bond novels that Ian Fleming wrote, before those other hacks started doing them. Movie was okay, but the book kind of sucked. Fleming was just going through the motions by then, rehashed a lot of stuff he'd done already. He died soon after."

  Karl is the biggest James Bond nut I've ever met, or even heard of. He's got the books, the DVDs, soundtrack albums, movie posters, and even – as he once admitted, after swearing me to secrecy – the complete set of 007 action figures.

  I'd only asked the James Bond question to postpone dealing with the fact that we probably had some kind of nut/wizard/serial killer operating in town, using each murder as an ingredient in some kind of elaborate spell to accomplish a goal that I couldn't even imagine.

  I was about to say as much when my email pinged, announcing a new message. I checked the address, to see whether it was worth reading.

  The message had come from Vollmanex@aol. com.

  Son of a bitch.

  I understand there has been another killing that seems relevant to our matter of mutual concern. Is my information correct?

  Vollman.

  "Wonder how he knew we'd be here?" Karl asked.

  "The old bastard seems to know everything – except how we're gonna clear this case," I said.

  I clicked "Reply," typed "You bet it is," and sent it.

  Less than a minute later I was reading, Do you have AOL Instant Messenger, or something similar? If so, what is your screen name?

  "Why do I feel weird about doing IM with a vampire?" I said out loud. "I mean, what would Dracula say about this shit?"

  "Probably, 'I vant to haf a chaaat vith you… in real time,'" Karl said, doing a pretty fair Bela Lugosi.

  I sent Vollman my AOL identification. After a few seconds, the computer made that annoying zziiiing sound, and a chat window opened.

  Inside the window was " VollWiz: Are we connected? " The rest of the conversation (if you can call it that) went like this:

  Supecop1: Yes, I'm here.

  VollWiz: Does this latest murder bear similarities to the first one?

  Supecop1: Some. There was cryptic stuff carved into the victim's chest.

  VollWiz: The same as last time?

  Supecop1: No, different symbols. Looks like the same alphabet, though.

  Vollwiz: Can you send me a copy?

  Supecop1: My keyboard doesn't have the symbols. I doubt they make a keyboard that does.

  About half a minute went by. Then:

  Vollwiz: Do you have a text scanner available?

  I knew what Vollman was getting at, and it annoyed me that I hadn't thought of it myself.

  I pulled my notebook out and found the page where I'd copied the message found on Willbrand's corpse. Handing it to Karl, I said, "Do me a favor and run the scanner over this, will you? Put it on a thumb drive for me."

  "Right," he said, took the notebook, and headed out room. I turned back to the keyboard and typed:

  Supecop1: I should be sending that to you shortly.

  VollWiz: Very well. Now, as to cause of death: I have heard it was a gunshot. Can you confirm that?

  Supecop1: Where do you get your information, anyway?

  Vollwiz: Please, Sergeant – let us not waste each other's time.

  I stared at the screen while trying hard to keep control of myself. I didn't have to take shit like that from some bloodsucker, even if he was also a wizard.

  By the same token, telling Vollman to go fuck himself wasn't going to get these cases cleared.

  It would sure be fun, though.

  I took in a deep breath, and let it out slow.

  Supecop1: Yeah, he died of a gunshot wound. If you know that, I guess you know he was one of you… people.

  Vollwiz: If you mean he was undead, yes, I was aware of that. May I assume that the bullet that killed him was silver?

  Supecop1: No, you may not. Lab report says the slug was made of charcoal. It's like he was trying to barbecue the guy from inside. You ever hear of that?

  Vollwiz: In fact, I believe I have.

  Supecop1: I thought I was pretty well up on the ways to kill a vampire.

  At the last second, I'd added "ire" to that last word. Some vamps don't like being called vamps.

  Vollwiz: I'm sure you are, Sergeant. And this method of murder is not inconsistent with the knowledge you possess. Consider: what IS charcoal, anyway?

  I figured out what he was getting at in about three seconds, then spent another ten feeling stupid.

  Supecop1: Charcoal's super-compressed wood, isn't it? Wood – as in wooden stakes.

  Vollwiz: Exactly. It is an uncommon method to kill one of my kind, but effective. As you have seen yourself.

  Supecop1: Yeah, I guess I have.

  Vollwiz: Have there been any other developments in the case?

  Supecop1: Yeah. I may have a name for the perp. I guess you could call that a new development. It's hard to be sarcastic online. Unfortunately.

  Vollwiz: Indeed? That is most interesting. Congrat ulations.

  Supecop1: Don't pop any corks just yet. There's no way to know for sure whether it's our guy, but I like him for it. From what I hear, he's: 1. a wizard. 2. new in town. 3. acting secretive – pretending to be somebody else, etc.

  Vollwiz: I agree, he sounds like a promising candidate. What is his name?

  Supecop1: Calls himself Sligo.

  No response. I watched the empty screen for a while, then typed:

  Supecop1: You still there?

  Still no answer. I was starting to wonder whether the connection had been broken, when this appeared:

  Vollwiz: Are you absolutely certain?

  Supecop1: Certain that's the guy? Hell, no. Certain that's what my informant told me? Yeah, I'm sure, since I don't have wax in my ears, oranything.

  Karl appeared over my shoulder, holding a thumb drive. I attach
ed it to the computer, downloaded the file, then sent it to Vollman's email address as an attachment.

  Supecop1: I just sent the file with the symbols I copied from our latest vic. It's pretty accurate, I think.

  I waited. Nothing, for maybe two minutes, then this appeared:

  VollWiz: I will be in touch with you later.

  Then the chat connection was broken.

  "Motherfucker," I heard Karl mutter from behind me.

  "Yeah, I know," I said. "But at least he's given us a way to find out where he hangs his cloak, and that's something we've been wanting to know."

  I looked up the customer service number for AOL and called them. It took the better part of an hour to find a supervisor with the authority to look up a customer's mailing address, and to convince her that I had the authority to ask for it.

  Finally, I heard her say, "Very well, Sergeant. What is the email address you have?"

  "It's V-o-l-l-m-a-n-e-x at aol. com."

  I heard her keyboard clacking in the background. Then silence. Then more clacking, followed by another stretch of silence.

  "I'm sorry, Sergeant," the supervisor said, "but we have no account listed under that address."

  "Has it been cancelled recently? Say, within the last hour or so?"

  "No, sir. We have never had an account under that name. It simply doesn't exist."

  I hung up the phone and said to Karl, "Fuck Vollman and the hearse he rode in on. I'm getting tired of that old bastard and the way he keeps jerking us around. It's time we started acting like goddamn detectives, for a change."

  "Sounds good to me," Karl said. "You got any particular kind of detecting in mind?"

  "Yeah, I do. Sligo, or whoever the perp is, has offed two guys so far, right? Why those two? Were they picked at random, or-"

  "Or is there a common factor?" Karl said. "Some pattern he's following."

  "Exactly. Why don't you get on that, see if you can find anything about the vics that stands out."

  "Okay. What are you gonna be doing?"

  "See if I can find out more about this forbidden book," I told him. "Vollman said there were only four copies in existence. Let's see if he was right."