Nocturnal

by Scott Sigler

  Possible, but then there were the bite marks, the parallel gouges on Oscar Woody’s bones. Those had to be from an animal. A big animal. Sure, a handler and a big animal working together could account for the damage, and the handler’s hair could have been in the wound, but with that level of contact so would some fur from the animal.

  The STR results from the saliva would soon be finished. If that came back as human, it would correlate with what she saw in these hairs. She could confirm the hair as human, however, by finding samples that still had follicles attached to the root end, then running the tests on those follicular cells.

  Human or animal, soon she would know for certain.

  Pookie’s Pimpin’ Gear

  We need your help, Alex,” Pookie said. “Can you think of anyone who would want to get back at you for anything?”

  Pookie waited for an answer. He and Bryan sat in chairs, while Alex Panos and his mother, Susan, sat on the couch across from them. A coffee table with a vase of fresh flowers separated the pairs. A pack of cigarettes and a box of Kleenex lay on the table in front of Susan, but she had yet to light up and seemed to favor the already well-used wad of tissue clutched in her hand.

  Alex wore jeans, black combat boots and a brand-new crimson-and-gold Boston College Eagles jacket. He glared at the cops in his living room, his lip all but curled into a snarl. Susan Panos watched her son, her hands nervously working the wad of tissue now so ravaged and wet with tears that little shreds of it broke off to drift down lightly to the brown carpet below.

  “Alex, honey,” she said, “can you answer the man?”

  Alex looked at his mother with the same expression of bored disdain he’d affixed on the cops.

  She dabbed her eyes. “Please?”

  Alex leaned back into the couch, his mouth making a little psh sound. He crossed his arms over his chest.

  The kid was a real prize, the kind that Pookie wished he could just shake some sense into. Alex was big enough that most people stayed out of his way, giving him an overly inflated sense of badassery. He was also young enough to think he was bulletproof.

  They sat in Susan’s two-bedroom apartment on Union Street, just east of Hyde. It was a nice, sixth-floor place in a somewhat upscale ten-story building. Susan either had one very good job or two decent ones. Mr. Panos, if there had ever been one, wasn’t around. He’d probably been a big guy — Susan was a skinny five-four, while sixteen-year-old Alex was just under six feet and thickly muscled. He was bigger than Bryan. Give the kid another three or four months and he’d be bigger than Pookie.

  Pookie and Bryan had first gone to Jay Parlar’s place. Jay wasn’t there. His father didn’t know where he was. His father didn’t want to talk to the cops. Quite the wonderful family scene, really. Issac Moses was next on the list, but for now, Pookie and Bryan had to deal with an uncooperative, arrogant Alex Panos. Alex didn’t seem all that put out by his gang-mate’s death.

  “Try to understand,” Pookie said. “This was a particularly brutal murder. You don’t usually see this kind of thing unless there’s motivation. Personal motivation. Have you guys had run-ins with other gangs? Latin Cobras? Anyone like that?”

  “I got nothin’ to say,” Alex said. “I’m a minor and I haven’t done anything, so I can tell you both to go and fuck yourselves. What do you think of that?”

  Bryan leaned forward. “What do I think? I think your buddy is dead.”

  Alex shrugged, looked away. “So Oscar wasn’t tough enough. Not my problem.”

  Pookie saw anger in the boy’s eyes. Oscar’s death clearly was Alex’s problem. Alex probably thought he was going to find the killers himself.

  “You don’t get it,” Bryan said. “Oscar’s arm was ripped off his body. They cut his belly open, pulled out his intestines.”

  Susan covered her mouth with the tissue. “Oh my God.”

  “Then they stuffed his guts back in,” Bryan said. “They broke his jaw, knocked out his teeth. They tore out his right eye.”

  Susan cried into her disintegrating Kleenex and started rocking back and forth. Alex tried — and failed — to look indifferent.

  “There’s more,” Bryan said.

  Pookie cleared his throat. “Uh, Bryan, maybe we should—”

  “They pissed on him,” Bryan said. “You hear me, Alex? They pissed all over your supposed friend. This wasn’t a random act. Someone hated him. Tell us who hated him, maybe we can find his killer.”

  Alex stood, stared down with angry eyes. “Are you guys arresting me?”

  Pookie shook his head.

  “Well, if you’re not arresting me, I’m leaving.”

  “You should stay here,” Pookie said. “Whoever killed Oscar could be after all of you. You could be in danger.”

  Alex let out that psh sound again. “I can take care of myself.”

  Susan reached over and pulled lightly on the crimson sleeve of Alex’s jacket. “Honey, maybe you should listen to—”

  “Fuck off, Mom.” Alex snapped his arm away. “You like these pigs so much? Why don’t you just blow ’em already? I’m gone.”

  Alex walked to the door and slammed it shut behind him.

  Susan kept crying, kept rocking. Her shaking hand reached for the pack of cigarettes on the coffee table.

  Pookie automatically found the lighter in his pocket, pulled it out and offered her the flame. He didn’t smoke, but he’d made a lighter part of his standard pimpin’ gear long ago — dress nice, talk nice, buy drinks and the ladies loved you. Amazing how a little act of kindness like lighting a cigarette could break the ice, show a woman that you were interested. If you didn’t mind kissing an ashtray, lighters got you laid.

  She took a drag, then set the tissue on the table. Pookie and Bryan waited, quietly. Susan composed herself quickly; quickly enough that Pookie could tell crying over Alex was a regular occurrence.

  “I’m sorry about him,” she said. “He’s … hard to control.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Pookie said. “Teenage boys can be difficult. I know I was.”

  She sniffed, smiled, ran her fingers through her hair. Pookie knew that gesture as well, and it saddened him — her son was in serious trouble, his friend had been murdered and Susan Panos was still concerned about her looks. Were this some random night, were Pookie out for a beer instead of investigating a murder, he would have instantly put his chances of taking Susan Panos home at about 75 percent.

  “I knew Oscar,” she said. “He’s been Alex’s friend since they were in grade school. He was a good kid, until …”

  Her words trailed off. It had to be hard to know that a nice kid had traveled down the wrong path because he hung out with the wrong people, and that your son was among the wrong people in question.

  “Missus Panos,” Pookie said, “we know Alex is in a gang. A small one, but still a gang. Do you know anyone who would want to hurt your son and his friends?”

  She sniffed, shook her head.

  Bryan coughed, a wet, rattling thing. He grabbed two tissues from the table and wiped his mouth.

  “How about payback?” he said. “How about any of the kids that BoyCo victimized?” Bryan’s words and tone were harsh and unforgiving. He clearly blamed Susan for letting Alex grow up to be such a flaming prick. Bryan would feel like that: he grew up with a perfect family. Bryan had lost his mom as a kid, but until she died she’d loved him. His father still worshipped the ground he walked on. People from perfect families have a hard time understanding the concept that sometimes, no matter what parents do, some kids just go bad.

  Back in the day, Pookie had been heading down the same road as Alex. Pookie’s parents were great — loving, attentive, supportive — but Pookie just grew too big too fast. He’d been a bully. He’d enjoyed the power, enjoyed making other kids afraid of him, right up until he screwed with the wrong guy and got his ass kicked. Shamus Jones. Who the hell names their kid Shamus? Apparently it was akin to naming your boy Sue, because once Pookie started in with Sham
us it turned out Shamus not only knew how to fight, he knew how to fight dirty. It was the first time Pookie had been beaten with a lead pipe. It also turned out to be the last — broken ribs, a concussion and a night in the hospital proved to be fantastic learning aids.

  “Anyone?” Bryan said. “Any of those kids your son beat up, any of them stand out?”

  Susan took a drag on her cigarette, blew it out of the corner of her mouth away from Pookie and Bryan — that strange “courtesy” smokers seem to think helps. She picked up the wad of Kleenex. She shrugged. “Alex is just a boy. Boys get into fights.”

  Pookie pulled two fresh tissues out of the box on the table and offered them to Susan. She seemed to see the disintegrating wad in her hand for the first time. She put that in her pocket, then smiled as she took the fresh tissues.

  “Missus Panos,” Pookie said, “any information you can give us could help. Nothing is too trivial.”

  “It’s Susie, not Missus Panos. I haven’t seen Alex’s father in five years. Look, this isn’t the first time cops have talked to me about my son, okay? He’s a wild kid. Uncontrollable. Sometimes he’s gone for days.”

  Pookie nodded. “And when he is, where does he go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Bullshit,” Bryan said. “How can you not know?”

  “Bryan” — Pookie held up a hand to cut him off — “not now.” He turned back to Susie. “Ma’am, where does your son go?”

  “I told you, I don’t know. He’s got girlfriends. I’ve never met them, but I know he stays at their places. And no, I don’t even know their names. I can’t control that boy. He’s too big, too … mean. Sometimes he comes home when he needs money or food or clothes. The rest of the time … look, I have to work two jobs, okay? Sometimes I pick up extra shifts. I’m gone twenty hours at a time. I gotta do it, we need the money. If Alex doesn’t want to come home, I can’t make him.”

  The hurt in her eyes told the story. If he doesn’t want to come home really meant if he doesn’t love me.

  Bryan stood. “Fuck this. I’ll wait outside.” He left the apartment, slamming the door almost as loudly as Alex had.

  Susie stared at the door. “Your partner is an asshole,” she said.

  “Sometimes, yeah.” Pookie reached into his sport-coat pocket, pulled out his card and offered it to her. “Your son could be in real danger. If you see anything, hear anything, anything at all, let me know.”

  She stared at him, her eyes a window to the soul of a heartbroken single mother. She took the card. “Yeah. Okay. I can text you at this number?”

  Pookie pulled out his cell phone and held it up. “All calls and texts go right here. I never leave home without it.”

  She sniffed, nodded, then put the card in her pocket. “Thank you, Inspector Chang.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Pookie left the apartment.

  Bryan was already downstairs, waiting in the Buick. “We have to get to Eight Fifty,” he said as Pookie slid in. “Captain Sharrow called.”

  “Right now? We still have to talk to Issac Moses’s parents.”

  “Yeah, right now,” Bryan said. “Chief Zou wants to see us.”

  The Babushka Lady

  Aggie James sat on his thin mattress, pajama-clad arms around his pajama-clad knees. He was rocking back and forth a little bit, which he knew had to make him look nuts, but he didn’t care because he couldn’t help it.

  He wasn’t high anymore. He still didn’t know if what he’d seen had been real. He figured he’d been down here for a day, maybe two, but it was hard to tell — in the white room, the lights always stayed on and time had already lost meaning.

  The place still smelled of bleach. The chains had again drawn Aggie and the others back, then a hooded, white-robed monster with a dark-green demon face had rolled in a beat-up metal mop bucket. The thing had mopped up the long, bloody streaks left by the Mexican boy’s clutching hands. The demon hadn’t said a word, had ignored the Mexican parents’ endless pleas. Once the mopping and bleaching were done, the white-robed demon left.

  There had been no visitors since.

  The collar was driving Aggie crazy. His skin chafed beneath it, the muscles and flesh sore from being dragged across the floor by his neck. The bottom edges of his jaw, both left and right, felt swollen and bruised to the bone.

  He needed a hit. That would make him feel better, so much better. Itchy tingling crawled up his arms and legs. His stomach felt pinched and nauseated — he’d have to shit real soon. Maybe whoever had taken him would let him get back on the streets and find what he needed.

  All he had for company was the Mexican couple. The woman barely talked. Sometimes she would cry. Most of the time she just sat against the wall, staring out into space. The husband tried to encourage her, his tone ringing with don’t lose hope, our son is still alive, but she either didn’t hear him or just didn’t care to respond.

  Sometimes, though, the woman would turn to the man, say something so quiet Aggie couldn’t hear. Whenever she did, he would slowly walk as far from her as his chain and collar would permit. Then he would stand in that spot, still as a stone, just staring at the floor.

  For now, they said nothing. The man sat on his ass. His wife was asleep, her head in his lap. He slowly stroked her hair.

  Aggie’s stomach suddenly flip-flopped, a sour, acidic feeling that was like an internal alarm bell. He lurched off his mattress and crawled to the metal flange set in the white floor’s center. His neck chain trailed behind him, the tinny sound bouncing off the stone walls.

  He pulled down his pajama bottoms as he turned and squatted over the hole. Cold shivers rolled over his skin. His body let go a blast of diarrhea. The wet, slapping sound echoed through the room. Cramps clutched his stomach. Sweat broke out on his forehead, bringing a wave of chills. He had to put one hand on the ground to steady himself, a three-point stance/squat, his naked ass hovering over the hole. A second ripper tore out of him, smaller than the first. The cramps eased off, just a bit.

  “Usted es repugnante,” the Mexican man said.

  Was that Mexican for repugnant? The beaner’s son had been taken by monster-men, and he was worried about poop?

  “Go fuck yourself,” Aggie said. “If I didn’t have these chains on, I’d beat your ass.”

  Which was a total lie. The man looked like a construction worker — thin, but with wiry muscles. And all them beaners knew how to box. Hard to box when you’re chained up like an animal, though.

  Maybe the guy had to say something to someone — he’d lost his boy.

  You know that feeling, so cut him some slack.

  A metallic noise echoed from within the walls. Were the monster-men coming back? Aggie grabbed a wad of toilet paper and quickly wiped himself, then pulled up his pajama pants and sprinted for the hole where his chain led into the wall. Another cramp hit hard like a fist in the gut. He turned and pressed his back to the white stone — when the chain yanked his collar tight, it only jerked him a little.

  The man and woman had been pulled back as well, dragged to their spots along the wall. Rage twisted the man’s face. The woman’s expression combined terror with sleepy confusion.

  The ringing of the chain retractors stopped.

  The white cage door opened.

  Aggie held his breath, expecting to see the white-robed demons come through, but instead it was an old lady pushing a slightly rusted Safeway shopping cart. She rolled the cart into the white room, one wheel squeaking out a slow, high-pitched rhythm.

  She was chubby and a bit hunched over. She shuffled along with short steps. A plain gray skirt covered her wide ass and hung down to her calves. She also wore a brown knit sweater, simple black shoes and loose gray socks. A scarf — dirty yellow, printed with pink flowers — covered her head, leaving just her wrinkled face and a little of her gray hair exposed. She wore it like a babushka, tied under her chin so the two ends hung down past her breasts.

  She looked perfectly n
ormal, like some old lady he might see waiting at a bus stop. She smelled of candles and old lotion.

  She stopped her squeaking Safeway cart a few feet away from him. Inside the cart, he saw Tupperware containers and sandwiches wrapped in clear plastic. She set a red-lidded container and one of the sandwiches on his mattress. She reached into the cart again — a juice box joined his lunch.

  She looked at him. Something about her deeply wrinkled face, her deep-set, staring brown eyes, made Aggie want to run, fast, to go anywhere his feet would carry him.

  She shuffled closer.

  “Lemme go,” he said. “Lady, just lemme go, I won’t tell no one.”

  The old lady leaned forward and sniffed him. Her nose wrinkled, her eyes narrowed. She seemed to hold the sniff for a moment, think about it, then she blew out a breath. She turned, waving a hand dismissively at him as if to say you are not worth my time.

  She pushed the cart to the Mexicans. She left a container, a sandwich and a juice box on each of their mattresses. She walked to the man, but stayed an inch or two out of kicking distance. She sniffed deeply, then shook her head. She turned toward the woman.

  The babushka lady sniffed again. She held it in.

  Then she smiled, showing a mouthful of yellow, mostly missing teeth.

  She nodded.

  She turned and pushed her squeaky cart out of the cell. She slammed the white-painted door shut behind her.

  The chains relaxed. Withdrawal made Aggie feel like shit, but he grabbed the sandwich and tore off the wrapper. He wasn’t worried about poison — if they were going to kill him, they would have done it already. He bit off a big chunk. The welcome tastes of ham, cheese and mayo danced across his tongue. He opened the Tupperware container — hot, steaming brown chili that smelled beefy and delicious.

  His stomach pinched hard, and he set the food down.

  He already had to shit again.

  Golden Shower

  Pookie Chang sat in a chair in front of Chief Amy Zou’s desk, patiently counting the minutes until he could text Polyester Rich Verde a detailed variation on YOU ARE MY BITCH. That would be a brief moment of joy in an otherwise messed-up situation.