Harvest Of Evil

by William Lehman

On the way home, we received a phone call from the office: someone had tried to break into the Federal building in Seattle last night. It seems the powers that be were just now telling the concerned departments because the break in was a failure. The video cameras show who attempted it, and there is an all agency alert for the perps. They are described as five possible Nosferatu or Praetorian vampires, all female, all with a death's head tattooed to their foreheads, shriveled and wasted looking (ugly goes without saying for those two possible types). Dressed in what appeared to be Native American dresses, bright colored embroidery on white, with lots of jewelry, all gold. I asked the office to e-mail me the pictures if they had made stills out of them. A couple of minutes later we had the shots. I had to pull over to the side of the road to see them, but when I did, I noticed something. The Vamps were wearing some of the same sort of gold as the buried picker. Each of them had a nose ring, that, from the small amount of detail the surveillance camera caught, was much like the nose ring hanging around the kid's neck. They each had some rings that looked similar as well, but there was a notable difference. The Vamps were all wearing ear cuffs of some sort. Hmm…I wonder if they come as a set. It looks like another trip out to the crime scene. I got back on the horn with the office, and told them to contact the Federal Housing Police (the guys that had jurisdiction in the Federal building) and tell them that this related to our case. Then we finished the drive home.

  *****

  When we got back to the office, I dropped Pete off, and called out of service. Then I headed for home, sumbitch, another twelve hour day. When I got home, Lars was out in the wood shop working on something, he wouldn't say what. He looked up and waved, yelled that dinner was in the microwave and went back to it. I got inside and found a message on the machine from Mary. She said that she had found some information, and that I should call her when I got home. Well, it was only about eight, so I called her up while I was juking dinner. She wasn't in, so I left a message saying "Telephone tag, you're it". After dinner, I worked some more with Lars, and went to bed early.

  *****

  I got up the next morning at my usual (06:00), did the morning grunts and groans, and went for a run. I hadn't gotten a good run in for several days, so I really needed to shake the dust off. After about three miles, I was starting to get into the groove, and the mental processes were kicking into gear. I was supposed to have today and tomorrow off, as a detective worked a normal five-day week. However, no one was going to throw a fit if I pulled all the overtime I liked on this case, so I figured to go in for a couple hours. After a trip around the lake, I returned to the house and showered, then had breakfast. Lars had gotten up while I was out running, so we had breakfast together. I told him about what had happened night before last at the Federal building, at least as far as I knew it.

  Lars asked a really good question, "Why did the Vampires fail?" Well, I didn't know, but then I didn't know anything about the security measures at the Federal building. I did reckon it was time to find out though. Whatever it was that stopped them apparently did it without hurting them, or we would have something to question. So… what stops a Vampire without hurting them? And equally important, what the hell are Vamps doing involved in this in the first place? Vamps have always been, shall we say 'conservative', in their behavior. After all, when you can expect to be around a thousand years from now if someone doesn't kill you, you tend to try not to do things that will get you killed. Now, that's not to say that Vamps don't break the law, they do. But when they break it, it's always for what appears to them to be a damn good reason. And they don't do it stupid. This was stupid. OK, this was a good point to push. Sometime this weekend I needed to review the 'Green case' too. Well, I guess I can rest when I'm dead. I got my gear on, and put on a light Gore-Tex coat over it. I have one that has pull down flaps that ID me as a Federal Officer. The rest of the time it just looks like a fall coat. I was going to need it today, the winter rains had set in with a vengeance.

  I walked out to the rig, fired it up, and checked in to service. Then I remembered that Mary was supposed to call me back today, so I went back into the house and set the phone up to forward calls to my Blackberry. Then I went back out to the rig to try this again. Grrr. I swung by the office to check out a metal detector, then on to the crime scene. Now I know that the boys went over the place with a fine tooth comb, but an ear cuff could have fallen out during the fight, and could be way away from where the bodies were found. Hey, it never hurts to try, well OK, that's not quite true, but that's another story. I got out of the Durango at the bend in the fire road where you could just see the grow op. This thing was a fire road in name only, between alder growing up through the middle of it, and blackberry and other brush encroaching from the sides, I give it five years before it disappears altogether. It was doing that most Washington of things, pouring down rain like piss out of a boot. I don't mind being in water, even though I intermittently grow whiskers and a tail. But being wet out of the water though, is another matter entirely. Far!

  Then I got a whiff of the outside air. ELK so strong I could taste it, and it smelled like it had been rolling in sage. Now, I can get a smell even in the rain, but this strong was unusual. REAL unusual. Then I walked up to the crime scene, and it got weirder. This elk had been all over the site, pawing and scuffing with hooves. It hadn't eaten anything, which wasn't unusual, but it had put its nose into everything, which was. And it was alone, which was also unusual. This area isn't in the normal elk grounds either. Well, I may be slow, but if you hit me with a clue-by-four hard enough I catch on. I had some sort of magic bast running around looking at my crime scene, and it was probably my murderess or one of her henchmen. To Hel with it, Seattle can wait, let's see if we can find this twit.

  I grabbed up the radio mike, and said "Cencom, 4 X-ray 15, requesting backup at the grow site, I've had someone down here nosing around, and the tracks are very fresh, I will be out of the unit, and out of contact, going 'special officer'." Which was our code for shape shifting. Then I stripped and shifted to man-cat form. I could have gone all cat, but I can't wear a gun then, and I can't talk on the radio if I have to. This way I can, though shooting is harder, but all of my senses are fully operational. When I am in human shape, my senses are hyper-acute, but nothing like when I shift. I'm also a mite faster, and the psyche warfare aspects of it are great too. I have a vest kind of thing that will hold my badge and ID, my service pistol, my car keys, a set of cuffs, and my radio. It's built to fit this shape, so I put it on. Then I went hunting.

  I couldn't tell at first which scent was going in, and which was leaving, and the only prints I found were in the area of the grow, so they didn't tell me shit. I started tracking in one direction, and it led me back to where the CDC had set up camp. There was a big dresser hog there, sitting on the kick stand. OK, this could be easier than I thought. I grabbed up the mike to call in and run the plate on the bike when I heard an engine coming up the road, sounded like four wheels, not two. So I put the mike back in the pocket of the vest, and slipped off into the woods. About two minutes later here comes a Fed mobile. Yes, yes, I know, I'm a fed too, (small f) but in the community, only the FBI and FPI are Feds (capital F). How did I know it was a Fed mobile, you ask? Well, it was a Chevy Caprice, painted shit brown, with way too many antennas on top, two suits in the front, and no push bar. The antennas said cop, the ugly color said government, the lack of push bumper said it wasn't a statey, I knew it wasn't one of ours, as we all drive trucks or sports utes. The Marshals rarely wear suits, the rest of the various alphabet soup just wouldn't be out here without an invite, that left the Fearless Band. OK, lets see what they want. I reached up to pull the ID flap down on my vest thing when the car jammed on the brakes and the suits bailed out, guns drawn. As they did, I got a whiff of rose and cinnamon.

  "Come out of the trees, with your paws on top of your head, hairball!" shouted the driver, a middle-aged man, very thin, about six foot tall, brown hair, clean shaven, with the look o
f an ascetic about him. If you went to central casting and ordered a priest, fanatic, one each, this is what the guy they sent would look like, complete to a rather large rosary over the tie. Oh yeah, this is going to go great.

  "I'm a Federal Officer, and you're blowing my stake out, dick head." I said as I climbed down out of the small hill over looking the bike and car. As I was walking out I reached up and flipped the tab on the vest. It takes a little work to understand me in this form, especially if I'm pissed off, but not so much work that they can't get what I say over the radio. So I am sure that these guys heard me and understood, but it didn't seem to matter. Well that answered the question, FPI. SWELL.

  "I said, put your paws on top of your head, hairball, or I'm going to find out how fast you heal from silver bullets. Now do it, fur face!" This was the driver again, and I couldn't smell any fear on him, but the anger wafted off him in waves. When you're faced with a problem like this, there are only two solutions, do what you're told, or fight. I don't do running well, and in this case running just means you'll die tired. I didn't want to get in a gun fight with another Federal officer, no matter how much he pissed me off, or what an idiot he was, so I complied. I put my hands on top of my head, interlaced the fingers, carefully kept the claws retracted, and walked out into the clearing. As I got out in the open, the passenger ran up, ripped the vest off me, and cuffed me. I will give these two credit, they worked well together, the cuffing officer never once ruined the sight lines or shot for the cover officer. The cuffing officer did, however, reek of fear.

  As he cuffed me, the passenger said in my ear, "The cuffs are silver plated, just try to break them, it'll give us an excuse." He was younger, about twenty-seven to thirty, six foot tall, blond hair cut in a crew cut, and looked like he had played ball for either Notre Dame, or William and Mary. I knew the type, I had known a few naval officers like this back in the bad old days, I'm sure he thought he was Billy Bad Ass. I could have taken him apart in about a minute and a half, never broke a sweat, and never used my 'Thrope power. He had always been big, and thought big and strong would do it for you. He probably also believed in a fair fight. If he did, cut that estimate for how long it takes to put him down by half. Look you, if there is any doubt in your mind, let me help you, there is no such thing as a fair fight, fair means I win. If that means breaking your knee caps while you're getting into position, cool.

  Once he got the cuffs on, he put leg irons on, too. Then the driver opened the back door, and they shoved me in and slammed the door. Then they went through the vest I was wearing. The driver stuffed my pistol in the middle of his back, behind his belt, then they tried all of my keys on the bike. When none of them worked, they jimmied the locks on the saddle bags, and tossed them for stuff. Apparently there wasn't much in them, 'cause it didn't take long. Then they came back to the car, stuffed all of my stuff in the trunk in an evidence bag, and got in the front seats.

  "OK hairball, where are the keys to the bike, and where did you leave Officer Fisher's body?" This was the driver again.

  "Look, who are you two, and why did you ruin my stakeout?"

  "What do you mean 'your stake out,' hairball? And don't worry about who we are, just know that you have the right to remain silent, …." and he finished the Miranda warnings. Then he asked again, "having heard these warnings, do you have anything to tell me about what happened to Officer Fisher, and your involvement with the murders in this area?"

  "Dumb shit, I am trying to tell you, I AM OFFICER FISHER! The bike belongs to the possible bad guy, and I had it staked out when you two Barney Fife strikers jumped into the middle of things."

  "OK 'Officer Fisher', where's your patrol car?"

  "About a mile and a half over that way," I said, pointing back the way I had come.

  "Oh, and I suppose you levitated it in?" the passenger said with a smirk.

  "Look, why don't you just get on the radio to Lt. Murphy, and ask her what I look like in half form." I was speaking very slowly, like you do to children or the mentally disturbed.

  "Oh, I don't think so, why don't you just tell us where you left the body, and where the vehicle is."

  "The vehicle is about a mile and a half over that way, as the crow flies. Or the cat runs. You can get there, if this piece of shit can handle it, by backing up to the road, and driving two miles or so east, then turning into the fire road you'll see on the right. And you just might wonder 'Beaureguard' how the hell I know the name of the Lieutenant in charge of Officer Fisher if I ain't him!"

  "All right, hairball, let's go see," and they started backing down the road.

  On the way, I just couldn't resist the shot. "Ya know, Dick Tracy, that you just blew any evidential use of anything you found in that bike search. Truman vs. Washington, asshole. I was nowhere near the bike, so it was not a search incident to arrest, even if it had been my bike. The sad thing is that I can't search the shit now, because you idiots kicked in the 'fruits of the poisonous tree' doctrine. WAY TO GO- DICK WEED." Gods, I was pissed.

  The driver glanced over at the passenger, and said "Shut him up." The passenger reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a can of OC (pepper spray to those of you in the dark), looked at me and grinned. The driver glanced over again, and said, "Christ, not that, we'll all get it, and the car will stink for weeks. Use the wolfsbane spray." So 'big and dumb' put the can back in his jacket, and got out another one. He shook the can meaningfully while grinning at me, then hosed me down thoroughly through the sliding window between the front and back. I should mention here for those of you that have never been trained, that OC 10 spray will work on anything but maybe a Vampire, (or a strung out meth-head, the only thing you can do with them is shoot them). It burns like the fires of Hades, and nothing will make it better except time or flushing with large amounts of water. Wolfsbane spray though, doesn't bother anything but Were-wolves. There is a belief in some parts of the law enforcement community that either it will work on any Were, or that all shape changers are Were-wolves. Now this is a stupid belief, and one that I would think an agent of the FPI would know better than, but hey, I wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. As 'big and dumb' hosed me down, we pulled into the fire lane that my rig was parked on. I looked up ahead and saw Pete's Durango parked next to mine. Oh, this was going to be good.

  I let this idiot spray me for several seconds, which should have put me on the floor screaming, or headed for the hospital. Then I looked at him and grinned through the aerosol and opened my mouth, so that he was spraying in my mouth like breath freshener. I sort of like the smell of wolfsbane, it's a nice clean fresh-smelling herb. The Wolves I've worked with, though, are sickened by the barest whiff of the stuff, and this much would have had them retching or comatose, and ingestion can be fatal. I grinned at shit-head, smacked my lips, and said "Gods I love the smell of that stuff, got any more?" The driver slammed on the brakes, and both of them looked at me like I was about to grow horns. I could see Pete coming up, and mouthed 'help' at him.

  He immediately cleared leather, and had the dynamic duo at gunpoint before they knew he was there. He then shouted, "Driver, place both of your hands on the dash, passenger, you too. Do it NOW. Driver, with your LEFT hand, reach over and turn off the car, DO IT NOW."

  I saw the thoughts flashing through the heads of the two in front of me, and said "Don't do it you two, he's in uniform, and yes he really is a PSP officer, and he's my old swim buddy from the SEALs. He will shoot, and he never misses."

  At that sage advice, the two in front did what Pete said. Pete then got them out of the car, one at a time, and cuffed, then searched them. Then he got me out of the back, and said, "What the fuck happened, are these guys cops?"

  "Well, sort of, I think they're FPI, so they're almost security guards anyway." I looked at him and grinned. "Now would you get this damn silverware off me, it's starting to burn."

  In a few seconds, I was free. I then walked up to where Pete had stripped the stuff from the driver's pockets,
and got out the keys, took a short trip back to the trunk and got my gear back on. Then I walked up to the two in cuffs, and said, "Now is there any question in you two's mind that I am really Detective Fisher?"

  The passenger looked up at me and shook his head mutely, the driver said sheepishly "No, I guess not, sorry about that."

  I reached out and uncuffed the pair of them, stepped back a step, and gave an open paw slap to each one's face. I didn't use full power, 'bout seventy percent, just enough to smart like hell, and leave a real beauty of a mark, and I didn't use claws. But I wanted them to know they'd been touched. Then I looked them both over, and said "That's for pulling a gun on me, ruining my stakeout, calling me a hairball, and generally acting like a B grade movie version of BAD COPS." Then I looked at the former passenger, and kicked him straight in the balls. "That's for: one, not knowing that wolfsbane doesn't hurt anything but wolves, and two, spraying me with enough to have killed me if it was poison to my kind." He was lying on the ground and writhing in pain now. I turned back to the driver, who was apparently in charge, and pulled back like I was going to kick him too. He winced and drew aside to minimize the kick, so I froze. I looked at him and said "As for you, you're pitiful, you're supposed to be in charge, and you have fucked up everything you have touched. I'm not going to kick you in the nut sack, I doubt you have one. I'm not even going to sue you for wrongful arrest, brutality, excessive force, and civil rights violations. I am going to file a formal complaint through my chain of command, and yours come to think of it. And I want to know what the fuck you think you are doing, sticking your nose into the middle of my investigation."