by Alex P. Berg
“Wow,” said Rodgers. “There must be hundreds of books in here.”
“Five hundred and thirty-seven, to be exact,” said Zeb. “Memoirs, biographies, firsthand accounts, original research, and treatises on everything from werewolf physiology and psychology to their mating rituals. This, and not the pile of exhibits out in front, is my true collection.”
“Mating rituals?” said Shay with a raised brow.
“Well, that’s a bit of a misnomer, really,” said Zeb. “That particular book is more pornography than anything. Seeing as all werewolves possess the ability to turn back into their native species, their mating rituals are surprisingly similar to ours. But that’s neither here nor there. I brought you here to show you some of the more material texts. Please, have a seat, detectives. I’ll gather the books.”
Seats were nowhere to be found, although a trio of hemp beanbags joined hands in a crude circle on the floor. Between the musty smell of the books and the colorfully-dyed beanbags, all we lacked to complete the experience was a hookah and a pair of bongos.
Quinto stood by the door and nodded to the rest of us. “You guys sit. I’ll stay here.”
My partner gave him a warm smile, probably thinking his gentlemanly gesture was purely altruistic. I knew better. It’s hard for a guy that big to pick himself off the floor after letting his knees cool. Besides, Quinto was a pro. Someone had to guard the door in case Zeb made a break for it.
We sat, and Zeb started handing out tomes to us as he found them.
“We’ll probably want to start with Voluntary vs. Involuntary Lycanthropy. The Life and Times of Chester Anson Brown is good, too. He was a canine psychologist who branched into werewolf philosophy in his older years. Oh, and of course we’ll want Thermodynamics and Werewolf Physiology. That’s a given.”
The books started to pile up in our arms quickly. I held one up. Population Density, Contagion, and the Urban Werewolf Resurgence? What was this crap?
I put a stack of the books down at my side. “Hey, Zeb, while it’s, um…great, that you have so many books on various topics related to werebeasts, we really just need to ask you some questions. And I don’t need a citation on every answer.”
Zeb kneeled down next to me. His big bushy mane dangled uncomfortably close to my face. “But Detective, these works are vitally important to answering your questions. You wanted to know how to kill a werewolf, correct? Well, the simple answer is, it’s difficult. At least, that’s what the texts claim. Clearly I’ve never tried the endeavor myself. All the scholars note werewolves are extremely resilient. They possess remarkable regenerative properties that allow them to heal small wounds quickly and without permanent scarring.”
The remark dislodged something upstairs. “Remember the naked bodies of Terry and Cynthia?” I said to Shay. “Their apartments were trashed, but their skin remained unblemished. No bruising or scars.”
“Yes, and even the knife wounds in their chests had bled very little,” she said. “I’m keeping an open mind, Daggers. Go on, Zeb.”
He did, and I tried to keep an open mind as well. “Well, according to the texts, there are only a few sure fire methods to kill a werewolf. Immolation, decapitation—which is very difficult due to a werewolf’s thick skin and dense musculature—or impalement. Although the latter isn’t particularly easy, either. Werewolves will only perish if impaled in the heart, and even then, only if the conditions are adequate.”
“Let me guess,” said Rodgers with a grin. “You have to use a wooden stake?”
“What? No.” Zeb adjusted his glasses. “That’s vampire mythology. They’re substantially different, you understand.”
“Um, yeah, I know that,” Rodgers said. “I was just making a—oh, never mind.” He waved his hand and drowned his sorrows in the copy of Voluntary vs. Involuntary Lycanthropy.
“As I was saying,” said Zeb, “the conditions must be correct. Lycanthropes only tend to perish when impaled through the heart with cold steel—or cold metal of any kind.”
My partner jumped into the fray. “Did you sneak onto the crime scenes at any of the murders, Mr. Coriander?”
“No, of course not.”
“Don’t lie to me, Zebruder,” she said.
Her eyes smoldered as she grilled him—my guess was to see if he showed any hesitancy or if his voice wavered. She was checking to see if he was fitting his narrative to reality.
“I’m telling the truth,” said Coriander. “Now, mind you, I tried, but I never had the opportunity. There was always a meddling police officer at the door who prevented me from getting in. The same one at every scene, no less.”
I smiled. “Good old Phelps. I’m starting to like that kid. I’ll have to put in a kind word for him with the Captain.”
“I’m sure he’d appreciate it if you made that recommendation for the right person,” said Shay. “His name is Phillips.”
“Oh, right,” I said. “Whatever. Look, Zeb, I thought it was silver that was supposed to kill werewolves?”
“Common misconception,” he said, pushing his glasses further up his nose. “Polished silver and polished steel look remarkably similar, the only difference being silver has a slightly more lustrous sheen. But at cold temperatures, with a little frost on a blade, refraction can make steel look just like silver.”
I wasn’t entirely sure what he was talking about. Shay seemed to understand it, though.
“Why would depressing the temperature of a weapon make it any better at killing werewolves?” asked Steele.
“Ahh, well that’s the interesting question,” said Zeb. “Different scholars have different theories about that. If we assume lycanthropy is a disease—and that’s a matter of some debate—then some think cold weather makes the organism regulating the disease more susceptible to external stress, similar to how the body’s more likely to catch a cold on a nippy winter’s day than on a balmy summer one. Or perhaps cold temperatures slow down the body’s natural processes. In the case of the werewolf, this would include regenerative abilities. It might be that a direct shot to the heart is nearly fatal, even for a werewolf, and having it be cold is the final impetus that breaks the camel’s back.”
“Wait. Back up a second,” I said. “Werewolfism isn’t a disease? If not, then what is it? I thought it got transmitted through bites, like rabies.”
Zeb shook his head. “Another patently false myth, I’m afraid. If it’s a disease, it’s neither particularly infectious nor contagious, and it certainly doesn’t get transmitted through saliva. It’s…well, it’s complicated.”
“I’ll say,” said Rodgers, lifting his nose out of the book he’d been reading. “According to this, there’s at least two types of lycanthropy. There’s the kind that causes the victim to revert to and from their beast form uncontrollably based on the lunar cycle, called cyclical lycanthropy. Then there’s another strain that allows for transformation whenever the afflicted feels like it, which the author refers to as autonomous lycanthropy. Now, whoever wrote this clearly thinks these are variations of the same disease, but I don’t know if I buy it. I mean, why would the phases of the moon have any impact on the behavior of some bacteria?”
“Exactly,” said Zebruder. “That’s precisely the point that Krotus discussed in his pamphlet On the Metaphysical Response of Lycanthropic Bioorganisms. Though I’ve seen others dispute his claims on the basis of tidal activity and increased humidity resulting from that.”
“Hold on,” said Quinto from over by the door. “Humidity can change how a disease affects you?”
“I don’t see why not,” said Steele. “It’s said tuberculosis is far more deadly for people who live in humid areas than those who live in dry ones.”
Quinto scratched his chin. “Hmm. I didn’t know that.”
“I think we’re getting off topic,” I said. “The point I was trying to confirm was that cold helps kill werewolves.”
“Oh, undoubtedly,” said Coriander. “There’s numerous reports of werewolf hunt
ing expeditions from antiquity, and the mortality statistics for the hunters were inevitably more favorable for the campaigns conducted in the winter months.”
“Good,” I said. “Now that we’ve established that, let me ask you another question, since you’re the biggest—scratch that—the only collector of werewolf memorabilia I’ve ever met. Have you ever encountered knives or stilettos specifically designed for werewolf assassination? Weapons that held reservoirs of refrigerated liquid in the hilt?”
Zebruder’s face fell, and his lips circled into a small ‘o.’ His eyes defocused.
“Zeb?” I said.
“What? Sorry. Yes. I’m…familiar with the notion. I, uh, personally haven’t seen one, but I’ve heard of them. In the texts, of course. Sordid stuff. Specialized werewolf killing gear. Honestly, I don’t understand it at all. Werewolves are highly misunderstood. They’re kind, gentle creatures—most of the time, anyway.”
“Do you know of anyone who might collect such a thing?” I asked.
Zeb shook his head. “Um…no. Sorry. It’s not something I associate with.”
We all sat there in silence. Bits of hemp and dried beans imprinted themselves upon my posterior.
Shay pressed her thumb and index finger to her chin. “So, Zeb. You knew Terrence, Octavio, and Cynthia?”
“Yes, of course,” he said.
“What kind of werewolves were they? The cyclical or…what was it called? The autonomous kind?”
“Different scholars describe the states in different ways,” said Zeb. “But by those definitions, Terrence and Octavio were cyclical, and Cynthia was autonomous.”
“Hmm.” Shay’s fingers rested upon her chin in a prototypical display of thought.
I drummed mine on my beanbag. “Care to elaborate, partner?”
“Oh,” she said. “Well, the breakdown makes sense if you think about it. Terrence’s place was trashed, and he was murdered the night of the full moon, so of course he transformed. Octavio’s place was untouched, indicating he didn’t transform the following night. But we found Cynthia’s place in tatters, suggesting she voluntarily changed into a werewolf last night. But if Cynthia was autonomous, then why did she disappear every two weeks?”
“That’s a good point,” said Rodgers. “If Cynthia didn’t transform into a werewolf with the lunar cycle, why did she isolate herself with Terrence and Octavio every two weeks? Because it only makes sense that all of them were spending those nights together.”
“You know something else we don’t understand is the work connection,” said Quinto. “What are the chances our victims weren’t only werewolves—which is still a rather ludicrous theory, I might add—but also all worked in the publishing industry?”
“And if the cyclical werewolves transform every full moon,” said Shay, “why did they meet every two weeks instead of every four?”
We all turned our eyes onto Zeb.
“Oh,” he said. “Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it? That’s when they all met for their writing group.”
I picked my jaw up off the floor and fit it back into its socket. “What?”
“Their writing group,” said Zeb. “Oh, don’t look so shocked. They were all aspiring writers. Well, Cynthia had actually made it. But that’s why they got together every two weeks. And that’s why Terrence and Octavio worked the jobs they did—to get as close as possible to the industry in any way, shape, or form.”
“And you expect us to believe they were writing while they were all…werewolfy?” said Rodgers.
“Well, not writing,” said Coriander. “Critiquing. The writing happened at a different time. But yes, of course they were. I’m telling you, werewolves aren’t mindless beasts. They’re perfectly capable of logical, rational thought even while transformed.”
I wanted to slap myself in the face. It made sense when I thought about it. Terrence was a fanatical reader, if the sheer quantity of novels we’d found at his apartment were any indication. It was logical he might give writing a try. Octavio’s nephew had mentioned what a great storyteller his uncle was. And clearly Cynthia had turned her craft into a paying enterprise by becoming a ghost writer.
“Zeb,” I said. “Was there anyone else that knew about this writing group?”
“Well, yes, actually,” he said. “There was one other. Eustace. Eustace Manshwitz. He used to be in the group, but…”
I raised an eyebrow. “But what?”
Zeb clasped his hands together. “Well, he sort of had a…falling out with the rest of the group. His writing wasn’t particularly good, and he got jealous of Cynthia’s success. He became belligerent and the other members kicked him out. For what it’s worth, he claimed he’d show them all, but I’m fairly certain he meant it as a career aspiration, not a threat.”
I rubbed my forehead. “Zeb, seriously? How did you not think it was relevant to tell us this before now?”
The hairy guy shrugged. “I don’t know. You never asked.”
“When was this?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Two, three sessions ago, I think.”
“And is Eustace a werewolf?”
Zeb nodded. “Another cyclical one.”
“Good,” I said. “That’ll make it easier to pummel him into submission before we throw him in jail.”
37
The pummeling would have to wait. Eustace was nowhere to be found.
I stood in the middle of his apartment, poking a puffy sofa chair. It had probably been born a light caramel, but after years of spills, stains, and butts being repeatedly pressed into its surface, it had tanned to a dingy brown. Unlike Terry and Cynthia’s pads, the place hadn’t been trashed—at least, not by intruders. Dirty clothes mingled on the floor in loose piles, empty containers of takeout food littered the premises, and the entire place smelled of stale sweat, sour beef, and desperation.
I’d forced Coriander to sit at a pine table so covered in crap that I could only identify it based on the spindly legs sticking out from underneath. Quinto stood behind him cracking his knuckles, either as a reminder to Zeb not to cause any trouble or merely to relieve stress in his joints.
“So if he’s not here,” I said to Zeb, “then where could he be? You sure he doesn’t have a job?”
Shaggy shook his head. “I told you, Eustace lost his job weeks ago. It’s probably one of the reasons he blew up at the rest of the writing group. I think he banked on being able to support himself from his writing, but he’d yet to sell a single piece of fiction, let alone something that could bring in real money, like a novel. When he got laid off…well, he took it poorly. He didn’t know what else to do.”
“Maybe he took another job?” I offered.
“If so, I don’t know about it,” said Zeb.
After taking another look around the room, I realized my suggestion was ludicrous. The apartment looked as if its owner hadn’t left its hallowed halls in weeks, which made Eustace’s disappearance all the more surprising. Either he’d fled because he feared for his safety, or more likely, he knew we were after him.
Shay returned from the bedroom, eyes scanning the room’s corners intently. She’d skipped her traditional fingers in the air routine on arrival—she only suffered her ‘visions’ at crime scenes—but she still left no stone unturned in her search.
“Find anything?” I asked.
“Not really,” she said. “The place is a dump, but I didn’t find any of the incriminating elements we’d hoped to stumble across. No drugs or needles. No chemicals I could find, and certainly no ether. And I didn’t find any bladed or stabbing weapons—unless you count this fountain pen.” She held it up for emphasis. “I’d bet you could give someone a wicked scratch with it.”
“He must’ve made off with his contraband,” I said. “Chances are, we’ll find it on him when we locate him, although we should check trash bins near the apartment complex. He might’ve dumped the stuff. Any volunteers?” I eyed Quinto.
“Don’t look at me,” he
said.
I grumped.
“I did find lots of books, writing materials, and unfinished manuscripts, though,” said Shay. “At the very least, it looks like getting kicked out of the group didn’t put a damper on his desire to write. Although some of the stuff is rather dark. I found a poem entitled The Buried Bonds of Friendship. It doesn’t exactly help his case for being innocent.”
She handed me a sheaf of papers. I took a quick look. “You’re right. He makes numerous references to stabbing people—people remarkably similar in physique to those in his writing group. But more importantly, this prose is dreadful. Seriously, he rhymed ‘eviscerate’ with ‘patty cake.’ I can see why the others kicked him out.”
Rodgers sauntered back in. I’d assigned him the unenviable task of interviewing Eustace’s neighbors to see if they had any useful insights about his whereabouts, employment status, or possible serial killer-like tendencies.
“Tell me you’ve got something, Rodgers,” I said.
He grinned. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve always got something for you, Daggers.”
I gave him the old single eyebrow raise. “You know I care about you, pal, but…that sounded a little too homoerotic.”
“It did?”
Quinto and Shay both nodded. Even Zeb looked like he wanted to agree.
Rodgers frowned. “Whatever. Scratch it then. And no, I didn’t get anything useful from the neighbors, if you’re wondering. They all seem to think Eustace was an annoying, foul-smelling twerp. They don’t think he was employed, and last time anyone remembers seeing him was about mid-day yesterday.”
“Did anyone have any idea where he might be?” I asked.
“Yeah…no,” said Rodgers.
I balled my hand into a fist and tapped it against my chin. “Alright, let’s try to think this through. Zeb, did Eustace have any family?”
The bearded one shrugged. “Beats me. He never mentioned them, but werewolves tend to isolate themselves. If he did, I can’t imagine they were close.”
