Excerpt: Bo Wulf

1 Sunday

The glint of the moonlight ran up and down the needle like a captive spark as Frank admired the fluid within the syringe. "Falling off the wagon is always easy," he muttered. "It's the long climb back up that takes it out of you." He killed the truck’s interior light and wiped his wet cheeks with the back of his arm.
The sparkling needle sank into his arm. With liberal pressure applied to the plunger, the venerable heroin rushed into his bloodstream. The empty syringe landed on the passenger seat and his eyes drooped. The cord, once tight around his arm, settled across his lap. "Ah, divine voices. Gentle voices. Come comfort me. Quiet my mind." He slackened and deeply breathed the cool, night air. His mind whirled and his eyes closed.
Something slammed into his chest. He screamed as he was yanked out of the window.

2 Monday

The weeds snapped. Expensive, black, leather shoes sank a half inch into the soft dirt as Detective Marty Richter scoured the hillside near the body. “What was he doing out here?” Marty bent to pick up a potential piece of evidence. “Nope.” Marty tossed the dirty, sun-bleached box of smokes into a trash bag. “C’mon, Frank. What were you doing?” His cell phone rang. “Richter.”
“Marty,” the voice on the phone said.
“Yeah boss.”
“We found the vic’s ID.”
“Right,” Marty continued scouring.
“Well?” The voice said. “Aren’t you curious?”
“I already ID’d the guy, boss.”
“How’s that?”
Marty bent to pick up a broken piece of soda bottle. “I know the guy. Frank Abatacola. Went to high school with him.” He dropped the glass into the bag and continued his search.

James Shoviak leaned back in his leather office chair and ran a finger through the weekly department newsletter obituaries. "Retired three years ... retired for ... two and a half .... Five, there is a big one. Retired two. Unimpressive statistics."
His rugged looks and thick gray hair made him appear older than his fifty-four years. His tough face was lightly speckled with pock marks from a relentless case of teenage acne and scored with a two light, but noticeable scars. "Post- retirement plans. That's the key." Ah, but for the great release from this obscurity. No one would miss the invisible man. James tapped his free hand on a small stack of brochures on his desk. “Germany first, then —-“
Hardy burst into the office. "We got one boss!"
James grabbed his coat and was out the door before the discarded newsletter made it to the floor. He followed in Hardy's wake.
A sea of cops parted as Hardy's wide frame briskly headed for the office of the Tehachapi Chief of Police. Hardy pushed his Diamond Head Hat more firmly onto his shaved head and adjusted his black tie as they burst through the ornate door.
Chief Bradley Rowland hung up the phone as James and Hardy entered. "How the hell did you hear already? I just got the call.” He clenched his teeth. “Looks like another bear mauling. It's in the foothills near Pasadena, just north of Altadena." He furrowed his brow. "You'll be on the move I suppose?"
James nodded. "Just like we did here."
“Humph. I'm not gonna miss ya."
James smiled. "You are going to miss me all right. You know you love me. It will be just like when your kids leave home." James and Hardy made for the door. "When we're gone, you will roam the halls, lamenting the great times we had." The last word was cut off by the closing door.

Maggy smelled the sweet morning air, her pastel blue skirt swayed as she almost skipped on her way to work. She thought, "Hating Paul is no good. Even jerks deserve forgiveness." At twenty seven, she was familiar enough with the consequences of life. He’s going to reap what he's sewn. “His life will come to ruin or prosperity regardless of what Maggy Richter has to say.” She stopped and squeezed her eyes shut for moment. She took a deep breath and pulled her long brown hair back as if in a pony tail and let it fall. “Three weeks of crying and ranting is hard to let go of. But I forgive him.”
After two quick breaths, she resumed her saunter and avoided thinking about the new graffiti on Paul's car. “I guess I'll have to seek his forgiveness?”
Maggy altered her normal route to walk by the park. The birds were active, singing and flitting between the trees. As she drew in and expelled a full measure of fresh morning air, she noted dozens of birds bursting from one of the park's more picturesque hedges, about a hundred feet away.
Her attention focused on the hedge, she witnessed a young homeless man stagger out and crash to the ground. She whispered, “What the —-?” The man deftly sprung to his feet and dusted himself off. His head darted from side to side. He jogged off toward the north. Like a distant memory, he was gone.
She continued past the park, her previous rhythmic saunter replaced by a more subdued, yet still happy, gait. “What kind of night would some nut have, that would end with him sleeping in a bush? Interesting.”

Detective Tamar Shakhar watched the group ascend toward the crime scene. He turned to a fellow detective and pointed toward the visitors. "The crew with the beige, leather jackets? That’s the Yellow Jackets I told you about. James in the lead. The big black guy is Norman Cheney, James' right hand. The tiny Chinese woman is Mei Guo.” He smiled. “Mesmerizing woman with steely eyes. The last one I don't know, but that's the biggest white man I've ever seen." Tamar's broad grin was framed by a thick, black mustache and goatee. His ample Middle Eastern nose cast a blunt shadow across his recently whitened teeth. The bright sun glistened on his tightly curled, short black hair. He smacked the other detective on the shoulder. “They call themselves the Culebra Task Force. James does not like to hear the term Yellow Jackets.” When the party neared, Tamar approached them. He used a heavy Egyptian accent, saying, "Hello, Dr. Jones, terribly nice to see you."
James rolled his eyes. I hate that nickname, and he knows it. "Shouldn't you be blowing something up in the name of Allah?"
Tamar pretended shock and dropped the accent. "Dude, that's not a polite thing to say to an Episcopalian."
Squinting from the bright sun, James surveyed the foothills known by locals as the Haunted Forest. "Alright. What do you have, Camel Jockey?"
Tamar adopted a surfer accent, out of place for a thirty-nine-year-old. "Huh. That's Wave Jockey to you, Old Dude." Dropping all accents, Tamar turned and headed up the hill. "As all these stories begin," he gestured up the rise, "a couple of hikers found the body. They were coming down from a trail further up and ran across this mess. They saw some wildlife chowin' on the victim and thought it was a dead animal 'till they saw a hand." As the hill leveled, other detectives and park rangers came into view, all muddling around something.
James squinted at Tamar. "I presume you were called in to rule out homicide, and it was you who thought of calling me."
"Ah yes. You are correct. You taught me what to look for." Tamar led them toward the scene. “Excuse me folks. Clear away from the body please.” The rest of the law enforcement representatives dispersed. "As I said," Tamar opened his hands, "It's a mess. We don't know where he was killed, but it wasn't here."
James stopped. "Mine are always killed on the scene."
Tamar motioned James to resume following. "I know. But, there are other reasons I had you called. He was killed elsewhere, but he was ravaged here. The bites and other marks are consistent." Tamar coughed. “Gaa. You never get used to this smell.”
As they made it to the body, James crouched at its side. Hardy glanced at the corpse and continued north. Norm and Mei investigated the ground around the victim.
Tamar pointed to the body’s chest. "See the bites along the cavity? There was more cutting than ripping and tearing. You said bites like that look more like an omnivore than a carnivore." He paused. "Any sign of normal footprints may have been obliterated by the scavengers, but the absence of a sizable pool of blood makes me certain he was killed elsewhere. But there's no sign of dragging. If this is your guy, he would have had to carry the victim in."
James nodded. "Which means the footprints would be deeper, which makes it even more odd that . . ."
"That the guy left no footprints," Tamar finished.
“Exactly." James saw Hardy coming back. “Our guy rarely leaves footprints. Darndest thing."
Tamar nodded. "And he never kills in one place, and eats in another?"
"No." James shook his head. "Quite puzzling." As Hardy returned from the trees, James gave him a sideways glance. "You find it?"
"Yeah." Hardy's deep voice boomed. "About fifteen feet up. No lower branches."
James sighed. I don’t like change. It means we know less than we thought we knew. But Hardy found it. That was the clincher. “This is one of ours."
Tamar looked at James, but pointed at Hardy. "What exactly did he find?"
James stood and looked around. Tamar's detectives were out of earshot. "He found blood on a tree.” James held his hand up to indicate altitude. “Our guy jumps high into a tree and wipes blood on the bark and branches."
Tamar elevated his hand. “A fifteen foot jump? A man? Certainly not a white man.” No one responded. “How do you know it’s a man?”
Hardy stood like a huge pillar. "Handprint."
Tamar chewed his lip. "A handprint? You said it was fifteen feet up.” He elevated his hand again. “A man could jump that?"
James raised his eyebrows. “He did."
"Assuming that was achievable . . .” Tamar shook his head. “Wait. If you've got a handprint in blood, you have fingerprints?"
"Yes.” James nodded. "But our boy is not in the system." Seeing Tamar's look, James turned to Hardy. "Show him."
Hardy's eyes widened in protest.
James held up a hand. "It’s okay. Show him. Treat him," he looked around again, "like a member of the team."
Russell Hardy frowned, but nodded and motioned Tamar to follow. They marched through brown grass until they were three hundred feet away from the body. Just as they reached the thin tree line, Hardy pointed half way up one tree as he continued moving.
Tamar looked up as they drew near. “Is that the blood?”
Hardy stopped near the base of the tree. "James says treat you like one of the team. I don't know why, Detective, but here goes." Hardy pointed to the discoloration. "It's usually to the north of the mauling." He looked at Tamar. "James prefers we call them maulings to folks outside the team." Hardy spoke softly, unhurried and with directness. "There are almost always one or both handprints on the opposite side. Usually partials. The bark is very lightly scarred where he gets a foothold, and sometimes superficial scrapes where he wipes his face and bites the tree."
As Hardy spoke, Tamar circled the tree and examined the details as they were described.
Squatting, Hardy motioned toward the dirt. "Usually I find more of these on the ground." With his other hand, he pulled from his pocket a plastic evidence bag containing several bloody pieces of bark.
Tamar looked at the wooden shards, then back up. "You buy James's theory?"
"Yes."
Tamar turned to Hardy and stared into the big man’s eyes. "Even though it is the most outlandish thing anyone has ever heard?"
"Yes." Hardy's face was like stone.
Tamar shook his head.
Hardy did not move. "Detective? I've been with James for two years. I've seen over a dozen of these. And the evidence from others. Nothing else fits. I've seen things that have no explanation." He pointed to the stain. "Do you have an explanation?"
Tamar looked up. "No." He tsk’ed. "But my Christian beliefs leave no room for a human's transformation into any animal. Let alone a wolf."
Motioning Tamar to follow, Hardy walked twelve feet north of the tree. He crouched and pointed to two small depressions in the ground. They were the width of a human foot and approximately four inches long. "He jumped from the tree, landed on the fronts of his feet and pushed off to continue forward motion." Hardy pointed to the north. "There are no other footprints."
Tamar looked at the small craters and their divots, then the great distance to the tree.
"Your Christian beliefs leave room to explain this?"
Tamar shook his head. "They certainly do not."

James hammered away on his laptop in the back seat while Hardy drove the black Lincoln Town Car away from the hills. James accessed the local phone directory. "Cops, cops, cops. Where the heck? Oh, it's under police. Who the hell would do that?"
Norm Chaney's bright, white teeth contrasted with his chocolate, brown skin as he laughed. The large, muscular, man sat in the front passenger seat eyeing a stoic Russell Hardy. He punched the larger man on the arm. "C'mon Russ. That was funny. Laugh man. You never laugh."
James dialed his cell phone and put it to his ear. "Yes, hello. My name is Chief Rowland. I am the Chief of Police over here in Tehachapi. Could you connect me to your chief please?" James nodded at the phone. "I see. I see. Could you please tell him it is a matter of grave importance?" Pause. "Uh huh. Uh huh. Very well. I understand. And your name?" James' eyebrows raised. "Smitty? Excellent, how formal.” James nodded mocking approval. “Smitty, I would really appreciate if you would put me through to him. Let me say again, it is a matter of grave importance." Another pause. "Totally. I see your point Smitty. All right then. Now, take a message you can give him a little later? When it's more — convenient?” James smiled. “Ready? You have to write this down Smitty. Okay? Now I'm going to go slow. Ready?
"Chief Rowland requests a special meeting between Chief, wait, what's his name?" James nodded. “Okay. A special meeting with Chief Clepper, Buck Clepper and a gentleman I'm sending there right now." Norm laughed. James continued, "Got all that Smitty? Good, good. Now I want you to do two things. First, look up grave importance and figure out what it means. Second, I want you to tape the message to your chief's door. I do not want it to get damaged when my guy gets there. Do you understand, Smitty?" James did not smile. "No?” He held his hand to his chest in feigned shock. “How would it get damaged?" He waved his hand in dismissal. "Oh that. Well, if I am not talking to Chief Clepper Buck Clepper in about 45 seconds, my guy is going to drive his car right through your desk. And I am afraid that little piece of paper might get lost in all the commotion."
Norm laughed louder.
James nodded. "Yes I'll hold."

James smiled at the luxurious, brand new office of Altadena's Chief of Police. Approaching the large oak desk he held out his hand. "Chief Clepper, I am Federal Investigator James Shoviak. That is show-vee-ack." The fifty-five-year-old Clepper continued to scowl. James retracted his hand. "Awfully kind of you to see us sir, I think I’ll just take a seat."
Norm and Hardy flanked the door, looking like enormous black and white chess pieces.
James said, "I work with a federal task force under the umbrella of the Federal Bureau of Investigation." No need for small talk. "Your offices are situated within the area which I currently need to explore. I come outfitted with my own team and weapons, I will only ask you to provide me with an office for myself and space for my six investigators. I will verbally request resources when I see fit, but I expect that to be kept to a minimum."
Chief Clepper rolled his eyes, leaned back in his chair and rubbed his slightly graying temples. He then demonstrated his proficiency with profanity and asked, "What precisely gives you the authority to threaten my employees?"
James sighed. "If you are referring to Officer Smith at the front desk, he has already been counseled on proper telephone etiquette as well as maintaining formality." James removed his hat. "In addition, as the son of a career sailor, I can assure you that your language neither offends nor impresses me. I would, however, recommend we maintain at least minimal professionalism during our initial meeting." James plucked at his hat. "I have in my possession, special orders which —"
"I know all about your special orders," Chief Clepper barked. "After you impersonated a Chief of Police with your call, I got a hold of Brad to find out what the —"
James clapped his hands. "Oh. Brad? So you two know each other." He smiled. "This is fantastic. Chief Rowland must have already filled you in. So I am like family already."
Chief Clepper gritted his teeth. "I know about your special orders. I know why you are here." He leaned forward. "And I recognize your name."
James feigned concern. "Not from bathroom walls, I hope. I find the poetry creative but somewhat vulgar."
Buck Clepper leaned further forward and scowled. "You're the Werewolf Hunter?"
James said, "No." He shook his head. "There are so many ridiculous stereotypes from such a title. I am merely a humble investigator, trying to catch someone who commits murder in a consistently bizarre and fantastic way."
"But, you do think you're hunting a werewolf?"
James shook his head. "Chief, you are now in a position to become privy to classified information that is for-your-eyes-only as far as your department goes. Unfortunately, it's also need-to-know and there's not much you need to know at this point."
Clepper's face turned red. "I see." He leaned back and clenched his jaw. "How then, sir, may I help you?"
James smiled. “I will attempt to add as little gray to your hair as possible. I need solitary access to your crime lab on an as-need basis. I will share as much data with you as I can, but I anticipate that it will not be much." His tone turned more serious. "I will ask that you,you’re your homicide department, discontinue investigating this case and turn over any pertinent evidence and information to me as well as observing media silence on this entire issue."
Clepper tightened his mouth. "Will that be all?"
"I doubt it." James rose.
"Brad said you were a royal pain." Clepper scowled. "He said you had a chief removed for lack of cooperation."
"True and false. I am a pain. And it was obstruction, not uncooperativeness."
"Tell me one thing that makes you think we're dealing with a freak here."
James sat back down and looked into Clepper's eyes. "For you only?" Clepper nodded and James continued, "All of the victim's hearts were eaten. On the spot. Right out of the body. The marks on the chest cavities," James paused, "are all from human teeth."
Clepper closed his eyes for a moment. "I don't believe you."
James rose to leave. "I do not blame you." He walked out the door.
Chief Clepper's scowl followed the retreating man.
Norm stepped forward. "Chief, I'm Special Investigator Norman Chaney." Though the gigantic black man towered over the desk, his charming smile suggested absolute friendliness. "We'll have other briefing materials for you as soon as we get moved in. We typically try to keep the local police chief apprised of developments."
"Thank you," the chief said with strained politeness. "That will be all."
Norm said, "May I make a query, Chief?"
The chief grunted. "You may."
"Chief, you didn't ask to see the special orders."
Clepper rolled his eyes. "Chief Rowland told me all I need to know."
Norm looked humbly at the Chief. "I recommend you read them sir. They not only grant Federal Investigator James Shoviak certain powers and privileges, but they also grant you certain rights."
Clepper fiddled with a pen. "All right. Have a copy on my desk by 0800."
Norm shook his head. "I'm sorry sir, that won't be possible. We are not allowed to copy these documents. I'm afraid you can only access them from, and read them in the presence of Federal Investigator Shoviak."
Clepper sighed. "That so?"
Norm nodded. "Afraid so, sir."
Clepper rolled his eyes. "Then for now, I'll make due with what Chief Rowland has told me and kindly ask you to get the hell out of my office."

Hardy was already out the door as Norm responded with a slight bow. "Yes sir. Thank you for your time sir." Norm followed Hardy out of the office, out of the building and into the car where James waited.
James did not look at Norm and Hardy as they got in. He was shuffling paperwork inside his briefcase. "You give him the spiel about reading the orders?"
"Yes sir," Norm answered.
"And?"
"Didn’t want to see them sir."
"They never do." James continued rifling his briefcase. "They never do."
Norm turned to Hardy. "You get us hooked up, big man?"
"Yeah. There're places in Altadena that look good. I'd like to stay out of Pasadena if possible. Too much traffic.” He handed Norm a sheet of notes, put the car in drive and pulled out.
Norm surveyed the notes and saw Hardy arranged the living accommodations as usual. He grouped the rest of the team close together in a similar area, and himself off somewhere more distant.
Hardy said, "You know how I like my privacy." And really high ceilings. The higher, the better.

Heading home this late afternoon, Maggy was almost skipping as she left work behind. Passing by the park, she stopped and stared at the hedge she remembered from the morning. What a scene. That bizarre young man staggering forth from the hedge. Very odd. She stared at the hedge a moment longer, and resumed her journey home.
Maggy had a nice two bedroom apartment with a nice view. Arriving home, she was greeted by the nice sound of her ringing phone. As she shed her purse, shoes and watch; her own voice wafted from the other room, extolling the virtues of leaving a message on the answering machine. She recognized the caller's voice. “Sis,” the depressed voice muttered, “call me when you get home. I can't believe this. It's awful. Gimme a call.”
"He sounds upset." She looked at the clock. “Guess dinner will to have to wait.
3 Tuesday

Morning saw James, Hardy and Norm back in the Haunted Forest. Hardy used a rope ladder to climb the tree where the bloody marks were found.
Twenty minutes later Detective Tamar Shakhar trod up the hill. As he approached the crime scene, he called out to his old friend, "I figured you'd be back up here nice and early."
"Well,” answered James, "this guy doesn’t seem to sleep much, so neither should we."
Tamar laughed.
James squinted at him. “Why are you here? You didn't bring us croissants and lattes."
"No," Tamar pulled out a note pad. "We got a bio on the vic. Frank Abatacola, had quite the record in Temple City and Pasadena. High-schoolers used to come up here and drink all the time, maybe he was reliving his childhood. His yellow Toyota pickup was found in a parking area down the hill. We found some drug paraphernalia and an untouched six-pack of expensive beer. No real sign of struggle and no blood, but the windows were down and the doors were locked. Looks like he was pulled out the window." Tamar looked around. “I know you're taking the case over, but I have some of my guys searching between here and the truck to see if they can spot where he was killed."
"That's fine," James said.
Tamar cleared his throat. “And I've got a slight problem. One of my guys refuses to cede the case. Went to high school with the vic. Says he was working on him."
James raised his eyebrows. “Working on what?"
"Evangelizing him. Drawing him to God."
"Oh. Evangelizing him." James said, "Then the poor guy probably committed suicide."
"No matter how you look at it," Tamar waved his hand, "my guy ain't goin nowhere. Says he'll take leave and investigate it on his own if he has to."
James smiled thoughtfully. “Oh does he?"
"Yes, he does. Says he was so close with this guy. Feels determined to solve the murder."
"Hmm." James nodded. "I respect that." James nodded again.
Tamar also nodded. “Yeah. There's a lot to respect about this guy.”
“He sounds very promising.”
“Yeah,” Tamar agreed. “I'm sure he'll start rocketing up the chain once he sets his mind on it.”
James continued to nod. “Sounds like he would be an asset no matter where he worked.”
Tamar's eyebrows went up. “Woe, James. Don't go thinking you can steal this guy. He's one of my best."
James chuckled. “Well. Now that you have made him seem so ... unattractive." He stroked his chin and pointed at Tamar. “Tell you what. Have him come to my new office, provided by the affable Chief Clepper Buck Clepper, at 1500 and I will have a talk with him."
"You steal this guy and you'll have my boot up your backside."
James laughed. “Now is that any way for a polite Episcopalian to talk?"
Off in the distance, they heard, "James!!" Both twisted their heads in the direction of the excited cry. Hardy yelled from his rope ladder perch. “Another one!" Norm was already running in the direction Hardy pointed.
"What?!" James was off running. Tamar followed.

James got to the deceased male just after Norm. About one hundred yards from the location of yesterday's body, the gaping hole in the chest and empty cardiac cavity was unmistakable. James muttered. “Another anomaly. Two victims in two days. Same location." James told Tamar, "My guy has never killed with less than a month since the previous. Usually more than a month. Sometimes a year."
Huffing, Tamar said, "And there's no large pool of blood."
Norm finished the thought. “So he was killed elsewhere?"
"Maybe," said James. "Copycat?"
Norm shook his head. “No way boss, impossible. You know we got the lid on tight on this, no one could get all the specs."
James threw up his hands. "Well, we’re missing something. This is too different."
James knelt to examine the body. Putting on a glove, he probed the wound. “Everything is consistent on the chest hole. What am I missing?”
Hardy huffed and puffed up to the group. James noted Hardy's face was speckled with blood. "What the heck did you get into, boy?"
Hardy wheezed. “Fell. Rope...ladder. Ina...hurry. Missda...rung. Hitda...dirt. Hard."
"C'mon boy," James exclaimed. "What ..."
Hardy held up his hand to stop the questioning as he regulated his breathing. “I found another tree."
"What?!" James was exasperated. "I guess this is ours." He cursed.

Maggy peripherally watches Steve approach. I'm sure I won't like whatever he has to say.
Slightly disheveled and hopelessly out of fashion, Steve looked tired and awkward. As the Director of the Pasadena Office of Juvenile Probation in Altadena, he had seen it all, dealt with it all, heard it all and it was all still there.
She pretended not to notice him as he came and stood by her desk.
“Maggy?” Steve asked as if interrupting. “I have a special favor to ask of you." He fidgeted. “Child Protective Services called and asked for some help. They're trying to remove a child from a home and the mother is being combative.”
Maggy shook her head. “And...? How does this involve me? I'm a Juvenile Probation Officer, not a CPS rep.”
“I know,” he said. “But, they are in the same building as us and they called asking for your help.”
This can't be good. “They asked for me?”
“Well." He fidgeted some more. "It seems the mother is refusing to let go of the child. They don't want the kid getting hurt, and the mother keeps screaming, 'Jesus save me! Jesus help me!' So CPS thought maybe you could talk to her.”
Maggy sat up straight. “CPS thinks I'm Jesus?”
Before Steve could respond, she interrupted. “I mean, I am totally flattered and everything, but I can't possibly fill those sandals. I mean Jesus was God and everything. Where did CPS get the idea I was God? Because they are way off.”
Steve ignored the sarcasm. “No Maggy. They were hoping that you could deal with her on a more personal level. You're familiar with all the God talk stuff, so maybe you can calm her down. It's real important to get the kid out of there because the older sibling is dealing drugs out of the house and the mother is refusing to listen to reason. And we can't go to the police.”
Maggy sighed. This is wrong, but what the heck. Maybe I can help. I'm always asking God to use me, maybe this is one of those times. She extended her hand toward her boss, never making eye contact, and accepted the written directions to the dysfunctional household. This is ridiculous. I should hit him with a religious discrimination claim. No, that would be even more ridiculous. She looked at the directions and noted a ten dollar bill under the paper. “This my raise?”
“No." He walked back to his office. “I'm buying you lunch. I appreciate you helping out.”
She chuckled. Sometimes he surprises me. He better not make me respect him. That'd really make me mad.

Peter Cabrillo bowed before his idol and lit several small candles atop the altar. Lastly, he ignited the tiny ceremonial cauldron. The concoction he burned was a recipe of his own. Cedar, frankincense, pine needles, granular resin incense, sandalwood, cinnamon, sage, myrrh and charcoal tablets for a good flame.
He bowed again, then stretched his hands over his head as he stood. He went up onto his bare toes as his spine and shoulders cracked from the elongation of his six-foot frame. Bringing his hands and heels down, he bowed again. With a tiny set of tongs he extracted a chicken heart from a jar of oil, shook off the excess fluid and dropped it into the cauldron. It immediately burned a bright orange, almost blinding in the dimly lit room. He breathed in the pungent fumes "Let us dominate the hearts of the cowards."
His unbuttoned cotton shirt slid easily down his arms and he tossed it aside. He leaned and stretched to his left and admired the tattoo along-side his substantial bicep of an animal being attacked by a pack of wolves. The animal was heavily damaged and looked frightened. Peter stood at attention, spun his back to the altar and dropped to the ground and did one hundred pushups. The first thirty were so vigorous, his hands left the ground. When he finished, he held the up position for a moment and went down for one more. On the way up, he flung his upper body away from the floor, tucked his feet under and popped up straight.
He turned back to his altar, approached it and bowed. Retrieving the tongs, he extracted a cat's heart from the oil. His sweat rolling down the tongs, he carefully placed the meat into the cauldron. The sputtering and crackling echoed throughout the empty dojo. "Let us destroy the hearts of the unworthy."
Still breathing heavily, he leaned and stretched to his right and admired yet another tattoo. This one of a wolf clutching the back of a lion and sinking its teeth into the lion's neck. The helpless lion was rearing up and twisting, blood flinging as it tried in vain to dislodge its attacker.
Peter stood at attention, spun his back to the altar and dropped to the ground in a ball. He rolled to his back and began a furious set of fifty crunches, then fifty sit-ups followed by fifty crunches. He lay flat on the ground, heaving to get oxygen into his starved lungs. Quickly regulating his breathing, he raised his feet, kicked and flipped himself upright.
He turned back to his altar, approached and bowed. With the tongs, he extracted a chunk of meat from the oil. He approvingly rotated the piece and looked at all sides. "Ah. So easy to find, yet so difficult to acquire.” He savored its look and color, he dwelt on the moment, perspiration dripping from his face. He then dropped the piece of human heart into the cauldron. He deeply inhaled the smoke into his recovering lungs. Exhaling with intense verve, he groaned. “Let us feast on the hearts of our enemies!"
He squatted in front of his altar, extending both arms while flexing. As Peter tightened every massive muscle in his back, its artwork took on a most magnificent and frightening look. The massive tattoo of a wolf's head covered his back. The fiery, sinister eyes narrowed as Peter's shoulder blades protruded. It bore its great red fangs which dripped saliva as it scowled at unseen prey. Peter stood and brought both hands behind his head. He synched up the hair-tie securing his thick, black locks. Dropping his arms, he pivoted, presented his back to the altar, flexed again and began his routine.
His sequence of drills were angry and lengthy. Peter substituted growls, roars and barks for the traditional "Kiah" that other martial artists voiced when performing their power moves. His routine was filled with hate for his imaginary opponent, or his imaginary victim. He was fearsome, tenacious and strong. More than anything, he was fast. The fast-paced maneuvers lasted forty-five minutes.
His routine completed, Peter stood in the center of the room with his back to the altar. It was a few minutes before his heart rate and breathing were close to normal. He pivoted like a soldier and marched toward his altar, stopped, bowed and knelt.
"Dear god, gracious bestower of wisdom and power. Grant me insight. Grant me strength. Grant me power. Grant me victory. Transform me. Transform your servant."

Maggy walked well past the corner where she would normally go right. “Shoot. Well, at least it's a beautiful day.” She headed for the next available turn.
She walked by a construction site for a large municipal building. “Another of Mayor Alvin Moore's civic projects? New buildings. Old county wrecks getting facelifts. Except for our building.”
As she passed, she noticed a dirty young man ferociously bludgeoning nails. As she strolled, she watched him stand erect and brush the black, tangled mane of hair from his face as he breathed deep and stretched. At sixty feet away, she could still tell he was heavily muscled under his tattered black tee-shirt. As he stretched, he saw her.
Maggy looked away. He saw me looking at him. He'll think I'm weird. She failed to notice a hefty break in the sidewalk over which she immediately tripped.
At once, a burly construction worker rushed to her and gently helped her up. He retrieved the bag she was carrying. "Are you all right?" he asked.
She looked over and saw the young man was still staring at her. She barely perceived the burly man continuing to hold her arm.
"Hey Missy," he condescended. "How about a little kiss for my troubles?"
She ignored the bully, but saw that the intriguing young man was still looking toward her. Something mesmerizing about him. Not used to anyone staring at me.
The heavily built man tugged her slightly and insisted, "Come on, honey. Just a little peck."
She jolted back to reality and blurted, "No," and tried to struggle free. He pulled her in closer. As she protested, she suddenly saw the young man standing next to her. Whoa! When did he get here?
The young man ordered, "Phil, let her go."
"Bug off, rookie," Phil responded.
The rookie insisted, "Now!"
Phil peered at least six inches down at the weaker specimen. He shoved Maggy aside and she fell. He stepped closer to the smaller man. “You need to know when to listen Junior." Six and a half feet tall, Phil was as stocky as a tow truck. A solid mixture of fat and muscle, he looked like the proverbial ton of bricks.
The young man maneuvered between Phil and Maggy. Phil dropped Maggy's bag and glowered down at the rookie. Phil stared into this unintimidated kid's eyes and saw something that changed his countenance.
The kid looked up at Phil, gritted his teeth and seethed, "I said back off."
Phil turned and walked away, waving off the younger man. "Later junior."
Maggy trembled. Holy... That was scary. I don't get afraid. God... His grip was like cement. She accepted the young man's hand as he helped her back up. She dusted herself off.
The young man smiled when she accepted his hand while he helped her to her feet. When she was up, he yanked his hand away as if he got a shock. He stared at the ground.
She offered to shake his hand. “Thanks."
He waved her off with a humble gesture and to turned leave but locked eyes with her.
Maggy looked into his eyes. He's bewildering. Those eyes. Fear and pain. Those dark, tired circles. Is this the same guy that just showed unflinching bravado?
"I'm sorry," he broke his gaze with her and looked toward his feet. “I have to get back to work." He turned and walked away.
As he retreated, Maggy smiled. That's the guy I saw crawl out of the hedge yesterday. Is this guy a nut or a knight? She laughed. Well, I got work too.
11 Wednesday
Moving In
James inspected the west wing of the new Altadena Justice Center. Chief Clepper was reluctant, but he gave us nice digs. He examined the eight neatly arranged desks. All new. I'll need the six for my hooligans. The windowless door to the room off to the side read 'Assistant District Attorney' in thick, black, gothic letters. James opened the door to the spacious office. Nice. This place will do the mayor proud when completed. Chief Clepper hate's our being here, but I am sure he will enjoy keeping an eye on us. He heard his team arriving.
Norm, Mei and Hardy flooded in and claimed their respective desks. Mei handed off the boxes of office supplies the team brought down from Tehachapi. She put James' in his new office. “Here ya go. Boss."
"Mei," James called. "Why do you say, 'Boss' like leaves a bad taste in your mouth?"
Mei left without looking back.

James sat at his desk and flicked his brief case open. New town, same case, but a new twist. I hate twists. His thoughts were interrupted by a knock. "Enter."
Norm cautiously walked in with an open manila folder conspicuously marked with a strip of red tape across its mid section. Flagged to indicate the folder contained lab results. "You're not going to like this, James."
There is little I like of late. James stretched out his hand to take the folder. “What now?"
Norm retained the folder. “Well, our boy Frank appears to have had heroin in his blood."
James said, "What?"
Norm nodded. “He wasn't a junkie, but he had been in the past. Looks like he had just taken the hobby back up. The needle mark on his arm was fresh and solo. But this still breaks the pattern."
Snatching the folder, James looked over the labs. "This guy does not look healthy at all, besides the heroin." More head shaking. “What the hell is going on here? Everything has always been so consistent. What the hell?"
Norm accepted the folder back. “Don't know sir. But this brings up an interesting question."
James cocked his head. “And that would be?"
"How did Bo feel the next morning after his heroin-laced meal?"
James raised an eyebrow, one eyebrow. “How indeed?" James sat back and pondered, "Our guy's blood has always been chemical free, which makes me think it may have affected him a great deal. He may have gotten a little whacked out, and that could explain vic number two."
Norm tapped the folder against his wide chest. “Doc will be in town tomorrow. It'll be interesting to see what he thinks."
James rolled his eyes. “Or at least entertaining."
They both laughed. James said, "Run tests on the frags."
Norm winked. “Bloody wood fragments. Already being done."
“Excellent,” James winked back. “Always thinking ahead.”
“Thanks Boss. Oh, Stanley's here.”
“Ah, Special Investigator Goodwin has decided to grace us with his presence.”
“You're the one that authorized his vacation.” Norm chuckled. “You'll have to hear his story about New Zealand.”
"Since all of his stories involve inappropriate behavior, consider me uninterested. Just put him to work.”
“You got it boss,” Norm left.

James scribbled on a form. If we manage to ... There was a knock on the door. James barked, "What?"
Hardy poked his head in. “The movers are here boss. They have the board."
James brightened. “Excellent. Bring it in."
Hardy swung the door open, allowing two delivery men, carrying the three foot by four and a half foot board, to enter.
James signaled toward an empty wall and the workers muscled the heavy, two inch thick board into position. One worker asked, "This good sir?"
James looked up at the board, displaying a large map of the United States. “That'll be fine fellas."
Nodding, the workers lowered the board, leaned it against the desk and began attaching the mounting hardware. James busied himself clearing the top of the desk.
Out in the common office area, Hardy directed the rest of the delivery men. “Right over here guys." Each desk received three boxes. Two boxes were swiftly unpacked by the workers, the third was left for the desk's occupants.
The board now firmly mounted on the wall, the workers collected their tools, hefted the District Attorney's desk and left. Two other workers immediately brought in hefty file cabinets on hand-trucks. James directed the placement of the large, black, securely locked cabinets. Two men wheeled in a large footlocker. The heavy, yellow, metal chest clunked to the floor as it was placed just under the map.
Two guys came back with an antique, mahogany centennial desk. As they left, two men entered with a large gun safe. James directed, "Right next to the desk. Thanks guys. I appreciate it."
When the delivery men were gone, James locked the office door. He approached the newly mounted board and shoved two pink push-pins into Southern California, near Pasadena. Two bodies, two pins.
He loosened his tie and retrieved a metal beaded chain from his shirt and examined the dangling keys. He selected a small brass key and disconnected it from the chain. He shoved the key into a barely perceptible brass keyhole near Tulsa, Oklahoma. He unlocked and opened the board to reveal another US map. A map with over fifty pins.
Each colored pin had a colored thread leading to and from that spot. The colored thread matched the color of the pin most of the time. When the color was different than the pin, the thread color changed to the pin color as it left that pin for the next chronological/geographical location. A complicated code system only James understood.
James pushed two pink pins into the same Southern California location as on the cover map. He grabbed an olive colored thread which dangled from an olive colored pin jabbed into Tehachapi, pulled it taut around the new pinkish pins, tied it and cut it off. The next thread, will have to be fuchsia. Now I have to find some dang fuchsia thread. He reattached the brass key to the necklace, and guardedly eyed a tiny silver key.
12 Lunch
"Marshall?" bellowed a gruff man.
Marshall stopped his hammer in mid-swing. He saw the woman from the day before standing next to his fiftyish supervisor. She held a bag, and two beverages.
The boss asked the young lady, "That him?"
"Yes, it is," she smiled.
The supervisor summoned, "Marshall? Come over here, please."
Marshall hurried toward them. “Yes?"
"Marshall," the older man interrogated, "this fine member of the community claims you performed a public service yesterday."
Marshall nodded. “Uh, I guess."
"Yes Lou. That's right," Maggy said. "He was very brave and chivalrous, protecting an innocent woman from harm." I won't mention from who.
"Well, well. That's the kind of stuff we like to hear about our guys," Lou said slapping Marshall on the shoulder.
Marshall looked at the spot where he had been hit.
Lou continued, "Construction workers get such a bad rap. We always like to see someone doing good. Especially for someone like you ma'am.
"Marshall, why don't you take a lunch? Escort Miss Richter off the site for safety purposes and be back on the clock about 12:30." He poked toward Marshall's chest. “Sound good?"
Marshall stammered, "Yes sir."
"Good," said Lou. "I've got business to attend to. You kids stay out of trouble." He walked away.
Maggy turned to the unkempt young man. “Well, Marshall, it looks like you're mine for the next hour."
"Zev," he managed to say.
"Pardon me?" she asked.
"That's my first name."
"Zen?"
"No, no. Zev. With a V. Zevid Marshall."
"Well, Zev 'with a V' Marshall, I'm Maggy Richter." She handed him a hot, cardboard cup. "I wanted to say thank you for coming to my rescue yesterday. I brought you some coffee. Do you drink coffee?"
"Uh, Sometimes."
"Good," she said. "I also brought us some bagels. Do you like good bagels?"
"Uh."
"Good," she laughed. "Now, your boss wanted you to get me out of here for my own safety."
"Uh, yeah. Uh, follow me." Visibly nervous, Zev led Maggy to the exit of the construction site.
13 Marty
Walking along a virtually empty city sidewalk, Marty squinted at the bright sun light. I can't relinquish this case. Frank was my friend. And he was so close to accepting God was real. What could I have done better to put this guy over the edge? What could I have said? Marty felt his detective's badge in his pocket. But what do I want more here? Justice or revenge? Marty walked more slowly. I know this all fits into God's grand plan. But I could have done more. Helped him be more prepared.
Marty stopped alongside a building and leaned against the cold concrete wall. He covered his face with his hands, pushing harshly against his eyes. He began to sob. Oh God, why? He ran into an alley and concealed himself in the shadows.
14 Bagels
The busy noise of the construction site faded as they walked to a beautiful park across the street. Maggy led Zev to a bench just on the edge of the grass and sat down. Zev sat on the other end of the bench.
Maggy reached into the bag and pulled out napkins. She produced a doughnut-shaped object and offered it to Zev. “Good bagels are hard to find in California. My dad grew up in New York and constantly complained about the bagels here. He made sure we got our fill of good ones when we visited my grandparents. Kinda spoiled us. This place," she pointed to the company logo on the bag, "is great. I go there all the time. I think that even my dad would be willing to buy these."
Zev suspiciously eyed the paper wrapped item in her hand.
Maggy handed one to him and said, "Go on. It won't kill you."
As he separated the two halves, a connected shred of uncut paper tugged at one side and a portion of the paper ripped away exposing the garlic encrusted surface. He sniffed at the bread, then at the butter and cream cheese bulging out the center. Apprehensively, he took a bite. He chewed hesitantly, then vigorously and nodded approval. Then he saw Maggy staring at him.
She asked, "Never had a bagel before, huh?"
"Uh, no. Uh, this is good." He took another bite.
"You work here long?"
Zev stopped chewing and raised his eyebrows. He swallowed and said, "Not long. Couple a months."
"Do you live around here?"
Zev finished a mouthful, paused and bit off another chunk. Swallowing, he mumbled, "Yeah, pretty close." He took another huge bite.
She watched as he devoured his lunch and drank the coffee like it was a soda. She asked, “So, was this better than whatever you brought for lunch?”
Zev licked the last of the cream cheese from his lips. “Well. Uh. I usually don't eat lunch.”
“No?”
Zev shifted around. “Uh. No. I usually work straight through. Boss seems to like that.”
“Well, maybe you should take lunch once in a while. You woofed that down so fast you probably don't know what flavor it was.”
“Uh. No, I don't know.”
She coughed into her napkin, suppressing a laugh. He's giving off a lot of warning signs. But none of the classic behaviors of homeless people. Yet. Yet what? He is very odd.
15 Job Interview
Russell Hardy immediately saw the man coming into the station. He muttered, "This must be the guy." He stood and went to the angry-looking, tee-shirt and jeans wearing guest. “Detective Richter?”
Marty shook his hand. “Yes. I was told…”
“Just go through that door,” Hardy pointed to James' office.
Marty headed for the door. Guess he's not much for conversation. That guy is huge. Marty stomped into James's office to see the man reading the back of the local department newsletter and shaking his head.
Without looking up, James motioned for Marty to sit.
After several cranky minutes, Marty broke the ice. “Sir, I was directed to come in here..."
James cut Marty off with a wave of his hand and a tiny, but terse, "Shhhh." James' eyes darted between items on the newsletter back page, shaking his head with the occasional "tisk" thrown in. James gently slid the paper to his desk and smiled at Marty. “Three and a half years. Can you believe that?"
Marty asked, "Pardon?"
"Three and a half years," James continued, "Average from retirement to death out of Pasadena PD. You believe that?"
Marty grunted. “Guess it's best not to retire."
James laughed. “Yeah, die on the job. Sounds so much better. Find you DOD. Dead On your Desk."
Marty upturned his hands. “I can help you with that. I am armed."
James sat back and laughed. “Well Detective Richter, so delightful to see you. You seem, dressed down. I would have expected a little more professionalism for this interview. I would have thought you would want to work for me."
Marty was incredulous. “I'm not here for a job interview. I'm taking a leave of absence to get away from all you bureaucrats."
James raised his eyebrows. “Martin, there is no interview. The job is yours if you want it. This is about showing you what the job entails and convincing you that we will find your friend's killer. You will come to see that this goes way beyond just him."
"No.” Marty said, “I don't trust you."
"Neither do I."
"What?"
"Just a little joke," James smiled. "No one trusts me. No one except my boss and my subordinates. What does that tell you?"
Marty ran his fingers over his close cropped, brown hair. “That you are either lying to me, adept at brainwashing those around you, or people have a different perspective once they get to know you."
"You are as bright as they say you are. Maybe genius. I did not even think about your option #1. But I can assure you that option #3 is the correct hypothesis."
"That was no hypothesis," Marty concluded. "I have no empirical data upon which to base what was a complete guess. Other than I don't trust you."
"Again," James pulled out a personnel folder, unaffectionately referred to as a jacket, out of his desk, plopped it down and began leafing through. “As clever as they say you are." James continued paging through the jacket.
Marty saw his own picture inside the folder. “Not as smart as someone who can get my jacket in less than 24 hours." I've never even seen mine. The paperwork takes a half an hour to fill, two weeks to process. Even then, you can only look at it with a supervisor and an HR rep.
James tapped the folder. “No extra smarts. Just easier for some than others, is all. Now, let us talk about your brilliance. You have been the hot runner for Pasadena Homicide and Narcotics for two years. You are thirty, it's time for a change. I could use a guy like you. I just lost a good investigator, someone I cannot afford to be without. I need to replace him."
"I've heard rumors about your task force. Your tactics. I'm one of those Bible-thumping fellas. I don't see how I'd fit in. Provided you want me to fit in. You could just be setting me up for failure."
"Ah,” James waved his hand around. “That trust thing rears its ugly head once again. Listen, I want this case solved. Way more than you. This goes beyond you, beyond your friend, and beyond me. This thing is huge, and I want it to stop. You have no idea how big and how ugly this particular corner of the investigatory world is. I have had half a dozen rabidly dedicated investigators on this case and we have managed to find nothing. Nothing. All we can do is respond, take data, sift through the evidence and say, 'Yep. That's our boy.' But we have not caught him. You might be the guy who breaks this. You might be the key to this puzzle."
Marty squinted. “The key?” He shook his head. “Now you're just blowing smoke."
James shook his head. “No smoke. Just facts. And a hunch. Cops have those sometimes."
"Yeah I know. And I have one about you,” Marty hissed. Uh oh. The smugness is returning. “Tell me. Why did you just lose an investigator? He stop towing the company line?"
James smiled and leaned forward. “Sort of. I asked him to leave because he fell in love.”
“And love is against the rules?”
“He decided he wanted to get married. I only allow single people on my team. Rest assured he has landed a fine police job.” He waved the issue off and patted the personnel folder. “Your time will belong to me and I will not share it with anyone. When I say go, we go. When I say now, it means now. When I say bust heads, there are no questions asked."
Marty rolled his eyes. “You're making the job sound real attractive."
"Funny," James laughed, "I said almost the same thing to Shak about you."
"I'm not sure I like your terms."
James leaned back. “Well consider this. I have special authorities granted me by the federal and many state and local governments. I have an almost unlimited budget. If you tell me you need to fly to Ecuador on a hunch, I say, 'Keep me posted.' If you feel you need special tools, equipment or weapons, I hook you up.” James patted his fingertips together. “I do not ask a lot of questions. I do not have time for admin or etiquette. You ask and I will likely provide."
Marty shrugged. “Hmph." Do I trust Him? "Some feel it's dangerous to act like God."
"I will be your god Marty."
"Not likely," Marty answered. The jerk probably already knows I'm going to take the job.
16 Workout
As Hardy examined the display in his apartment. He touched each of his icons as he walked past. He touched the belly of Buddha, a cross, a silver Star of David, a Catholic Crucifix, a statue of Mary, a lamp with incense, an Ichthus, a Yin Yang medallion, a Zodiac Circle, an Islamic crescent and star, a Hindu Om. He last touched a Druid Sun Wheel. Don't want to leave anything to chance. At thirty-two, he had seen too much that was out of the ordinary. I know there's something supernatural afoot. There's no earthly or scientific explanation for the evidence I've seen.
He knelt on one knee, facing his icons. "I've read all your books. The Bible, the Qu'ran, the Buddhist Ti-pitaka, many of the Confucian texts, the Hindu Vedas, the Torah and Talmud, and pagan and Neo-Pagan books. At your core, you are all the same search for the truth. Show me the truth." He stood. “The Druidic information drew me. A philosophy, not a religion. The life forces of nature and of man." He raised his hands. “Right now, I want to understand a truth that no one can explain to me. Not even a god. How can a man jump twenty feet."
Hardy turned and looked at his tribute to the Druids. A monolith erected in his living room. The high vaulted ceilings accommodated a twenty foot tall oak pole anchored to the living room floor and ceiling. The "movers” are good. They can assemble the three sections of the pole, mount and anchor it in about an hour. Better yet, they can remove the pole, patch all anchor points and leave no evidence the device was ever here.
He inspected the pole, rising toward the ceiling like the hub of a private circus act. Several two-foot-long posts jutted out at irregular intervals along its length. "I haven't even challenged you, having jumped no more than eight feet, the lowest perch. Together, we will unlock this mystery."
His heart was particularly heavy as the setting sun pierced the high window, producing a faint orange smolder on the living room floor. He bowed in no particular fashion or direction and asked, "Give me enlightenment. Whatever deity or force governs that attribute." He began with stretching, then moved to the weights, then blazed through a vigorous calisthenics routine. Finally it was time for the pole. Time for the only spiritual connection Hardy had ever felt. He ran, and he jumped.
17 Violet
As soon as Maggy got home, she was waylaid by one of her brother's frantic phone calls. “So you got a new job,” She said, “Did you pray about it?”
“No,” Marty admitted.
“That's why you're all freaked out, dork. You're always telling me to give things over to God. Then you go out on your own and act all surprised when you're uncomfortable.”
“I know. But, you could counsel me with a little nicer tone.” He laughed. “You'd be a heck of a pastor, ministering to the afflicted in your special, caring style.” They both laughed. “This guy I'm working for now, he kinda freaks me out. Looks at me from across the desk like I've already been weighed and found wanting.”
“Hey,” she said, “he's the one who called you. He's the one who pulled you in and offered you a job. You said, yourself, he told you about the job instead of asking you questions. He already figured out you're a terrific cop. Sounds to me like he's pretty smart.”
“Now that's why I call you,” He said. “That's the kind of stuff I need to hear.”
“It's what I do.”
“You wanna do something else for me?”
“Sure," she said. "What?”
“Pray with me.”
“I think I can manage that.”
Marty said, “Dear Heavenly Father, please keep your hand on my heart. I know I went out on this limb without you, I hope that was your will. Please guide me, my task force and my boss as we try to put this case to rest. I hope this is your will and not just my flesh pulling at my heart. Help me to stay focused on you and your plan for me.”
After a brief pause, Maggy began, “Father God, please keep your hand on my brother. Keep his eyes open and on you. Please be patient with him and give me patience with him. We both know how much it takes. In the name of our glorious Savior, Jesus, amen.”
Marty chuckled. “Thanks, sis. I love you.”
“I love you too. See you on Thursday.”
“I hope,” he said. “My new boss has made it very clear that my time is no longer mine.”
“See you Thursday.”

After hanging up, she started dinner. She rolled her eyes when the phone rang. “Hello, Violet."
"Hey, girl!" the twenty-year-old, heavily pierced, Violet Asunder shrieked. "You are sooo good. Whatup?"
"I have caller ID. And you know I hate it when you talk like that. I hated it back when I was a brand new probation officer and got assigned you. It makes you sound uneducated." What will it take to rehabilitate this girl? "It makes it harder for you to get a job. Just because we're friends now doesn't mean I'm going to stop being a mentor."
"Yo, girl," Violet objected, "I'm just calling to see how you are. I left three messages and you haven't called me yet." The tattooed, former juvenile problem laughed.
"Four messages” Maggy said. “And when I got home from work, Marty called. So I was on the phone with him for awhile."
"Oooh. Marty, huh?" Violet purred. "When are you gonna let me meet him? You said I need to find a nice clean boy."
"You can meet him when you're as clean as he is. I'm telling you, you're not his type."
"You're so mean to me."
"Only because you deserve it."
"All right. Enough of that. Let's go out," Violet demanded.
"We can go to the coffee house."
"Gaa. All we ever do is hang out with your prissy friends. Why don't we hang out with some of my friends?"
Maggy shook her head, remembering the young Violet. Such a hard childhood. Chose her own name as a protest against her parents when she emancipated at sixteen. Not an unfitting name either. Maggy said, "I don't want to hang out with your friends. You don't really want to hang out with them either. You'll just end up in jail again."
"But you'd be there to keep me safe." Violet whined, “C'mon."
Maggy rolled her eyes. “If you wanna hang out, we're going to have to do it on my terms. Not yours. Ethically, I'm not even supposed to be your friend."
"Yeah. But I'm your only real friend, because you're so boring."
"Maybe, but my semi-offer with conditions stands."
Violet sighed heavily. “Oh, all right. Let's go get coffee."
"That's a good girl."
18 Thursday
DNA
Norm knocked on the door to Chief Clepper's office and walked in without receiving permission. Norm carried a case folder. Chief Clepper took offense. “Now hold on! Can't you see that your boss is giving me a briefing?"
James waved a conciliatory hand at Clepper. “Chief. He knows I'm in here briefing you. It must be important." James returned his attention to Norm with an “it better be” look.
Norm opened and scanned the case folder. “This morning, I ran vic number two's blood through the Federal DNA Database." He took a deep breath. “And got a hit."
James said, "Why did you do that?"
Chief Clepper said, "You telling me you guys have access to the Federal DNA Database?"
Norm and James turned and stared for a moment at the Chief, then returned their attention to each other. Norm answered James, "I was thinking that since vic number two was killed elsewhere, and we hadn't ID'ed him yet, his DNA might be entered in the FDD from another crime scene. So I plugged him in.” Norm exhaled heavily. “There was an apparent killing down south. A lot of blood. It seems it was vic two's."
James took the folder from Norm and started reading it. His eyes popped wide. “What?!" James uttered a profanity. “In Riverside County?"
Norm glanced uncomfortably at Clepper, then answered, "Menifee."
James slumped back in his chair. “Holy moly. This is a huge deviation.” He rubbed his head. “How far away?"
"Just above Temecula, Murrieta area," Chief Clepper chimed in. "Maybe eighty miles."
Never looking at Clepper, James asked Norm, "Is our boy driving his victims around now?"
"Hardy thinks Bo picked up the vic and carried him," Norm answered. Then he cringed. “Oops."
"Does he now?” James slapped the folder back into Norm's hand. “Well, first of all Special Investigator Chaney, that is physically impossible." Noticeably irritated, James rose. “Second of all Special Investigator Chaney, why are you sharing new information with members of the team before me?"
Clepper tapped his pen to the rhythm of some unheard music, enjoying the scene.
Norm deflected. “Sir, Investigator Hardy feels that Bo is physically capable of picking vic two up and carrying him that distance to the woods here."
James furrowed his brow. “Eighty miles? You think so?"
"Investigator Hardy thinks so, sir," Norm answered. "Now you know, sir, no one is more fascinated with Bo's physical capabilities."
James calmed just a bit. “I know, I know." He sucked in a deep lung-full of air and very slowly exhaled. "Anything else new?"
Norm sighed with relief. “No sir."
"Wait just a damned minute," Chief Clepper fumed. “Are you telling me that your guy waltzes in here and claims this serial throws the vic on his back and carries him eighty miles and you buy it?"
James looked at Clepper. “Actually Chief, I'm no longer telling you anything." He rose. “I'm afraid we just crossed into the need-to-know arena. It seems our brief will have to be more brief than expected."
James told Norm, "Assemble the team." He smiled back at Chief Clepper. “I love saying that. I wish I had some place called a Ready Room though. That would be very nice." As he passed into the hallway, he barked, "Assemble the team in the Ready Room," and the door clicked closed.
"I hate that guy," Clepper muttered.
Buck Clepper leaned back and sighed. A very deep sigh. After a moment he leaned over and opened a desk drawer. "Wish I had a bottle in here. Nah. I hate that TV cop cliché." Instead, he pulled out an item that Chief Rowland had parceled over just that morning. He put it on his desk, opened it and began working on his new pet project.
19 Questions
"Juvenile Services, Maggy Richter, may I help you?"
"Hey girl. How you doing?"
"Violet, I asked you not to call me at work."
"Yeah. But you never told me I couldn't call you."
Maggy sighed. “Okay. Now I'm telling you that you can't call me at work."
"Well. I was thinking about something you said last night. That guy was singing a song about how good God is. And I asked you about tragedy in the world. You said it was our fault, not God's."
"Yes," Maggy said, her impatience subsiding.
"Well. That still doesn't make sense to me."
"Violet, honey. This still isn't the time."
"I know." She said sadly, "I didn't sleep well last night."
Then Maggy sighed. “All right. What's the problem?"
"Well. Is it our fault? How can it be our fault? If God is in control of everything, how can we be blamed for anything?"
"Because God gave us free will." I know that won't be enough. "If we were programmed to say, 'God I love you,' all the time, it would be meaningless. It would be like a, uh, computer saying, 'Violet, you're the greatest.!' Every time you hit the purple button. That wouldn't mean anything.” I hope this i