-rev. 13:4
BY BRYAN CHANEY
Morning. Time to get up.
It was five in the morning and it was time for Peter's morning jog around the block. Hell, if he didn't he'd become like those fat old detectives you'd see in 1920's photographs. He wanted to look more like Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca. So what if he was only 5'7" and looked like he was a fugitive from a Nazi movie, square jaw and nose, dark eyes, close cropped hair?
He struggled out of bed, put on his sweats, stretched, put in his New Order tape, and started jogging. The part of the jog he hated the most was a strech of houses on Cedarwood Ave. Each house had at least one dog, sometimes two, and they would run up and bark at him as he went by. Usually he ignored them, but sometimes, like this morning, he was feeling a bit more frisky. He stopped dead, turned, looked them dead in the eye and growled. This, confusing the dog, worked in discourging them except one not so easily disuaded. Peter barked one and turned away, laughing. The dog didn't have a chance.
On his second time around the block, the dogs kept their distance, but being merely dogs, they would be at it again tommorrow. Completeing this loop, Peter took a shower and went back to sleep.
At 7 o'clock, he got up again. He made breakfast and watched Good Morning America at the same time. Local news every morning comes on at 7:15. "Our top story this morning is the discovered death of Carl Centauri, restaurant owner in the Venice Beach area, by Los Angles police. This is the ninth such death that has occurred after a demonstration of an extreme religious group, this time by Moslems, to result in a death of a prominent centaur. In other news,-" Peter turned of the T.V. He was sick of this. Some of his best friends were centaurs. What he couldn't understand is how anybody could anything like this, whether they be human or otherwise. Maybe that's what drove him to become a detective, some pseudo-noble call to end all the wrongs of society. A lotta good he's done.
Peter got into his 1969 green Dodge Dart and drove to the L.A. Police Department.
*****************
"Hey, Sgt. Wolfe!" Lt. Thomas Wu called to Peter across the cluttered and noisy precinct office. "New case for you!" As he reached Peter's desk, he deposited a manila folder bulging with I.D.'s, photos, and leads.
"What's this?" Peter asked, half jokingly, "A manila folder? What ever happened to floppy disks?"
"This is the file on the centaur murders." Lt. Wu replied, nonplussed
"I thought Frank was working with the case with Casey."
"The pair has received some death threats and they are in the safehouse for a little while," Lt. Wu explained. "I want you to continue with the case. I understand they have narrowed it down quite a bit."
"The four main suspects now are this suspected Ku Klux Klan leader Robert Hickman, a bishop from San Diego, Paul McCarthy, a Jehovah Witness district supe, Andrew Smythe, and this Islamic leader Mohammed Ali Jabar. All four have been seen around the houses before the murders, usually leading the demonstrations except for Hickman. We've been getting calls to just arrest them, especially from these Jewish groups. We want you make sure. The rest of the department will do there best. I'm leaving it to you." He started to leave. Peter heard him to murmur, "Wish I...."
Peter was shocked and a little dismayed. Frank and Casey was the best pair of detectives on the force. Now he had to take until they were safe. 'Well,' Peter though, 'they'll figure out some way to pass the time...' Rumor had it that Frank had a "thing" for Casey, despite her being a centaur. To keep Frank to a minimum amount of injuries, Peter started to look through the file. It contained photos of the murdered murdered, bios of the victims and the suspects, coroner's reports, reports from witnesses, photos of the demonstrations, etc.
Peter spent the rest of the day sniffing through the volumes of information that the file contained. He stopped only once when Hilda Harpie, the detective's secretary, flew in and said "Peter, do you want some coffee?" Hilda was the nicest harpy Peter knew. Most of them were true to their ancestry, filthy, foul, and loud. Most of them, if they work at all, worked at McDonald's, taking orders. Either that or they're dentists.
Peter looked up and into Hilda's face. It was average for a human face, but almost exceptional for a harpy. Her short crow black hair and iron gray plummage with sulfur yellow bands on the pinfeathers and wingtips. She was well groomed and wore a turquoise sweater. In her hand was a steaming cup of decaf. "Thanks Hilda," Peter replied and quickly drank from the cup. `Folgers,' Peter thought disdainfully, `I prefer Yuban.'
"What are you working on that's so interesting?" Hilda asked. "I haven't seen you move from your desk since Tom gave you that folder."
"It's the centaur murders. There so much information in here and I want to familiarize myself with it."
"I hope you can solve this thing soon. Everyone is getting nervous, not just the centaurs. Who knows who will be next? Wish you luck."
"Well, I had a good start, with Sgts. Frank and Casey doing much of it. If they didn't have to go in hiding-"
"Horrible how the best detectives on the force have to go in hiding, but-"
"If we want to keep them that way it was-"
"Exactly!"
Peter had to smile. He took another sip of coffee and started reading again. Hilda quietly flew out.
It wasn't until after 10pm that Peter left the office. He got in to his car and drove home, mentally exhausted.
********************
Next morning, Peter checked in the station and then he started driving around in the Brentwood Park area of L.A. looking for the residence of Bob Hickman.
Around noon, he found the place, 2974 Sunset Blvd. It was a squalid house, with an ill manicured lawn, near-dead palm trees, peeling yellow paint, and rusted iron fence and bars on the windows. Hardly the opulent house you'd see in Bel Air, just down the road.
Peter parked the car out of sight and walked up the cracked concrete driveway. He knocked on the broken screen door.
A man in his 50's with a Miller in his hand, unshaven face, and wearing a white t-shirt, barely containing his girth, answered the door. "Yeah?" he asked.
"Are you Robert Hickman?" Peter inquired.
"Wot's it to ya'?" he retorted.
"Police, sir," Peter said curtly, and flashed his badge. "I'd like to ask you some questions."
"Yeah, I'm Hickman. What do you want?"
"Can I come inside?"
"No, you won't!"
"All right. I'll ask it out here, then. It's about the centaur murders. Have you ever participated any racist activities against centaurs?"
"What ya' takin' about?!"
"Listen," as he paused to scratch behind his ear, "if I could arrest you alone for being an asshole, I would. But I follow laws that respect the rights of all intelligent beings, unlike your Klan; yeah we know your a Grand Dragon back in Mississippi. Why they chose a dragon, I'll never know. Now," he growled, "have you ever participated in these protests and/or called together a Klan meeting?"
"No," Hickman sneered, "but I wish I could. For 4 years I've been lookin' and I ain't found nobody. All this sex and drugs have messed up yo' minds! Y'all can't see what these centaurs and other things are really doin' to America! They're...Hey, boy! Where you'se goin' to?"
Peter turned his head over his shoulder and said, "I'm going back to the office to report the truth. He stalked off angry with himself and with Hickman's elimination.
********************
Peter drove back to the office and filed his report on Mr. Hickman. The remainder of the afternoon he spent researching the remaining suspects. At 7pm, he went home.
When he got home, there was a note on the door. Peter took it off and read it. Peter thought, `Lovely, a holy death threat.' He called the police department and he got Lt. Wu on the phone.
"Yes, Peter, what is it?" Thomas asked over the phone.
"Whoever it is finds out things quickly. I received a death threat," Peter said nonchalantly.
"What does it say?"
"It says, 'Beware Wolf of the wrath of God!'"
"O.K. Handle as little as possible and we'll run tests on it in the morning. Maybe we can get a break in the case."
"I certainly hope so. Could you, like, check up on me maybe a couple times tonight so I CAN come in the morning?"
Lt. Wu chuckled. "Sure, I'll have the night patrol drive by every 4 hours tonight."
"Thanks. See you in the morning." Peter hung up.
He took a shower, made some dinner. He didn't really feel like cooking nor having meat, so he got the eggplant paramesean he made on Sunday from the freezer. He popped into the microwave and settled down with the evening paper. Besides the daily blurb about the murders, there was other news. One of the most interesting was from Seattle. It seems the sea lions up there were back for there yearly feast of orcas. [You know what a sea lion is, don't you? Well, let's look it up in the Britannica. Let's see, ah, yes, here it is, Sea Lion: a fearsome carnivore that inhabits Pacific coastal areas. They resemble regular Lions in behavior and appearance, but in lieu of hind legs, Sea Lions have a powerful dolphin-like tail. The front appendages are webbed and the entire body is covered by shiny blue-green scales. Sea Lions feed on giant squid, orcas, sharks, and salmon. Now doesn't that make sense? end aside..] Animal control officers in the area have tried everything to stop them, ranging from explosives, nets, and trapping them and moving them out to the Washington coast. They now want to trap them and send them down to the Santa Barbara area. But, the local triton and merpeople population have expressed opposition to this plan.
Peter read this with great interest, just to take his mind off of the case. He flipped on the TV. USA happened to be on and it had WWF wrestling. The Centaur Warrior had Brutus Beefcake in headlock. Peter changed the channel. Lifetime had a show about healthcare for harpies. There was nothing good on this end of the TV. He changed the channel to CNN. "Crossfire" had an argument on whether or not to hire dragons in lieu of the B-2 to save money. The main concern was if the dragons were controlable. He skipped Showtime and turned to KQED, the PBS affiliate. Finally a show! Jeff Smith was demonstrating various ways of preparing venison. Afterwards was "Masterpiece Theater." He didn't want to watch that, so he turned to the Fox Station, KLTX. They were showing the docu-drama "An American Werewolf in London." After the movie, he went to sleep."
***************
A couple days later, after a long search in trying find McCarthy or Jabar that proved fruitless, Andrew Smythe was finally tracked down. It was about 7:00 pm, and the sun was about to set. Peter hoped he could get this over with by the time the moon rose. It was a full moon tonight, and no telling what Andrew might do in the dark. He was in Canoga Park, in the north-western corner of the city. It was about 7:15 when he found 1693 Sherman Way. The house was a mobile home, typical of an advisor, for the he traveled from parish to parish. It was well kept and painted white. Peter, to be on the safe side, parked his car on a nearby side street. He walked back to the residence, went up the walk way, and knocked on the door. A man in his 40's with sandy brown hair, a receding hair line, a long, thin face, prominent features, and dressed in casual clothes answered the door. "Yes?" he asked in a mild voice.
"Police, sir," Peter answered stiffly, and he flashed his badge. "Are you Andrew Smythe?"
"Yes, what can I do for you?" he queried, obviously confused.
"May I come in?"
"Sure, sure." He got out of the door and led him to the living room which was adjacent to the doorway. The room was brightly lit, with religious artifacts on the walls and in the curio cabinet.
"Who is it, dear?" a voice of a woman called off from the distance.
"The police, Jennie. He's here to ask some questions. Please, sit down." The last part he directed to Peter. After he found a seat in a comfortable yellow chair, Andrew asked, "Now, what do you want to ask me?"
"It's about the recent string of centaur murders. We know that you have a great influence in the Jehovah Witness community, and since your follower have been spotted at the demonstrations that precede the murders, therefore, you have become a suspect in instigation of the murders."
"Are you insinuating that I would kill another being?!"
"No, you are just a suspect," Peter replied calmly, "that by no means makes you the killer. I would like you answer a few questions so that you can vindicate yourself." Even as he said this, he felt the sun go down. Soon the full moon would rise, and he wanted to finished with as soon as possible. It took great control to quench his trembling from taking over his voice and possibly jeopardizing this interview. "Now," he said, toes twitching nervously, "have you ever incited violence against any of the monstra mythos?"
"No, no," Andrew replied hastily, "The elders have proclaimed that all intelligent entities are vassals of God and I am bound by their teaching. I would in no way violate or jeopardize these in any way. I- Good God!" -Andrew looked up and saw Peter's hair grow visibly from his head and face, and a slight elongation of the nose. "I am have let a minion of the Devil into by premises!" he shouted. All Peter could think of is, `How in the hell do I get out of here?' His confusion of becoming lupine was shattered by the rustling in a desk heard in his suddenly wolf-sharp hearing. Half upright, half loping, he bolted for the door, carrying his notepad in his mouth. As he left, a noise, painfully loud almost made him howl in pain. Then a real reason came. The bullet entered just inside the front foreleg, almost causing the leg to become useless. It was still painful to move it, so he tucked it under and continued to run. He could hear Andrew still shouting after him, "Leave demon! The wrath of god has visited upon you!" Before he forgot, Peter threw his notepad into the open window of his Dart with some difficulty. Then he started looking for a hospital, with the moon in the street.
**************************
The pain in Peter's foreleg was almost unbearable now, but he had to keep running, trying to find a hospital. He knew Cal State Northridge was along Reseda Blvd. somewhere but he could judge how far it was in his present condition. He had dogs bark and chase him off, but he was used that by now. When he was younger, growing up at Pacific Palisades, it would bother him, and his dad would assure him that in time he would grow accustom to it. That indeed he had. Now he had to find either another werewolf or Cal State.
`Keep on moving,' he told himself. Sometimes waiting at the crosswalks was torture, but he wanted to nail that sucker, he had to.
He had just crossed Roscoe Blvd., when he found relief. A another werewolf, a bitch by the look of it, spotted him. She was, like he was, a large gray wolf, gray fur streaked with silver and black. She had a large streak of silver above the eyes, while Peter had a silver sock on his left hind foot. She came, speaking to him in quiet wolftalk, "Are you in trouble?"
"Yes," he yipped back. "I've been shot and I need to find a hospital."
"I know of one not far from here. I'll show you. By the way my name is Krystal," she yipped, whined, and half-barked back.
"My name is Peter," he replied.
She headed north for a couple blocks and then turned onto a side street. At the end of the block was a small clinic. He could some help here. Krystal scratched on the door and barked like a normal dog. A Hispanic woman answered the door and asked, "What's this? Two dogs come to my door like some beggar? No, not dogs, wolves. And tonight a full moon. I guess you'd be were's. What is your need?" Peter whined. "Definitely were's. What is your problem? Ah, a gun shot wound. Looks pretty bad. Max, get in here, I need some help!"
Max came and helped her put Peter on the examining table. She checked the wound, cleaned and dressed it, to prevent infection. While she did that, she talked. "I sure hope that you got insurance for this sort of thing. By the way, my name Rosa. I'd ask you yours and your ladyfriend's but it seems impossible at the moment. As soon as I'm done here, I'll call St. Martin's they can do more than I can. I wonder who would do such a thing to you, you being at least part human and all. It kind like those centaur murders. Their part human and intelligent. I don't see what all the row is about. There," she said as she finished with the bandage, "I'll go call St. Martin's." She went over to the phone and dialed.
Meanwhile, Peter expressed his thanks to Krystal. "If I get a chance I'll pay you back somehow, dinner, movie, hunting,-"
"If I didn't know better, it would sound like an offer for a date," she barked wryly. "I though you are in pain?"
"I am. I just want to show you my gratitude. If you give me your phone number, I'll call you when I'm better."
"How would you remember it?" she inquired.
"Don't worry, Krystal, I'll remember."
"You don't even know how I look like in human form!"
"The same goes for me, so where even. So what do you say? I'll repay you in some way."
"All right, it's 589-9082, and ask for Krystal Lupinya."
"I'll tell you it is Peter Wolfe."
"Isn't he the former lead singer of the J. Gilles Band?"
"My name is also Peter Wolfe."
"Oh."
Rosa came back in. "The ambulance should be here any minute. What was all that noise all about. You too talking to each other? I forgot. Werewolves can communicate with each other when in wolf form. Now, you just lay down and relax the best you can. How `bout some music, latino?" Peter growled deep in his throat. "So, you don't like latino, fine. How about, let's see, ah yes, rap?" He again growled. "Well, how about some just Top-40 music?" she asked brightly. He yipped to that. She turned on an beat up AM/FM radio, and tuned to a Top-40 station. To the torment of Peter, Krystal, and Rosa, they were playing a New Kids on the Block song. Krystal and Peter started howling simultaneously and Rosa hastily changed the station.
In about fifteen minutes, the ambulance from St. Martin's came. The paramedics checked Peter over, thanked Rosa and Krystal, and they loaded Peter on the stretcher and they were off.
They got Peter into surgery as soon as he got there. They soon discover that bullet, if they left it in there, would enter the heart if they didn't remove before the night was up. They work frantically to remove it and after two hours of surgery, the bullet was out and Peter was recovering.
Peter was carefully monitored until sunrise. After he retained his human form, the doctors relaxed. He was going to make it. The sun was half way up the sky when he woke up. There was a nurse there tidying the place up. "Oh," she said, "you have decide to join the living. For a time last night seemed you wouldn't going to make it. My name Kyki."
Peter smiled weakly. "Probably best to tell me who I am, since I could tell anyone last night. My name is Peter Wolfe," he replied.
"Wolfe, huh? Kinda like my name, though you wouldn't know. Kyki is Russian for swan."
"I thought that was an unusual name. Why would your parents name you `Kyki'?"
"Can't you guess? I'm a swanmay."
"What's that?" Peter asked her, very much confused.
"You honestly don't know? Well, you're not the first. A swanmay is a female who can turn into a swan at will, much like any werecreature, but they are not bound to the moon as you are. We are fairly rare, so it isn't to surprising you haven't heard of us. We usually wear a feather garment, which becomes are feathers, or were wear a cygnet ring, which become band on my leg. See," Kyki showed Peter the ring. It was made of silver and it had a swan's head with emerald eyes. "But, enough of that. I guess I should call Doctor Yates. He was the one who operated on you."
"Nurse Kyki, before you go," Peter said.
"Yes?"
"Could you get Lt. Thomas Wu of the L.A.P.D. on the phone for me? I'm a detective and I need to talk to him. Also, could I have a pen and some paper."
"Well the pen and paper I can give you now." In the dresser next to his bed, she took out a yellow legal pad and a ball-point pen. "That'll be enough?" she asked.
"Plenty," he replied gratefully. Kyki left to go look for Doctor Yates and arrange his phone call. Meanwhile, after some difficulty, wrote down Krystal's phone number. He then went over mentally all that happened the night before and decided that, if for nothing else, Andrew Smythe would get second degree attempted murder. And quite possibly, a definite link towards the centaur murders. Doctor Yates came in and talked with Peter for a time. Peter's stay in the hospital would probably be about a week but he would have to stay at home for another week and recover his strength. Peter reluctantly agreed.
Little bit later, Lt. Wu called him. "Peter you wanted to talk to me? What happened to you?"
"I'll explain if you'll let me. You know I went to Andrew Smythe's house late last night. Well, I was interviewing him and he denied all that he was promoting any violence. When I started to change, he got up and shot up me. Well, not quite that simply but to that effect. If nothing we get him on shooting me. Send out an APB on him and impound him as soon as possible. Maybe he'll say something about the other murders. Also, I parked my car near his house. If someone could tow that in to station lot or back to my house, it would be greatly appreciated. So any news from your front?" Peter took a breath.
"We'll get on Andrew as soon as possible," Lt. Wu replied. "The towing we can manage. As for news from here, we did get news of shooting in the area where you were at last night, but we couldn't find anything. We figured it may of been gang related, but your news clarifies that. Also, we were able to find Paul McCarthy last night. San Diego police questioned him last night and he denied any involvement. When we bring Mr. Smythe in, we will press him on that point. When do you think you'll be able to get back to work?"
"The doctor says I can't go back to work until I regain my strength, which will be about two weeks. Maybe you can get Casey and Frank out of hiding to help you, or is it safe enough yet?"
"You getting shot and I don't think he knew who you were. No, it's too dangerous right now. I'll personally continue the investigation. I don't like it when my officers get shot at by anybody, but this is worse. I'll call you as soon as we have any news."
Peter was impressed. "You don't have to take it yourself, if you want, so be it. I wish you luck. Thanks alot."
"You too. Now get healed fast so we can nail them. Bye."
"Bye." Peter put down the receiver and then went to sleep.
*************
POLICE REPORT
On May 26, 19--, Andrew Smythe was arrested and charged with the attempted murder of Sgt. Peter Wolfe. When brought in for questioning, Mr. Smythe denied any involved with the local string of centaur murders. He did, however, admitted to the shooting of the officer. When asked why he shot him, Mr. Smythe replied that "all creatures of the Devil should be placed out of their misery." Bail was set at $50,000.
**************
At the court hearing, Andrew Smythe was being questioned by the Prosecuter on why he shot Sgt. Peter Wolfe. Andrew replied, "I feel no remorse for my action. I, in the eyes of God, have done the divine thing by ridding the earth of one demon-scourge. He was not a real man, but a work of the Devil. The reasons we have all these problems is that we have let the centaurs and werewolves and harpies and satyrs and all those other halfthings into our midst. They have brought all the problems we have now, the drugs, the gangs, the violence. To solve the problem, God told me and my brethren, Bishop McCarthy and Sheik Ali Jabar that it was time to rid the world on these devils and God said that centaurs would have to go first."
"So you are now admitting that you are partly responsible for those murders?" the prosecuter asked almost eagerly.
"Yes, I am, and as I said before I feel no remorse for that."
"Well, I feel sorry for you, Mr. Smythe. You let your `divine' prejudges to get the better of you. How far would you go; when would you stop. Would it stop with the centaurs? Werewolves? Unicorns? Dragons? American Indians? Catholics? Moslems? How far would you go? Sorry, to burst your bubble, Mr. Smythe, but they had nothing to do with the problem. It's people like you constantly pointing fingers at each other that let the problem grow. Did you every realize that they just might have feelings, too, and they might teach you a thing or two? Did you?"
The lawyer for Mr. Smythe stood up. "Objection, your honor. This is just grandstanding by the prosecuter. I move that speech be struck from the record."
The judge replied, "I agree it's grandstanding but objection overruled. The record stands. I'll return for my decision on the sentencing."
After a while, the judge returned and gave Andrew Smythe five year for second degree attempted murder. Then he ordered that he be charged for the murders of the nine centaur murders, and that his coconspirators be apprehended and charged.
*************
Peter was nervous. He wasn't sure how Krystal was going to look. He now knew how she sounded. When he called (it turned out to be a graduate dorm at USC), she sound first of all surprised that he did remember her number and afterwards sounded rather flattered. She asked what happened after he went to the hospital. He told her that he spent a week in the there and then spent a week at home recovering and he just been able get back to the police department.
"You never told me you were a police officer!" she had exclaimed.
"You never asked," he replied calmly. He went on to explain that the guy who shot him was the one that just been sentenced to five years in prison and soon to be charged with the murders of the centaurs. That was all over with now, and the police chief gave him an extra week to make sure he was well rested and to reward him a job well done. They had set the date for tonight.
Tonight. Now, he was standing at the dorm door. He knocked, and a woman answered. "Are you Peter?" she asked.
For a second, he wanted to flash his badge, but he caught himself. He smiled and replied, "Yes, I am. Are you-?"
She smiled shyly. "Yes, I'm Krystal." She had curly black hair, an olive complexion, average features, of medium height, and silver earrings. Pretty, in her way. No model, by any stretch of the imagination. But, that didn't matter to Peter.
"Should I come in or do you want to go to the restaurant now?" Peter asked after an awkward moment.
"Let's go," she said. They got into his Dodge Dart, which he had just vacuumed and waxed. There was some small talk in the car, nothing of great importance. They got to the Italian restaurant that she chose. After a brief wait, they were seated. After ordering and munching on the salads, the real talking began. Krystal started it.
"Are you glad that the case is over with?"
Peter was taken aback for a second, then he replied, "I'm glad that the people responsible are arrested. The officers that had the case just before I took it had just come out of hiding. They have personally thanked me for the work I did."
"That was nice of them."
"I reminded though that they did most of the work. I can't ignore that. And some respects, I don't mind getting shot."
"What a horrible thing to say!"
"Well, how else was going to meet you?"
They laughed. Peter thought this was going to be a wonderful evening.
THE END