"Nice of the killer to leave us with so much evidence," I said.
"Yeah, I was just thinking that myself," Karl said. "And get this – I'm pretty sure it's not human."
"What, then? Dog?" I was pretty sure that Pettigrew didn't keep a dog here. And if he had, it would probably be howling over his body – that, or lapping up the blood.
"Close," Karl said. "I'd say wolf."
"Well, fuck me," I said. "You saying our perp's a werewolf?"
"I'm saying that's what somebody wants us to think."
I turned and looked at him. "And where did that come from?"
"Main reason is, there's no wolf smell," Karl said. "I got a good whiff of it the other night at Nay Aug, so the scent's fresh in my memory. And I'm getting – nothing. There's probably some on the hairs, or fur, but the blood is masking it."
"Anything else you've noticed?"
"Yeah, no blood spatter or trail of blood drops."
I glanced around the garage, "Yeah, it is pretty clean, isn't it – apart from the pool he's lying in."
"And it makes no fucking sense," Karl said. "Think about it, Stan. We're supposed to believe that a great big wolf attacked Pettigrew and tore his throat out. But there's no defensive wounds, no claw marks, nothing like that. Guy like Pettigrew, he'd fight."
"Yeah, I'm with you."
"And, shit, you've seen animal attacks before – we both have," Karl said. "Tearing somebody's throat out, even if you've strong jaws and a good set of sharp teeth, is gonna be messy. Blood flying all over, arterial spray, the whole nine yards."
"In contrast, what we got here is almost… surgical."
"Fuckin' A. And if our hypothetical werewolf did kill the guy, he couldn't help but get blood on him – all over himself, probably. And yet he ran off without getting a drop of it on the floor, all the way to the door and beyond."
"So somebody set up a fake werewolf attack for us to find." I nodded slowly. "You wanna say it this time?"
"What – Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?"
"Uh-uh. Helter Skelter, man. Helter fucking Skelter."
We called Homicide, which was a nice change from them always calling us. Scanlon arrived with a couple of his guys shortly after a couple of black-and-whites pulled in, lights flashing and sirens wailing. They didn't have to hurry – Pettigrew wasn't going anywhere.
Karl and I had just started to explain to the uniforms how we'd come to discover Pettigrew when Scanlon walked over and said to them, "I'll take care of interviewing these officers. You two secure the scene – the media jackals have police radios, and they'll probably be here any minute. I don't want them fucking up my crime scene by walking all over it."
My crime scene. Scanlon was taking over – good. That's exactly what I wanted.
"Something I wanted to ask you, Lieutenant," I said. "How come you still show up at these things, while my boss stays back at the office instead of coming to ours?"
"It's his choice," Scanlon said. "We all have our own ways of doing things. I like to be on the street, and fortunately, I've got a sergeant who stays in the squad room and runs things pretty well when I'm not there." He gave me a quick grin. "From what I hear, McGuire doesn't have that luxury. Now – you wanna tell me about this?"
Karl and I took turns filling him in on what we knew, and what we suspected. As we were finishing up, an ambulance arrived with the guy from the ME's office. Actually, it wasn't a guy, but a painfully thin woman named Cecelia Reynolds, one of the three pathologists who work for the ME and the only one that I never joke around with. A very serious lady, is our Doctor Reynolds. But then, I hear she grew up in the South Bronx and proceeded to work and study her way out – all the way to a full scholarship at Columbia University's med school. I guess serious is her default setting.
I asked Scanlon to excuse us, and Karl and I drifted over to where Cecelia was pulling on a pair of latex gloves. "Good evening, Cecelia," I said.
She looked up. "Hi, Stan. Karl."
She looked at Karl a second or two longer than necessary, something I'd only noticed her doing a few months ago. Maybe she found Karl's new state intriguing. I sometimes wondered if she was a vamp vixen – a human woman who's into the undead – but any vampire who put the bite on Cecelia had better not be looking for a big meal.
"So," she said, "looks like we have us a nice, messy homicide here."
"At first glance," I said, "it looks like a werewolf killing."
"Do tell. I never worked one of those."
"Well, I hope you didn't have your heart set on it, because this probably isn't your lucky night."
"What are you talking about, Stan?"
"There's a good chance that whoever killed the dude over there tried to make it look like a werewolf is responsible."
She frowned. "Why on Earth would someone do that?"
"The answer to that's long and complicated, and I'm sure you've got better uses for your time tonight. I'll tell you all about it some night over a beer."
Cecelia looked at me, her head tilted a little to one side. "That promise is based on the assumption that I would consent to the behavior in question, Stan – an assumption that has yet to be tested."
"Could I have that in English, please?"
"You're assuming that I'd be willing to have a beer with you sometime."
"Does that mean you won't?"
"No, it merely means you should be careful about your assumptions."
"Duly noted," I said. "Now, about the deceased over there…"
"Yes?"
"When you're doing the post, you might want to check the ratio of serotonin to free histamines, to see if he was alive, or at least conscious, when he was killed. And while you're looking at his blood, it might be worthwhile to check for poison or some sort of tranquilizing agent."