A/N: Story originally appeared in Rooftop Confessions #1, published and edited by GriffinSong Press.
Moonlight Madness
By Swellison
Dean's eyes went from the menu to the pretty young waitress, hovering with her pen poised over her ordering pad. "I'll have the pecan waffles and double hash browns - scattered, covered, chunked, capped and topped." Dean rattled off his hash brown preferences with the ease of a long-time customer, which he was. Waffle Houses offered good, cheap food and were open 24 hours, so they'd seen a lot of Winchester business over the years.
"And you, sir?" the waitress turned her attention to the small booth's other occupant.
"I'd like the ham and cheese omelet, and an order of scattered and diced hash browns, please." Sam said after a quick scan of the menu.
"Dude," Dean rolled his eyes. "Get the chocolate chip waffles, you used to drool over 'em as a kid."
"That was chocolate chip pancakes at IHOP." Sam said.
Dean shook his head. "Waffles at Waffle House."
"Pancakes."
"Waffles."
"Pancakes."
"Waffles."
"Pancakes."
"I was there."
"I ate them! It was pancakes, dude."
Dean abruptly switched the topic. "Who orders an omelet at a Waffle House, anyway?"
"You'd be surprised, sir," the waitress answered before Sam could. "Since the first store opened, we've sold over two hundred thousand omelets." She smiled at Sam. "Do you want anything to drink with that omelet, sir?"
"Coffee and water, please. Make that two coffees," Sam said, gesturing to include Dean in the coffee order.
The waitress nodded, made a short notation on her pad, and walked away from the booth.
Sam quickly set his laptop on the table, opened it up, and logged on. After a few minutes of surfing he said, "Nothing unusual going on in Illinois." They had left Quincy, Illinois yesterday, after successfully concluding a salt and burn. Ever since Baltimore and especially after the bank incident in Milwaukee, Sam had taken to monitoring their backtrail, making sure no Feds or local LEOs took an interest in their recently-completed work . They weren't sure where they were headed, just away from Illinois. On basic principle, Dean avoided driving through Kansas, with no argument from Sam. They either went north through Nebraska or south through Oklahoma. Currently, they were passing through Rolla, Missouri. They had pulled over for breakfast at the Waffle House, after spotting a billboard on the highway that had surprisingly boasted free WiFi in addition to the world-famous waffles.
Dean picked up the local paper and scanned it while Sam widened his surfing range. A few minutes later, Dean said, "Nothing in Rolla, what about the rest of the state?"
"Couldn't find anything in Missouri, but I think I've got something here," Sam replied somewhat distractedly.
"Oh yeah? What?"
"A woman was mauled in Austin. Supposed wild animal attack in the middle of the city."
"What kind of wild animal?"
"The article doesn't say. Cops are being pretty closed-mouthed about it."
"Hmm, when did this happen?"
"Two nights ago."
"No leads?"
"Dean," Sam half-glared at him over the top of the laptop screen. "If you're gonna keep interrupting me, why don't you just read it yourself." He turned the laptop around and pushed it across the table to Dean.
"Not a bad idea," Dean grinned and began reading. After a few minutes, he shook his head. "Sammy, you didn't say that she was going to meet up with her ex-boyfriend."
"So?"
"So, more than likely, the ex-boyfriend did it. Went temporarily nutso and carved up his former girl friend. Not our kind of case, dude."
"The paper said she was the victim of a wild animal attack - not an ex-boyfriend."
"I bet the cops would tell a different story, say it was the ex. Besides, it happened in Texas."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"All the crazy people live in Florida, California or Texas," Dean smirked. Then, he muttered, "If you watched Oprah, you'd know that."
Sam did a double-take, uncertain that he'd really heard Dean's last words correctly. Their food arrived before he could open his mouth to question Dean further. The blonde waitress set the omelet and hash browns with tomatoes in front of Sam, then a plate of pecan waffles and a side dish of hash browns with cheese, ham, mushrooms and chili in front of Dean. They started eating, and she returned with two steaming cups of coffee and Sam's glass of water.
Ten minutes later, they had polished off their breakfasts. "I still think we should check it out." Sam said, picking up their conversation where they'd left it.
"No. Think, Sam. Austin - capital of Texas? Place'll be crawling with cops and Texas Rangers, with all those politicians. Besides," he turned serious. "Baltimore, Milwaukee - we don't have good luck in the big cities." And San Francisco, Dean mentally added to the list. Wait a minute, mauling? Animal attack? Dean opened Sam's list of favorites and found the moon phases site that they'd bookmarked. Two days ago, five days before the next full moon, on April second. Whoa. Just over a month ago, I was eager as hell to be chasing a werewolf. Now…. How can Sammy face another werewolf, so soon after Madison? But we can't walk away from this, either; people will die. Maybe it's not a werewolf, it's something else. Yeah. And maybe demons don't lie. "Damn, I guess you're right. Ready to hit the road? Looks like we're going to Texas, after all."
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Dean pulled the Impala into a slanted parking space in front of Wiggy's Liquor Store. They'd spent most of their time driving through Oklahoma debating on which cover identities to use, and finally agreed on newspaper reporters. Weekly World News, Dean reminded himself as he straightened his dark gray suit jacket, remembering that he'd botched the paper's name in Red Lodge. He and Sam entered the liquor store where the victim had worked, heading for the cash register.
"Hi," Sam greeted the clerk. "We need to speak with the proprietor or manager, is he around?"
"Turn left after you enter the back room," the clerk gestured behind them. "Only closed door back there. Knock three times."
"Thank you," Sam said, and they made their way down the somewhat narrow aisle to the back room, noting the wide variety of beer, wine and spirits displayed on the shelves. He took a second to adjust his brown paisley tie before knocking on the closed door. Hearing a loud "Come in," pitched to carry past the closed door, Sam opened the door and they entered. The room was on the small side, the industrial desk and two square-backed visitor's chairs took most of the available space.
An average-looking man was seated behind the desk, his gaze traveling up, taking in his standing visitors. "Gentlemen? Have a seat, please."
"Dennis Elliott and Al Greenwood. We're reporters with Weekly World News, working on a story about Dorothy McCall. We understand she worked here." Dean said smoothly, as he and Sam sat in the indicated chairs. Sam pulled out a notebook and flipped it to a blank page.
"Larry Hillman," the man behind the desk introduced himself. "First off, her name's not Dorothy; it's--it was Dot." The corner of his mouth upturned. "'Dot, short and to the point, that's me,' she'd always say. " Noticing their blank looks, he explained. "Dot's only five foot two - but she was nobody's pushover, that's for sure. Being a liquor store, we do sometimes get rowdy customers - but she could hold her own against guys that were a foot, foot and a half taller. I've seen it."
"How long did she work here?" Sam asked.
"Three years - started just after she turned twenty-two. She had a liberal arts degree from ACC and couldn't decide exactly what to do with it. She answered a newspaper want ad. I must've interviewed a dozen people for the position, but she got it. She just - stood out in a crowd, if you know what I mean." He noticed Sam taking notes as he talked. "She was an excellent employee - probably not the kind of comments you're hoping to get for your story, huh?"
"We want our readers to have as much information as possible about Dot and her untimely demise," Dean said. "Details make the story. Tell me, did she have any enemies? Any disgruntled customers? Or unhappy boyfriends?"
"Enemies - Dot? You've got to be kidding. The last customer that complained about her was during the pre-Christmas frenzy - and he came back and apologized after the holidays. She didn't have a current boyfriend, she broke up with her old boyfriend in early January. And before you ask - I have no idea why."
"Do you know his name? Or how we can reach him?" Sam asked.
"His name's Paul Marshall. He's a sales rep for one of Austin's software companies. He travels a lot, mostly locally. Paul usually lunches at the internet café down the street. Dot used to meet him there for lunch, and then come in for work at one afterwards."
"Do you have a phone number for Mr. Marshall?" Sam asked.
Mr. Hillman opened his desk drawer and began rummaging. "I've got his business card here somewhere - there it is." He held the card out to Sam, who took it.
"Thank you." Sam said.
"Not to change the subject, but," Dean interrupted. "Do you know why Dot would be wandering that park - Zilker?- the night she died?"
"Well, she worked until nine or ten, and she lived in a neighborhood close to Zilker Park. Usually, she'd walk her dog when she got home. Dot liked strolling through the park, especially in the moonlight."
"Uh huh. What kind of dog did she have, do you know?"
"Rottweiler. His name's Reisling."
Sam and Dean exchanged glances. "That's not the kind of dog that I'd like to tangle with."
"I'd think even a wild animal would reconsider attacking a person with a Rottweiler." Dean said.
"Unless it went after the dog first?" Sam mused.
"What do you think about what the papers are saying, that Dot was mauled by a wild animal?" Dean questioned.
"I knew you'd get around to that," Hillman grumped, then held up his hand. "I know, sensationalism sells, violence sells; it's news."
"You have to admit that mauling by a wild animal in Austin's most well-known park is news, though," Dean interjected.
"Possible wild animal," Hillman countered. "It could just be a stray dog, or dogs. Lots of cities have problems with stray dogs running loose." He sighed. "To be honest, I'm having a hard time wrapping it around my head that Dot's not coming in to work anymore. I keep expecting her to walk through the front door and say, 'Hi, Boss. I'm here.'"
"She was working the night she was attacked?" Dean prodded.
"Yeah, I left a little after seven. Dot, Greg and Henry manned the store after that."
"I thought that her ex was the last one to see her--?"
"Yep. He called here about a quarter to nine, and they met for a late dinner." At Sam's raised eyebrows, Hillman explained. "Greg told me that the next morning. He answered the phone, and we're a small store. It's hard to keep your phone calls private."
Dean glanced at his watch; it was almost half past noon. "Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Hillman. Ah, you said Paul Marshall usually lunches at an internet café?"
"Jwic's."
"I beg your pardon?" Sam asked.
"I forgot, y'all aren't locals. Java Joe's World Wide Web Internet Café. Jwic's for short. It's two blocks from here."
"Thanks for talking to us and we're sorry for your loss," Sam murmured, rising to his feet. Dean joined him and they left the office.
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Dean bought a bottle of Jack Daniels on their way out. "Long as we're here, we might as well give the man some business." They left the Impala parked in front of the liquor store and walked the two blocks to Jwic's. Entering Java Joe's World Wide Web Internet Café, they found a bustling lunchtime crowd.
The internet café's theme was high tech with glossy gray walls, and a long silver metallic ordering and food bar that separated the staff from the customers. Most of the tables were occupied by businesspeople alone or in small groups, and several laptops were up and running. Sam retrieved Marshall's business card from his pocket and his cell phone. He dialed the number, and they scanned the room, looking to see which businessman answered his cell.
Dean spotted their man, sitting alone at a four-top towards the back of the café. They walked over to his table and Sam cleared his throat. "Mr. Marshall? Paul Marshall?"
"Who wants to know?" the man glanced upwards. He was in his mid-thirties, brown hair and eyes, dressed in a dark blue business suit and muted gray tie.
The Winchesters seated themselves and Dean made the introductions. "Dennis Elliott and Al Greenwood, reporters with Weekly World News. We'd like to talk to you about Dot McCall."
"Of course you would," Paul Marshall said sourly.
"Well, you are the last person to see her alive," Dean said. "Makes for a good newspaper lead, doesn't it? Dot McCall was last seen in the company of her ex-boyfriend."
"We had a quick dinner at Denny's - and she was fine when she left, alone. I watched her get into her car and drive off."
"Dot's boss said you broke up a couple of months ago. Why'd you want to see her that night?"
"I had some good news and I wanted to share it with Dot." Off their raised eyebrows, he said, "Hey, we were still friends, all right? We didn't break up because I was cheating on her, or anything like that."
"Why did you break up?"
"Why would I tell you? So you can splash it all over the front page?"
"Off the record, then." Sam offered.
Paul sighed. "It's not a big secret, or anything. I wanted to settle down, Dot wasn't ready to. She said--" he faltered --"She said she was young and had her whole life in front of her, and she wasn't ready to settle down. Ironic, huh? Anyway, we grabbed a quick bite to eat and talked, then we went our separate ways."
"And that's the same story you told the cops?" Dean prodded.
"Yes. They leaned on me, at first, but then they found another witness."
"Witness?"
"Yeah, someone who'd seen Dot alive after she left Denny's - so the cops decided they believed me, after all."
"Who saw Dot?"
"Her neighbor, Mrs. Grennich, the old busybody. She saw Dot taking her dog, Reisling, out for a walk about 10:30 that night. Said she knew it was ten-thirty because the local news was just ending when she heard the dog bark a couple of times. She looked out her window and saw them leaving the apartment complex."
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"Well, here it is," Dean glanced at the large, roughly square area staked out by yellow crime scene tape. "The scene of the crime." He spoke in a low tone, since they weren't the only gawkers present. Three days after the incident, the location still drew enough official and unofficial attention to have a park security guard posted at the scene. The dozen or so spectators stood as close to the taped-off area as the guard let them, eying the scene and talking among themselves.
Sam took out a pair of palm-sized binoculars and started scanning the area behind the tape, as surreptitiously as possible. There were a few trees in the enclosed space, but mostly it was a blend of dirt and grass, not the best surface to expose tracks. They were close to an edge of the 350-acre park, but the area didn't look any different from the surrounding parkland. "No definitive tracks," Sam finally muttered, after a thorough examination of the area.
"That's what I figured," Dean murmured. He glanced at his watch. "Let's go get some dinner. We've got a long night."
They leisurely walked back to where they'd parked the car, in one of the on-location parking lots. As they approached the parking lot, they spotted a very tall, thin structure that looked somewhat like a radio tower. It completely dwarfed the ring of telephone polls surrounding it. There were also scattered wind-twisted trees, and a few picnic tables randomly placed in its vicinity. Most of the other park dwellers were ignoring the structure, but a couple of girls were taking pictures of it. On impulse, Sam headed over to the tower for a closer look, Dean automatically following. As Sam and Dean approached, the girls finished their photographs, and walked away, smiling in passing.
The Winchesters turned their attention to the tower, impressive at close distance. At ground level, the tower was just a thick steel pole painted a light gray, but about fifteen feet above ground, it branched into a long open-framed triangle, reminding Sam equally of a Tobleron candy bar and a three-sided engineering ruler. The graceful tower had wire X supports along each side and was topped by six shielded spotlights.
Sam craned his head upward to view the top of the tower, realizing it had to be well over one hundred feet tall. Dean, meanwhile, located two plaques attached to the tower. The first was a warning not to climb it, the second was a historical marker, which he read aloud.
"AUSTIN'S MOONLIGHT TOWERS
THIS IS ONE OF 31 ORIGINAL MOONLIGHT
TOWERS INSTALLED IN AUSTIN IN 1895
SEVENTEEN REMAIN. EACH TOWER
ILLUMINATED A CIRCLE 3,000 FEET USING
6 CARBON-ARC LAMPS (NOW MERCURY
VAPOR). AUSTIN'S TOWER LIGHTS ARE THE
SOLE SURVIVORS OF THIS ONCE-POPULAR
INGENUOUS LIGHTING SYSTEM 1993"
"Huh," Dean finished, then joined Sam in looking up, through the delicate-looking framework of the unique lighting tower. "Well, that's - different." A few seconds later, his stomach rumbled.
"That's not," Sam teased.
"Let's get back to the motel, order a pizza and do some planning."
Sam nodded in agreement, and they turned away from the tower, heading for the Impala.