Chris's boots squeaked on the polished tile floor as he entered the police station's main lobby. It was a massive and overly lavish chamber full of finely carved walnut and freshly waxed tile. Costello, the stocky officer manning the front desk, was dwarfed by the large, marble statue behind him that dominated the room. Chris mused about the decision to turn an art museum into a police station as he nodded at Costello and started into the maze of similarly ornate hallways leading up to the STARS office.
He passed Joe Frost, who was stubbornly trying to insert a dollar bill into one of the station's vending machines to no avail. "Awe, come on! I just want a damn coke."
Chris chuckled and sipped his coffee. "Having a bit of trouble there?"
"Machine's broken again," Joe replied with a hint of frustration.
"Seriously? I thought we just got it fixed. C'mon, we're gonna be late."
They entered the over-packed STARS office. Chris took a seat, moving a handful of paperwork off his keyboard and onto the clutter that was the rest of his desk, accidentally knocking a stack of floppy disks to the floor. Barry peeked over the divider between their desks before going back to his work. "I don't get how you work with your desk like that," the large, red-bearded man teased as Chris began to scoop up the disks.
"It's just how I like it – organized chaos."
"Uh huh. Organized. I'll believe it when you stop losing your reports."
"Hey," interrupted Jill. "Did any of you guys see Wesker on your way in?" It was rather strange for him to be late, Chris thought – usually the Captain was unfailingly punctual.
Brad Vickers responded from his seat near the radio setup as he apathetically jotted down another answer on his crossword puzzle. "He had some sort of meeting with Chief Irons. Said he'd be back soon."
They didn't have to wait long. The usually stoic Captain looked even more grim than usual as he strode through the door, his lips pursed in a thin line and eyes narrowed. That had to mean bad news, realized everyone on Alpha Team, and Chris couldn't keep his thoughts from drifting back to what Joe had told them the night before.
The Captain took his position behind his desk in the front of the room, but instead of sitting down, he clasped both hands behind his back and slowly began to pace back and forth. "Listen up," he barked, and everyone fell silent. "Some of you may have heard rumors about what's been happening over the past few days. Two nights ago, three college students now identified as Lisa Cobrin, Oliver Mosley, and Shelly Lee were killed in the foothills to the northwest. The rumor that this case and others like it are being investigated as homicides is true."
It was a moment before anyone spoke. Chris wasn't sure if Wesker was waiting for someone to ask questions, or just letting his words sink in. It was Jill who finally broke the silence. "Homicides, Captain? I thought they were animal attacks."
"Unfortunately, it seems that there's more to it," Wesker explained. "The victims were devoured, partially by some sort of dogs or similar predators, yes, but some of the bite patterns were human. The lab is working on further evidence, but it might be awhile before homicide gets anything back from them that may help them narrow down suspects."
Joe was right?
"Last night a logger near Victory Lake was also killed in much the same way, resulting in Bravo going out again," continued their captain. "Hazardous wildlife warnings are being issued here in Raccoon as well as in Arklay City and Stoneville. Irons doesn't want this breaking – not until we know more, at least – so keep this to yourselves. It took a lot of arm twisting to get him to allow me to give you all a heads up."
"Of course it did," Barry grumbled under his breath. Wesker shot him a harsh look. It was no secret that most of the RPD held contempt for their chief. But as a senior officer, Wesker had to at least pretend he cared about the bit of casual insubordination.
"STARS is on standby until further notice. Keep your pagers nearby. Hopefully we won't be needed, but at this point anything could happen."
Wesker briefed them a while longer, going over a few upcoming changes to their schedules and duties, and some other, minor housekeeping odds and ends. But unlike usual, when he was done, there was none of the usual banter. He had just dropped a bomb on them, and it seemed no one wanted to discuss the fact that their little town might end up in the national news.
Chris worked on a few overdue incident reports, not able to focus entirely on the task at hand. Brad's quip about Dahmer stuck relentlessly in his head. He'd only been eighteen when all that had gone down, just getting out of boot camp and into the pipeline for Pararescue, and it had hardly been a blip on his radar. But the idea of another cannibalistic serial killer in Wisconsin chilled his blood. It was almost surreal.
After a little while, Jill suddenly closed and slapped down the folder of papers she'd been sorting. Unceremoniously, she stood from her desk. Jill turned to Chris. "C'mon. The armory just got those new sidearms in that Kendo wanted us to try out. Let's go."
Alan Brookings' detached head rest on its side, about a hand's width from where it should have been attached to his body. Edwards felt as if the cold, cloudy eyes were staring at him. He looked away from the autopsy table.
"No signs of our friendly neighborhood cannibal this time," Moreau continued. "Same as most of the others – all animal bites."
"Makes it really hard to make a case," Haldane thought out loud, looking none too pleased.
Moreau scoffed. "Were I a miracle worker, Detective, you'd have your case. But unfortunately I can't make evidence appear out of thin air – though if you really wanted, I could make another human bite pattern on the victim pretty easily."
"Please don't," Haldane groaned at the morbid, uncomfortable joke.
Moreau and Edwards laughed half-heartedly.
"You think maybe our killer is just letting his dogs run wild?" Edwards asked the room.
Haldane nodded hesitantly. "It would explain why the only unifying characteristic of the victims is location, as opposed to age or physical traits. But what does the killer get out of it?"
"Whoever fired that nine-mil round didn't hit Shelly Lee – at least not as far as I can tell from her remains. Maybe someone else got away, or its being there was just some sort of coincidence. It can take a long time for brass to corrode," theorized Moreau. "Also, normally with cannibalism you'd expect at least an organ or two to have been harvested in a much more surgical manner. It's possible some were, and the dogs are just there to destroy any evidence." She jumped to a slightly different thread. "Maybe the killer likes to watch?"
Moreau's musings made sense, but something just didn't seem to quite fit in Edwards' mind. "Or all things considered, they like to participate. Part of the pack, or something like that. How hard would someone have to bite down to leave marks like that on the bone?"
"Pretty hard. It's possible, but a little outside of what a person could normally do. They'd need either really tough jaw muscles and teeth or a really high pain tolerance. Either way, pretty atypical."
"Yeah, I uh, don't think we're dealing with a typical person."
"That pretty well goes without saying at this point. There was one more thing."
"The piece of cloth they recovered last night?"
"You got it." She brought them over to the counter running along one side of the room, where an evidence bag sat on a stainless steel tray. Edwards and Haldane looked closer at the crusty, stained tatter of fabric.
"Is that… blood?"
"Bingo. And too old to have been from last night. There was some hair, too, which I sent to get tested along with the blood."
"Could it have been from Brookings?" Haldane asked.
Moreau shrugged. "Technically, I guess. But that there is tweed. Not a whole lot of that to be found at any logging camp I've been to."
Both Haldane's and Edwards' pagers went off simultaneously. The detectives studied the small screens for a moment. Their expressions turned grim.
"We've gotta go," Edwards said, clipping the pager back onto his belt. "Another body just washed up in the park."
Moreau shook her head tiredly. "I guess I'll just follow you two there."
A crowd had already gathered by the time the trio made it to Victory Lake Park. There were a few officers on-scene, standing guard along the streamer of yellow police tape strung around a large, grassy patch between Woodbine Drive and the riverbank. Haldane pulled their blue Crown Vic right up to the curb closest to the crime scene. "Ah, shit."
"What?" asked Edwards, scanning for whatever his partner had noticed. It took him a moment, but then he saw the stern-faced blonde in a pantsuit strutting determinately towards their car. "Oh great. Well, I guess the cat's gonna be out of the bag now."
Alyssa Ashcroft closed the distance as the detectives got out of the car, tape recorder already in hand before the doors had even slammed shut behind them.
"Detective Haldane, Detective Edwards. Good to see you both." The reporter's tone said otherwise.
"Wish I could say the same, Miss Ashcroft," Haldane replied, already trying to move past her, eyes locked on the crime scene. The reporter and the detectives had locked horns plenty of times before. Ashcroft had a knack for getting in their way, and would do whatever she could to keep her stories for the Raccoon Press on the leading edge – a lot of times wheedling classified or confidential case information out of inexperienced cops and getting them into hot water.
She ignored his remark and hurried to keep up. "Why is RPD homicide investigating animal attacks? That seems a little odd to me."
"Nope. We're a small department, that means we have to multitask."
"I don't buy it. I heard from one of my sources that-"
"If there's something to report," Edwards interrupted, trying not to even look in Ashcroft's direction, "you'll know the same time as everyone else."
She tried to protest, but Edwards and Haldane had already ducked under the police line, leaving her behind to stew and pester the cop that had let them in. A petite officer with short, red hair approached them and introduced herself as Officer Phillips before giving them the rundown. "Male victim, mid-fifties, found less than a half hour ago. One of his neighbors already ID'd him as Henry Kazinski, lived about three blocks from here. What little is left of the clothing seems to suggest he was out for a jog."
"Anything else so far?"
"No sir. Not that I'm aware of."
"Thanks Phillips, we'll take it from here."
Chief of Police Brian Irons' office may have once been relatively spacious if it wasn't for the gigantic mahogany desk, a hodgepodge of framed paintings and awards adorning the walls, and no less than a dozen stuffed and mounted animals – everything from deer and elk heads to an eagle positioned in mid-takeoff. Ada wasn't sure how the latter was legal. She felt as though their lifeless, glass eyes were staring at her. Maybe the chief intended it to seem that way.
She waited patiently for Irons to arrive, seated on one of the high-backed chairs directly across from the desk, one shapely leg crossed over the other. He wouldn't be expecting her. In fact, this would be their first meeting, though Ada already knew plenty about the chief – of which precious little was flattering. It was all in the dossier she had looked over before taking this job. Were Ada unaware of just how much of his background had been expertly doctored out of public record, she may have questioned the sanity of those who had given him the position of chief. There was a reason her employer had been so easily able to manipulate the man.
The heavy, wooden door eased open, and Ada quickly straightened her black pencil skirt before folding her hands in her lap. Irons plodded in, making it two steps before abruptly coming to a halt, realizing he was not alone. His gaze snapped up, eyes narrowing in suspicion as they settled on Ada.
"Who – how the hell did you get in here?" he stammered angrily, taking a menacing step towards her.
She calmly raised a hand to stop him. "Relax," Ada cautioned, keeping her voice smooth and sultry. "We work for the same people."
Irons paused, looking Ada up and down. The way his porcine eyes lingered on certain portions of her anatomy made her skin crawl, but she effectively kept herself from displaying any disgust. "I've never seen you before. How do I know you aren't lying?" Despite his words, most of the wariness was gone from his voice, replaced with a tired acceptance. Ada had to admit, there was a lot on his plate these days. The door swung sluggishly shut as he took a seat, his chair groaning slightly at the sudden burden. Irons slouched back, his portly gut testing the limits of his poorly ironed dress shirt.
"Maybe this will persuade you."
Ada leaned forward and handed him a yellow envelope. Irons snatched it away from her before thumbing through the contents. When he was satisfied, he stuffed it hurriedly into a desk drawer.
"Okay, fine. I believe you. But why are you here?"
"Your usual contact couldn't make it, had some unexpected business he had to take care of. I have some instructions for you. You are to send a formal request to the FBI for assistance in your current murder investigation, by the end of today. They will then proceed to send a field agent out to join your detectives in their investigation. You know the one."
The chief's eyes widened. "What!? Why the hell would I want to do that? I thought we were trying to buy time, not throw more hounds on the scent."
"I think you'll find this particular FBI agent to be very… amenable." Ada's lips curled up in a sly smirk.
"Christ," he muttered, the meaning of what Ada had just told him sinking in. "It figures that they're on the payroll, too."
She continued on. "Your hazardous wildlife advisory was a nice touch, but we need you to strengthen your stance. The RPD should also put out an advisory warning people to stay indoors at night, to report any suspicious activity, and avoid stopping on any country roads if at all possible. There's too much risk of more people getting killed or seeing something they shouldn't, and we can't afford to have any more attention brought to this case than there already is."
His face hardened into a scowl, and Ada swore she could see his bushy moustache twitch in irritation. She figured the pig didn't appreciate being ordered around by a woman, especially one half his age, but Irons nodded reluctantly regardless. "I was already planning on it. Shit," he practically spat, "this is going to turn into such a mess."
His analysis was likely correct. With Independence Day only a week away, the likelihood of people following any such advisories was relatively low. But it wasn't Ada's job to figure out how to make it work – as long as the message was delivered, she got her money. Not my circus, not my monkeys.
She rose to leave.
"Wait – this FBI agent, when is he supposed to get here?"
"She already has."