Dirty Toes, First Page
Jul. 3rd, 2013 12:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valarltdCaptain Morgan is my reality filter, and today I needed all the filtering I could get. It was an ordinary October Wednesday in Memphis, pollen count through the roof, just off the full moon and eighty degrees with humidity that made clothes and pollen stick to everything.
I'd known the day would be bad when my phone went off at seven. Only the Memphis P.D. rings in on the Andy Griffith theme.
“Admire here,” I snarled. It was too damn early to be polite and my late night liaison with the Captain had left my eyeballs trying to eat my brain with tiny sharp teeth.
“Miss Admire, Captain Williams here. I need to see you. I have something my guys can't handle. Not even the Preternatural and Magic Squadron can figure it.”
If the Bitch Patrol, a crack squad of eight female cops who were also top-rated sorceresses, witches and talismongers, couldn't handle something, I sure as hell didn't want it. I'm just a No-Talent PI, without enough magic to train, but just enough to drive me straight into the Nightside and the bottle.
I thought about the last few jobs I'd done. I thought about the fact that the cops did pay. I thought about my rent.
So, despite my pounding head, I pulled myself out of the Murphy bed in my office and headed down to 201 Poplar.
Two hours later, I was sitting back at my desk, staring at one of the ugliest serial killer cases I'd ever seen. Bad enough when they're killing prostitutes or drunks. Some people even consider that a public service. But this one...
Five children, each on the night before the full moon. Every one asleep in their own house, in their own little bed. Three girls and two boys, found dead by their parents, blood soaking the beds and carpets, all flesh missing from hip to knee.
I just stared. Five kids, killed and not a sound heard by parents and no trace of the missing flesh. Two girls, three boys. Two black, two white, one Hispanic. No pattern, not even a common neighborhood. The deaths were scattered from Bartlett to Raleigh to Orange Mound. I didn't look at the names or pictures. That was more than I really wanted to know about the kids.
I'd known the day would be bad when my phone went off at seven. Only the Memphis P.D. rings in on the Andy Griffith theme.
“Admire here,” I snarled. It was too damn early to be polite and my late night liaison with the Captain had left my eyeballs trying to eat my brain with tiny sharp teeth.
“Miss Admire, Captain Williams here. I need to see you. I have something my guys can't handle. Not even the Preternatural and Magic Squadron can figure it.”
If the Bitch Patrol, a crack squad of eight female cops who were also top-rated sorceresses, witches and talismongers, couldn't handle something, I sure as hell didn't want it. I'm just a No-Talent PI, without enough magic to train, but just enough to drive me straight into the Nightside and the bottle.
I thought about the last few jobs I'd done. I thought about the fact that the cops did pay. I thought about my rent.
So, despite my pounding head, I pulled myself out of the Murphy bed in my office and headed down to 201 Poplar.
Two hours later, I was sitting back at my desk, staring at one of the ugliest serial killer cases I'd ever seen. Bad enough when they're killing prostitutes or drunks. Some people even consider that a public service. But this one...
Five children, each on the night before the full moon. Every one asleep in their own house, in their own little bed. Three girls and two boys, found dead by their parents, blood soaking the beds and carpets, all flesh missing from hip to knee.
I just stared. Five kids, killed and not a sound heard by parents and no trace of the missing flesh. Two girls, three boys. Two black, two white, one Hispanic. No pattern, not even a common neighborhood. The deaths were scattered from Bartlett to Raleigh to Orange Mound. I didn't look at the names or pictures. That was more than I really wanted to know about the kids.
