from?"
"Anonymous. Address is a Hotmail account,just a random string. I sent a reply, asking who I had the pleasure of addressing, but my message bounced back. 'Undeliverable, recipient's account no longer in service.' "
"A gag e-mail? Everybody's got a joker in their address book, right?"
"Except that I've gotten two more since this one. All with the disappearing address of origin."
Bert opened another photo. This one looked like a Doberman, but again the features had been perverted by adding human elements: a disturbing swelling of the forehead, human eyebrows and eyes. The head was upraised, the almost-human lips parted over snarling dog teeth. There was no mistaking the menace implicit in this one.
"So . . . what does it mean to you? Something to do with the wolfman's bones?"
"Yeah, the part-human, part-canine thing, that was my first thought. Plus I got the first one four, five days after we retrieved the bones. But now I'm wondering if it's got some other elements. Let's go back in the other room, I'll explain."
Back in the living room, Cree sat into the sagging couch and saw that the coffee table held a dozen or more manila folders and ring binders: case files. Murder books.
Bert sat heavily next to her and lifted an ankle to his knee, jiggling his foot as he took a pull from his drink.
"I thought about whether the messages were connected to the wolfman. Horace has been keeping a lid on it at his shop, but there's no question other people have seen the bones. There's the crime scene crew and the people in the ME's office. There's Horace's assistant, there's whoever Horace had do his lab work. But I'm thinking it's something else. Somebody with an ax to grind with me."
"Like who?"
"My first thought was, every cop has creeps he's put away who eventually get out and don't exactly wish him well. When I was in Narco, I put away hundreds of shitheads, most of them are back on the street by now. In Homicide, I've put down quite a few, and some of the ones who got murder two or manslaughter are probably out, too."
Bert stood up suddenly, swigged from his glass, and began pacing back and forth, a man working himself up to something. "But I don't think that's it, either."
"I'm listening."
He set his drink aside to lean over Cree with his knuckles on the coffee table. He was breathing hard, and his eyes were full of a dangerous worldliness. "First we need to get something straight. Back at the house, you asked me if I believed in werewolves, right? And I said I don't. Superstition, Hollywood, bunch of crap. But you're right, that's not the whole answer. Where I'm at now, I'm looking back at thirty-five years of dealing with the bad things people do to each other. I know how they prey on each other. I got a good memory, Cree. I remember it all. An endless string of bad shit—dead people, wounded people, tortured people. They do it in stupid ways and violent ways and devious ways. Nobody turns into a wolf. People who do this shit don't have to. They're wolves already."
He looked so tormented and baleful that against her will she broke eye contact. She leaned away from his red face, feeling a little pulse of fear like a tiny artery throbbing at the back of her brain.
"Okay. So tell me w7here you went with this. How it connects."
Bert drained his glass and grimaced as he struggled to get himself under control. He came around the coffee table, tugged up his trouser legs, and sat.
"These are case files I've been taking another look at. Over the years, there are gonna be cases that stand out, right? Some are the ones that got under your skin, you can't shake the images of What you saw. Some are the ones you had a feeling about, you knew you could've solved them if you'd gotten one more break. But you never did, now they're languishing and cold and the guy who did it is still out there, laughing his ass off."
Bert half opened a file, then closed it again and looked at her with concern. "There are photos in here, not so
"Anonymous. Address is a Hotmail account,just a random string. I sent a reply, asking who I had the pleasure of addressing, but my message bounced back. 'Undeliverable, recipient's account no longer in service.' "
"A gag e-mail? Everybody's got a joker in their address book, right?"
"Except that I've gotten two more since this one. All with the disappearing address of origin."
Bert opened another photo. This one looked like a Doberman, but again the features had been perverted by adding human elements: a disturbing swelling of the forehead, human eyebrows and eyes. The head was upraised, the almost-human lips parted over snarling dog teeth. There was no mistaking the menace implicit in this one.
"So . . . what does it mean to you? Something to do with the wolfman's bones?"
"Yeah, the part-human, part-canine thing, that was my first thought. Plus I got the first one four, five days after we retrieved the bones. But now I'm wondering if it's got some other elements. Let's go back in the other room, I'll explain."
Back in the living room, Cree sat into the sagging couch and saw that the coffee table held a dozen or more manila folders and ring binders: case files. Murder books.
Bert sat heavily next to her and lifted an ankle to his knee, jiggling his foot as he took a pull from his drink.
"I thought about whether the messages were connected to the wolfman. Horace has been keeping a lid on it at his shop, but there's no question other people have seen the bones. There's the crime scene crew and the people in the ME's office. There's Horace's assistant, there's whoever Horace had do his lab work. But I'm thinking it's something else. Somebody with an ax to grind with me."
"Like who?"
"My first thought was, every cop has creeps he's put away who eventually get out and don't exactly wish him well. When I was in Narco, I put away hundreds of shitheads, most of them are back on the street by now. In Homicide, I've put down quite a few, and some of the ones who got murder two or manslaughter are probably out, too."
Bert stood up suddenly, swigged from his glass, and began pacing back and forth, a man working himself up to something. "But I don't think that's it, either."
"I'm listening."
He set his drink aside to lean over Cree with his knuckles on the coffee table. He was breathing hard, and his eyes were full of a dangerous worldliness. "First we need to get something straight. Back at the house, you asked me if I believed in werewolves, right? And I said I don't. Superstition, Hollywood, bunch of crap. But you're right, that's not the whole answer. Where I'm at now, I'm looking back at thirty-five years of dealing with the bad things people do to each other. I know how they prey on each other. I got a good memory, Cree. I remember it all. An endless string of bad shit—dead people, wounded people, tortured people. They do it in stupid ways and violent ways and devious ways. Nobody turns into a wolf. People who do this shit don't have to. They're wolves already."
He looked so tormented and baleful that against her will she broke eye contact. She leaned away from his red face, feeling a little pulse of fear like a tiny artery throbbing at the back of her brain.
"Okay. So tell me w7here you went with this. How it connects."
Bert drained his glass and grimaced as he struggled to get himself under control. He came around the coffee table, tugged up his trouser legs, and sat.
"These are case files I've been taking another look at. Over the years, there are gonna be cases that stand out, right? Some are the ones that got under your skin, you can't shake the images of What you saw. Some are the ones you had a feeling about, you knew you could've solved them if you'd gotten one more break. But you never did, now they're languishing and cold and the guy who did it is still out there, laughing his ass off."
Bert half opened a file, then closed it again and looked at her with concern. "There are photos in here, not so
Similar Books
