Of Saints and Shadows (1994) by Christopher Golden

the call had come over the radio, but he damn well wasn’t the first one there.
    Ted rolled to a stop in front of number fourteen Brighton, where a yellow plastic police barrier already blocked the front door. Two uniformed officers were keeping at bay the few neighbors who had bothered to come outside when they saw the blue lights flashing down the street.
    “Hey, Donny,” Ted called out to one of the men.
    “Hey, Ted.” A pause. “How was the date?”
    “How the hell—” Ted began, but stopped. He didn’t want to give Wallace the satisfaction. “It was just fucking grrreeaat.”
    “That so, Tony the Tiger? Then how come you’re here.”
    “Your wife sent me to ask what you wanted for breakfast, dickhead.”
    And then he’d passed Don Wallace, who couldn’t think of a snappy comeback and probably would stay awake all night attempting to come up with one.
    Ted heard an engine behind him and turned to see an ambulance pulling in quietly. They were in no rush, that was for sure. There was a rank smell coming from the doorway, and it puzzled him. Unless the guy had been dead awhile, he shouldn’t be able to smell the poor bastard all the way out here. Especially with the cold.
    “Save yourself the nightmare,” said an old voice.
    George Marcopoulos emerged from the doorway, his breath pluming as Ted’s was into a light mist around his head. It could have been a halo.
    “What?” asked Ted. He knew the man, but not well.
    “I wouldn’t recommend you go in there unless you absolutely have to. It’s a real mess.”
    The ME looked ill, and Ted read that as a sure sign that his advice was best heeded. “What’s going on?”
    “Nothing I’ve ever seen before, or hope to ever see again,” Marcopoulos whispered softly enough that Ted wasn’t certain he was supposed to have heard. “Hello, Peter,” the old man said.
    Ted jumped. He hadn’t heard Peter come up behind him. His curiosity was piqued. What the hell was going on around here?
    “Peter. How’d you get here?”
    “I rode in with George,” the detective said, smiling at the old Greek. “Shall we go in?”
    “ No!” George nearly shouted, which Ted thought was pretty weird. “I don’t think you need to see what’s inside. Either of you.”
    “I’ll just go in and see what the boys’ve got, but I’ll try to avert my eyes. Okay, Doc?”
    Ted went inside.
    Peter had been about to argue when he smelled it. The stench of the blood hit him full force and almost brought him to his knees. The carnage inside must be extreme for George to insist that he stay out, but even out here the smell was overpowering. If he went inside, he might lose control. Better not to be tempted.
    “Thanks for the cover,” he told George. “I didn’t bring my car tonight. And thanks for the warning—from the whiff I got of what’s in there, I wouldn’t want to see it even if I were human.”
    Peter smiled at his friend before he continued. He was happy to have a confidant, someone who knew his secrets, someone to share the truth with. He remembered the night that George first discovered his secret, and how afraid he had been of his reaction.
    “He’s been ripped apart, Peter. From the inside. It looks as though someone planted a bomb inside him and he simply exploded. The dog, too. But even if that were possible, we haven’t found a single trace of any explosive.”
    There was no humor in the old Greek’s eyes. “Whatever happened here, it’s evident that your experience will be of far more use than mine in finding the answers. I was home when they called me.”
    “I figured. I called your office.”
    “They called me because they had never seen anything like it.”
    “Who found it?” Peter wanted to know.
    “That’s the clincher,” George said, looking Peter in the eye.
    “Fellow across the street. Williams, his name is. He’s sitting on the John and has a clear view of Benedict’s house from the window. He glances out at the house just as the