Streamfield Shifters: Red Rover

Chapter Ten

The next day, we headed over to the chicken man's residence. The Steinmanns' house was located at the very end of Silver Canoe Lane, neatly surrounded by woods on three sides. It was an older house, two stories tall and faded yellow in color—probably built in the '50s or early '60s. Beyond the thin line of maple and oak trees was Noble Pond, a popular destination during the summer for boaters. Grandpa parked his truck behind a big black police SUV on a gravel driveway that was already crowded with a white Honda Accord, a black Chevy Tahoe, and an old pontoon boat on a trailer.

Rachael and I climbed out of the pickup and exchanged glances as we followed Grandpa up to the front door. John and an unknown female state trooper exited the house and met us on the deck.

"This is Trooper Rae Niemczyk," John said by way of introduction. "She has the wolf fur."

Trooper Niemczyk was an older, stern-looking woman with short greying brown hair and a thin scar across the bottom of her chin. Deep crow's feet bracketed pale green eyes that narrowed suspiciously as she looked at us. She lifted a small Ziploc bag that had a printed label from the trooper barracks on it; a small hunk of dark red fur rested at the bottom.

"You are not to touch the bag," Trooper Niemczyk said in a gravelly tone. With her no-nonsense attitude, I secretly wondered if she and John were related. "I will not be taking the evidence out, so if you need to smell it—or do whatever it is you need to do, it will be at a distance."

Rachael glanced at me and rolled her eyes, but Grandpa took everything in stride. "Are we allowed access to the backyard?"

John nodded. "Yes. Initially, the homeowners didn't want you back there until I explained that it was a necessary part of the investigation."

Metal creaked as the storm door opened and Mr Steinmann popped his head out. "Have them do what they need to do and get out. I don't want them on my property any longer than necessary."

I lifted my chin, bristling, but the man quickly disappeared back into the house, letting the storm door slam shut.

John shook his head and gestured down the deck steps. "Let's get this over with."

We trooped down the stairs and wandered into the unfenced backyard. Like the driveway, it was small and crowded. A large back deck and the chicken coop took up most of the space. Next to the mutilated chicken wire run was a tiny green shed that must have been built by the original homeowner. The coop abutted the woods, which as far as I knew, had no other houses behind them.

I wandered up to the coop and examined the crime scene with my human eyes before shifting. The grass around the wire fencing was torn up and it looked as if our culprit had pulled the wire out of the ground before diving into the coop. A few poor feathers littered the inside of the ravaged coop, but thankfully the bodies of the occupants had been removed. I liked my fried chicken as much as anyone else, but I drew the line at seeing how that chicken made it to my KFC bucket.

Under the dispassionate eye of the state trooper, we slipped out of our clothes and left them in a pile next to the shed. John, as usual, turned around until we shifted.

I watched as first Grandpa, then Rachael in her cream-colored coat, walked up to Trooper Niemczyk to get a whiff of the fur sample. Was I amused to see the trooper's dour expression turn a little fearful as a pony-sized wolf approached her? Why, yes I was. Maybe I was going to hell for such a thought, but honestly, I didn't care.

When it was my turn, the trooper's face was a shade paler than when we first met. I tilted my muzzle towards the bag, careful to stay a few inches above the plastic, and took a deep sniff of the contents. The strange, otherworldly scent that I had come to identify as "elf" drifted up, intermingled with the sharp tang of plastic. My leopard senses put two and two together immediately—it was the same scent from the crime scene.