A Dangerous Case

Chapter One

Murderers like to strike at midnight, when darkness shields them from prying eyes, when most lie in their beds, succumbing to deep slumber and when screams go unheard.

Murderers like to strike at midnight so, in turn, Lou has to wake up too early on a Saturday morning with a hangover pounding in his skull.

Lou rolls up the gravel drive in his Black Honda Civic, stopping behind police cars and a large, wooden cabin.

Yellow police tape hangs on the cabin's porch; pushed aside whenever a uniformed officer passes in or out — behind the tape, the door is left open, showing a sliver of the telltale signs of a grisly murder.

Cringing slightly, Lou gets out of his car, slamming the door behind him and trudging towards Dennis, his captain.

Dennis stands on the drive talking with an officer, a frown sculpted onto his face. The captain's cheekbones and neck are littered with scars that appear silver against his skin, whispering about violent stories — stories of how the captain earned his position and respect from colleagues. Respect Lou could never help but have for the older man.

"What's the case, sir?" Lou stops short of the pair.

The officer's sneer does not go unnoticed by Lou.

"We've got a pretty high-profile case here," Dennis says, his voice gruff from years of smoking. "The murder of a young girl, Gerrit McCallastor's kid — Gayle."

"Fuck me," Lou mutters. "You think it's political?"

Dennis simply nods.

"Yes, and we already have a profile," the officer pipes up. He regards Lou with a mix of disdain and fear. Gesturing at Lou, the officer says, "the suspect is one of your... type of people."

"My type of people?" Lou arches a brow.

"Forensics said that the wounds look to be from a creature," Dennis interjects. "There's enough evidence that the murderer is a supernatural. They made sure that we'd know."

Dennis stares at Lou with grey intensity, causing a shiver to run down the detective's spine.

"Things are at play here, Detective. When the media get hold of this your kind'll be under fire and we'll be on the brink of war. So don't let your personal views get in the way — you're only here for the job and to stop a war from kicking off, got it?"

"Yes, sir." Lou swallows down the indignance that had been bubbling up in his throat. He hates it when people think of him as a werewolf before a cop. Cops save lives, werewolves end them.

"Good. Now, survey the scene, see what evidence you can find."

Lou nods and trudges across the crunchy gravel drive, across the front porch and into the blood-painted cabin.

Forensics crawl all over the place, putting down evidence markers, taking samples and photos of the three bodies — ruby red blood glistening at the cameras' flashes.

The chests of the victims have been carved out so much so that Lou can't tell where what part should belong, but the ghostly pale heads are still intact. Left practically perfect with only the splattering of blood marking them.

One victim, a young brunette girl, Lou recognises as the politician's daughter, Gayle. Her blue eyes are wide open and rolled back, all wrong, similar to her mouth, set wide and agape in a deadly quiet scream.

Next to her, cuddled against her side, is the body of a pretty blonde girl, with short cropped hair and tear stained cheeks. A fresh scar runs across the right side of her face, her eyeball ripped from its socket.