The Hex Files

4

July 13th, 9:05 AM

New York Police Department

Interrogation Room C

"We pulled your file, you know."

The fluorescent lights buzzed like cicadas overhead. As Sol leaned back, the metal chair dug into his shoulders- and yet he scarcely felt it.  It was as though he was looking down on himself from a great distance.

By now, he was stone cold sober. The shock and adrenaline had burnt the last of the drugs and the alcohol out of the system. As the last of the Pixie Dust had worn off, all the light and colour had drained out of the world, leaving only numbness. A morning chill seeped into the interrogation room.

The NYPD's Detective Bureau had one division you wouldn't find in any record book. From vampire bites to magic carpet malfunctions, the Occult Crimes Division kept the city's supernatural residents honest. If the department's accountants thought it was odd that the annual budget included holy water and silver bullets, they never said so.

Strictly speaking, he was just here for a little 'chat'. Sol leaned back, glancing up at the camera in the corner, where a little light was blinking. The session was being recorded and filmed- but that made no guarantees. Footage could go missing. Cameras had been known to malfunction.

The cop sitting across from him paged through a manila folder. 

"Interesting read, that," said the Sergeant, pulling out a manila folder. "Top of your class at the Mage's College. Five papers published under a pseudonym as an undergraduate. Set to graduate Magna Cum Laude, half the firms in the country knocking down your door. And, then..."

He tossed the folder on the table- a headline slipped out. Death at Mage's College Ruled Accidental.

Sol looked down.

The cop across from him leaned back on his chair, which creaked as it struggled to suspend the sheer weight of his upper body.

Sergeant Cal Walker bore a remarkable resemblance to a polar bear stuffed in a dress shirt. His beefy chest was currently engaged in mortal combat with his flimsy suspenders, the ham hocks he called arms struggling to circumnavigate his entire torso. He had a jaw that could have been chiseled from a slab of granite, a snow-white beard, and an eyepatch over one scarred socket. The overall effect was that of an unholy cross between Santa Claus and Van Helsing.

He wasn't the only cop in the room. Behind him stood the tiniest, angriest woman Sol had ever seen. So far, she hadn't said a word- only leaned against the wall, glaring at him.

"College-dropout, zero work-experience- someone who, by all accounts, she barely knew. So- outta all the folks she coulda hired, why in God's green earth does Valerie Ortega pick you?"

His mouth felt dry. "I think that's a question you'd have to ask her."

  He didn't know why he said it. When all other systems had shut down, somehow, snark was the only thing still functioning.  

Luckily, the Sergeant laughed, even as the woman's scowl deepened.

It wasn't exactly a stretch to figure out who was playing good cop here. Sol was somewhat familiar with the Sergeant- he knew vaguely that he and Val had worked together back in the day. Around the department, he was something of a local legend. In the bad old days, he'd been a demon hunter, one of the stake and crossbow types who'd stalked dark alleyways meting out justice one bloodsucker at a time. Legend had it that he'd been on the case of the notorious serial killer when the unthinkable happened- the killer had found out where he lived. He had come home one dreadful night, only to discover the killer had left him a message, in the form of poor Eileen Walker.