Crimes of Passion (Werewolf story #1)

Marcus always got the really gory ones, the ones that made the other detectives skip their lunch or lose it on their shoes. If there were claw marks, or extreme violence—he was called in immediately. Marcus specialized in domestic disturbances that might not be the usual kind. Werewolves, especially. You get two people, a little hairy and crazy, maybe a little jealous, and a simple fight turns into somebody’s heart ripped out or a knife through the brain.

Most often, you had the case where the woman, bitten by the man and wanting out of the relationship, kills him so she can be free of the curse. If she hasn’t tasted human blood yet herself, she’s good to go—it’s common knowledge.

This looked clearly like one of those cases.

“He bled out right here,” Hambly said. A large, dark stain the size of a throw rug glistened in the sharp lights of the crime scene team. His voice echoed in the wide room; Marcus noted there was no rug or curtains to absorb the sound. Even the furniture was utilitarian and imposing, made of rich wood and clean designs. He found it hard to believe a woman slept here.

“The body?”

“Bringing it back to the morgue now. The heart was missing, I think. Big hole in the chest anyway.”

“Knife?”

Hambly looked down and backed away a little from the puddle, which had started to seep into the cracks of the floor. “Lots of slash marks, also some ripping. Something sure tore at him.”
This was perfectly in line. Werewolves regenerated, mostly. In order to kill them, you had to damage either their heart or their brain. Suffocation worked nicely, but violent stabbing or shredding was more the standard.

Marcus adjusted his khakis and nodded to the detective. “Where is she?” His job was always to talk to the spouse, to try and get a confession. Ordinarily the women would get away with it, but Marcus found that when he confronted them with his knowledge, they broke down. Usually they were scared and desperate, and hoped they could claim self-defense. The courts had no clue what to do with these cases, of course, but Marcus didn’t care. He just did his job and had gotten quite a reputation for solving the city’s most grisly cases.

He walked into the library of the house, where a tall, woman sat leaning over her legs like she was getting ready for an airplane crash. Long black hair covered her face, but Marcus could tell by the grace of her ivory fingers that she was beautiful. He ran his fingers through his hair and straightened his tie.

“Ms. Sheridan,” he said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

She looked up. He could feel his thoughts echo in her dark eyes. Sometimes he couldn’t help feeling bad for them, these women. They were so young when they were taken, and it wasn’t a pretty life.

“It was my fault. I should have locked the door.” She wiped her eyes. “I came home, and found him lying on the floor, in a pool of blood.”

“Was anything taken?”

“My jewelry. His watch, some money we had just taken out of the bank to pay the painters. Do you think it was them?”

He looked at her closely, trying to gauge the truth in the muscles of her face. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

“I told you,” she said. “I was shopping. I came home and found the door open. I called for Richard, but he didn’t answer me. I found him in the bedroom.”

Marcus pulled out his notebook, opened it slowly to make her wait. “How long were you married?”

“Three years. Almost four.”

She had stopped crying, and the room was so quiet he could hear his pencil scratching across the paper. “I’m sorry I have to ask you this,” he said, “but how was your relationship?”

Her eyes narrowed to slits. She lowered her head. “He was my honey, my one and only. Have you ever been married?”

Marcus remembered his ex-wife, then tried to forget her. “Once, a while back. It didn’t work out.” Why was she asking?

“We were this close,” she said, rubbing her fingers together and looking straight at Marcus. “He said I was his forever. Forever isn’t so long, is it? Whoever did this--” She started to cry again.

Marcus knew the detectives had already questioned the doorman. He had not seen any strangers come in. The Sheridans didn’t know their neighbors; there was no motive there. He wondered briefly how she might act so vicious, so cold, but then thought that probably she felt she had no choice.

The detectives led the woman out in tears. Marcus bit his lip. He couldn’t help her until she admitted the truth. He walked into the bathroom and pulled out his Swiss Army knife, then opened out the screwdriver. He reached into the bathtub and carefully unscrewed the drain trap. Gently, he pulled it up. With his other hand, he opened one of the little bags he kept in his coat pocket. He looked at the trap. There they were—tangles of thick, silver hair. Not human. They got caught in with the regular hair during the change back. Maybe they belonged to the dead man instead, but they would be good enough to show Ms. Sheridan.

He thought about her all week, and decided by Friday it was time to visit her. He found out she was staying across town in a rental property and drove over after work. The house was in a nice part of town, at the end of a cul-de-sac of groomed lawns and expensive cars.

He walked up the stairs to the front door, and rapped on the storm door. He held the little packet of hair in his hand.

“Miss Sheridan,” he said. “Please, open up.”

She came to the door in a green kimono, her hair wet and stringy. She had no makeup on and her face looked raw. “Come in, Detective Marcus. Please.”

He followed her down a hallway, where she showed him in to a warm room decorated with bright, painted furniture and dried floral arrangements. There was an open book on the couch and a full wine glass on the coffee table. “What are you here for?” she asked.

“You know why I’m here,” he said, trying to sound kind. He held up the bag of hair. “I know what you are. What you were. You’re not the only one this has happened to. I want to help you. I can find you a good lawyer.”

She turned away from him. “How did you know?”

“I’ve seen this before. So many times.” She was so young, but she was strong. Usually it took them a few more years to get their courage up. He put a hand on her shoulder then guided her to the couch. They sat, her knee touching his. He waited while she collected herself.

“I was nineteen when we met,” she said. “I was his trophy, his muse. He bought me anything I wanted and told me he’d love me forever as long as I didn’t tell.” She paused.

Marcus could see the soft skin where her robe opened slightly. His mind wandered. The curve of her shoulder reminded him of nights when he was much younger. He’d heard all this before, in one form or another, from all the women who had confessed to him. “Please, go on.”

“He had other women. He was away a lot. He locked me up so I’d stay pure, said it was for my own good.”

“You never bit anyone?”

“Never.”

Marcus wiped a tear from her eye. It was always the same story. “Did he hurt you?”

“Sometimes.” She sat taller, and the muscles in her arms twitched. “It’s hard not to, when it’s a full moon and you’re locked up together, you know. But I didn’t mind that. It was when he left me alone…sometimes he didn’t come back for days.”

“You knew how to kill him.”

“There was no other way. You know that.” She sniffed, and pushed the hair away from her eyes. “I didn’t want to live like that any more.”

“I can help you,” he said. And this time he wanted to.

“How?”

He looked at her, and knew he’d made his decision. She wasn’t like the others. “You’re free now. I’ll file this as inconclusive. No one will know.”

He got up and walked to the window. The sun sank below the horizon and the trees waved in the mist while a flock of children scattered and ran into their houses. He hoped she could have a normal life here.

She got up and stood behind him. “It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said. “And so are you.”

She pressed against him and darted her tongue against the side of his neck. “You’re such a smart man,” she said. “But you made one mistake.”

“What is that?” he said, reaching up for her.

“He didn’t die immediately, you know,” she said. “I tasted his blood.”

His breath caught in his throat.

She smiled as her nails dug into his neck. “He had such a good heart. Just like you.”