Sink In Your Claws

  Michael didn’t reply.

  “Don’t let it eat you. Too many guys bottle it up. Corrodes them from the inside.” His first partner had overdosed on heroin stolen from evidence control. Einar had found him and the suicide note. Hadn’t seen it coming. Took it hard.

  Michael shrugged. “People snap. It happens. Life is ugly.”

  “It’s not a given. Isolation makes it worse . . . Get it?”

  “Don’t drink alone—that your point? Dive bars are my therapy.”

  “Not therapy.” Einar shook his head. “Shit. Might as well be alone in a place like this. Besides, excessive drinking is a bad plan.” He knew. After the suicide, he’d been through the drink–to–oblivion–to–blot–it–out phase, and could vouch with authority that it didn’t work.

  Michael shrugged, eyes downcast.

  “Christ Mikey, don’t be stubborn.”

  “No lectures.”

  He sighed. Damn case. Michael got wound up in it fast. But it was the kind that twisted minds. Wasn’t like him, far removed from his laid back, laconic character, the funny smart-mouth.

  Einar had seen it in a brief interaction they became partners, five years earlier. Michael was a narcotics cop, working a task force with the Investigative Division on a series of drug murders. During a painful morning briefing, Einar commented that Detective Phil Cresson sounded like Rodan, flapping his hands and spewing protocol like atomic waste. Several cops didn’t get the reference. But someone did. They snickered and squawked, imitating the pterodactyl’s cries in the cheesy Japanese horror movie. Einar looked up. Two fresh-faced narcotics cops stared aghast at the small dark-haired cohort who stood between them. Most young cops avoided contact with Iceland, hearing the stories. But the kid looked at Einar and smirked.

  Cresson, not amused, turned red. He ranted about lack of respect and smacked the head of the nearest uniform he assumed had made the sound. When the meeting ended, Einar walked by the young cop and said, ‘Nice Rodan.’ ‘You called it,’ the kid whispered. ‘I just added sound effects.’ Einar laughed. He sometimes wondered if the Captain, who’d attended that meeting, noticed the exchange and later viewed it as a sign that the pairing might work.

  But Michael’s humor evaporated with this case. Einar had seen it before with young guys—they thought they were tough, could handle it, didn’t know how bad it could get until an especially vicious crime landed on them. Then they freaked. Still, Einar was surprised. Michael never seemed the type.

  Time to get his mind off it. “Agreed, no lectures. Anyway, I make you listen to my crypto-creature interests. Bigfoot is my therapy.”

  “Bigfoot’s not therapy. You’re weird. It’s disturbing.”

  Einar leaned back, crossed his arms. “Proving—I know disturbed when I see it.”

  Michael raised an eyebrow, opened his mouth.

  “I’m serious, please—”

  “I get it.” He pulled his legs up on the seat. Wrapped his arms around his knees, interlocking his fingers. “Don’t freak out or crack up. Don’t go postal.”

  Einar exhaled. “All I’m saying, don’t take the darkness home. It’ll burrow into your head. Take up residence.” Was he listening? “Talk to someone. Me. Kait. Loki. Al. Don’t swallow it until you break.”

  Michael leaned back, head knocking the wall.

  “I don't want to have to peel your mashed skull out of a wrecked vehicle, or . . . ” he caught himself. He’d said no lectures. “Self-destruction isn't pretty.”

  Michael stared and stretched his legs out. Mussed his fingers through his hair. “Jesus, calm down, okay?”

  “Okay? That means you understand?”

  “Yes.” His shoulders sagged. “You’re right.”

  “I just want to make sure—”

  “If you see me sliding down that hole?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Slap me and pull me out of it.”

  “Agreed,” Einar said. “But only in an emergency. Prefer to leave slapping to Kait if you enjoy it. I’m not into that kind of thing.”

  “Right.” Michael finally smiled. “That’s astute.”

  The bartender approached and handed them plastic-coated menus, greasy from perusal by drunken hands. They ordered beers.

  “It’ll be a minute, guys.” She wiped her hands on a towel. “Short staffed tonight.”

  Einar studied the clientele. A bleach blond in flowered shirt and ripped jeans downed shots with two leather-jacketed men. Every few minutes, she stepped behind the bar to refill a patron’s drink or ring up a bill. Bartender headed to the kitchen, asked the blond to help a drunk add up his tab. Nice. Inebriation and poor mathematics skills didn’t preclude him from drinking—he just needed a hand.

  A scraggly guy in faded New York Mets shirt sat at a nearby table. He mouthed off to the blond. She swore. He flipped her the finger.

  “Don’t you give me the bird,” she yelled. “I’m your fucking mother. I brought you into this world, sonny, and I can take you outta it.”

  Everyone looked up.

  Einar flashed his badge. She narrowed her eyes, hair fluttering, and sauntered to the booth, hands splayed on ample hips. “Problem, policeman?”

  Michael had a look of ‘what-the-hell-are-you-thinking’ on his face.

  “No ma’am.” Einar returned her gaze. “Friendly reminder. No killing your children in the bar. Filicide is frowned on in New York State.”

  She leaned over the booth. “Huh?”

  He gave his best smile. “Want to kill your son? Don’t do it in the bar. Take it outside.”

  She thought for a moment and then laughed, a guttural sound—harsh but sincere. “Good one. He’s my baby. Pisses me off. But he’s family. Least I know where he is when he’s at the Trail.” She slammed Einar on the back. “Cop with humor. I like it.” She motioned for the bartender to pour three shots. Blonde fetched them, set two in front of Einar and Michael.

  “Drink up bitches.” She tossed it back.

  Michael stifled a laugh and downed it. Einar followed. Southern Comfort. Not his favorite, but he wasn't going to refuse a peace offering. She saluted and returned to the bar to the ribbing of her companions.

  Einar raised an eyebrow. “Charming—life and death, summed up from a bar stool. Hell of a family portrait.”

  “Every family’s different.” Michael shrugged. “But she’s right. She knows where he is. And she cares.”

  Strange response. Case was terrible, but there was more to it. Einar fingered the table edge. “Mikey, why come here? It’s depressing. This isn't just about the dead girls. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Right . . .”

  “Place like this, I can relax. People are authentic. You see them as they are, like it or leave it.”

  “That appeals to you—why?”

  “It’s unfiltered.” He leaned forward on the sticky tabletop, chin on the back of his hand. “People lie every day. We see their worst—their cheating, murderous selves. Need an antidote. No fancy bars with girlie drinks, hottie parades and meat market display, watching fakers posture and fawn.”

  “Agreed about girlie drinks. I’d go for the parades. But is this different?” He gestured, hand outstretched. “These people are posturing, honing edges to keep others out—”

  “Whatever. It’s nostalgic.”

  A dank dive nostalgic? Disconcerting—it reminded him of himself all those years ago, adrift after arriving in Seward City to take the job, making it to homicide, but then wondering what the hell he'd done, why he'd defied his parents' wishes to stay in the family business. After Dillon killed himself. Maybe karma was coming back to bite him. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “What does that say about you?”

  Michael sighed. “It’s not good. But your tastes are as bad. Bigfoot, trolls, monsters. Elves in the road. And you cultivate the animosity of most of the division. At least I try to hide my antisocial soul. Not that I'm successful. Shall I continue?
”

  Einar laughed. That summed him up rather well. “Hell. Can’t argue.” He wouldn’t try. Michael was still talking to him after the monster conversation, a documented first in Iceland partner dynamics.

  Michael relaxed.

  “You’re right.” Einar smiled. “Let’s drink to that.” He put his glasses on again as the bartender set beers on the table. “To monsters and darkness.”

  “To bigfoot and dives,” Michael added.

  *

  Michael dropped Einar off and drove to the station. Wired, preoccupied with images seared into his brain, he couldn’t rest.

  The parents of that dead girl. Destroyed.

  She was nine.

  They deserved an answer.

  He sank into his desk and flipped on his computer. Do something. Start with the obvious. Other attacks? He reviewed victim files and cold cases, researched regional animal attacks. Examined carnivores’ bite ratios and bite forces. At four thirty in the morning, he fell asleep, head on a stack of files.

  Woke two hours later, confused. Then realized where he was.

  Shit.

  His head pounded, eyes ached. Mouth tasted like shoe leather and cotton. He grabbed his coat and took a long walk to clear his head. Wandered the business district near the station, quiet in the glimmering dawn.

  His mind churned questions.

  How does this killer move so fast? Victims have no time to react. Why children? If an animal ripped them apart, why didn’t it drag the remains away or hide them? Why no footprints? Why shred them? What has claws that make those wounds? Why along the river? Why this river?

  Couldn’t turn it off—had to be an answer.

  He dragged back late with two large black cups of coffee. Without a word, he handed one to Einar, who hunched at his cluttered desk swearing and completing administrative paperwork. Michael removed his coat and sank into his worn desk chair. Something clattered to the floor. Laina’s zip drive. He retrieved it and plugged it in.

  “Hello, sunshine.” Einar peered up from his screen.

  “Brought coffee. Loaded with sugar.”

  “Try changing your clothes.”

  “What do you want?”

  “And shaving. Let me guess—you haven’t slept.”

  “Sleep’s overrated.”

  “Right . . . ”

  “I can sleep later. Did Marta call with the preliminary on the second crime scene?”

  Einar nodded. “MO’s the same. Kid never had a chance. Death by exsanguination and blades. Or claws. No prints, no clear trace evidence. How can the killer leave not a single hair?”

  “Weapon?”

  “Inconclusive. Long blades, deep cuts. Ripped apart. Bite marks . . . ”

  Michael closed his eyes. “Don’t say it.”

  “ . . . not caused by human teeth. Marta, despite skepticism, thinks animal.”

  Michael was confused. His wheels spun in deep mental mud.

  Kids weren’t torn apart by animals. Nothing in the Adirondacks does that. Nothing.

  “Not an animal.” Michael rubbed the side of his face. “Can’t be. Only candidate would be black bear. Their claws don’t retract, aren’t long and thin. They use them to climb and dig—dulls them. Bobcats are too small. No resident lynx population and experiments to restore them to the Adirondacks happened much farther north. No recent cougar reports. No wolves. Coyotes aren’t strong enough. No illegal escaped tigers. No alligators.” He tapped his pencil. He’d scribbled a long list of clawed creatures that did not live in the Adirondacks. “Not animal.” Another pencil hit.

  Einar wheeled his chair to Michael and parked beside him.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Mikey, you sound convinced. Because you spent all night researching?” Einar gave him a pointed stare. “What are you doing? You need sleep. You look exhausted. Don’t be the Lone Ranger.”

  “I’m not—”

  “You’re the only person I’ve ever told to stop working so hard. Can’t function without a break. It's not weakness to admit you're tired. Don’t go catatonic anti-social on me.”

  “You and Kait are okay. Everyone else should be worried.” Did he look that bad? He rubbed his face again, anxiety eating at him along with lack of sleep. “Seriously, Einar. I'm okay.”

  “Good to know.” Einar sounded unconvinced. He reached over and clicked Michael’s computer mouse to open the zip drive files. “Let’s review the reports. Least Laina gave us English versions.”

  “You take Sweden,” Michael said, “I’ll take Norway.”

  They immersed themselves in the reports, searching for connections.

  “Laina was right,” Michael said. “Oslo murders were along water, the Akerselva River. Same kill pattern.”

  “Also true for Sweden,” Einar said. “Victims found along the Norrström River near Stockholm.”

  “MO's the same. According to autopsies, cause of death was identical. Only eyewitness described flash of light, one scream then nothing.” He jotted notes, pencil tap-tap-tapping.

  “Shit,” Einar said. “No footprints, no fingerprints, no trace.”

  “What’s the flash of light?” Michael looked puzzled.

  “Corpse candle, remember?”

  “Maybe God’s sending a message to imbeciles.” Detective First Class Phil Cresson sauntered over, making a show of checking his gold Rolex. He pointed with manicured finger and cleared his throat. “On banker’s hours, junior? Shift starts at eight sharp. And work attire is suit and tie. How the hell do you walk in Monday morning looking like a thrift shop punk?”

  Einar peered at him. “Go away.”

  “You’re supposed to be riding him on that.”

  “Get out of my face, take care of your own problems.”

  Michael scowled.

  “I'll report him,” Cresson said. “Again. You have to ensure that subordinates maintain the dress code standard.”

  “Lay off, Phil.” Einar shook his head. “He was up all night working a case.”

  Michael swore to himself. He’d meant to stash a suit in a staff locker. Forgot. Again. Besides, what did it matter? Cresson would find something to criticize. He enjoyed watching them weed through reams of files and reports related to the murders. Everyone knew the case was strange, the kind no one wanted to catch.

  Michael sighed—Crasshole relished Einar struggling.

  Cresson and Einar had joined the department at the same time, both competitive and opinionated. As they rose through the ranks, Einar’s clearance rate bettered Cresson’s. Their superiors noticed. Einar attended the FBI National Academy at Quantico in the late 1990s, recommended by a former boss who’d risen to Chief before retiring in 2009. He’d gone through the program and wanted to continue the tradition with someone he believed had skills to lead. Cresson had never been nominated—a slight that galled him. Einar made Detective First Class two years ahead of him, adding insult to his wounded ego. When the present Captain came on board he knew about their legendary antipathy. Cresson dedicated his life to poisoning the Seward City PD against Einar.

  But it wasn’t only about work.

  Einar’s wife Allison, a county Environmental Planner, managed flood control and bridge construction projects. Her job involved fieldwork, which was how she met Einar and Cresson. They’d been temporarily paired when Einar returned to active duty following his first partner’s suicide. She’d found a burned male body at a construction site and escorted them to the scene, tromping through the underbrush. Her red hair and fair complexion belied a Scottish heritage, albeit through Nova Scotia. Her unflappable demeanor suggested someone not faint of heart. She was bright and quick-witted. Both were drawn to her. She refused to go out with either while the case was active.

  After, she dated both. Cresson, with his urbane attitude, fell by the wayside. She was comfortable outdoors, not concerned with appearance and status. He never forgave her or Iceland. It became more reason to detest Einar when Allison married him
.

  “A case you can’t solve, Iceland. Making any progress with junior to slow you down? Hope you catch the monster before he catches you.” Cresson hunched his shoulders and splayed his fingers, imitating a movie fiend. “Crazed killer, blades slashing, blood and gore streaming through the trees. Sounds like a slasher film. Glad I didn’t get stuck with it.”

  “Go back to your hole.” Einar wadded paper and threw it in his wastebasket.

  “Lay off Crasshole,” Michael said.

  “Media’s having a field day.” Cresson fiddled with his tie. “Vulture press is circling. Won’t be long before they come up with a garish name. Turn it into a movie on cable or Netflix.” He combed his hair. “Have fun being media stars. Or media villains when you can’t catch the killer. They’ll eat you alive.”

  “Not helpful,” Einar said.

  “Bite me Crasshole.” Michael gnashed teeth.

  “Whatever. Call when you need real expertise.” Cresson slapped Michael on the back. He was never one to underestimate his own abilities, arrogance unequalled.

  He greeted his partner Detective Second Class Carlos Villarna, who ambled to his side dressed in a tailored French suit. They were due in the Captain’s office for a debriefing about a straightforward murder-for-hire gone bad involving a high-ranking local politician. They’d solved the obvious case quickly (Einar commented that a toddler could’ve solved it with equal speed) and were basking in the afterglow. The mayor had called a press conference and requested they stand behind him, loyal servants for the media dog and pony show. Einar swore the attention had gone to Cresson’s head, making him more obnoxious than usual. Michael thought Cresson and Villarna were fundamental assholes at heart.

  “Yeah,” Villarna said. “Yell when you need help, boys.”

  Cresson laughed, eying Einar. “Or when junior bails. Countdown’s in progress.” He nudged Villarna and they headed to the Captain’s office.

  Einar opened his mouth. Michael touched his arm and motioned ‘cut.’

  “You’re no fun,” Einar whispered.

  “Cresson’s a dick, Villarna’s an asshole,” Michael said. “Why bother? Not worth a pissing match. They want a reaction.”

  “Perfect pair,” Einar said. “Mister Dick and Mister Asshole.”

  Michael shook his head. “Who’s anti-social?”

  CHAPTER 6

  2011 Early October

  Kaitlyn Jenret hated mornings. She yawned and stared at her computer. A volunteer walked by her open door and waved.