Running missions all over America is fun and exciting, dangerous too, but I know that when it's all over, I can come back to Hartford to get a break from the abnormal and live in the mundane. It's been like this for years with the exception of trouble following me back home, so when I heard about someone popping up dead with huge claw marks in town, I understood that not even home can be safe.
My phone glows with a text notification from Carlotta. "Come to the office ASAP."
I flick my phone open and type my response. "But today's my day off."
I wait for only a mere few seconds for her to reply, "See you in fifteen minutes."
With a roll of my eyes, I pocket my phone and grab my essentials to head out the door. The drive to Ispio's post office building is short, and I can see that Clyde's car is already parked in the lot. I pull in next to him, go through Amy's security lobby, and head down to the hidden HQ. As I head for Carlotta's office, Clyde comes out through her door and catches eyes with me.
"C'mon, we have to hurry," he tells me.
"Hang on, I didn't even get to see what Adams wanted."
"I'll fill you in during the car trip, now let's go. The police won't hold the crime scene open for much longer."
I shrug in defeat and put the heated emotion of being left out to the back of my mind. Clyde moves briskly through the numerous cubicles, dodging agile office workers who carry monumental stacks of paperwork with ease. I follow close behind him and ride his wave so I don't have to dodge people myself. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a black wallet and hands it to me while keeping his head forward.
"Here, this is for you. You've got your gun?"
I grab the wallet and open it up. It's not a wallet, but a fake badge for the FBI with my picture and information on it. "Yes," I say, "am I going to need it?"
"Hopefully not, it just completes the look is all."
"We're wearing civilian clothes, Clyde."
"It was our day off, we were in the area, and the boss told us to check out the scene. That's the story, got it?" We exit the building and climb into Clyde's car. As he speeds off to our unknown destination, I decide now is a good time to learn what I'm doing and where I'm going.
"So, what's up?"
He glances my way before returning his gaze to the road. "Dead body pops up in town. One of our units sees it on the way to the office. It's a very strange death, one that might not be up our local police force's alley. Adams doesn't really believe it's anything, but she wants us to check it out just to be safe."
I lay back in the seat. "So, what's so unusual about this death?"
"The claw marks are huge, the body looks like it's been butchered and maimed, not unlike those werewolf stories."
I scoff, "Werewolves aren't real, whoever thinks that a human can become an anthro needs to revisit biology class."
"I was just giving an example, nobody's saying it's werewolves."
Clyde continues to drive until we hit a block of residential houses. I take note of the street, Wadsworth Street, and when we drive by a single house with squad cars outside and yellow tape blocking the entrance, it's undeniable where the crime was committed. We park on the opposite side of the street and introduce ourselves to the first officer on sight. A quick flash of our fake badges grants us access immediately, and we hurry alongside the other investigators.
"Excuse me," I say to a forensic technician working on gathering evidence, "would you mind relaying anything of interest to my partner and me?"
He stops working to register both of our presence. "Feds are on the case? Just as well, this one seems a little different than the usual cut-and-dry situations. Lacerations are all over the body of the victim, but these aren't blades of a knife or some sort of machinery. We're not sure where these could've possibly come from. Anthros have claws, but not even bears are this big in size."
"Can you direct us to the body?" Clyde asks, looking around at the blood-streaked carpet that the technician is working on.
"That room over there," he says, pointing to an open doorway with the blood trail leading out, "maybe you can get some theories yourself."
We enter the room and find a photographer logging in some pictures of the body. Yellow labels with letters on them spread across the room, each marking something of interest. Letter "A" is next to the bloodied body that barely resembles a human carcass. I was expecting to smell death and decay in this house, but instead, this room overloads with the smell of blood; like iron so strong you can taste it through your nose.
"My God," I comment, "there's barely any flesh left to go on."
Clyde approaches the photographer. "Sir, can you give my partner and me the room? We need to get this prepped early so we can be out of your hair." The photographer cooperates, leaving us alone with pounds of flesh and a ton of blood.
"What is this, Clyde? This is detective work, I mean actual detective work. There's no reason for us to be here anymore."
"But take a look at this body, Troy, it's not something you see every day."
I walk around the victim. "You got that right, the body is torn apart like a feral got a hold of it. Did Adams allow us to bring any gadgets?"
"Just this one," Clyde says while pulling out the forensic detector and crouching down near the body. He scans the body with its green light, hovering it over the torso that has the most distinctive three claw marks going across it. It might have been the first and fatal blow the victim received. Whatever got him, it knows where to strike for a kill. "Do you think it was an anthro?"
I shake my head. "No way, no anthro has claws that big, but humans don't have claws at all."
"What makes you think these are claw marks to begin with?"
I think for a moment. "Truth is, I don't know. I do know it's not a standard blade, but maybe some machinery can match the size and shape."
"Someone was butchered by a high-powered, industrial farm tractor in their own home? How is anybody going to fit that in a tiny house, much less not leave tire marks on the carpet."
"I didn't say farm equipment, you did. Besides, you can take apart machinery and carry the blades alone, perhaps power them through your own motor for a portable kill."
"That's a farfetched theory, but isn't that how the criminals throw us off?" he asks as he stands up and watches the forensic detector's screen. "How about a domestic?"
My voice cracks, "Seriously? Do you think a domestic did this? Clyde, they're dumb as rocks and super small compared to humans and anthros. I guess it would make sense if this area was surrounded by heavy woods, then a domestic bear attack would be on the table, but we're in the central city, not a tree for miles. Harford news hasn't reported domestic sightings in the city for over twenty years."
"So, somebody flew in a domestic bear to kill this person, and then flew it out?"
"That's some high-risk murder, you'd have to deal with the savagery that comes with domestics. They still walk on four legs and poop on the ground. Also, a helicopter flying over Central would've been recorded as an odd occurrence, and yet we've heard nothing of the sort on the news or in the paper." A ding rings out from the machine in Clyde's hand, letting us know that it has processed the information we fed it. "What's it say?"
"No matches found," he tells me, skepticism overriding his face.
"How's that possible? The tech wing promises to have recorded all injuries and their matches into that machine."
"I'm going to try and tweak the perspective the machine reads this at." He plays with the screen, but I'm not sure what he's doing. It takes a few moments, but he reenters the information and lets another ding happen.
"Anything different?"
He looks at me, his face is an emotion I can't read. "You're not going to believe this."