Detective Story

The call comes at seven sharp. Like any decent hardboiled detective, I roll over the blanket, miss the phone, fumble for a few seconds, curse profusely when I drop it again, and finally manage to get the damned thing to my ear.

"Mick Scartooth, Private Investigator," I growl, trying to project the air of a hardened professional and not someone who spent the last two minutes fighting a losing battle against a telephone receiver. "Specialist in supernatural and paranormal cas-"

"Mick, thank God." The voice cuts in, oily, abrupt and desperate. It sounds like he’s sweating profusely, rubbing his little hands together and forcing an ingratiating smile. Which should be the case. I only know one toad in the Riverton Police Force, and it’s this one.

I scowl and sit up, drawing the sheets closer to me and trying to keep the pointed dislike out of my voice.

"Inspector Chops. What the hell do you want with my agency?"

He sucks in air through audibly flabby lips.

"Come on, Scartooth. Don’t be so difficult. We're old friends, aren't we? We solved the case of the Pixie Dust Anarchists together. Remember, back in ‘11?”

That rankles. I slap on the sarcasm.

“Ah, yes, the fearsome Pixie Dust Anarchists. If I recall correctly, they were just a bunch of snotty, jumped-up kids trying to gain some attention from the magical community. Also, you were trying to arrest me every step of the way until I threatened to plant my fist in your face. Didn’t mention that in the awards ceremony, did you?”

He falters. His voice takes on a distinct shade of yellow.

“Well, Scartooth, it won’t help to open up old wounds -”

I cut in. In a slippery mood, he’ll flap his gob for hours.

“Don’t give me that crap, Chops. Get to the point already. What do you want?”

That shuts him up. I almost hear him deflating. He sucks in air through his teeth. He scratches his chin. He hums
and haws for a bit, as if he suddenly feels the need to emphasize that his task is one of great gravity.

“Give me a second. I have to go through my papers.”

By now, I can see him. Chins wobbling, eyes shifting, shirt and pants in pitched combat with his bulging waistline
as he paces up and down his mess of an office looking for the files. He has the receiver in his right hand and he’s scratching the back of his balding head with the other. There’s an intently self-important look on his face. It’s all rather ridiculous, and I drum my fingers against the sheets to stave off the impatience.

It’s not a color image, though. I’m not that good yet, and the phone line isn’t helping. There’s a big fuzzy black space all around Chops, like he’s in a bubble of limelight that he doesn’t deserve. Which is usually the case, but this time it’s pretty literal. Can’t see anything beyond that. I shouldn’t even be learning magic like Synaesth in the first place. The aptitudes are all wrong.

Sense Faculty? Oh, are you sure you aren’t looking for Wild, Mr Scartooth sir?

But for a Lycan, I like to think that I’m doing a decent job.
“Aha!” He straightens up from his filing cabinet with great effort. “Alright, Scartooth, here’s the details. Pay attention now, this is extremely important.”
“Sure, Chops.” I sigh and reach for the pad and gnawed pencil I usually keep on the dresser.
Ten minutes later I’m dressed, half-shaven and rushing out the door.
Cases mean cigarettes. And I’m all out.
----
As per usual, we schedule the meeting for 9 AM in the cafe half of the Declawed Lycan Pub and Cafe. I also get there about ten minutes early.
The name’s hardly a coincidence. I helped the owner Bob find his kidnapped daughter a few years back, and he renamed his establishment in my honor and promised me free meals for life in gratitude. The place’s expanded since then, which is where the Cafe bit comes in - but I still come here every now and then, especially when I have a case to work on. Haven’t found any alfalfa burgers better than the ones they whip up here.
The door jingles pleasantly as I walk in. I’m also greeted by the smell of scrambled eggs and sizzling bacon, the latter of which I dutifully ignore. The lucky cat on the counter bobs its paw cheerfully. It’s a homely place, the cafe - plain white walls, black round tables, wicker chairs, menu board written entirely in different shades of colored chalk. Large windows let the bright morning light beam through on the various patrons, already seated. Bucks all the trendy modern slickness you see nowadays, and does it well, too.
The waitress sees me almost at once. She promptly flits over, and I tip my fedora and flash her a toothy grin.
“Morning, Sally. You look well.”
“Good morning, Mr. Scartooth!” the fairy chirps happily. “It’s great to see you again! I’ll get your table.”
“Much appreciated.”
As I move to my usual spot by the window, Sally zips away, picks out the usual number card (63) from its usual basket, and places it on the table just as I sit down. Like always, I marvel at her ability to carry things almost as large as her - though I have seen her manage an entire breakfast-loaded tray once, so it’s hardly a surprise. Stronger than they look, fairies. Larry, the cafe’s chef-cum-plate-carrier-person, manages anything she can’t handle. And she has more than the usual fairy grace. Soft magenta hue, lithe figure, immaculate gossamer wings - I can see why most of Riverton’s fairy bachelors consider her quite the catch.
Not that I feel the same way. Racial differences and constant envy from fairy bachelors aside, I can safely say that we’re just friends. Unlikely friends, perhaps (‘Scandal! Declawed Lycan seeing fairy waitress?’ the tabloids crowed), but friends all the same. Besides, she glows a tad too much for my taste.
I sit down and glance around the rest of the tables. The regulars, who got used to the scruffy man in the trenchcoat and fedora a long time ago, either smile and wave or stare viciously at their morning coffees. Those who look nervous probably aren’t regular enough.
It’s the eyes, of course. My hair, ears, nose and chin may all look pure human, but even a fully Changed Lycan can’t get rid of the eyes. Still a werewolf’s cold blue orbs in miniature. Icicle eyes.
I pause, peer closely at the window and feel my chin. Or it could be the ghastly state of my manly stubble. Never can tell.
Just as I turn back from my musing, Sally flits in, newspaper in tow. It’s like a helicopter trying to ferry a subway train. She has to pull it by the edge.
“The Riverton Daily, Mr. Scartooth. Your order?” She sets the paper down, sighs in relief, and pulls out her fairy-sized notepad.
“The usual, Sally. Alfalfa burger with a side helping of fries, no salt.” I take the paper with an appreciative grunt. “Just tell Larry to hold the relish this time, will you?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Scartooth.” She finishes jotting with a flourish and flutters away. “Larry! Declawed Lycan at Table 63, hold the relish!”
I crack a wry smile. Declawed Lycan. Trust Sally to make a jab like that. She hasn’t even bothered to mention the actual order. Sure, I’m predictable, but I like my tradition.
I settle down and scan the news. Nothing particularly interesting, mostly the horse racing and usual local scuffles. Definitely nothing about the case. Looks like Chops wasn’t just tooting his own horn about it being top-secret.
I’m stirred about three minutes later by a certain Inspector’s nasal whine.
“Glad to see you could make it, Scartooth. It seems you realised the importance of my assignment after all.”
It’s Chops, standing there in what looks like a new and considerably stressed suit. He isn’t alone. Beside him is a tall, handsome young man with a smooth black waistcoat and a distinctive pocket watch. His brown hair is artfully tousled, he’s clean-shaven, and from the spark in his eyes I can see he’s fresh and lively. Official person, I deduce. With the Electorate. Probably new to the job.
Chops looks impatient. “Well, Scartooth? Say something,” he demands.
Two years ago, I’d probably have slugged that pompous look right off his face. But I’ve seen enough of him since then to know that he can be much worse, so it only comes off as slightly ridiculous.
I fold the paper and look at him. “Of course, Chops. Can’t say no to an old acquaintance, after all.”
He nods, mollified. “Of course you can’t.”
As expected, he misses the tone completely. The young man’s eyes brighten, as if he’s enjoying the joke. Trying not to look too put-out, I change the subject.
“Who’s your friend?”
Chops straightens his lapels and puffs up. “Ah, yes. Scartooth, meet Darren Thornthrope. Top in his Combat Magic class at the Glorien University of Higher Magecraft, majoring in Traditional Fire - now in the service of the Prince-Elector as an Inquisitor of the Amblian Electorate. One of the youngest ever, I believe.”
I look at the young man with new respect. That would explain it. “Pleased to meet you, Inquisitor Thornthrope,” I say, extending a hand.
He smiles and shakes it firmly. “Please, Mr. Scartooth, call me Darren. It’s an honor to meet the Declawed Lycan in person. I’ve been a fan of yours ever since you solved the case of the Rushbury Night Sisters.”
I raise an eyebrow and assume a tone of mock offence. “So, my ignominious title’s gone as far as the great Glorien, has it? I’m not surprised. It’s all those tabloids, playing me up as some kind of Big Bad Wolf. Declawed Lycan, my ass. You’d better watch yourself, kid.”
Chops bites his lip. “Now, Scartooth.”
But the kid gets it, and smiles. “It’s fine, Inspector. I’m sure Mr. Scartooth is being perfectly respectful. In his own way.”
“But of course, Inquisitor. Anything you say.” Ever eager to please, Chops agrees heartily.
Darren slips me a knowing look. I decide that I like him.
The good Inspector apparently feels the need to get the meeting back on track.
“Right,” he sighs, sitting down heavily in the chair facing me. The young Inquisitor takes a new one and follows suit, only a tad more lightly.
Chops folds his hands. “Can’t delay the important things for too long. So, Scartooth. Did you digest the… vital details of the case?”
I nod, putting on my professional investigator’s face. “Two nights ago, you guys found two human stockbrokers dead in the River. Harold Martin, 43, George Gold, 26. Gold’s neck was bruised with finger marks, and his skin cells were found under Martin’s fingernails. The merfolk who found the bodies say that they came from upstream, near the Clothier Street canal. On investigation of said canal, you found Martin’s shoe and a torn piece of fabric from Gold’s jacket stuck in the railings.”
I lean back. “Seems like any other failed murder attempt to me. Martin tries to kill Gold for some reason and throttles him. In the struggle both men topple over the railings, fall ten meters into the canal and drown. Unlikely, but not impossible - always thought those rails were too short. Go personal and you should get the answer. To be honest, I don’t even know why you need me - or the Inquisitor, for that matter. Doesn’t the Electorate have better things to do than send out their trained magical elite at every murder case?”
I glance over at the Inquisitor in question, expecting a smile. But he looks rather serious.
“Actually, Mr. Scartooth,” he explains, “that’s not it. Inspector Chops wasn’t able to tell you over the phone, but we’ve already determined that the case wasn’t murder. Not directly, at least.”
I blink. “The only way that’s possible is if the Spiritist doesn’t detect a wronged soul,” I say, trying not to sound too incredulous. “And even then, they’re pretty unreliable sometimes.”
“We had it triple-checked, Scartooth,” says Chops, mopping his brow. He seems strained at the very thought. “By three different certified professionals, one of whom with we’ve worked with for years.”
I run through the possibilities in my head. None of them seem very good. In a place with a sizable magical community, unmurder is never good.
“So,” I say at last. “You want me to go in and investigate the crime scene and work out just what’s happened. Darren’s here to deal with any trouble.”
Chops nods. He seems more under control now that he knows I’m willing to help. “That’s right, Scartooth. Personal differences aside, I’m willing to admit that your talents as a detective are considerable. Also, you know Synaesth, which should help me in this case. Somewhat.”
That’s a high compliment from Chops. I’m about to give him some grudging thanks when he adds: “Fortunately, the Inquisitor will keep your less desirable traits under control. I don’t know what we’d do without him, honestly.”
Scratch the thanks.
Before I can acknowledge the blatant ass-kissing with a pointed remark or two, Sally comes back in with a steaming plate balanced over her head.
“Your alfalfa burger with fries, Mr. Scartooth. No relish,” she announces proudly. Sliding the plate in front of me, she floats up to eye level and dusts her little hands off in satisfaction.
Chops glares sideways at her. “Can’t you see that we are in the middle of a very important discussion, young lady?” he huffs.
Sally gives an angelic smile. “Nice to see you too, Inspector! Your order?”
He turns up his nose. “I cannot distract myself from my task with such frivolous trivialities.”
“Funny,” I mumble through my mouthful of burger. “I’m managing.”
Darren lifts his finger from the menu. “I’ll have the smoked salmon and lemon risotto,” he says, conciliatory-like.
Sally beams, vindicated. “Right away, sir! Also, can I compliment your hair? Because it looks great!”
“Thank you very much,” he smiles. Sally giggles, writes the order down and flies away.
I look up, amused. “Not everyone can make her so giddy,” I observe.
He rubs the back of his head and flushes like a college freshman. “I’m used to it.” Then, blinking, “You can eat meat, Mr. Scartooth?”
I grin wolfishly. “Hey. No matter what the rumors say, I am fully Changed. A little bit of meat isn’t going to mess me up. Even the moon doesn’t do much nowadays.”
“I see.” He looks surprised, but rather pleased. “I should have thought of that earlier.”
“Oh, it’s no big deal,” I quip. “I’m used to it.”
“Anyway, Scartooth,” Chops bursts out, “if you’re quite done (no offense intended, Inquisitor), we’ll be heading to the scene right after you finish your meal. So hurry up.”
“Sure, Chops.”
“Don’t forget my salmon risotto, Inspector,” says Darren.
To Chops’ credit, he takes it reasonably well.
----
An hour later, we pull up by the old Clothier Canal in Chops’ all-too-small Beetle. The yellow tape’s already up. A policestallion canters up to the Inspector the minute he extricates himself from the driver’s seat.
“Inspector!”
Chops raises an imperious eyebrow. “Have you found anything?” he inquires.
Caught off-guard by the directness, the centaur takes a moment to look nervous. His tail flicks oddly. Then, as if glimpsing salvation, he notices me leaning on the side door of the Beetle. Casual-like.
His expression turns into one of confusion.
“You brought the Declawed Lycan, Inspector? But I thought you specifically said not to -”
Chops shuts him up with a glare. “Special circumstances, Officer.” He graces each enunciated word with a fleck of spittle.
The stallion, obviously thinking better of further talk, gulps, nods and trots away. The various other officers take a leaf from his book and follow.
I stretch and step away from the door. “Nice work, Chops. Didn’t know I was so important.”
“Just get to work, Scartooth.”
The tall Inquisitor, who’s been watching from behind me all this time, keeps a neutral silence. Then: “Would you mind if I followed you on to the scene, Mr. Scartooth? I’ve always wanted to see you work in person.”
Of course, there’s not much else to say after that. I have a job to do, after all. I nod tersely and slip under the line. Surveying the scene, I light a Lucky Strike and take a deep draw on it. Calms the nerves.
I keep Chops’ in-Beetle briefing in the back of my head.
“We’ve checked the footprints, but none of them seem to give very much. No trace of foreign magic on them at all - in fact, there’s no trace of foreign magic anywhere. Everything points to a normal scuffle.”
But magic traces can only take you so far. Ambient mana erases most residue within hours. Anything above third-level takes a few days more to fade, which increases the chances of detection – but even then, it’s not exactly a foolproof system. There’s always the possibility that the sensors missed something. Which is why I’m here to smell the events out.
Evidence A: the shoe, about ten meters away from the railings. Standard black Balmoral, laces still done up - obviously forced off Mr. Martin’s foot somehow. I walk over and take a deep breath. Learnt to smell over the Lucky Strikes a long time ago. Grab the scent that isn’t lung cancer.
There. Polish and gravel and leather, mixed with a faint hint of corporate carpet and sweaty sock. Exquisite.
I keep walking, taking slow, methodical paces. Darren follows behind, in sort of an awestruck silence. It’s nice to have a fan.
As I track the trail, I switch off the Lycan part of my brain and open the little compartment marked Synaesth. Cancelling all other smells, I hone down the shoe-scent. Cross-referencing, I pick out Gold’s feet as well. Then I take the smell and turn it to sight.
The world turns to white. I walk through the silence and pick out the footprints. Martin’s prints shine in neon purple, Gold’s in forest green. I note the stride length and pressure and reconstruct the scene in my head.
They move in parallel until the lamppost. Martin stops, Gold comes to a halt a few seconds after. Then Martin wheels around on one foot and goes for the throat. They struggle, hit the railing, and then Gold’s legs give and they go over it.
No. That’s wrong. Martin’s steps are too regular. He wasn’t struggling.
He was marching.
I switch off the Synaesth and the world snaps back in all its sensory glory. Blinking to clear my head, I look at the Inquisitor.
“Psychic,” I say. “Fourth-level.”
His face darkens, and he nods. “I was afraid of that.”
Chops, who apparently has been keeping his eyes peeled all this time, splutters.
“That’s impossible!”
Barreling through the line, he stomps up to me and jams his finger in my chest. His panic’s turned red-hot, and he’s taking it out on me.
“That’s impossible, Scartooth! There haven’t been any free fourth-level Psychics since the Mental Privacy Act! They’ve all had their Magic excised! You’re just trying to stir up more trouble in my city, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”
I place a hand on his chest and lightly shove him away. He hits Darren and goes quite limp. The Inquisitor has to prop him up.
“There’s no other possibility, Chops,” I say. “He was forced to commit suicide and take a colleague with him. There are only a few beings who can do that without leaving a trace. Sirens are extinct. Puppeteers would leave marks on the wrists and legs. Bloodworms can’t move without leaving slime everywhere. That only leaves fourth-level Mind Control. I don’t want to believe it myself.”
For once, I’m not angry, because I see where he’s coming from. He’s terrified. Even a buffoon like him cares about the people of his city.
To a certain extent, I’m scared too.
A loose Psychic is a huge problem. They trade sanity for power. Not easy, seeing the minds of everyone around you. Most go psychopathic or commit suicide by third-level. One who has no qualms about using fourth-level spells to murder is a catastrophe waiting to happen.
“He could kill us all!” Chops babbles. “He could take control of any of us! Wipe our minds, make us kill ourselves! No-one would know the difference!”
That’s almost true. I’m about to speak up when Darren beats me to it.
“Not quite, Inspector,” the Inquisitor says firmly. “The three requirements for successful mind control are eye contact, knowledge of the person’s last name and a distance of no more than fifty meters between caster and target on initial casting. To my knowledge, no-one outside the police force knows of your involvement. The case hasn’t been reported yet, so you’ll be free from any repercussions. Meanwhile, I’ll take control of this investigation.”
He’s trying not to mention the civilians. I can tell.
Chops takes a deep breath and considers this new state of affairs.
Darren turns to me.
“I prepared a Tracking Spell for the culprit. Can you find me a magic sample, Mr. Scartooth? I know the police couldn’t, but I trust your skills.”
I nod. “There’s a reason for that,” I say. “Psychics don’t leave any traces of magic in the surrounding area. All they do is work mind-to-mind. It’s a good thing they have limited range, or we’d be pretty screwed here.”
I walk over to the furthest footprint, tracing it from memory. “Martin stopped about here before attacking. The Psychic would have to be able to do two things – hear his last name from the conversation and strike eye contact with him. A glance would be good enough to implant the command. From the position of Martin’s last step, the Psychic would be…”
I turn.
“Over there.”
I point at the corner of Clothier Street, beside a lamppost. Darren sprints over, fingers flaring with blue light. There’s no time to lose. The traces might disappear any second.
As he makes his way over, I glance over at Chops. He’s fumbling for his cellphone, having recovered slightly.
“Raring to go, aren’t you, Chops? I didn’t know you were so popular.” Weakly, I try to make light of the situation.
He stops and looks at me. “I still have to inform their families, Scartooth. Martin left three children,” he says flatly.
“Oh.”
That shuts me up. I draw on my cigarette, feeling like an insensitive boor. The morning sun beats on my head like a relentless flame.
----
The moon shines pale on the warehouse of Brixton Heavy Machinery. The structure is huge and gray, with lifeless windows running all along its single-storey surface. There’s a black gate denying us entry, tall and spiked. It’s one of the older buildings in the industrial part of Riverton, and it shows. Not many new things are made of gray brick.
As Darren and I approach, I notice that the front door is firmly shut.
We move in silence. Under no circumstances are we to call each other by name. For all we know, Fox could have hijacked the security cameras. Or maybe he can lip-read. I don’t know.
Caxtcomb Fox. From what Darren told me, he escaped his asylum two months ago. He was sent there for refusal to co-operate with police, refusal to be excised of his magic and mass murder. A rather unusual Psychic, in that he wasn’t quite mad enough to stay put in his rubber room.
I heard about the arrest on television a few years back. I skipped over it because I had better things to do. Now, I find myself wishing I had paid more attention.
The plan’s simple. We rush in and find him, I disorientate him with a quick sensory burst, and then Darren rings him in flames. I’ve memorised the scent of his magic, so I should be able to track him. There’s only one major storage area in the warehouse past reception, which helps.
We both know that it won’t be so easy. If Fox gets any sort of opening (which he probably will), he’ll have his claws in our brains with a look. Darren’s trained to deal with it, and I have some sort of resistance from having a primal werewolf locked in there 24/7, but it’ll be an uphill battle every step of the way. Fourth-level is nothing to sniff at.
That’s not all. Psychokinesis should be trifling for him, which means we’ll have giant hunks of flying machinery to deal with. Even worse, we don’t know if he has anyone else under thrall, so there’s the possibility that he’ll just throw a few armed civilians at us and run for it.
All in all, we don’t have much of a plan. The odds are stacked against us. But if we don’t get him now, he’ll be somewhere else by morning, and there’ll be more people dead come daylight.
This is our only chance. I won’t let it slip away.
We walk up to the gate, and Darren looks at it. “Ignio,” he intones. The metal flares red, goes white-hot, and melts away like a candle.
Stepping gingerly past the waxlike blobs of twisted metal, we slip in.
Clearing the hundred meters between us and the door seems to take a lifetime. We walk, not run. He might be waiting for us. I glance over at the Inquisitor. He seems just as stressed as I am. His strides don’t have their usual confidence, and he seems to sink lower and lower with every step.
But he keeps his head up, and so do I.
I reach the door first.