Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 43912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 220(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 220(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
A grin establishes itself on my face as pure relief rushes through me. “About time!”
Chief snarls. “You’re pleased to be losing a case to the Feds?”
“Sure. This thing is a mess. There’s no material evidence that makes any sense, the eye witnesses are all unreliable, and somehow absolutely none of these murders have been caught on any one of the tens of thousands of security cameras in Brooklyn. The Feds have resources we don’t have. If this case is going to be solved, they’re going to be the ones who do it.”
Chief Connor looks at me with something close to actual loathing. “We used to solve crimes, detective. Maybe you’d prefer to be on beat patrol if trying to do that is too much for you, and you just want to hand it over to big brother at the FBI.”
This is about dick swinging and nothing more. Connor wants the collar to come out of the 89. Which is stupid, because nobody knows what department caught almost any criminal in the history of crime. It’s petty. And, in all likelihood, it’s about padding his resume for the inevitable shot at commissioner.
I don’t respond to him. He’s basically throwing an adult tantrum, and I’m not interested in entertaining that. I just stare at him, wordlessly, silently daring him to bust me down like he keeps threatening.
“Alright,” I say, after a solid minute of mutual awkwardness passes. “Well. I am going to go now. So.”
“I want this case solved before the Feds take it. You have three days.”
“Alright,” I repeat. I like the word alright. It could mean yes, could mean no, could mean, as it does in this case, go fuck yourself. “Let me get right on that.”
I go to my office and close the door, pull the blinds, and check out the crossword.
Tessie gets in a few hours later. Night has fallen and Obigor is already asleep. He doesn’t stir when she sets him in his little bed on her desk.
“Watch out, Chief’s pissed,” I say. Hopefully he’s gone home. It is common knowledge that he gets twitchy around this time of the month. Almost like he has a man period.
“Well, good news for you. On the way in we got a tip. A woman has called in claiming a mothman is lurking outside her apartment.”
“A mothman?”
“A man moth. A man who looks like a moth,” Tessie clarifies. “Matches the description of our suspect. I was going to send units, but seeing as you’re here…”
“Yeah, I’ll go check it out,” I sigh.
I head down to the address given. The woman lives in a third story walk-up, which makes it very unlikely that anybody is outside her window. This is Randy Carrot’s fault. Once she starts publishing her bullshit there’s a percentage of the population who start manifesting it in their minds.
“I saw him! I saw the mothman! I saw his beady red eyes and the blood dripping from his mouth. He was beating against my window with his wings.”
I am greeted by hysteria of the kind I do not enjoy. People freaking out because something bad has happened is fine. People freaking out because they’ve been mind-fucked by a tabloid rag is something else.
I have to make a show of taking the woman’s statement. It is consistent with the others, but that’s hardly surprising given that Randy Carrot’s story is sitting front and center of the tabloid she has clutched in her hand. She’s seeing what she’s been told to see.
“Keep your door and windows closed and locked,” I tell her. It’s a decent piece of advice anyway. May as well be security conscious. Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean someone can’t break in and steal your shit.
“Please,” she says. “Check the alley. I think he’s still there.”
“Alright, ma’am. I’ll check the alley.”
I check the alley, not expecting to see anything at all. I flash a light down there once or twice, expecting to maybe catch some rat eye shine. The shine I get back is much larger than a rat, and a lot higher up.
“The fuck?” I curse to myself. There’s more than eye shine. There’s a shadow that seems far too tall for my liking. There is someone down there. Someone being a real fucking asshole.
In addition to the people who start freaking out about the monsters in the tabloids, there’s another group of people who get off on mimicking the monsters, scaring the shit out of the suggestible and afraid.
“Hey!” I call out. “Legs!”
I’m not going to be buying into whatever attempted horror show is about to be on display. The shadow moves and turns and comes toward me.
The tallest man I ever arrested was six foot seven. This guy has at least two feet on that guy. He’s broad too. The shape of him seems odd.
This is the point where most officers would draw their weapon, but if by some bizarre chance this is a real encounter with a mothman, there’s very little chance that shooting him will solve the problem.