October 2009.
A Crown Victoria slowed to a stop—black, no hubcaps.
A tow truck and a red Honda Accord.
Three police cars and a forensics truck.
Yellow crime tape.
A small crowd kept at bay by a stoic young officer.
“Full moon,” observed the driver of the Crown Vic. Hank Schwartz had been on the force for thirty some years and thought he'd seen it all. Perhaps he had. Thirty years on the force had destroyed his marriage, his liver and his belief in God.
His partner, David Fiddler—don't call him Dave, was a good-looking. ambitious young detective. He'd spent five years in uniform before getting into investigative work. As all partnerships go, sometimes they rubbed each other the wrong way. Hank drank—David didn't. Hank was homophobic and on his second marriage and second mistress. David was gay and in a long-term relationship. David was meticulous about his appearance and Hank, not so much. They were the quintessential odd couple, but they were a good team and they got things done.
A red Honda Accord was being hooked up to a tow truck.
“You don't believe all that full moon voodoo stuff, do you?” asked David.
Hank opened the car door. “All I know is, this place is bad news.”
* * *
Hank had been shot at twice in his years on the force and had seen some terrible things, but nothing could compare to that case thirty years ago. He was just a rookie cop and had responded to a call at this same location. At the time, the church had a large congregation and seemed to have a bright future but on that particular night everything changed. On a dare, some kids broke into the basement to party. Three boys and two girls. Apparently, one of the boys suddenly lost it and turned on his friends with a hunting knife. Each of the kids was stabbed multiple times—incredibly vicious. The attacker had once been an altar boy—Brody Jensen.
They had Jensen cornered in the basement. He wouldn't surrender so they opened up on him. He remembered the flashes of gunfire, the loud echoing shots and the blood. Brody was as dead as the proverbial door nail. Shot fifteen times.
One of the girls was barely alive. From her purse, he could see that she had been a pretty girl, but carved up in the fetal position, she was a mess. Her lungs had been punctured and she was breathing blood. To add to her misery, she had been raped repeatedly with a foreign object. Sadly, she didn't last long. That night haunted him, turned him to drink and a succession of useless shrinks. No amount of doctoring could help him fix what he saw that night or answer that one burning question. Why?
* * *
One of the younger male officers came out to meet them. He was barely shaving. He handed them a couple of masks. “Coroner's already in there.”
“Why the masks?” asked David.
“A lot of dead bats.”
“And human-wise, what do we have?” re-asked David.
“Three dead, two injured. Got an anonymous tip. Guy wouldn't leave his name.”.