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Johanssen and I had farted around the burnt up alleyways for about a total of fifteen minutes before getting bored. Then we had retreated to the corner of the block for a smoke (electric cigar) and a sip of warm beer. I had an entire rack wasting away in my Sedan’s trunk. For the proper amount of authenticity, I had stuffed the beer bottle in a brown paper bag. We looked like a couple of teenagers, loitering around with cigars and poorly disguised alcoholic beverages. I was raising Johanssen in all the wrong ways.

I took a long suck of my electric cigar. The taste was dissatisfying. I missed my real cigarettes, but I was trying to cut out smoking all together. I had decided I would regret the day when my lungs shriveled up and collapsed. So now, I opted for nasty tasting e-cigars and long anti-climactic nights out drinking. Here I come, liver failure.

“Detective.” I heard a voice somewhere in the distance. It would have been just barely perceptible to human ears. [i]I[/i] (the werewolf) heard it as though the speaker were ten feet away from me. 

“Detective!” A repetition, accompanied by a tone of relief. Whoever was looking for me had finally spotted us. The alacrity with which Johassen concealed her beer bottle was astounding. I nearly teared up. When the time came, she would do me proud. 

The cop that had approached us was a young, neat man. I didn’t remember his name, but I remembered asking him to inform us as soon as anything new came up. He was [i]really[/i] a young guy; couldn’t have been more than twenty one. He eyed Johanssen, in part with admiration (what with her good looks), and in another part with suspicion (what a weird paper bag), to which she sneered at him, and his jaw jutted out defensively. Johanssen was being feisty, and, as it turned out, our dainty cop wasn’t as much of a pansy as his appearance suggested he was. 

[color=0076a3]“Kids,”[/color] I said, waving a hand between them, trying as I may to disperse the tension with the breeze from my gesturing. Johanssen waited for him to back off first, and I wondered when she had gotten this confrontational. He smoothed his hair back, ignored her, and turned his full attention to me. Johanssen relaxed a little, retreating to our crime fighting mobile to hide any incriminating evidence of intoxication. 

She arrived back just in time to hear our little exchange. 

“Detective Amelio,” I was getting tired of hearing the word ‘detective,’ “Gomez found a witness in the back alleyways. I thought I should let you know. They went to check it…erm…her out.”

I blinked at him once, long and slow. If I wasn’t mistaken, we’d specifically asked to be informed [i]promptly[/i] of any new findings. “They” implied that we had not been the first ones reported too. The cop seemed to get the gist of his mistake. He scowled sheepishly at the ground, having trouble meeting my eyes. 

[color=0076a3]“Who’s they?”[/color] I asked, blowing watery smoke into his face.

“Gomez and Holton...W-well, no,” He stuttered, “Gomez found the bum. Holton went to go check on her.” He was looking regretful, sheepish, and intimidated all at once. 

[color=6ecff6]“Idiot,”[/color] Johanssen murmured under her breath, so low that any normal human would have missed it, our young guy included. But I didn’t. I smirked.

Gomez. I didn’t know who Gomez was. I’m not ashamed to admit, I don’t know most of the force’s names, aside from myself and my dear Johanssen. Everyone else is kind of a blur. And yes, it has come to my attention that our constant ostracizing of the force (usually insisted upon by me), has caused the lack of familiarity. Johanssen’s already told me a million times. But, what can I say? I like when its just the two of us working on a case. The dynamic [i]duo[/i].  

Holton was a name I knew. [i]He[/i] was pretty unforgettable among the SSPD. There wasn’t a man (or woman) on the force who didn’t know his face. Or, whatever was left of it anyway. Which constituted what I thought seemed to be a finely polished ivory white skull. That was as much as I knew about him. So I had to hope that would he do his job swimmingly.  

Since now was not the time for unnecessary conflict, I let the cop’s mistake pass. After all, everyone makes mistakes, and I’m no saint. It was good someone would be with her, securing her. She would be one of our only remaining witnesses. Others, alive and even mangled, had dispersed from any crime scenes, unwillingly to intermingle with the SSPD. I didn’t blame them. 

We made our way back to the alleys, Johanssen trotting on my heels like a loyal crime fighting German Shepherd Dog. Or an aggressive attack dog. A Rotty, maybe? At this point, I wasn’t sure which one she was. (I took note of the fact that I was being stereotypical about my four legged cousins.) 

When we reached the woman, she was in a state of delirium. She kept screeching on about the Grim Reaper, which told the three of us that Holton had probably passed on by. Passed on. He was nowhere to be found, at least not near her.

What should have keyed me onto his location was the unbearable grating of a dumpster lid screeching open nearby. But I ignored it in favor of studying the temporary insanity Runez can cause in someone. 

We left the young cop behind with the bum. He was trying his very best to calm her, using his pretty boy charms to fool her into thinking an angel had come to rescue her. Holton hadn’t gone far. His scent was still fresh in the air. I followed it, trying to make it look like I was wandering aimlessly, looking for clues. It was a farce, so Johanssen wouldn’t suspect that my senses were more than natural. To be honest, I was sure she had already divulged the fact that I was not normal. But, to what extent, I had no clue

We followed the trail to that dumpster I mentioned earlier.The sight we found was not a pretty one.

[color=6ecff6]“Aww man,”[/color] Johanssen breathed, looking morose.

A goblin, splayed out and bloodied. The corpse had been ravaged, [i]perhaps[/i] by the works of hands (read: paws) like mine. The cuts seemed too fine to correlate with the jagged blows of a raging werewolf. But, while it had certainly been sliced and diced in all sorts of unique ways, it was the bullet hole in the middle of its forehead that stood out from the rest of the damage. This was killing blow. 

Somewhat reluctantly, Johanssen whipped out a pair of latex gloves and began digging through the goblin’s pockets. I pulled on a pair of my own and began ambling around, searching the walls and ground, not just with my eyes, but with my nose too.

The red brick wall behind the dumpster had been painted dully with tidbits of brain and broken skull fragments. 

It took me a little while, but I finally found what Holton had found and chosen to the discard. A business card, imprinted with the face of a tiger. I was vaguely familiar with it, though not interested in the least bit with dealing with it. If you hadn’t guessed by my fascination with the bum, drugs, specifically Runez, was not my specialty. By that extension, I rarely dealt with the Reapers, or their little success story, “the Predator.” From what little I understand, she’s some kind of Reaper, Runez-junkie, prodigy. They’ve probably caused problems for the SSPD before (probably in this context means definitely.) For the most part, I’ve dropped my cases on them. We don’t have the power behind us to fight them successfully. 

[i]But[/i], unfortunately, this is situation is different. I can’t fathom why, but the card as our only piece of evidence thus far suggested that the Reapers were behind last night’s massacre. A city wide massacre. Which means, out of the good of my heart, I should at least follow up on this one lead. 

Come to think of it, this was Holton’s fault. Yeah. Good excuse. I would hunt that bastard down and help him to the extent that he was willing to go. You know, before I decided it was a lost cause and abandoned him. 

[color=6ecff6]"What's that?"[/color] I nearly jumped out of my skin. Johanssen stood behind me, eyebrows raised in the image of curiosity. 

[color=0076a3]"I'll tell you later. It's no big deal. A business card for a low class drug dealer,"[/color] I lied, [color=0076a3]"But I want to talk to Holton about it. I need to know why he didn't report it."[/color]

I wanted to lie to her, protect her. I couldn't have my "heir" so to speak, engaging with the Reapers. These moments are included among some of the many times I've considered turning Johanssen. Into a werewolf, I mean. For her safety. She's like my over sized kid, for crying out loud. And I can't be sure what I'll do if something happens to her, especially if its because of me. I'll send her home. Me and the bonehead could suffer by ourselves in our little supernatural corner of self-pity, once we had gotten a good beating from those Runez injected freaks. Her life just wasn’t worth the Reapers.   

I sniffed the card as indiscriminately as possible, passing it close to my face to make it look like I was scrutinizing the picture. It was thick with the scent of our ripped up golbin, but also layered with another’s smell. Female, young, closer to my age than Johanssen’s, and most likely our perp. What I assumed to be Holton’s scent perfumed the rest of the card lightly.

We followed his trail, finding him in a flurry of news reporters to whom he was ignoring. 

[color=0076a3]“Holton!”[/color] I shouted before he disappeared again, loping with my long legs to catch up with him. I grabbed him by his arm, momentarily thrown off by the fact that I was mostly grabbing air. I loosened my grip, unreasonably afraid I would break his arm. 

Lowering my voice, I raised my hand just barely to reveal the card laid flat in my palm.

[color=0076a3]"I think we should talk about this."[/color]