Alpha Micah Black: Werewolf Detective (Complete)

Chapter Fourteen

Ze'ev slowly inches his way toward another area and barks to get Hanna's attention. Hanna knowing Ze'ev's quirks follows him to the area in question. Roughly about one hundred feet from the den's entrance is a massive wolf's paw print. Too close for comfort for the pack. Hanna remembering the mangy one quickly looks for any evidence if it was it. No signs of reddish-brown tufts of fur. Thank the Moon. That would have been devastating to Ze'ev's pack.

Just like I did with the one at the crime scene, Hanna quickly makes the print “disappear”. She uses fallen branches to scratch over the print, then she moved a small fallen tree over top of it. A supposed “werewolf” sighting will put the pack at severe risk. Don't need that.

“Okay, Ze'ev. It's ready for you to scent mark it again,” Hanna tells the wolf.

She finishes gathering up the full cards and replaces them with the empty ones. She also has a rotating system for her own cameras. The further ones will be switched out at another time. She doesn't have time now to retrieve them, thanks to the intruder. Hanna makes haste out of Ze'ev's territory and back toward the running trail. Using a zigzag pattern so no one will know which direction she came from, Hanna hefts her backpack that holds the memory cards toward her Corolla. She gets in it and drives back to her lonely hovel to get ready for work.

Current time—Wolfdale City Chronicler

When Cassidy and I walk into the massive glass-sided building, ironic I know, we get bombarded by a mob of over-eager reporters.

“What can you tell us about the kidnappings?” one shouted out.

“What about the 9-1-1 calls? Are there Werewolves roaming about?” another belted out in our direction.

“No comment. No comment. No comment,” Cass snapped back at them as we make our way into the elevator. Legally we can not disclose any information regarding active cases. They know this. I do, however, resemble that last question, but I'm not saying a single thing. Wink.

“Nothing like being ambushed by rabid reporters before lunch?” I chuckled. “You good on your shots?”

“Always a smart-ass, Mike,” Cass whispered shaking her head.

With the onslaught we received downstairs, it makes me wonder what kind of meeting we're walking into with Lester Sims.

Meanwhile...

Back at the forensics lab, the minions, (cough), I mean the scientists are busy analyzing and sorting everything. The bag, that I picked up off of the floor, contained a fraternity ring made from sterling silver. That would be why it was a little weighty. On it and embedded within the crown are traces of blood and skin flakes. At least our victim was able to get one good hit to his assailant. The beginning of a good lead, hopefully.

The hairs peeled off his clothing using a tape roll were analyzed. Three different types are discovered—short black, strands of purple-dyed, and reddish-brown clumps. (Yeah, those same kinds.) They also discovered the mange mites. Yay, minions! What can I say? Old habits die hard.

Across town...

Cass and I step off of the elevator into morning madness. Phones ringing. Co-workers yell at each other about meeting their deadlines. Gossip between co-workers engaging at the water cooler. Huh, different occupation, same s**t.

We maneuver our way through the maze of desks to the secluded office at the far end of the floor. The office is similar to Captain Carlton Winston's. Several large windows sit above the wooden partition separated by a wooden door with a large window within it. All the windows including the door have blinds hanging from the interior. On the door's window is painted “Lester Sims Editor-in-Chief” in large block lettering painted in black with a golden shadow behind each letter. Fancy. The only sign that Captain Winston has is a generic double-sided one that reads “Captain” nailed to the top of the door frame.

Before we manage to reach Mr. Sims' office door, his secretary or administrative assistant, as her desk nameplate implies (cue the eye roll), stops us to find out who we are and what we want with her boss.

“Excuse me, may I help you,” she snapped harshly at us.

“I'm Officer Cassidy Peterson, and this is my partner Sergeant Detective Micah Black. I phoned earlier to set up an interview with Mr. Sims,” Cass quickly replied knowing that I would botch everything up if I opened my mouth first.

“Peterson? Oh, yes. Now I remember,” the assistant recalled. “I'll notify Mr. Sims of your arrival,” she stated pointing to a couple of chairs in front of the office.

We politely made our way over to the uncomfortable-looking chairs and took our seats. This is going to be a fun wait. I do loosen my tie a little. With my heightened hearing, I hear a gruff voice talking on the phone, but I cannot figure out what is being said. Lester Sims does, however, seem to be in a foul mood this morning. A loud band is heard from behind the glass walls. Ah, the satisfaction of slamming a landline.

And with that, Mr. Sims' assistant gestures to us to the office, where we see a frazzled-looking late 50-year-old gentleman fumbling with papers on his disheveled desk. Mr. Sims stares us down through his reading glasses hanging off of his nose bridge. Definitely getting J. Jonas Jameson vibes from the guy.

“Who the hell are you?” he growled at us.

His assistant, doing her best to defuse her boss' temper, informed him, “These are the detectives from the police department I told you about.”

We showed him both of our badges. Mine hanging from my belt and Cass choosing the neck chain. The look he gave us at seeing the badges was that if he was chewing gum, he had swallowed it for sure.

“Ha-erm,” he coughed trying to gain his composure. “Right, right. Please, come in. Sit down,” he gestures toward two more uncomfortable-looking chairs. At least they're consistent in keeping their guests uncomfortable. We reluctantly take our seats across from him.

“So, what brings Wolfdale City's finest to my office?” he questioned in a sarcastic tone. Here we go.

“We're here looking for information on Peter Bryant. We were informed by his brother Patrick that he's been recently hired here,” Cass stated matter-a-factually.

“Peter Bryant? Who the hell is Peter Bryant?!” Mr. Sims yelled out to his assistant. “Contact HR and get his employee file, if he has one.”

“Yes, Mr. Sims. I'm contacting them now, Sir,” she said, fumbling with the phone.