I got into my Ford F-150 pickup and sped down Blue Hill Avenue toward 40 Sudbury Street, where I worked. From Austin Street, where I lived, to my workplace was only ten miles. But in the morning there were terrible traffic jams, so it took me a full forty minutes to get there. The engine rattled as usual, and the truck kept pulling to the right. I’d been meaning to get it repaired for half a year, but there was never any time.

I had barely sat down at my desk when my boss, David Scott—nicknamed Goatface—called me in. I’d given him that nickname for his goat-like face and equally goat-like behavior. He was rude and constantly snapped at his subordinates.

“So, what did that fed sniff out? Are we in trouble?” the boss started without a greeting.

“Everything’s fine. The trouble’s not going to be here in the precinct. We’ve got nothing to do with it. I sold him on the idea that I needed information from Crookeddick on the Cupcake case. I told him Crookeddick was involved in the murder, so I sent an agent to him.”

“But how could Crookeddick have killed him if he’s in prison?” Goatface asked, baffled.

“That FBI guy didn’t go into details. I just sold him the version,” I chuckled, trying to sound convincing, though it came out forced.

“I didn’t understand a damn thing,” Goatface sighed. “Well, to hell with it. Shoot yourselves up with whatever you want, you devils… You won’t bend David Scott!’’ Goatface did his victory dance, shuffling his right foot behind his left and back again.

“Can I go now?” I was already bored.

“Go, go. And let the feds handle your partner’s case. Last time I’m telling you this! You’ve already caused enough trouble! By the way, it’s been two months since Hank Sullivan’s death. Time to pull yourself together. Now you’re working with Cherry Legspiss. Go meet her. And… no jokes about Black people.”

I went back to my desk and plopped into my chair. At a desk forming an “L” shape next to mine sat a short Black girl of about 25. She was clearly a rookie detective and shy. Her smooth, wrinkle-free face was pleasant, and she smelled of berry jam and chocolate. A yogurt sat on her desk.

“Hi. We’ll be working together. The boss told me I’d be working with Cherry. But here I see Blurry…” I laughed. I don’t know if Cherry took my words as flirting, but I was trying to make a good impression.

Cherry blushed. Another five seconds and she’d have started crying. So I defused it:

“Don’t worry, it’s fine. I was joking. Cherry lives matter. And I’m not racist, so we’ll work well together. Besides, you’re not ugly.” In short, I’d just said enough to get fired without severance pay.

Under other circumstances, I’d never have said that, but right now the FBI had my back, so I could afford it. Plus, I needed to establish who was in charge here right from the start—take the bull by the horns, so to speak.

While I was musing, Goatface burst in looking rattled.

“We’ve got an emergency. Triple murder in Boston. Here’s the address—get over there and handle it.”

The paper read: Malibu Beach.

“Well, Cherry, let’s ride! We’ll take your car. Mine’s all squeaky and muddy,” I said, standing and offering my hand. She didn’t take it, just stood up silently, grabbing her yogurt.

“Sugar’s bad for you. So’s salt,” I said as I headed for the exit.

We flipped on the siren and, despite the traffic, made it to the beach quickly. Police cars were already there. Onlookers stood at a distance, filming with their phones.

At the beach entrance stood a uniformed officer. I flashed my badge and asked,

“What happened here, officer?”

“Young people killed. A guy and two girls, about nineteen. Knife wounds,” the officer reported flatly.

“I hope no one’s touched anything. Keep everyone out. The forensics team and photographer will be here soon,” I said, heading toward the crime scene, gesturing for my partner to follow.

The sight before us was grim. On the sand lay a guy in swim trunks and two girls in bikinis. Each had multiple stab wounds to the neck and chest. The sand around them was crimson. The bodies lay close together, just a couple of meters apart, in unnatural positions. Nearby was a neatly folded pile of clothes.

“Well, Cherry, your theories. What do you see?” I asked, giving her a chance to shine.

“Well, it’s a murder. No weapon here, likely one perpetrator. I can tell from the footprints in the sand—only one person ran away from the scene,” Cherry observed smartly.

“Good. Now here’s a stumper—why are the bodies so close together? Let’s say the killer was alone. He stabs one victim. Why didn’t the others run?”

“Hmm, maybe they were drunk. I see beer bottles…” Cherry said.

“Maybe. Or maybe the killer was one of their group and took them out all at once. Then, after wounding each, finished them off.”

“So it’s a planned killing, not spontaneous? And the killer knew the victims? Maybe they were students and the killer a classmate,” Cherry suggested.

“Most likely. This wasn’t a robbery—nothing’s scattered. And the killer’s white,” I said.

“Why?” Cherry didn’t like that one bit. She was one of those Black folks who hated any mention of skin color.

“Because the victims are white. Unlikely they were close friends with a Black guy. That only happens in movies.”

“But I’m Black!” Cherry exclaimed.

“And are we friends?” I said, giving her a look like she was an idiot.

I put on gloves and searched the victims’ pockets. As I suspected, they were classmates—that much was clear from their IDs.

“Well, Cherry, let’s head to Fisher College. Beacon Street,” I said. We were done here.

“What about forensics?” she asked.

“We don’t need forensics. We’ll have the case wrapped up by evening. Let’s roll!” I photographed the IDs and walked off, Cherry hesitating a moment before following.

On the way to the college, I called ahead and spoke with the dean, a woman who assured me the victims’ classmates would be ready for questioning by the time we arrived.

The dean met us at the door—a large Black woman of about fifty with plump lips and a huge backside.

“Hello, Miss Perthington…” I greeted her. “We spoke on the phone.”

“Good afternoon. Such a tragedy… The students are in the lecture hall. But you understand that…” she trailed off.

“We just need to clarify some details. We’re not accusing anyone.”

I winked at Cherry to let her know everyone was a suspect.

The large lecture hall, decorated with portraits of unknown men in stiff suits, was depressing. It smelled like old shoes. About fifty students sat slouched in their chairs, staring at their phones.

“Hello,” I began. “Here’s the thing. Jimmy Lungova, Berry Kontova, and Snetta Kushka have been murdered.” I read their names from my phone. “I know you knew them, liked them, maybe were friends. But we need to find the killers. And the easiest way is while the trail’s still hot. I have one small request.” I paused.

“With me today is well-known psychologist Cherry… Cherry Campus. Don’t let her youth fool you—she’s from the FBI. She’s going to determine whether the killer is among you. Remember, this is an investigation, and you’re all suspects. Now, do exactly as I say. I’m going to count to five, and on five, raise your right hand. Cherry will instantly spot the killer with her method. Ready? One… two… three…”

On “three,” a huge guy, built like a boar, bolted from the room. Cherry and I had to give chase. The bastard was fast, and within thirty seconds we were sprinting down Beacon Street after him. Cherry kept up, and I drew my revolver, emptying the cylinder into his legs. I hit him—he tumbled and crashed into a trash can.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Cherry yelled.

I didn’t care—the feds had my back. Plus, I wanted to know for sure whether the rounds in my gun were blanks or live.

I ran up to the bleeding guy. “Police! Why’d you kill your classmates, you bastard?” I shouted.

Back at the precinct, Goatface wasn’t pleased.

“What the hell are you doing, Jerry? I’d rather you screwed me than pulled that stunt,” he snarled.

“It’s just a couple of scratches. He lunged at a passerby—I was justified in using my weapon,” I said.

“It’s true,” Cherry added.

She was starting to grow on me. She must have realized she’d be working with me for a while and wanted to earn my goodwill.

“He knifed three people on the beach. We’ll go question him at the hospital,” I said.

“You’re not going anywhere. It’s a cold case now—Phil Sanchez is dead. You didn’t just hit his leg—you hit his liver. Hospital just called…” Goatface wasn’t doing his victory dance.

“Goddammit…” I spat on the floor.

“Watch where you spit, asshole! The judge signed a search warrant for his house. The team’s on their way. You stay here. Cherry goes alone. Sit tight and keep quiet. Now get out,” Goatface waved me off like he was airing out the room.

At five p.m., Cherry called. In Phil’s trash can they’d found bloody clothes. In his dishwasher—a bloody knife. There were also faint blood traces on his car seat and steering wheel. Everything pointed to Phil being the killer. Forensics would confirm it, but the case was essentially closed.

Five minutes later my boss came in cheerful, carrying a bottle of cheap whiskey and two dirty glasses.

“Jerry Harrison, you can’t drink,” I heard a male voice in my earpiece—it wasn’t my usual operator.

“Why not? I can…” I muttered.

Wait… how the hell did they know? Whatever.

“You can’t—it’s contraindicated for you. You’re infected,” the voice said.

“I’ll just have a sip,” I whispered.

“Who you talking to?” Goatface asked, pouring the piss-colored whiskey into the glasses.

“Just my earpiece,” I waved him off.

“Anyway, nice job with that stunt at the college. Cherry told me about it,” Goatface said, sniffing his glass.

“Oh, that Cherry! She’s got a nice ass,” I said, lifting the glass.

“Don’t drink—it’s dangerous!” came through my earpiece.

I downed it in one go and poured another. Screw it all.

“That’s enough—we’ve got work to do,” Goatface said, taking the bottle and glasses away.

As soon as he left, I felt nauseous. I ran to the bathroom, and as I bent over the toilet, a stream of vomit came out. When I looked down, I froze—in the water floated chunks of flesh. Like I’d been eating human meat.

“Jerry Harrison, it’s okay,” came in my ear.

“You filthy bastards… okay?! Where did this come from… damn it! You’ve been feeding me human meat, haven’t you?!” I shouted.

“Jerry, it’s Cocksucker,” came the familiar voice. “I’m parked outside your work. Come out, I’ll take you home and explain everything. My guys will bring your truck to your house tonight.”

“Fine. But this time, don’t hide anything. No more surprises.”

Cocksucker waited in his pickup. I opened the passenger door, and without turning his head, he said,

“Get in, Jerry. I’ll tell you everything on the way to your place.”

“Go ahead,” I said, closing the door.

“When’s the last time you ate?” he asked.

I thought about it. Since the werewolf attack, I hadn’t eaten or drunk a thing—except for that sip of whiskey today and a couple sips of beer at Brenda’s with her twins.

“Thing is, two or three days after transforming, a person can’t eat anything but human flesh and blood. Everything else gets rejected. You can sip some water, but it’s tough to keep down. Food, soda, alcohol—it’s all off-limits. You saw that yourself today,” he said, pulling into traffic.

“So you’re going to feed me human meat at night, right?” I snapped.

“Right. But we didn’t kill anyone last night. And you didn’t either. We just dropped fresh corpse meat through the ceiling hatch. Didn’t kill anyone just for that, but yeah—it was fresh.”

“Bet you tossed me some poor bastard and then burned the car…” I glared at the right side of his face—he still hadn’t turned his head.

“Oh, the accident? Yeah, that was us. But that was the guy you killed in the park on your third night. Look at the hatch in your cell—too small for a live person. But you need to eat to stay strong.”

Of course, I didn’t believe a word. I was starting to suspect he was playing me. His stories needed to be divided by ten or multiplied by a hundred. Still, since I hadn’t eaten since transforming, whoever they were feeding me didn’t matter—it was on the FBI’s conscience now.

“Alright, Cocksucker… what’s your real name?” I asked.

“Doesn’t matter. Call me Cook if you want.” He wasn’t smiling—but he did sound like he was enjoying the game.

“Okay, Cook… sucker… Fine, you’re right. Let’s keep working. Today was productive. But Crookeddick still hasn’t contacted me.”

“What about Cherry?” he asked, his tone steely.

“Her? She’s a shrimp… no way she’s a gangster. Just a little squirt,” I said, though I didn’t quite believe myself.

“Or maybe she wants you to think that. While you were running around with her, we searched her house. Found something.”

“She’s Crookeddick’s illegitimate daughter?” I laughed.

“No idea—we’re still digging. But it looks like she’s got a contract on you—after the money. We found $100,000 in her couch. And that’s not all, Jerry.” He fell silent.

We pulled up to my house.

“Open the glovebox,” he said.

Inside was a box of bullets.

“Silver rounds—probably meant for you. We found them at her place.”

“You arrest her? Question her?” I asked, not liking this conversation.

“No, we’ll keep watching. Don’t worry—we swapped them for regular rounds, and we’ll replace the ones in her gun tonight when she’s asleep.”

“What if she wakes up?” I asked, palming one bullet before putting the rest back.

“She won’t… she won’t.”

“Cook, you’re one clever bastard—always thinking ahead. But why haven’t you figured out this werewolf thing yet? I’m 99% sure it’s the Chinese getting back at us for COVID… Wait, no—if the killings started twelve years ago and COVID was two years ago, then not the Chinese… maybe the Russians? Revenge for the fall of the USSR?” I said with a smirk.

“If only it were that simple, Jerry. Like I told you—it’s some kind of virus. But not a virus. Some weird shit. And as for China—they’ve got a full-blown werewolf epidemic. According to our data, their entire leadership is turned.”

“And in our government?” I asked quietly.

“Well… I can’t tell you. But since we trust each other, I’ll share a secret. Our president is a werewolf.”

“Knew it! I knew it!” I exclaimed.

“Don’t worry—we’ve got it under control. At night he’s locked in a cell. But imagine if the press found out the President of the United States eats human flesh every night—that’d be a scandal!” Cook turned to me and smiled. I stared, jaw dropped.

“God save us… He can barely walk and he’s got dementia…”

“Yeah, that’s why we feed him dead babies—they’re softer,” Cook said. It sounded like a sick joke—but he was serious.

I got out, shut the door, went inside, and sat on the couch, holding my head and thinking hard. I sat like that for half an hour. Outside, dusk was falling, and as the sun set, the operator reminded me it was time to head to the cell.

Every day I learned something new… But the news about the President—God, what kind of country is this?!