A crescent moon hovered over the drab, desolate street corner, peeking in and out of the clouds. Grime and soot coated the graffiti-laced brick and stone walls of the industrialized suburb as smokestacks billowed distantly into the night. Streetlamps pierced through the polluted air, illuminating the sullied sidewalk in a dull, hazy light. A weathered bus stop stood next to an overflowing waste basket, while a tattered poster with blotches of mold advertised the local law firm of ‘Ryan and Hodges.’

Across the dilapidated asphalt road, a small row of police cruisers and an ambulance were parked just beyond a line of police tape— preventing anyone from entering a prohibition-era pub. Between the vehicles, a paramedic conversed with a fellow first responder. Meanwhile, a second police officer jotted something down on a notepad as she took the statement of a victim sitting in the back of the ambulance. Shattered glass speckled the sidewalk below a faded red sign that read, ‘The Dean Street Bar.’

Inside, the room was bathed in an auburn light cascading down from the low ceiling. Remnant smells of cigarette smoke hung in the air above broken tables, turned over in desperation. A bevy of bullet holes littered the far brick wall—cracking the glass of a few picture frames and damaging some sports memorabilia displays. The bartender was slumped lifelessly up against the bar, a thick layer of red pooling atop the counter as more blood and spilled alcohol stained the old, creaky floor. Yellow number cards were placed alongside the evidence, including three white tarps covering humanoid lumps on the ground. Investigators stood around snapping pictures of the crime scene.

A man in a lightweight black jacket stood a foot away from the police line with his arms crossed over his chest. He had light brown hair and some stubble, his brown eyes studiously absorbed the pub in front of him, wandering over every last shard of glass on the ground as his mind painted a recreation of the crime. A soft, almost hollow gust of wind blew down the street, carrying an empty paper bag with it, while the scattering, inauspicious melody of some nearby windchimes filled the void. The police officer exchanged a few last words and a nod with the victim before closing her notepad and shifting her gaze.

“Greg?” she asked, noticing the man. The police officer brushed a strand of brown hair out of her blue eyes before walking over.

“Hey Stacy,” Greg Brostead acknowledged, unraveling his crossed arms and extending his hand.

“Thanks for making the trip,” Stacy Miller nodded, shaking his hand before lifting the police tape. “This one’s a dozy.”

“Can’t be any worse than the Cunningham case,” Brostead retorted, ducking under the perimeter and entering the crime scene.

“Well,” Miller responded forebodingly as she led Brostead into the pub. “Around nine thirty, two men opened fire on the bar, killing four.”

“How many shooters were there?” Brostead asked.

“We don’t know,” Miller admitted. “No one heard anything, nor did anyone see anybody enter the bar before the shooting.” Brostead gritted his teeth as he mentally sifted through the evidence.

“Who’s the lady in the back of the ambulance?” He inquired.

“Emily Schneider,” Miller replied. “She was with her husband at the table over there. She stepped out to use the bathroom just prior to the shooting. She says she heard shouting before it happened.”

“There were only five inside?” Brostead questioned, his eyes wandering over the bartender’s corpse and the bloodstained counter. He casually drifted over the scene, extrapolating minute details others would find unimportant or inconsequential. Beyond the broad blotches of red and the unfinished drinks, shelves of varying liquors remained relatively intact and untouched from the surrounding carnage.

“So far as we can tell, yes,” Miller confirmed.

“Even if he was leaning up on the bar at the time of the shooting, the blood splatter from the body doesn’t match the trajectory of the bullets.” Brostead theorized to himself. “…And the streaks on the counter aren’t consistent either.”Past the plethora of bullet holes, he subconsciously noted a deeper set of gashes, roughly the size of a human mouth, buried underneath the frayed flesh along the shoulder. Brostead eyed some punctures along the side of the counter before stooping down to examine a casing on the floor.

“Hmm…You said it was a shooting?” Brostead asked aloud.

“Yes, why?” Miller answered. The casing, which had landed underneath a chair, sat multiple feet from the front door of the pub.

“And now, why would they shoot out the windows from inside the bar?” Brostead asked himself, noticing that much of the glass had fallen on the sidewalk outside.

“Whoever did this knew what they were doing, but I still see some discrepancies,” Brostead answered Miller. “Mind if I see one of the bodies?” Miller surveyed the room, noticing that the other investigators were preoccupied with some blood splatter against the wall behind the bar.

“If anyone asks, I said ‘no,’” she warned, carefully walking through the crime scene toward the closest casualty. She put on a pair of gloves and pulled the tarp away from the body as Brostead reached into his pocket and slipped on some gloves of his own. Mindful of the blood and alcohol on the floor, he strolled over and knelt down beside the corpse.

“What did your M.E. have to say?” Brostead wondered aloud. The body in front of Brostead lay unnervingly still with a pale face and a listless look in its open eyes; bullet wounds had torn through the corpse’s upper torso, leaving large, ravaged puncture holes scattered over the shoulders and chest.

“Nothing I couldn’t figure out on my own,” Miller admitted. “Norm thinks whoever did it used frangible bullets.”

“Did you catch them?” Brostead asked, his stare concentrating on the body’s left shoulder—dark red blood had seeped from the fragmented lesions, as if a paper shredder had gnawed on the withering skin.

“No,” Miller informed. “We have an A.P.B. out, but there were no witnesses—and Ms. Schneider was in the bathroom.”

“Any security cameras?” Brostead asked.

“In this part of town?” Miller asked skeptically. “Tim’s getting a warrant for an A.T.M. across the street, but I doubt we’ll get anything definitive.”

“Hmmm…” Brostead grimaced, glancing up at the far wall, before turning to appraise the toppled tables with a suspicious, almost apprehensive look in his eye. “Did Norm determine the cause of death?”

“He said the victims bled out,” Miller supplied. “Why?”

“No reported noises before the gunfire, no one saw anyone enter, bite marks on their shoulders, mob-like tactics with a staged crime scene…don’t even tell me,”Brostead thought to himself, swiveling his head down to the corpse’s face. With his gloved hand, he carefully pulled the upper lip toward the nose, revealing the body’s yellowing teeth and fangs.

“What the hell!?” Miller blurted.

“Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool…” Brostead mentally muttered, puffing his cheeks out in an exasperated exhale as the scope of his investigation was turned on its head.

“I’m assuming from that reaction, Norm didn’t mention this?” He asked his companion.

“He said one of the victims had ‘extended canine teeth,’” Miller admitted. “I didn’t think he meant freakin’ fangs!” Brostead pursed his lips miserably.  

“There’s a gang I’ve been investigating. They surgically implant these things as an alternative to tattoos,” he lied.

“And you think they gunned down one of their own?” Miller questioned.

“That’s what it looks like to me,” Brostead confirmed. “It’s not who we thought it might be, I’ll tell you that much.”

“What do they call themselves?” Miller asked. Brostead straightened himself up off the floor.

“Let me check in with some people I know,” he subtly dodged the question. “They’re more closely involved with everything.”

“Ok,” Miller nodded agreeably. “But if it is gang-related, don’t leave me in the dark.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Brostead assuaged, looking over at the other two tarps on the floor. “What about the others?”

“You mean as far as their teeth?” Miller specified. “Norm said one of them has dentures. Didn’t say anything about the other two.” Brostead nodded.

“I’d like to speak with Ms. Schneider if that’s ok,” he advised. “ I’d like to know more about her husband.”

“She’s still shaken up about everything,” cautioned Miller, leading Brostead toward the ambulance, deliberately maneuvering around the spread of evidence in the process. Along the way, Brostead patted his pant pocket. He momentarily panicked until he remembered that what he was looking for was in his jacket. Brostead fished his phone from his coat and texted a quick code phrase to someone listed as ‘Edith’ in the app:

“The ophthalmologist lost the game of roulette, and the snowman walks at midnight…I feel confident saying Monica was involved.”

“On our way,” Edith promptly messaged back before Brostead slipped his device back into the folds of his jacket. He followed Miller out of the open door over to the victim.

“Ms. Schneider?” Miller asked. Emily Schneider sat, with a blanket draped over her shoulders, staring down at her lap.

“Officer Miller?” Schneider asked, picking her head up.

“This is Gregory Brostead. He’s a private investigator,” Miller introduced the two. “He’d like to ask you some questions.” A quizzical expression crossed the victim’s face.

“You don’t have your own investigators?” Schneider asked.

“He’s a friend,” Miller explained. “I like to get his opinion from time to time.”

“Oh, ok,” Schneider replied, only slightly convinced.

“I’m going to go check up on Tim,” Miller reported, turning toward the private investigator. “Get me if you find anything.”

“Will do,” Brostead acknowledged. Miller walked away as the private investigator turned to Schneider. He noted her solemn brown eyes and black hair, bloodied hands, and her tear-stained, grimly pale face. “I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. Schneider. I just have a few questions, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Ok,” Schneider lisped.

“What did your husband do for a living?” Brostead asked.

“He, he was in insurance,” Schneider answered. The private investigator nodded.

“Did you know anyone else in the bar?” He asked.

“N-no,” Schneider shook her head. “The other two were sitting down when we walked in. And the bartender was behind the bar.”

“And you didn’t see any of what happened?” Brostead asked, swiveling his head to the specks of glass dusting the dreary sidewalk.

“No,” Schneider replied, stifling a sob. “I heard a bunch of shouting right before the gunshots went off! Lots of them. And then nothing. When I came out….When I came out of the bathroom, they were all dead.” Brostead somberly grimaced.

“Did your husband have any enemies?” He asked.

“No! Everyone loved Cal. And he went above and beyond for all of his clients,” Schneider explained. “Why would you ask that?”

“I’m trying to rule out a random act of violence,” Brostead answered. Schneider clenched her jaw slightly.

“…Is it, do you think it’s possible one of the others in the bar was targeted, and Cal was…” She suggested.

“That’s always a possibility, but…” Brostead started, before looking over his shoulder. “How long has it been?”

“I-I…I don’t understand,” Schneider asserted. Brostead subconsciously noted her eyes betraying a sense of terrorizing familiarity.

“Ms. Schneider,” the private investigator calmly rebuked. “As it stands, a lot of ammunition was used to murder your husband and the three others in the room with him. Given their position inside the pub and the damage on the far wall, the tables should have bullet holes in them as well. But they don’t. Whoever did this was here for blood, and they used frangible bullets to cover up the bite marks.” Schneider slumped her shoulders and sank her head into her palms.

“… Our whole lives. We were born into it,” she finally revealed. “What do these purists want with us? With anyone really!?”The private investigator sympathetically pressed his lips together, staring down at his shoes while he contemplated his next words.

“I don’t know,” he aguishly answered.

“They’re coming for me next,” Schneider wallowed. “Aren’t they?” Brostead exhaled with a deep, regretful huff.

“We’re going to find who did this,” he finally promised.

“…But you’re all mortal,” Schneider whimpered.

“Ms. Schneider,” Brostead gently corrected. “I’m not talking about the police.”

Schneider blinked, a shiver running up her spine. The air turned frigid as another soft, hollow gust of wind ferried the crooked refrain of the wind chimes back down the road. Out of the corner of her swollen, teary eyes, Schneider could have sworn she saw one of the streetlamps flicker.

“You…” she stuttered. “You’re The Dre…”

“Excuse me, Ma’am?” A paramedic interrupted the conversation. “I’d like to take you to the hospital to get checked out.”

“Oh, I’m actually fine,” Schneider stammered, turning her attention away from the private Investigator and holding up her hands. “…This, this isn’t my blood.”

“I understand that, Ma’am,”  the paramedic insisted. “But I’d rather be safe than sorry.” Schneider pursed her lips.

“…Ok,” she relented, “Just let me…” Schneider swiveled her head back toward Brostead, only to find that he was nowhere to be seen.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am?” The paramedic asked. Schneider shuddered, her sickly pale face growing a shade lighter as she combated a dry mouth. An old Prussian Nursery Rhyme, its modern mythos repurposed, about a vampire hunter resurfaced from her childhood memories:

“Lock your doors and shut your windows under the midnight scowl.

Something lurks beyond the dark, on the prowl,

 Like an ill-wind over the land, wrought with fight,

Searching for parasites throughout the night.

 Where sins and sinners sit in the evening wake,

Alone in the dark, where they shiver and quake.

For from the murmuring shadows grayer

Pray for mercy, from the…”

“It’s, it’s nothing,” She stated dismissively with a trembling voice as the full weight of the evening’s events bore down upon her. Schneider noticed a freshly minted business card lying next to her, just above the ambulance’s rear step.  

“…I’m, err—we, we can go,” She dreadfully decided, plucking the business card up and holding it closer to her face. “…I think, I think I’d like to leave.”

“Of course! Let me just get you squared away,” The paramedic nodded, as he began preparing Schneider and the ambulance for a trip to the hospital. Scrawled across the business card in bold, neat lettering was the name of a small company:

“Meridian Surveying Technologies—Alex McLloyd and Associates; Room 909, Bishop Building. Charles Town, West Virginia.”

Photo by JOSHUA COLEMAN on Unsplash