Part 7

Charlie was not allowed to smoke at crime scenes, a rule that had taken Foster years to impress upon her. Charlie could be sulky and stubborn as a recalcitrant child about certain things. If told not to do something, Charlie would usually do said thing with a sort of gleeful mania that left chaos in its wake. 

In the end, however, Foster had won that fight. And once she lost a fight, Charlie never mentioned it again. She settled for an unlit cigarette clenched between her teeth, which privately annoyed Foster as much as her filthy clouds of smoke ever had. But one contaminated his crime scenes, and one simply irritated him. He’d chosen the lesser of two evils.

The unlit cigarette rose and fell when Charlie talked. She stood aside while Foster cleared the crime scene, amusing herself by glaring at anyone unlucky enough to catch her eye. People were so easy to ruffle. If Foster noticed her behavior, he ignored it. When they were finally alone, Charlie cracked her neck loudly and went to work.

Foster had many issues with Charlie Black – ranging from her behavior in public to her personal life to her wardrobe choices to her general attitude – but he loved to watch her work. It stilled all his lengthy criticisms that she didn’t listen to anyway. She was never thrown by death or violence, but she was never callous about it. She treated the dead with more tenderness than he had ever seen her bestow upon the living.

Charlie walked between corpses with an unconscious grace. She peered at the necks of the victims, studied their wounds; she measured the gashes in their bodies, estimating the distance between limbs and torsos. They didn’t speak. Foster waited. Charlie stood in the center of the carnage for almost a full minute, chewing on the soggy end of her cigarette. Then she returned to Foster’s side.

“I’ve got good news, and bad news, and it’s all the same news.” She righted an overturned chair and straddled it, scratching at her messy hair. “This wasn’t locals.”

“I didn’t think so,” agreed Foster with a heavy sigh. Charlie continued as if he hadn’t spoken, running over the facts for herself as much as him.

“On one hand, that’s very good. It means the locals haven’t flipped some switch. They’re still playing by the same rules. They’re bad rules, but we can at least stay in the game. The bad news-“

“The bad news,” cut in Foster, “is that a new pack has shown up.” Charlie bit hard into the filter of her cigarette, as if she could force the nicotine into her system through sheer willpower.

“Exactly. And this group is real new. Like kids who have been handed a gun. I’ve never seen shit like this. Never even heard about shit like this.” Foster saw a small glimmer of hope.

“Does that mean it’s not…” He let the question die before it passed his lips. Charlie was already shaking her head, and anyway he’d been doing this long enough. He knew the signs.

“Same bastards, new breed.” Charlie was quiet for a moment. “How are you playing this, anyway?” Foster stuffed his hands into his pockets, a gesture that took roughly thirty years off his age, and never failed to charm Charlie.

“Gang violence. Group of thugs from South Emerson. We suspect drugs. It’s the end of the season. I’m hoping it won’t hurt tourism too badly.” Charlie didn’t make a comment about how it wasn’t really his job to worry about tourism. She’d said it often enough already. She just gave him a cold look before standing and wandered over to the bar. She stood behind it, giving no notice to the various body parts strewn around her.

“You blame everything on South Emerson,” she said, opening the cash register and looking around. “Don’t go there on vacation. The locals might take it personally.” Foster followed her to the bar. He sincerely hoped she wasn’t taking money from the till, and that he wouldn’t have to explain why this was wrong. Charlie sometimes followed the philosophy of, ‘If it’s not nailed down and everybody is dead, it’s mine.’

“How does gang violence explain the missing people?” she asked distractedly.

Foster was quiet for so long that Charlie looked up from her handful of money and papers. Foster looked every bit his age. Charlie wondered what she would be expected to do if he suddenly collapsed. Her medical knowledge was vast and eccentric, but did not cover heart attacks.

“What missing people?” Foster asked, very slowly. Holy God, had everyone else really missed this? Please, he thought, let this be like the time she thought the FBI was wiretapping her trailer, and it was just the neighbors getting illegal cable. Charlie hesitated, like she didn’t relish answering the question.

“There are open tabs for twelve people here,” she said finally, handing over the slips of paper. Busy night for Trotts. Usually three or four. It’s a wonder he kept the place open so long. Your report lists seven bodies, and I confirmed that. Twelve minus seven is five, unless my math is worse than I thought. Ergo, missing people.”

“They’ve never taken so many at once,” said Foster.

“Weird,” agreed Charlie, swirling the cigarette between her lips. “Totally atypical, in fact. It must have been loud as shit, dragging off that many at once.” She took the cigarette from her mouth and dropped it in the garbage before removing another from the pack in her back pocket.

“Why would they do that?” Foster instinctively glanced at the door. His officers were well-trained; none of them would enter a crime scene without his permission, not even that egomaniac Turner. Even if they didn’t respect him enough to stay out, Charlie would have chased up the street anyone unwise enough to disobey the Chief.

“There are a few explanations,” she said. “Either that’s a big goddamn pack, or they’re planning on going under for a few days without surfacing. I’m really hoping it’s the second. That many in a pack, someone would have seen something.”

“Any chance of you finding them in time?” asked Foster. He knew the answer, of course he knew the answer, but he still had to ask. He’d always ask. And Charlie would always snort.

“Find a new pack, work out an attack plan, and grab five people all while trying to work out this new hunting technique?” She smirked unpleasantly. “Sure, right after I stop global warming and invent a shampoo that fixes split ends. I’m good, but I’m only one person.”

Foster took off his cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead. This was the best opening she’d given him for this topic. It didn’t make the job one bit more pleasant.

“That’s something I need to speak with you about. I wanted you to see the scene so you’d know how to handle the situation. There’s nothing else we can do for now. We’re done for now. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”