Justin Gustainis - Those Who Fight Monsters Tales of Occult Detectives

“I get nothing out of yanking your chain. Not here.”

Scowling, she put the photos back in her case. “Well, this was worth a try. Sorry for wasting your time.”

“I’ve got nothing but time.”

He was yanking her chain, she was sure of it. “If you think of anything, if you get any bright ideas, call me.” As the guard arrived to escort him back to his cell, she said, “And get some sleep. You look awful.”

Hardin was at her desk, looking over the latest reports from the crime lab. Nothing. They hadn’t had rain, the ground was hard, so no footprints. No blood. No fibers. No prints on the shed. Someone wearing gloves had cut off the lock in order to stuff half the body inside — then didn’t bother to lock the shed again. The murderer had simply closed the door and vanished.

The phone rang, and she answered, frustrated and surly. “Detective Hardin.”

“Will you accept the charges from Cormac Bennett at the Colorado Territorial Correctional Facility?”

It took her a moment to realize what that meant. She was shocked. “Yes, I will. Hello? Bennett?”

“ Manananggal ,” he said. “Don’t ask me how to spell it.”

She wrote down the word, sounding it out as best she could. The Internet would help her find the correct spelling. “Okay, but what is it?”

“Filipino version of the vampire.”

That made no sense. But really, did that matter? It made as much sense as anything else. It was a trail to follow. “Hot damn,” she said, suddenly almost happy. “The victim was from the Philippines. It fits. So the suspect was Filipino, too? Do Filipino vampires eat entire torsos or what?”

“No,” he said. “That body is the vampire, the manananggal . You’re looking for a vampire hunter.”

Her brain stopped at that one. “Excuse me?”

“These creatures, these vampires — they detach the top halves of their bodies to hunt. They’re killed when someone sprinkles salt on the bottom half. They can’t return to reattach to their legs, and they die at sunrise. If they’re anything like European vampires, the top half disintegrates. You’re never going to find the rest of the body.”

Well. She still wouldn’t admit that any of this made sense, but the pieces fit. The bottom half, the salt burns. Never mind — she was still looking for a murderer here, right?

“Detective?” Cormac said.

“Yeah, I’m here,” she said. “This fits all the pieces we have. Looks like I have some reading to do to figure out what really happened.”

He managed to sound grim. “Detective, you might check to see if there’s been a higher than usual number of miscarriages in the neighborhood.”

“Why?”

“I used the term vampire kind of loosely. This thing eats the hearts of fetuses. Sucks them through the mother’s navel while she sleeps.”

She almost hung up on him because it was too much. What was it Kitty sometimes said? Just when you thought you were getting a handle on the supernatural, just when you thought you’d seen it all, something even more unbelievable came along.

“You’re kidding.” She sighed. “So, what — this may have been a revenge killing? Who’s the victim here?”

“You’ll have to figure that one out yourself.”

“Isn’t that always the way?” she muttered. “Hey — now that we know you really were holding out on me, what made you decide to remember?”

“Look, I got my own shit going on and I’m not going to try to explain it to you.”

She was pretty sure she didn’t really want to know. “Fine. Okay. But thanks for the tip, anyway.”

“Maybe you could put in a good word for me,” he said.

She supposed she owed him the favor. Maybe she would after she got the whole story of how he ended up in prison in the first place. Then again, she pretty much thought he belonged there. “I’ll see what I can do.”

She hung up, found a phone book, and started calling hospitals.

Hardin called every hospital in downtown Denver. Every emergency room, every OB/Gyn, free clinic and even Planned Parenthood. She had to do a lot of arguing.

“I’m not looking for names, I’m just looking for numbers. Rates. I want to know if there’s been an increase in the number of miscarriages in the downtown Denver area over the last three years. No, I’m not from the EPA. Or from Sixty Minutes. This isn’t an exposé, I’m Detective Hardin with Denver PD and I’m investigating a case. Thank you.”

It took some of them a couple of days to get back to her. When they did, they seemed just as astonished as she was: Yes, miscarriage rates had tripled over the last three years. There had actually been a small decline in the local area’s birth rate.

“Do I need to worry?” one doctor asked her. “Is there something in the water? What is this related to?”

She hesitated about what to tell him. She could tell the truth — and he would never believe her. It would take too long to explain, to try to persuade him. “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t talk about it until the case is wrapped up. But there’s nothing to worry about. Whatever was causing this has passed, I think.”

He didn’t sound particularly comforted, and neither was she. Because what else was out there? What other unbelievable crisis would strike next?

Hardin knocked on the Martinal’s front door. Julia Martinal, the mother, answered again. On seeing the detective, her expression turned confused. “Yes?”

“I just have one more question for you, Mrs. Martinal. Are you pregnant?”

“No.” She sounded offended, looking Hardin up and down, like how dare she.

Hardin took a deep breath and carried on. “I’m sorry for prying into your personal business, but I have some new information. About Dora Manuel.”

Julia Martinal’s eyes grew wide, and her hand gripped the edge of the door. Hardin thought she was going to slam it closed.

Hardin said, “Have you had any miscarriages in the last couple of years?”

At that, the woman’s lips pursed. She took a step back. “I know what you’re talking about, and that’s crazy. It’s crazy! It’s just old stories. Sure, nobody liked Dora Manuel, but that doesn’t make her a — a—”

So Hardin didn’t have to explain it.

The daughter, Teresa Martinal, appeared where she had before, lingering at the edge of the foyer, staring out with suspicion. Her hand rested on her stomach. That gesture was the answer.

Hardin bowed her head to hide a wry smile. “Teresa? Can you come out and answer a few questions?”

Julia moved to stand protectively in front of her daughter. “You don’t have to say anything, Teresa. This woman’s crazy.”

“Teresa, are you pregnant?” Hardin asked, around Julia’s defense.

Teresa didn’t answer. The pause drew on, and on. Her mother stepped aside, astonished, studying her daughter. “Teresa? Are you? Teresa!”

The young woman’s expression became hard, determined. “I’m not sorry.”

“You spied on her,” Hardin said to Teresa, ignoring her mother. “You knew what she was, you knew what that meant, and you spied to find out where she left her legs. You waited for the opportunity, then you broke into the shed. You knew the stories. You knew what to do.”

“Teresa?” Mrs. Martinal said, her disbelief growing.

The girl still wouldn’t say anything.

Hardin continued. “We’ve only been at this a few days, but we’ll find something. We’ll find the bolt cutters you used and match them to the cut marks on the padlock. We’ll match the salt in your cupboard with the salt on the body. We’ll make a case for murder. But if you cooperate, I can help you. I can make a pretty good argument that this was self-defense. What do you say?”