The Bone Eaters: Nick & Amato Investigation #1

By Keith Faigin

A vampire, a werewolf and the Detroit Police Department's most incompetent Inhuman Crimes Unit officer walk into a bar.

Oh, and so does the CEO of a pharmaceutical company which is hiding a terrible secret.

And also the charismatic pastor of a Detroit mega-church/casino who is enraged that the corpse of one of his flock may have been reanimated as part of a mafia-run zombie fight club.

And let's not even get into the young pharmacology researcher conducting a controlled experiment to figure out why men never call her for a second date.

In The Bone Eaters, newly minted private eye, Nick Slipwick, joins forces with Lieutenant Amato to unravel these mysteries. They discover more than they expect: vampires weren't driven from North America 200 years ago after all, the werewolf fences that surround every town and city may not be as effective as everyone thinks, and a creature is stalking the night who is completely unlike all of the regular monsters you learn about in social studies.

And not just because he is somewhat obsessed with Dirty Dancing.

The Bone Eaters is a fast-moving, genre-skewering comedy, lovingly satirizing horror, mystery, and 'chick lit.' The novel brings together multiple interwoven story lines into a fun and satisfying conclusion. Just like we're praying George R. R. Martin does.

The Bone Eaters: 50% humor, 50% horror, 50% mystery, and 50% romance. It's twice the entertainment of a regular book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Keith Faigin
• Release date: Mar 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9780989345835

Keith Faigin

Keith Faigin grew up in Ithaca, NY and has lived all around the United States including such places as Chicago and Atlanta. He received degrees in Computer Science from Williams College and the University of Illinois. Currently, he resides in the Detroit area with his family and two dogs. Keith is an improvisational comedian on the resident cast of Go Comedy! Improv Theater in Ferndale, Michigan (www.gocomedy.net) and can be seen performing there several weekends a month. He has also been known to do some stand-up (winner of the “Funniest Man in Peoria, IL” contest in 1994!) and is one of the producers of the Detroit Improv Festival (www.detroitimprovfestival.org). His day job is most frequently described as ‘nerdy’. When Keith set out to write his first book, he had one goal in mind: to entertain. Sometimes some deeper ideas sneak into his work but that is never intentional and certainly never the focus. "I want my books to be the ones that you can't wait to take on vacation with you or the ones that you read to forget about your real-life stress for a little while. I don't expect anyone to be forcing themselves through my book because book club meets next week. Well, unless you have a really big book club, in which case I will come be a guest speaker if it means a couple dozen quick sales. I've got basically no promotion budget, you know." He can be reached at [e-mail].

Book preview

The Bone Eaters

Copyright: Keith Faigin

Published: March 22, 2015

Publisher: CAKE Mix Press at Smashwords

ISBN: 978-0-9893458-2-8

Edited by Chris Green

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner, stored in a retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information contact Keith Faigin at [e-mail].

This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

The book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book/ebook may not be resold or given away. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Also by Keith Faigin:

THE BONE EATERS

Keith Faigin

"Hark, villains! I will grind your bones to dust 

And with your blood and it I'll make a paste, 

And of the paste a coffin I will rear…"

William Shakespeare

Titus Andronicus

(not one of his hits)

Stay in touch:

Web-Site: http://www.nickslipwick.com

Like The Bone Eaters on Facebook

Twitter: @NickSlipwick

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1: The Chilling Destruction of Willy’s Diner

Chapter 2: Another Blood-Curdling Culinary Experience (Date Night) Chapter 3: A Third Unspeakable Dining Horror (Greek Style)

Chapter 4: A Feast of Raw Meat

Chapter 5: Stalking Out

Chapter 6: The Curse of Stacy Green

Chapter 7: A Road Trip of Terror

Chapter 8: A Startling Epiphany Courtesy of a Large Sandwich

Chapter 9: Sub-Out

Chapter 10: Things Unnoticed Because No One Was Paying Attention

Chapter 11: Weekend at Twice’s

Chapter 12: Dreadful Ways of Spending a Saturday Afternoon

Chapter 13: The Unluckiest Chapter

Chapter 14: Sunday Hangover

Chapter 15: Goodbye Frying Pan, Hello Fire

Chapter 16: ‘Stein Sting

Chapter 17: A Wolf at the Door

Chapter 18: Escape from Detroit

Chapter 19: ‘Stein Fight

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Present Day

When you sit down for breakfast in downtown Chicago, very seldom do you worry that a reanimated corpse might come crashing through the window and disturb the meal. Such was the case for the patrons of Willy's Diner at the corner of Halsted and Fullerton. Not a one was giving even the merest sliver of a thought to the possibility that a member of the undead was working his way down Halsted amidst screams and scattering crowds, erratically heading in their direction.

The diner was doing a decent business for a Thursday morning. A group of old men sat at their usual spot. Some out-of-towners had pushed a couple of tables together. A couple of guys in power company coveralls sat at the counter. Several tables of businessmen prepared for what surely must have been a Very Important Presentation. In a booth by the window sat a young couple whose one-night stand the previous evening had been inadvisably extended into a silent and uncomfortable breakfast.

Such was the scene: utensils clacked against plates. Diners called for more coffee. The grill hissed. A busboy hustled bins of dirty dishes.

And then with no warning: shattering glass.

A middle-aged corpse of a punk with dead eyes, spiked hair and a black suit tumbled through the floor-to-ceiling window and overturned the table between the one-night stand couple. Shards of glass rained down on them. They both screamed.

The Frankenstein toppled to the floor, tripping over chairs, but was instantly back on his feet. His skin was torn and gashed but he didn't bleed. The dead punk's head and body thrashed to the ghost of a rhythm only he could hear. His big, black boots stomped. His elbows jabbed. He slammed back and forth, a mosh pit of one.

Everyone jumped to their feet. Newspapers scattered. Eggs and bacon went everywhere. People dove out of the path of the 'Stein as it danced through the diner leaving a trail of destruction behind. In the chaos, the girl from the booth took the opportunity to slip away, leaving the guy with the bill and a rash. Finally, the 'Stein crashed through the window on the opposite side of the diner. He dropped to his knees on the sidewalk, popped back up shedding torn bits of skin and moshed his way into the street to the sound of screeching tires. And then he was gone.

Holy schmoly, said one of the utility workers at the counter, shaking his head.

***

Flashback: April, 1992

A Small Town in New York State

We’re still just going out as friends, right?

Pete Corbitt opened his mouth to respond but needed a moment to come up with an answer. Sunset Park at night overlooking the lake is where friends go to talk. He said it like he believed it. And, when friends talk, they often listen to the Dirty Dancing soundtrack.

When Pete had pulled his aging station wagon into the park, he had killed the engine to better set the mood. The park was located up on a hill and they had a great view of the lake by moonlight. Now he turned the key to power the radio and punched the cassette into the stereo. He cranked down the driver’s side window, waiting for the music to kick in. Patrick Swayze began to sing mournfully. He unbuckled his seat-belt and stretched his legs. There are very few high school juniors who would have considered the Oldsmobile Cutlass Cruiser a dream car ─ Pete would have preferred something sportier and, preferably, without fake wooden paneling ─ but it ran and it had plenty of leg room. It began slowly rolling forward.

Crud… hang on…

He yanked the emergency brake and the car came to an abrupt halt. Both of their heads bobbed roughly forward and backward as though agreeing that, yes, she was like the wind.

Wow, you are really a terrible driver. She rubbed the back of her neck under her curly, brown hair. I think I have whiplash.

I’m sorry. It’s the gear-shift. It doesn’t like to stay in park. Here, let me give you a backrub. And, before she could respond: Friends do that!

She looked at him suspiciously, but there was the hint of a smile on her lips. He pressed onward: Besides, look at that sweater you’re wearing. That’s gotta be at least 2 inches thick. You’ll be lucky if you feel anything.

She shook her head, the smile now more apparent and unbuckled her seat-belt. This sweater is a little too warm for April. She started cranking down her window. It came to a sudden halt, half-open.

Pete looked at the window with disgust. That one’s been jammed since winter. I can’t get it to go all the way. He turned a shade or two redder. That didn’t come out right.

She laughed out loud and swiveled on the brown upholstery, turning her back to him.

Okay – one quick backrub. You owe me for your car trying to snap my neck.

Theirs was the only car in the small parking lot of the neighborhood park bordering a small patch of forest. Sunset Park was designed for moms with strollers. There was a pair of swings hanging next to a seesaw and small shelter with a picnic table. Beyond the playground, the bushes and underbrush quickly dropped away and the lights of the small city of Ithaca twinkled next to Cayuga Lake, one of the finger lakes of central New York State. The lake was only a couple of miles across but very long. When you looked at it head-on and held your hands up on either side of your eyes like a horse’s blinders, the water stretched to the horizon like the ocean and you could almost believe that you were someplace far more interesting than a small town in upstate New York.

The view was almost worthy of a postcard: the old fence surrounded by trees with, far below, the city’s lights reflecting off the lake. The only blemish was the presence of what looked like a single stereo speaker perched on the top of each fence-post facing outward.

Pete struggled out of his varsity letter jacket (from marching band) without getting out of the car. He slid three feet over in the front seat to get within reach of Stacy’s shoulders. She helpfully gathered her hair up in a big, curly bunch, moved it to one side and looked over her shoulder at him with a grin. At first glance Stacy Green might have been described as kinda pretty, not bad, I guess or which one do you mean, again? But, she had a quick smile and a general sunniness about her that resulted in a lot of second and third glances. Pete was not the only one of her male friends who harbored a secret or not-so-secret crush on her. If she knew, she didn’t make a big deal about it.

He slowly put his hands on her shoulder and began massaging her through the density of her sweater.

Not too hard. Remember that I’m a recovering whiplash victim.

Wow, I’ve never seen a sweater made out of Brillo pads. I wasn’t kidding when I said you wouldn’t be able to feel anything. This is like trying to massage an armadillo. Wearing a llama.

C’mon, it’s not that bad.

I’m getting calluses. I’m going to have hands like an Olympic gymnast when this is over.

Okay, you’ve made your point.

Stacy pulled her sweater over her head to the crackle and pop of static electricity and a few little sparks. Underneath was a long-sleeve t-shirt. She smoothed out her static-spazzed hair and again gathered it to one side.

Better? she asked.

One layer down, one to go.

She spun around and touched his nose with one finger.

ZAP. Another spark.

Agg! My nose.

Stacy spun back around and wiggled her shoulders. Proceed, please.

Pete rubbed her back for all he was worth. Perhaps his hands were saying all the right things that he couldn’t or perhaps he just had strong fingers from playing trumpet, but Stacy sighed and pressed back harder against him. Outside, the crickets sang along with Patrick Swayze.

The song switched to ‘Hungry Eyes’. He slowly worked his hands down her back and then back up. His pulse quickened whenever he felt a bra-strap. He paid a lot of attention to her neck and she leaned her head back a little. He could see her chest slowly rise up and down in time with her breathing. The flowery smell of her hair grew stronger as Stacy rested her head on his shoulder. Her cheek was just an inch from his. His heart was beating so loudly, he was surprised she couldn’t hear it. He closed his eyes and drew in the smell of her skin. He slowly turned his head towards hers. She turned her head towards his, smiled a little and closed her eyes.

A loud crack split the silence. Their eyes sprang open and Stacy felt his arms protectively tighten around her. Even startled, part of her was pleased. But that feeling was forgotten as she heard a second crack ─ snapping wood ─ from somewhere beyond the fence where the land dropped away. And then the sound of a tree falling.

Another crack.

And again.

The sounds were getting closer, working their way up the steep face of the slope. The song switched to ‘Stay’.

Stacy’s whimper was barely audible but it was enough. Pete Corbitt turned the key hard in the ignition. The old car’s engine sprang loudly to life. He released the emergency brake, threw the car into reverse and looked back over his shoulder as he slammed the accelerator. The engine revved noisily as the car slowly rolled forward.

Please, let’s go, Stacy pleaded.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Oh won’t you stayyyyyyy….

Pete yanked the gear shift up and down as the engine roared impotently.

Just a little bit longer….

CRUNCH. Something collided with the side of the car and they were jerked to the side. Stacy screamed. The gear shift finally caught and the car rocketed forward heading directly for the fence. Pete pulled on the steering wheel and the car turned abruptly, fish-tailing in the grass. He over-corrected and drove straight through the playground. Stacy screamed louder.

Please, please stayyyyy…

Careening back and forth, he finally got the car back on the pavement and took off out of the park. He could feel his pulse hammering in his head. His one thought was to get as far away as possible. Only when his heart-rate slowed and the red tinge to his vision cleared enough to see his white knuckles on the steering wheel did he realize Stacy was talking to him.

Please put your lights on. And slow down.

No, your daddy don’t mind…

He pulled on the lights and brought the station wagon down to 45 from its maximum speed of 62. He turned off the stereo.

He looked over at her. She was pale and shaking. He realized he was, too. Are you okay, Stace?

Yeah. What was that?

I don’t know.

The wind whipped through the open windows but neither moved to close them. He guided the car along the curvy road, working his way down the steep hillside. Most of the houses were dark except for the occasional window illuminated by the blue flicker of some night-owl watching Johnny Carson.

Stacy stared straight ahead and spoke very slowly. Could it have been werewolves?

He gave this some thought. I don’t see how, he said seriously. Sunset Heights is a pretty nice neighborhood. They have really good security. You saw the wolf-whistles on the fence. A stray dog couldn’t get within half a mile of that perimeter, much less a werewolf big enough to… y’know…

His voice trailed off.

When Pete came to a stop at a neighborhood exit, he could hear a scraping coming from the back. I’ll check that later. Stacy nodded.

A carved wooden sign reading Sunset Heights Gate 4 was mounted on the chain link fence topped by more of the little speakers. It ran across the road. Exiting this neighborhood was easier than getting in. He had borrowed a gate key from a friend at school, just in case the night was going well enough to spontaneously suggest they go to the park.

Waving the gate key in front of the sensor had opened the gates on their way in. Now he just needed to edge the car up slowly, ignoring the persistent scraping, until the fence’s motor activated and it slid slowly to the side. Perimeter fences weren’t too particular about things trying to get out. Things getting in were another story.

Look, he said, it’s not as though werewolves are that common around here, anyway. When someone sees one, it’s front-page news for a week. He gestured at the fence topped with speakers. I don’t see how one could get near here. All those wolf-whistles would fry its brain.

He stared intently at the back of one of the speakers until he saw a red light blink. They’re definitely activated, he said with a finality he usually saved for his closing arguments in Debate Club.

I guess you’re right, Stacy conceded. He pulled forward and the gate closed shut behind them. Let’s get home, she added.

He swung the car onto Route 31 and headed towards the lake. The drive was uneventful. The only noise was the hum of the engine, the wind rushing through the windows and the scraping sound coming from the back of the car which seemed to have gotten louder.

Pete and Stacy had lived in the same neighborhood since elementary school. While not as nice as Sunset Heights, it was also built on a bluff overlooking the lake. Their perimeter fence did not have wolf-whistles but it was easily 15 feet tall and was topped with razor wire. At the entrance was a locked gate with a small guard shack. A white-haired man with a bushy moustache and a holstered pistol was sitting in front of a small black and white TV. Johnny Carson was interviewing Bette Midler. The sound was turned down and the closed captioning was on.

The car rolled noisily to a halt. Pete waved his arms until he got the old man’s attention. The man got out to open the gate. He looked in the driver’s side window. He bent down to better see Stacy and then his eyes came to rest on Pete. Everything alright, Stacy?

Yes, Mr. Borland, everything’s fine.

He gave her a questioning look. So long as you’re sure. You look a fright.

Pete and I heard something, Mr. Borland.

Mr. Borland looked visibly relieved. Oh, what sort of thing did you hear?

Pete answered: We were up in the heights and we heard this crashing and something hit the car.

Mr. Borland chuckled. It was probably just a deer.

You haven’t heard any loud noises, have you? Like breaking trees? asked Stacy.

Heavens no, laughed Mr. Borland. Did you two convince yourselves that you heard some kind of dark creature? Mr. Borland continued laughing and shook his head. You kids are always getting yourselves all worked up. It’s those horror movies you like to watch. All of this… he vaguely motioned towards the fence. It’s mostly for show these days. It’s not like when I was a kid.

Pete shook his head. Be careful, Mr. Borland. I think there’s something out there, tonight.

Mr. Borland nodded his head. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. You have a nice night, too. He smiled and waved as Pete put the car in gear ─ sure, the gear shift works fine now ─ and pulled into the neighborhood.

The old man stopped waving and his smile faded some as he saw that the wagon was dragging a long metal chain trailing what was clearly the seat of a child’s swing.

***

In Stacy’s driveway, Pete detached the swing from his muffler. He smiled sheepishly. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with this. He opened the tailgate and tossed the remnants of the swing in the back.

They didn’t talk about the crater they had found on the back right side of the car. A large swath of fake paneling was missing and the body had been crushed in.

Pete walked Stacy to the door.

Make sure to turn on your security system. He knew that, like most people, Stacy’s family seldom bothered arming it. Stacy threw her arms around him.

Pete, I’m still freaked out. What was that thing?

Maybe Mr. Borland is right and it was a deer.

Is it possible that it was a… She paused. A vampire?

Pete shook his head. It couldn’t be. There haven’t been vampires in the United States since Reconstruction. Pete spoke like he was reading from a text-book: In the wake of the Civil War, the federal government put many freed slaves and former soldiers from both the North and the South to work driving vampires from the United States and, later, from North America. And then George Washington Carver discovered peanut butter.

Stacy smiled. I know. It’s just, they’re supposed to be really strong.

Right. Look, I don’t know what that was but I know it wasn’t a vampire. Besides, no vampire could catch this baby, he said pointing his thumb over his shoulder at the station wagon.

Stacy laughed a little and squeezed Pete tight. Thanks for a nice night. She kissed him on the cheek. Except for that last part.

She opened the door and turned. Pete? Maybe you are more than a friend. Get home safe. And then she was inside her house.

Pete got in the car and smiled in the dark. We were attacked. I totaled a playground. My car’s wrecked. And Stacy Green might be more than a friend. he said to himself. Overall, a pretty good night.

He started the car and backed down the driveway into the street, the car no longer scraping as it went. He drove slowly. His house was only a few blocks away and he was savoring the moment. He sang softly to himself: She’s like the wind… through my trees….she’s like the night… wait and see….

***

Stacy’s family was awoken by the phone several hours later when Pete’s frantic mom called looking for him. By dawn more than 100 men, including Ithaca Police, State Troopers, and volunteer defense forces, were scouring the area. A large section of the neighborhood perimeter fence had been knocked down, unearthing concrete foundations dug 6 feet into the earth. Fifty year-old trees were snapped in half or ripped out of the ground completely. The path of destruction led erratically towards the lake and then vanished. The station wagon was never found. Neither was Pete’s body.

Mr. Borland swore it had been a quiet night and he hadn’t heard the faintest disturbance. Upon further questioning, it became clear to authorities that he was deaf as a post and had been getting by on reading lips for years.

Stacy didn’t go back to school for weeks, only returning when the school threatened to hold her back a year. The Ithaca High School Marching Band wore black ribbons on their bright red uniforms in honor of Pete Corbitt. They kept his spot in the line unfilled: the marching band ‘missing man’ formation. Despite having only 14 trumpets, they still took second place in the state finals that June.

There was never an official determination of what happened to Pete. It was the subject of debate in the newspaper for weeks. Years later, locals could still be heard arguing about Pete’s fate. Werewolves were ruled out: there were no paw-prints or were-urine detected. Also, the argument went, even a large pack of werewolves couldn’t have caused that much damage (and that’s assuming any large packs even still existed in the wake of the Federal Werewolf Hunting Commission). A vampire, ignoring for a moment the fact that they were exterminated from the continent, seldom damaged anything but his or her victim and had never been known to run off with a station wagon. Undead activity was out of the question ─ it would be another 15 years before Dr. Victor Frankenstein would publish his process for human reanimation on the internet causing a worldwide undead outbreak. Some argue that Pete Corbitt was abducted by aliens. Most said it couldn’t have been any of those things. But what else was there?

Chapter 1: The Chilling Destruction of Willy’s Diner

Chicago

Okay, let me make sure I have this straight: you sauté the peppers and onions in the pan and then add the three eggs, scrambled, with a little milk. The peppers and onions get cooked right into the eggs, right? And then you just add the cheese and fold it over. And that’s it?

Nick Slipwick rapidly punched the keys on a peculiar looking cellphone using both his thumbs and his forefingers. The phone was not a recognizable model. It was composed of mismatched parts from various different phones. It was also about three times the size of a normal smartphone. Nick referred to it as a ‘NickBerry.’ He looked up at the short-order cook, waiting.

Yeah, that’s it, said the cook, but how are instructions for making an omelet going to help you find the goddamn Frankenstein that crashed through the front window?

You never know, he said. It probably won’t help with this at all but it may help me someday. The more you know about everything, the more likely you are to know something you need.

Nick Slipwick scratched his head thoughtfully. He had light brown hair that was just a little too long. He wasn’t an imposing man but he was in shape, more lean than strong. If you had asked the cook to take a guess at Nick’s age, he would have said around 35 but it was hard to peg. He didn’t look like the recent college grads living on the north side of Chicago ─ taking the ‘L’ to work and spending their weekends in the bleachers at Wrigley ─ but neither did he look like the middle-aged guys taking the Metra commuter train in from places like Elmhurst and Naperville.

If you don’t mind, I am going to put your name in my database in case I ever have any more questions, said Nick. He pulled the NickBerry out of his jacket again, flipped open the keyboard, and punched the keys furiously with his thumbs and fingers.

Sure. Whatever. said the cook. It had been a long morning. First the breakfast rush. Then a fucking Frankenstein comes tearing through the diner. Only another hour before the lunch rush and there was still glass everywhere.

Nick typed the cook’s name (Rob Stanson, Short-Order Cook, Willy’s Diner, Chicago) into his phone followed by his phone number.

Can I have your email? asked Nick.

The cook gave Nick a look but Nick waited expectantly. The cook sighed, gave him his email address and then hurried off into the kitchen. Nick slipped the phone inside the pocket of his brown leather jacket. The jacket was ‘three quarter’ length. Longer than a normal coat but not a full trench coat, either. It was just long enough to cover your ass.

There were several uniformed Chicago cops examining the breakfast remains on the untouched tables to see which ones were free of glass and could be safely sampled. All of the morning's customers were long gone except the two men in coveralls still sitting at the counter drinking coffee and watching the scene.

Hey ‘Rob the Short-Order Cook’? Nick called into the kitchen. I’m going to put down ‘omelets’ under your area of expertise. Is that okay?

Whatever, came the reply from the kitchen.

Nick, standing by the counter, noticed a man in a suit come into the diner and watched as the uniforms quickly abandoned their investigations of abandoned breakfasts and got busy looking busy. One held a pancake halfway to his mouth and, thinking fast, pulled an evidence bag out of his back pocket and tried to stuff it in.

The man in the suit was black and in his early 50’s. He had a neatly-trimmed moustache that was starting go a little silver and his suit was faded but neatly pressed. He looked simultaneously pissed and disinterested.

Alright, guys, the buffet is officially closed. Unless you’re planning on helping clean up you can all get out of here and get on with your day.

The uniforms began making their way to the door.

And Officer Conti, I’m not too worried about the chain of evidence on those pancakes. So, why don’t you take off those ridiculous latex gloves, take your to-go bag and get the hell out of here.

The officer with the bag of pancakes snapped off his gloves and quickly headed for the door stopping only to grab a pre-packaged container of maple syrup and a couple of strips of bacon. After he left, the suit rubbed his forehead and then called out to the kitchen: This is Lieutenant Amato. We’re done here.

Whatever, came the reply from the back. Lieutenant Amato sighed and turned to leave.

Lieutenant! called Nick. Can I talk to you for a second?

Lieutenant Amato turned back towards Nick, taking his time before answering to give him a good look. Depends. Who the hell are you?

I’m Nick Slipwick. Call me Nick.

Are you some kind of monster nut? There’s nothing to see here. If you want to rubberneck some ‘Steins you might as well go home to the internet or your DVDs or whatever.

No, no. I’m not that kind of monster nut, said Nick with good humor. He pulled out a tattered wallet and flipped it open, showing Amato the identification card stuck behind the plastic window where the drivers license normally goes.

Amato gave it a look. Congratulations, Mr. Slipwick, you’re two punches from a free sandwich at ‘Mr. Submarine’.

Wait, hang on. Nick dug around in his wallet, eventually producing a laminated ‘Certified Private Investigator’ license. I noticed that there's been a rash of Frankensteins, recently. By my count, this is the eleventh rampage in two months. Are you in charge of the investigation?

Lieutenant Amato took another moment.

Yeah. I’m Lieutenant Amato. I’m with the Chicago PD’s Inhuman Crimes Unit. You’re into ‘Steins, eh? The way he said it made it sound only barely like a question. So, what are you hanging around here for? Tracking them isn’t real hard. Just follow the mess down Fullerton and head over to the zoo. My team has it cornered in the reptile pavilion. Problem is, it’s smashed all the windows in there, too, and they’re all afraid to go in.

I don’t want the Frankenstein, said Nick. I want to find out who animated him.

As it happens, that’s my job, too, said Amato.

Nick didn’t think Amato sounded defensive. In the movies, most cops don’t like it when a P.I. crosses paths with them during an investigation.

Amato continued: If you’re looking for information, you know I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation. If you actually know anything useful, I would love to hear it. Otherwise, I’ll be on my way. So, do you know anything useful?

I know lots of useful things. Nick picked up a half-eaten omelet abandoned on a still-upright table. Look at this. Do you see how the bacon is cooked right into the eggs? Only the cheese is added when the eggs are cooked. Everything else… cooked right in. That’s useful ─ I’ve been making them wrong my entire life. Nick smiled, good-naturedly. If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to the guys at the counter.

Amato declined to respond. Nick dropped the omelet, grabbed a paper napkin from an upright table and walked to the counter. The two guys in coveralls watched him coming. They looked excited that he was heading their way.

Hey! said the first one. We saw the whole thing. We already talked to the cops but we’re happy to go through it again.

Hi. I’m Nick. Nick finished wiping his hands with the napkin. Just tell me what the Frankenstein looked like and what it was doing. Nick sat on the swiveling counter stool next to them.

Oh, this one was great. I’ve seen a few ‘Steins over the years but this one was the best. He was dancing. He had a huge grin on his face. The other guy was nodding his head.

Ballroom? asked Nick.

No! he shook his head. He was going crazy. Like he was listening to head-banger music.

Decayed? asked Nick.

I’ve seen worse.

Alright, said Nick, thanks guys.

You don’t want to ask us about anything else? asked the second guy.

I'm good, said Nick. He got up from the stool but turned back to them. Hey, what do you guys do?

We’re linemen said first one.

Football? asked Nick, perking up.

Duh, power lines, said the second one pointing to the ComEd insignia on his coverall. Nick again produced the NickBerry and punched in a few letters.

I already know an expert on power lines, said Nick.

Don’t you guys need to be at work? interrupted Lieutenant Amato.

We’re union, said the first one.

We’re entitled to a mental health break and time and a half if we’re exposed to inhuman activity while on the job, said the second one.

Even if you’re having breakfast during the ‘inhuman activity’? asked Amato.

If you’re wearing the coveralls, you’re on the job said the first one. He yelled back into the kitchen: Hey, Rob, how about another refill?

The cook came out of the kitchen with a broom, a dustpan and some thick garbage bags. You know, by the fifth cup, you should be able to pour your own damn coffee. He went to work cleaning up the broken glass.

Nick headed for the door. When he was half-way out, he turned and called back: Hey Rob? Do you want me to add you to my mailing list? I do a monthly newsletter.

***

Nick headed north on Halsted. He was walking slowly, taking in the activity on the street, his leather jacket open. He had gone about half a block when he noticed Lieutenant Amato walking just behind him.

Can I help you, Lieutenant?

Well, my choices are to wade through a room full of exotic snakes in order to put down a punk ‘Stein or follow you. I chose you. But, you should know that it was a tough choice. You should also know that, right now, you’re at the top of my suspect list for creating the ‘Stein.

How about that? Well, I’m happy to have the company, said Nick, amiably.

It was mid-May and, for a moment at least, the weather was perfect. The sky was blue and the air was warm but not hot or humid. Chicagoans celebrated those days: not too cold, not too hot, not raining or snowing… It was important to enjoy days like this because there were only five or six of them a year.

Lieutenant Amato eyed Nick’s longish leather jacket thinking that it was too warm to be wearing that around. Still, he noted, Nick wasn’t sweating.

Here and there were signs of the Frankenstein’s early-morning rampage: a cracked window at the Bagel Factory, a smashed Chicago Tribune honor box (the newspapers long claimed by honorless morning commuters excited to save seventy-five cents) and many, many overturned garbage cans.

Nick was methodically moving from one point of destruction to the next. Lieutenant Amato was following along, keeping silent for the first block. By the time they got to the next block, he started asking questions.

What’s your interest in ‘Steins?

Nick was looking at the torn-down awning of a Mexican restaurant at the intersection of Halsted and Wrightwood. He looked at Amato. It’s like I said back at the diner, said Nick, I’m a private investigator. I’m investigating the noticeable uptick in Frankenstein activity. Nick turned off Halsted and headed west on Wrightwood towards an overturned mailbox. Amato didn’t follow right away. He stood and watched Nick go. When Nick realized he was by himself, he turned and made an ‘are you coming or what?’ gesture. Finally, Amato followed.

You’re on a case, then? asked Amato once he caught up. You have a client paying you to take an interest?

I guess you could say that. I wouldn’t call it a client. More like a patron. Or benefactor. Someone who sort of funds my research so I can take an interest in stuff like this.

So, who is your patron?

She prefers to remain anonymous, Nick said, wincing slightly to himself when he finished the sentence. He added: Or he does. It could be a ‘he’. Nick took a sudden interest in the cloud formations.

They passed under the ‘L’ tracks and by a series of severely abused parking meters. Some were leaning at unusual angles while others were on the sidewalk, shattered.

Amato was again content to walk in silence for a little while but eventually grew impatient.

"So Nick, what can you tell me? he asked. Have you found anything you can share with legitimate law enforcement or is it all as secret as your client?"

You’ve got me all wrong, Lieutenant. I’m not a Lone Ranger type. I’m happy to talk about it: I’m trying to find out who animated the Frankensteins. I think all, or at least a lot, of the recent ones have the same maker.

"You don’t think it’s the usual? My experience is that 9 times out of 10, it’s just some hobbyist. Usually, some over-enthusiastic member of the science club ─ male ─ pulls the instructions from the internet and gets enough friends, shovels and the right combination of chemicals together. They’re easy enough to track down. The amount of power they have to use to shock life into the thing leaves a fingerprint a mile wide on the grid. One phone call and I’ve got the little mad scientist’s address because — again, 9 times out of 10 — he does it in his parent’s garage.

After that, we charge him with gravesite desecration and usually some destruction of private property depending on how much damage the monster does. We don’t push too hard, though. More often than not, the process either leaves him scared shitless and he never tries to do it again, or the chemicals blow up the garage and he never tries to do it again.

And what about the 10th time? asked Nick.

The 10th time what? responded Amato.

You said 9 times out of 10, it’s a science geek. What is it the 10th time?

Oh. A pervert. Amato tugged on his moustache. I hate to break it to you but the ‘Stein was animated about 4 blocks further north on Halsted. He didn’t come from down Wrightwood. I already got a fix on the location from ConEd, so you’re going the wrong way.

Nick ignored him and turned down an alley between a theater (8:00 PM – Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Undead) and an out-of-business auto-body shop.

Well, said Nick. This is the eleventh Frankenstein I’ve seen recently and I don’t think this is a hobbyist or a pervert.

What makes you say that? asked Amato.

That does. At the back of the theater, the alley opened up into a small parking lot. The theater had an inclined loading bay on which a decaying corpse wearing a torn, red suit was moving quickly in tight circles. It appeared to be skipping.

Is that thing doing a goddamn do-si-do? asked Amato.

"I’d put my money on ‘All Around the Left Hand Lady’. If you want to know for