Don't Cry Werewolf: Bobby Clark Mystery

By Nicholas Veiga

Bobby Clark is a small city detective in late 1950’s Mason-Barrie, Pennsylvania. He is still trying to drown out the nightmare of last year’s calamitous encounter with Willard Strickland by ingesting generous doses of morphine from his trusty silver flask. His fateful encounter with Strickland in the cabin has left his spirits, not to mention his back, in tatters. Aided by his loyal, but stubborn partner, Hank Haynes, and his decidedly mysterious psychiatrist, Dr. Claire Joffre, Bobby tries to ease his way back into the job. But on his first day back on the force, he is confronted with the possibility that Strickland AKA the regionally infamous Lovebirds’ Killer may not have died in that cabin after all. In fact, startling evidence suggests the serial killer have morphed into something far more dangerous and primal. At the first crime scene, Bobby discovers the newest victim displays the slash wounds of a hideous monster, possibly a werewolf. Equally jarring, is the blue baby soother placed in the corpse’s mouth indicating the calling card of his nemesis. As the case progresses, the young detective dimly begins to suspect that some shadowy government entity may have in fact created that rampaging monster. Can Bobby Clark, and his partner Hank, survive the Lovebird’s renewed campaign long enough to get some answers? Even if they escape with their lives, will they be able to deal with the terrible consequences about what they discover?

An homage to monster movies of yesteryear, the reading public is introduced to a flawed, but durable hero in Bobby Clark.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781796089608

Book preview

Chapter 1

I was standing naked in front of the full-length mirror of my bedroom. I didn’t care for the reflection staring back. My hair was still blond and my eyes blue. Similarly, my cheeks were still clean-shaven though a tad sunken because of weight loss. I took a deep drag from my cigarette and adjusted my glasses. Nope. Not one iota of difference. Something intangible was missing. The ugly mug peering back was cracked and faded, like a chewed-up color movie filmstrip.

I turned so my posterior faced the mirror. Yep. The severe burns had left my back looking like a fucking mess. More to the point, a large portion of my middle and lower back area was about as attractive as shriveled bacon. Skin graft surgeries had tried to correct this, but the treated areas appeared as if some asshole had just decided to fry some egg whites and smear it over the bacon instead. As you could imagine, I didn’t really get out to the beach these days. Of course, there was the constant physical pain. I took morphine for that. And there was the emotional baggage from that night in the cabin, which prevented a decent night’s sleep. Like it or not, the morphine was for that too.

After taking another drag from my cigarette, I glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand. Damn! Time to get dressed. I was supposed to return to work today. My partner, Hank Haynes, would be knocking on my door in exactly ten minutes. He was always on time. Hank had his faults—some really serious ones, actually—but tardiness wasn’t one of them.

On my way to the closet, I couldn’t help but notice my unfinished mandala painting from yesterday evening. I examined it while taking yet another deep drag from my cigarette. Dr. Claire Joffre explained during our last session that a mandala was a graphical expression of the inner self and that the painting would help uncover unresolved turmoil. The project was total bullshit—or so I thought. While I was in the midst of etching the ornate stain-glassed pattern with the brush, I fell into this strange trancelike state and began frantically adding these long ivory spikes around the circular perimeter. Eventually realizing what was happening, I threw the brush on the ground. There it lay in the same exact spot.

I took one final drag from my nearly spent cigarette and began reaching toward the ashtray on the dresser behind the painting but froze. My bare right foot had almost touched the damn brush. I clucked my tongue, realizing I was supposed to bring the finished painting to our session tomorrow and discuss it. Like I didn’t have enough bullshit to deal with already! I pressed the spent cigarette stub into the ashtray.

Come on, Bobby. Get your ass in gear, I said to myself.

My closet was fairly organized but wouldn’t have passed muster with Jill … I shook away thoughts of her. I had to focus on getting dressed. My uniform hung in front of me like a sad orphan. I hadn’t worn it for six months, and it was still wrapped in dry cleaning plastic. Next to the uniform was a dark brown suit. I selected that one and threw it on the bed. The truth was I wouldn’t need my standard-issue blues anymore. Hank told me about my promotion to detective the previous evening. I was proud but nervous as hell. Would I go batshit crazy in a critical moment?

After dressing, I went into the bathroom and switched on the light. It hummed for a few seconds before sputtering to life. I opened the medicine cabinet and removed the bottle of morphine. With an odd feeling of muted joy, I unscrewed the cap and carefully poured the bluish syrup into the silver flask I had placed on the edge of the porcelain sink the night before. Finishing this important task, I safely tucked away the flask into the inner pocket of my suit jacket. For a moment, I hoped I didn’t have to use it. Yeah, right. Like that would happen! I adjusted my tie and walked out.

Hank was waiting at the front door. I could see his large face peering through the front door window. He smiled when he caught sight of me. That smile was always adolescent. My partner was twenty-six, like I was, but acted half that age when the urge struck, usually at the wrong time. As I opened the door, the sunlight hit me in the face harder than I had expected. I squinted reflexively. With effort, I focused my eyes on Hank. I noticed his wife, Debbie, had trimmed his flattop before the drive over. This put me a bit more at ease. Hank’s routines never changed. I knew exactly what to expect from him. More than I cared to admit, I needed that from him.

You’re late, I said jokingly.

Hank furrowed his eyebrow. No, I’m not. And how would you know? Unless by some miracle, you found that tank watch I gave you.

He was referring to the Hamilton tank watch he had given me for my birthday last year, the one I lost the next day. I felt bad about it because it was on the pricy side.

Actually, I never really told you what happened to it … I offered.

Hank arched his eyebrow. Oh, really? This, I got to hear.

I cleared my throat dramatically before speaking. I was in Pittsburgh, and this guy asked for the time. I looked up and saw it was number nineteen in the flesh. So I said to Mr. Bob Friend, ‘Take this watch as a token of appreciation from Hank Haynes, your number one fan.’

Hank swatted his hand. You dirty SOB. I don’t know why I put up with ya. He added, Don’t joke about Bob Friend. He’s gonna pitch us to the series this year.

I swatted my hands the way Hank did. Yeah, yeah. Milwaukee will roll over and die in September, and Adlai Stevenson will lead the Democrats to victory in ’60. Come on. We’re gonna be late.

At the mouth of the driveway sat Hank’s sky-blue Chevy Bel-Air. He had bought it last month and treated it like a newborn baby.

I see you bought the rocket ship with ya.

Hank tilted his head to appraise it. "Yeah. She’s a beaut. Looks better than the rocket ship Leslie Nelson and Anne Francis flew in Forbidden World. Come to think of it, Anne Francis is probably hotter than that rocket ship."

I was going to say that it was a flying saucer, that the actor was Leslie Nielsen, and that the movie was Forbidden Planet, but what was the point? No one liked a wiseass. Yep. Anne Francis is a real looker. No question.

Hank got in the car first and waited for me to enter. With a sigh, I slid inside.

Steinz wants to see us right away, Hank noted as I settled gingerly into my seat.

I couldn’t stifle the grunting because I was experiencing a sharp stabbing pain across my middle and lower back area.

Hank was concerned. Everything all right?

I let out one more grunt before forcing a smile. Just peachy, I countered.

After a few seconds, the pain settled into the dull, consistent variety. I tapped my jacket to make sure it was there and felt the reassuring firmness of the silver flask.

Hank laughed as he put the car in gear. Don’t tell me ya lost your wallet. He began backing the car out into the street.

I chuckled. No. Only lose expensive watches, thank you very much.

Hank jabbed me playfully with his elbow. I almost flinched.

It’s good to have ya back, you dirty SOB, Hank said as he guided the car toward the end of the street.

I touched my glasses. Good to be back.

Hank adjusted his tie in the rearview mirror. What do ya think of the new suit?

I gave him the once-over. His jacket was dark blue and his tie black. You might actually have a shot with Anne Francis.

Hank smiled. Wiseass. He cleared his throat. Debbie’s cooking meatloaf. You’re coming, and I’m not taking no for an answer.

I sighed. Fine. Without really thinking, I added, It’s not like I’m gonna finish painting that mandala …

Hank arched his eyebrow. Mandolin? Is that shrink stuff? That broad is crazy, if you ask me. He brought the car to a sudden halt at the stop sign. But come to think of it, she’s a looker too. Maybe better than Rocket Ship Anne Francis.

That comment got me steamed. I didn’t like him talking about Claire like that. I wonder what Debbie would say about that.

That crack got Hank steamed. He tapped on the accelerator a bit too roughly. Suddenly, he smacked the steering wheel hard and started laughing cheerfully. "You like the doctor lady, don’t ya?"

I studied the trees lining the sidewalk because my face was getting red. It’s not like that …

Hank continued regarding me and laughed even harder. Shitballs and hand grenades! I should have guessed. Don’t worry. I’ll lay off ya—for now, anyway.

I sighed before addressing my partner. I hadn’t talked much about my therapy. She’s trying to help, Hank … I just wish you’d lay off.

A bit more contritely, Hank replied, Sorry about the crack, brother. I hope she can fix you up good. I want the old Bobby Clark back.

I remembered a line from that children’s story: All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again. With effort, I smiled reassuringly. There was no point trying to get my partner to understand something even I couldn’t. Then I began staring at the passing trees again. Hank got the hint and clammed up.

We drove up Kinderkamack Road, which connected with Main Street, the major thoroughfare of Mason-Barrie. Well, major is a relative term. The town of twenty thousand sat in a large wooded area south of Pittsburgh. I remembered a fun fact: if you theoretically placed a random Joe on the western border of Mason-Barrie State Park and another one on the southern border and commanded each to hock a loogie at the same time, their spit would land in Ohio and West Virginia, respectively.

Once on Main Street, I saw all manner of shops on either side. One clothing shop in particular usually caught my attention. Its silly name, Clothes Your Eyes, was a head-scratcher, but the green awning looked pricy if not a little quaint. Not unlike Clothes Your Eyes, all the other small shops lined up along the main thoroughfare evoked the same banal charm of a drugstore postcard. The old-timers liked to say that when Norman Rockwell was depicting small-town America, he must have had rustic Mason-Barrie in mind. I took a different view. I recalled what Holmes had said to Watson on a train ride into the country: You look at these scattered houses, and you are impressed by their beauty. I look at them, and the only thought which comes to me is a feeling of their isolation and of the impunity with which crime may be committed there.

Across from the obelisk clock tower on the town square sat a brick building that, admittedly—to most people, at least—resembled a picturesque domicile with its spotless white portico. Etched at the top center of the portico were black letters spelling out Mason-Barrie Police Department. We had just arrived at work.

I got out first. It felt good to stand up. Hank eased his way out a bit more slowly, grunting with effort.

You should lay off the Rolling Rock, Hank. It’s making you paunchy.

Hank smirked. Shut up. When I was in Korea in ’50, that Lumiline Chronograph measured my fastball at 90.1 miles per hour. I bet I could beat that.

Not the Lumiline Chronograph story again! It’s true that Hank could throw a pretty nasty fastball when he was younger—and leaner, I might add—but a shoulder injury in senior year had forced him to shelve his baseball dreams. He settled on becoming a cop instead and married Debbie right after graduation. I was best man at his wedding.

Hank, that was eight years and twenty pounds ago. I regretted my words the moment they left my mouth.

Hank straightened in defiance. Give me a baseball, and I’ll prove it.

I scoffed. There’s three things wrong about your challenge. First, I don’t have a baseball. Second, I don’t want ya to blow out your shoulder. Third, I don’t have a damn Lumiline Chronograph handy.

Hank swatted his hand. Always the wiseass. Let’s go in before I kick your keister.

Hey, wait a sec, the voice from behind us beckoned.

I turned and saw it was Tommy Richardson. He was wearing his dark blue uniform. His cap was characteristically tilted at a jaunty angle. His brown eyes twinkled, and his smile was wide. He was tossing a baseball up and down with his right hand.

I got a baseball, and ten bucks that says Hardball Hank Haynes can’t throw a baseball no ninety miles no more. By the way, welcome back, Bobby, Tommy said.

I forced out a smile. Thanks, Tommy. I looked at Hank. Let’s go inside. Forget it.

In truth, I was worried Hank really would mess up his shoulder, but he swatted his hand again in reply to my suggestion.

What are you proposing, Tommy?

Tommy smiled widely again. Why, the Bob Feller test, of course.

I laughed. They did that test in a park in Chicago.

Tommy shrugged and then jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Halsey Street’ll do.

I shook my head. That was a scientific test. It took time to set up.

Tommy clucked his tongue. What science? All we need is a motorcycle, a yardstick, a piece of chalk, and a mattress.

I snorted. What the hell do ya need a mattress for?

Tommy shot me the Are you fucking stupid? look. He gestured for added effect. To stop the ball. We don’t wanna break a window.

Hank was nodding like Tommy was explaining Einstein’s theory of relativity. He agreed with every aspect of this asinine plan. I wiped my forehead in disgust. I wasn’t even inside the building yet, and my partner was already driving me nuts.

I thought you said the captain wanted to see us right away.

Hank shrugged. It can wait. Pointing at me, he added, Besides, this is your fault, Bobby. You’re the one questioning the speed of Hardball Hank Haynes.

Now I was really steamed. You wanna throw out your shoulder? Be my guest.

Hank narrowed his eyes. "No one questions the speed of Hardball Hank. No one."

Tommy was laughing. Oh boy. This’ll be the easiest ten bucks I ever made.

My partner was already stretching his arm. Shut your stupid piehole, Tommy.

A short while later, everything was set up. It happened more quickly than I had thought possible. Tommy diligently asked the few people who had cars parked in the street to park them in their respective driveways. Patrolman Remer provided the chalk and yardstick to mark the street, while Patrolmen Miller and Lazio blocked all incoming traffic on either end of the street. The townspeople pitched in too. Mr. Dennison at 123 Halsey provided an old mattress, and Mrs. Perkins at 130 Halsey provided the discarded lawn furniture used to prop up the mattress. Meanwhile, Patrolman Kowalski sat ready on his Harley-Davidson. All the nearby residents crowded together along the sidewalk. They would serve as the witnesses to this exercise in stupidity.

My only task would be to hold Hank’s jacket, which I agreed to do reluctantly. Hank stood ready with the ball and mitt he had borrowed from Tommy. Obviously, Tommy, the organizer of this ridiculous spectacle, had earned the right to play host.

Welcome to the show, ladies and germs. We’re here today to see if Hardball Hank Haynes can still lob the high heat. He looked Hank over. I have my doubts, ladies and germs. He held up the ten-dollar bill dramatically. So does Mr. Hamilton.

There were scattered chuckles in the audience.

Anyway, Mr. Kowalski here on the Harley is gonna have a ten-foot head start. He’ll gun the engine and tell us how fast the ball is going.

Kowalski revved the engine like a good showman. The crowd cheered. I couldn’t help it; even I found myself clapping.

Hank glanced over at me and nodded with confidence. Then he scowled at Tommy. I’m ready when you are.

The people laughed and clapped. Others were more vocal.

One said, Come on, Hank!

Another said, Put some stink on it!

After a few moments, they settled down. Hank closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He began winding up. On cue, Kowalski gunned the engine as soon as the baseball had left my partner’s right hand.

The ball skinned the top of the mattress just as Kowalski’s motorcycle sailed on by. He brought the motorcycle to a stop. When he turned to face everyone, he had a giant grin plastered on his face.

He yelled back, Ninety-one miles per hour!

Everyone roared. Hank took a dramatic bow and winked at me. Damn it all! Even I was clapping hard now. The silly stunt had just turned into something truly epic.

With reluctance, Tommy walked over and handed my partner the ten-dollar bill. Hank held it in the air like a trophy. The crowd continued roaring.

"All right, Bobby. Now we can go see the captain."

I patted my partner on the back. Nice job, Hank. How’s the shoulder?

Hank had done the impossible. For a brief moment, he had managed to resuscitate the old Bobby Clark, the Bobby Clark who had engaged in juvenile escapades without real thought, the Bobby Clark who had bragged about female conquests real and imagined, the Bobby Clark who had joined the force to keep the good times rolling.

Just as suddenly, I felt the sharp burning pain in my lower back. It was a reminder of what had happened that snowy night in the cabin, the snowy night that had fucked up my life and my back forever. I tapped the breast pocket of my suit jacket. I felt the reassuring firmness of the silver flask.

Hurts like hell, Hank replied after a long pause.

Saying I told you so would have made me sound like a wiseass, so I kept my mouth shut.

Chapter 2

I looked around. Everything was just as I had remembered it. The white plastered walls were covered by corkboards, which were, in turn, covered by town notices. One large colorful poster reminded the public that Compact Day, which marked the founding of this city, would take place on the twentieth. Of course, I would be remiss if I failed to observe the framed photos of the town council. Mayor Gavin Dewey’s portrait, along with his supercilious smile, hung right dab in the middle of the sorry bunch. You had to keep the politicians happy because they controlled the tax dollars.

That guy’s a dirty SOB, Hank said while looking at the glossy black-and-white of Dewey. He was stretching his aching shoulder.

I almost jumped. For a second, I had forgotten Hank was standing next to me. It’s a requirement for public office, I said.

He laughed and added, Veronica’s always running stop signs, but we can’t do anything about it. Dewey’s always stepping in. He paused. Something’s up with her. She’s gonna get someone killed one day.

I nodded without comment. Hank took the subtle hint and clammed up again. I continued refamiliarizing myself with the station. I noticed the ceiling fans had been set to full blast to beat back the coming heat of day. It was probably going to be a scorcher if the morning’s temperature was any indication. I looked straight ahead. The three desks with banking lamps and typewriters sat unoccupied. Everyone except Captain Steinz was still outside, cleaning up after the Bob Feller test. I noticed one of the desks had an ashtray with a lit cigarette. Of course, it had to be Tommy’s desk. I nearly smiled when I recalled Captain Steinz reaming Tommy a new one for leaving a lit cigarette next to some unfinished reports. He was put on traffic duty for two weeks. It was one of the few times Steinz showed some guts.

In the back left corner stood four black metal filing cabinets, and in the back right corner was a small wooden table with a glass coffeepot. I got the urge for a cup of coffee, so I headed over and grabbed a Styrofoam cup. I poured some of the black brew and added sugar from a spoon inside the glass jar. I sampled it. It tasted like liquid shit with a sugar coating—just the way I remembered it.

Hank was still a step or two behind, stretching out his arm. While I was swallowing some coffee, Hank sat on the waist-high wooden partition that divided the work area between civilians and the official police investigators. It wasn’t as if the wooden partition made an iota of difference in keeping the public from giving their two cents’ worth in ongoing investigations.

The famous Jaime Rodriguez Pirates baseball incident came to mind. It all started when the barber, Mr. Mike Willis, had seen Jaime tossing a Pirates baseball outside his shop. The barbershop window was broken an hour later by the said Pirates baseball. Mr. Willis called Captain Steinz’s home, not the police station. Mrs. Steinz answered the phone, and Mr. Willis explained how he’d seen that spic kid playing with a baseball and how his window had been busted. Mrs. Steinz called her husband, who had been having lunch at the Ben Franklin. Of course, the diner’s owner, Mrs. Latsis, received all the sordid details before handing the phone off to the captain. Steinz, in turn, called me to detain that little twerp. By the end of the day, the geriatric gossip brigade of Mrs. Steinz and company had made sure everyone and his mother knew what had happened with that "Hispanic boy. Soon, many upstanding citizens began wondering out loud why they were letting the Puerto Ricans flood into town. Apparently, one Puerto Rican family constituted a flood. What was the one miniscule detail lost in the hoopla? Jaime Rodriguez didn’t do it. An interview with a ten-year-old eyewitness on a bicycle—coupled with a sobbing, snot-dripping confession—uncovered the fact that the barber’s son, Ronny, had taken Jaime’s Pirates baseball and chucked it through the window. Ronny was steamed his father had made him stay late at the shop to clean up instead of letting him go to the ball game. In the end, I couldn’t tell who Mr. Willis was more steamed with, his son for actually breaking the window or me for proving it wasn’t the spic."

Hank grunted. How does it feel to be back?

I blinked before answering, Just peachy. Want some coffee?

Hank took out a smoke. Tastes like crap. I only get coffee from the Ben Franklin.

I nodded. That’s right. Mind if I bum a Chesterfield?

Hank walked over to me. Why would I?

He handed me the cigarette. I felt for the Zippo in my pocket. Before I could say anything, he’d already offered his lighter.

You’d lose your head if it wasn’t attached to your head, Hank said, laughing.

Only expensive watches. My Zippo’s either on the nightstand or the bureau, I added.

Hank shook his head. Wiseass. Come on. The captain’s waiting for us.

The wooden door with frosted glass had Captain Otto Steinz stenciled on it. Hank knocked lightly.

A muffled voice said, Come in, so we walked inside the very cramped cube Steinz called an office.

The walls were covered in cheap wood paneling. To make up for this, the captain hung a scenic painting of Mason-Barrie State Park on the back wall. It was the creation of local artist Simon Hess, who’d disappeared a while back. The desk was neatly organized with a telephone, a nameplate, a pen set, an ashtray, and a framed color photo of the head of the Geriatric Gossip Brigade herself, Martha Steinz. Next to that one was a photo of his daughter, Nancy, and the grandkids. Unlike Martha, Nancy and the grandkids were tolerable.

Have a seat, gentleman, the captain said.

Otto Steinz was short, chubby, and bald with a trimmed white moustache. He was sixty and perpetually overwhelmed. Usually, he alternated between gloomy and really gloomy. (Mrs. Steinz had a lot to do with that.) The captain sighed and rubbed his temples. So today he was really gloomy. I took a deep drag from my cigarette.

Hank had already taken his seat, but I remained standing. I took a sip of the shitty coffee. Sitting in chairs, especially wooden ones, was suffocating and constricting, courtesy of that snowy night in the cabin. The enclosed office didn’t help either. Steinz stared at me. I took another drag of my cigarette before taking my seat. Immediately, I felt the burning pain across my lower back. My breathing accelerated, but I kept it under control. Still, I couldn’t help shifting around in the chair.

The captain smirked. He looked tired. Got ants crawling in your pants, Clark?

I forced myself to stop shifting. Damn fine chair, sir. It’s just, you know, my back. Then I shut up. Only fools rambled.

Steinz’s face changed. There was a hint of sympathy in his green eyes. He cleared his throat to kill the awkward silence. I sipped my coffee. Then I took another drag of my cigarette.

Anyway. I just got a call from Andy, the truck driver, the captain said. He cleared his throat again. It’s got to do with Veronica Dewey. He glanced at a picture of his daughter. His cheeks reddened. That wasn’t a good sign.

Hank laughed. He blew out cigarette smoke. Don’t tell me she plowed into someone. I was just telling Bobby that—

The captain cut him off by saying, She was found just off Route 70, not far from the abandoned sawmill.

I tapped my inner pocket to feel the reassuring firmness of the silver flask. Is she dead, sir?

The captain shook his head gravely. No. Andy said she was … Hank, give me one of your cigarettes.

Hank nodded and pulled out his half-empty pack. He handed one to the captain and lit it for him. Steinz took a deep drag and cleared his throat once more before continuing. He spoke in a low voice. She was naked and in some sort of daze.

Hank whistled. Shitballs and hand grenades! Did you say naked?

Steinz stared at Hank. The captain was getting steamed now.

Hank cleared his throat and smiled. Just making sure, captain. Ya know, my trick ear and all.

Steinz shook his head in tired frustration. Then he eyed me carefully. He took a drag of his cigarette again. Forgot to tell you, welcome back, Clark.

I nodded and sipped my coffee. The office was getting hazier than London with all the smoke. It didn’t bother me. I remembered what Holmes said—It’s a singular thing, but I find that a concentrated atmosphere helps a concentration of thought.

As I was saying, Veronica was found naked. Steinz stopped to glare at Hank once more. Hank was a good boy, so the captain continued. Drugs are a possibility.

It was my turn to interrupt. Did Andy find drugs?

Steinz shook his head. Calmly, he emphasized, "I said drugs are a possibility."

Hank spoke up again. "Why a possibility, sir?"

Steinz laughed. There was no humor in it. She said a werewolf dragged her boyfriend into the woods.

My partner couldn’t help himself. He laughed hard before concluding, Sounds like drugs to me!

I wasn’t laughing. I was curious. A werewolf? And who’s the missing boyfriend?

Steinz looked down. He sighed before reestablishing eye contact. Jaime Rodriguez. He added, The girl’s in bad shape, not communicating very much.

I felt the back of my neck breaking out in goose pimples. I’d been thinking about Jaime not even two minutes ago …

Before I could say anything, Hank blurted out, "That spic’s boning the mayor’s daughter? We should run