Wolfe on Trial: Book I

By K. A. Swanson

Joseph Wolfe works for the government, hunting and killing werewolves. What few people know is that he is a werewolf. After being shot in the head, he has lost all his memory and recovered to find he is on trial for a triple-homicide he did not commit. Will Joseph be able to find the real killer and clear his name?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781645843436

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Wolfe on Trial

Book I

K. A. Swanson

Copyright © 2020 K.A. Swanson

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2020

ISBN 978-1-64584-342-9 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-64584-343-6 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

M y name is Joseph.

Dr. Carl Warner looked up from his paperwork. Sorry?

Joseph. Not…not John.

Not John Doe, then. Carl’s pen scratched busily. What is your correct name? Joseph?

A pause. W-Wolfe. Joseph closed his eyes, struggling to remember. Joseph Wolfe.

With an e?

Yes.

Carl paused, not looking up. Middle initial?

I can’t remember. Why can’t I remember? Joseph growled.

Well, I’m told you were shot in the head. It’s a miracle you’re still alive.

Joseph glanced about the room, taking in the table, chairs, bare bulb overhead, boxes, and file cabinets, almost as if for the first time. Where are we? he asked.

Just a spare room, Carl answered. He peered closely. Joseph’s unshaven, unkempt appearance was easily explained by his time in the county jail but not his sudden shift from lethargic to alert, from uncommunicative to inquisitive. Do you know why we’re here?

Joseph’s eyes, but not his head, turned away from the door to meet Carl’s gaze. His eyes narrowed. I killed someone.

Carl paled at the ready confession, the statement of simple fact. Sweat broke out on his balding head. I…I’m told you killed three people. He glanced nervously at the closed door, willing the guard outside to enter.

Joseph glanced back at the door, then at Carl, then down at the papers between them. Three people died? He cocked his head, looking puzzled. Why do I remember only one?

Carl swallowed hard, his gut clenching and hands trembling. The…the purpose of this meeting is…is to determine if you’re competent to stand trial. He drew a shuddering breath. Why did this slight-built, average-height man inspire such fear?

Joseph’s gray eyes bored into Carl’s blue ones. Trial? For what? he said darkly.

Carl suppressed a shudder. His voice rose in pitch. For murder.

No. Not murder. Joseph winced sharply, eyes squeezing shut against unseen pain. Not murder.

Carl relaxed slightly, fear subsiding. I’m not here to judge that. As the court-appointed psychiatrist, I’m only here to determine if you’re competent to stand trial.

No! I— He winced again, keeping eyes tight shut. I’ve done nothing wrong.

You do understand that killing is wrong?

Joseph’s eyes fluttered open. No. Not true. Murder is wrong, not…not killing.

Carl breathed in slowly. The next few questions were critical. The man seated in front of him was clearly in pain, but he was nothing like the near-idiot that had been brought in at first, almost as if the pain had awakened him.

Do you understand the difference between killing and murder?

Joseph was trembling, sweating, and staring unfocused ahead at nothing. The pain was clearly worse.

One is justifiable, the other is not. Murder is not.

Carl was wary but pleased. They were making good progress. But Joseph’s pain was beginning to alarm him.

Are you all right? Carl asked.

I’ll be fine, he replied.

Carl wasn’t so sure, but he forged ahead anyway. When might killing be justified?

Joseph’s response was inaudible.

Say again?

Self-defense, Joseph repeated.

Carl turned his head slightly away. Can you give me an example?

Killing a werewolf.

Carl nodded and wrote. Good hypothetical. How—

No! Joseph interrupted.

What? Carl looked up.

Not hypothetical, Joseph rasped, eyes hooded with pain.

Carl’s blood ran cold. This was worse than he’d imagined!

Not hypothe—but there’s no such thing as werewolves!

Joseph’s anger rose. What are you talking about?

Carl felt mind-numbing terror seize him.

Joseph started to rise, saying, "I am a werewolf. Argh! He clutched his face suddenly, and blood poured through his fingers, running down his face, hands, arms, and dripped on the table. He stepped back trembling and whispered, Get away."

Carl complied, practically leaping to the door, yanking it open. To the startled guard, he gasped, Help! He needs…he needs a doctor!

What happened? the guard asked, putting a hand on his gun. Stepping into the room, he said, Easy, fella—

He started bleeding, Carl began.

Stay back. Joseph said, his voice horribly strained with pain.

Easy. Aw, jeez, the guard said, and Carl heard a body slump to the floor.

The guard called in to his walkie-talkie, Send an ambulance. This guy’s bleeding all over the place!

Carl breathed steadily and deeply, trying to calm himself. Thinking over the facts he’d read about this case, he wondered how any sane person could mutilate two bodies beyond recognition and behead a third. To his mind, no sane person would.

And to his mind, Joseph was clearly insane.

Carl pulled out a cloth handkerchief and mopped the cold sweat from his brow. Two guards rounded the corner as he tucked the handkerchief away.

What’s going on? one asked.

Carl glanced inside the room before answering; the guard inside the room was cursing softly and bent over a prone figure that was still bleeding from nose and mouth. Turning quickly away from the gruesome sight, he suppressed a shudder and said, He seemed to wake up, like he’d been drugged, and the drugs wore off. He was in a lot of pain and then he started bleeding. He raised his voice. "I’d like to file a complaint for being left alone in a room with a psychotic killer with only one guard outside for protection. I’ve never been so terrified in my life!"

Easy, Doc. He wasn’t ever drugged, just turned into a moron from that bullet in his head—

Excuse me, Carl interrupted as he pointed sharply, "That is no moron!" He was nearly shouting, seething with anger.

Doc, calm down! Everyone thought he was harmless and that he wouldn’t be any trouble—

Harmless! Carl looked away; hands on hips. No one ever told you brain injuries are unpredictable?

No, I—

At that moment, two medics arrived with a gurney. One of the medics piped up, Okay, where’s the bleeder? Whoa! He stopped. Staring into the room and sounding baffled, he asked, Which one’s the bleeder?

Carl looked. The guard within stood; his front, face, and hands liberally splattered with blood.

The guy on the floor, the guard answered. He stepped gingerly out of the room as the medics rushed in. I need to clean up. He headed for one of the bathrooms.

One of the other guards hollered after him, Hey, Dan. You look like you lost a fight! The other guard with him laughed.

Shaddup! Dan hollered back.

Carl shook his head. This is the last time I’m doing this for the court, he thought. Every time he’d come in to evaluate someone for the court, something always happened to disgust, infuriate, and now terrorize him.

Watch it. Comin’ through! one of the medics called out, and as the medics rushed the prone, still bleeding form on the gurney out of the room, Carl jumped out of the way in haste.

What in blazes? Carl straightened himself and hollered after the medics, "Gentlemen! Try to be more careful!"

One of the guards sprinted after the medics, yelling back, I’ll stay with this guy, you stay with the doc!

"It’s Dr. Warner, if you please." Carl stuck his nose in the air as he walked back into the room.

Whatever, Doc. The guard rolled his eyes.

Carl stopped in the middle of straightening his papers and said sharply, Pardon?

The guard’s expression was carefully neutral as he repeated, Whatever you say, Dr. Warner.

Carl glared at the guard as he picked up his papers from the table and stepped carefully over the blood on the floor as he left the room. To the guard, he said, You probably want to get this room cleaned.

Yeah, I’ll get one of the janitors on it right away, the guard replied. He spoke briefly into his walkie-talkie and, when he was finished, snapped his fingers. Say, the judge said she wanted to see you as soon as you were done with the psycho.

Carl’s face fell. I need to finish this paperwork. Tell her I’ll have it on her desk in the morning.

The guard grimaced. She was pretty insistent.

Carl rolled his eyes and sighed, Lead the way.

They went.

Dan Hopper reached the bathroom and pushed the door open with his elbow, careful not to smear any blood. He bit quickly at a snag on the nail of his right thumb; a bad habit he had yet to break. Tasting the still-congealing blood, he spat a glob of pink sputum as he reached the sink. He ran cold water and scrubbed his hands and face clean before removing his shirt and pants and rinsing them off. He wrung them as dry as he could, and as he gingerly put on his cold, still-damp clothes, a janitor walked in pushing a mop and bucket and began washing his hands.

Dan nodded to the janitor. How ya doin,’ Al?

The old janitor nodded in reply. Jes’ fine, boss. Room’s all clean now.

Wha—oh. Dan remembered. Pretty messy, huh?

The old black man grimaced. Seen worse. ’Nam, fer instance. He shook excess water from his hands into the sink.

Dan finished buttoning his shirt and spat into the swirling water. I’ll bet. He shut off the water and shivered as much from the chill from his clothes as the thought of mutilated bodies and parts.

Al looked at him carefully. You okay, boss?

Dan checked his mouth in the mirror before answering; his mouth tingled slightly. I don’t know. He looked at his bitten thumbnail thoughtfully. I hope I don’t get anything that guy’s got.

Al frowned. Why’s that?

Dan replied, I tried to stop the bleeding and got blood all over me and then I bit my nail.

Al shook his head. That’s how you get hepatitis or worse. Best get yourself tested.

Yeah, I’ll do that. Dan worked his mouth and spat again. If anything, the tingling was getting worse. He turned to leave the bathroom. Take it easy, Al.

Same to you, boss. Al picked up the mop bucket to empty it in the sink, and it slipped from his grasp to crash on the floor, drenching him from the waist down with dirty water. Son of a— he exclaimed.

Dan spun at the noise and laughed. I knew that’d happen someday, Al! He left, laughing.

First time it’s happened, Al grunted. Shaking off nearly black, filthy water, he proceeded to clean up the mess he’d just made.

Dr. Carl Warner and the guard stopped just outside Judge Karen Fuller’s office. The guard knocked on the door and said, She asked for you, not for me, and left smiling.

Come in, Carl heard the judge say.

Taking a deep breath, Carl entered.

Carl! Nice to see you again, she said smiling. She had chestnut-brown, shoulder-length hair with just a touch of gray she never bothered to color out, was of average height and build, looked to be in her late forties or early fifties (she never told), and was still pretty enough to turn most any man’s eye.

Judge Fuller— Carl began.

Karen. Please, she interrupted. Have a seat.

Ah. Karen, Carl began again, nervously taking a seat and glancing about the well-furnished office filled with shelves, books, figurines, knickknacks, and newspaper articles (anywhere but at her), and continued, I need to finish the paperwork. I can have it on your desk in the morning—

The judge had picked up a cup and sipped from it; now she waved a hand to interrupt again. She swallowed and said, That can wait. I wanted a heads-up on what you thought. Is our John Doe competent to stand trial?

Well, first, his name is Joseph. Joseph Wolfe. Last name ends with an e. You may want to update your records.

Karen nodded and made some notes on some papers on her desk, looking up when she’d finished.

Carl locked eyes with her now. He believes that he’s a werewolf and that he killed one.

Karen returned his gaze. "Definitely not competent, then. She looked about the room. Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?"

Ah. Carl licked his dry mouth. Some water, please. I should stay sober. I have to drive. He could have used a stiff drink too.

Karen lifted one side of her mouth in a wry smile. Ice water? she asked.

Yes, please, Carl replied. As she filled a glass from a pitcher and added some ice from a small freezer, he reflected on how she was always the perfect hostess. She handed him the glass.

Thank you, he said and took a small sip.

The judge sat down behind her desk. Picking up her cup and saucer, she sipped her drink and said, I’m under a lot of pressure from the prosecuting attorney to get a death-penalty conviction. It doesn’t help that the attorney general is supporting him on this one.

Carl frowned. Richard Lesse has the attorney general’s support?

The judge put down her cup and saucer and threw up her hands. Will wonders never cease? Add to that the fact he wants a death-penalty conviction under his belt before he switches to defending clients and wants it so bad, he can taste it. It’s no small wonder I haven’t had a moment’s peace. I probably shouldn’t be telling you any of this, but— She leaned forward. Is there some way, anyway, that you could declare him fit for trial?

Carl considered for a moment before answering. He thought, So that’s why the hasty summons to the court and the makeshift interview in a spare room. He wondered for an instant why she had even bothered to get him involved when she could have dispensed with any evaluation and handed Joseph over to an automatic death sentence, but he already knew the answer: Her sense of justice wouldn’t permit anything less than a fair trial.

He opened his mouth to reply when just then, no less than Richard Lesse barged in through the door.

Judge Fuller, he said, excited, I’ve just spoken with the governor. He said there’s no way he’d grant a pardon for this case. He paused to straighten like a strutting peacock.

Karen wasted no time to interrupt him. Hello again, Dick, she said frostily. Nice of you to knock.

Ah. Sorry. He stepped back and knocked on the door and noticed Carl. He blinked. Dr. Warner. He couldn’t quite keep the surprise out of his voice.

Mr. Lesse, Carl replied evenly; his face expressionless. He knew why he disliked this man so much: Richard Lesse was very much a younger version of himself with hair.

We have a complication, the judge said.

Complication? Richard asked as he looked back and forth between them and then his eyes widened with dawning comprehension. No. No. He’s fit to stand trial. Isn’t he? It wasn’t a question.

Carl thought, Give the man credit for his intelligence. He’s not, Carl said emotionlessly.

You’re kidding me. Richard’s face flushed, and his eyes narrowed. This was just a formality, not an effing complication. He placed a hateful emphasis on complication.

Calm down. You’ll get the report in the morning. The judge’s voice was still frosty.

Really? Richard placed his hands on her desk and got nearly nose-to-nose with her. I’ll have him reevaluated and declared fit to stand trial, he sneered.

I don’t think so, she replied evenly, not backing down an inch. Mr. Wolfe is being—

Who? Richard interrupted.

Joseph Wolfe, not John Doe, she continued smoothly. She glanced toward Carl. The accused is being transferred to Dr. Warner’s clinic where he will remain until he is declared fit to stand trial.

Which will be never, Richard snapped. He