Chapter 06 - RAID:

  The warrant pinged green at 10:47. The warrant had crawled through legal, stamped with just enough urgency to keep the case moving, though Morty suspected half the push came Val, she must have been informed Ruld and Muldoon would be dragged into something else.

  They’d been circling shops and offices near Vermilion all morning, gathering scraps of camera footage, waiting for authorization. They even managed to glimpse the husky walking down the street by himself on a pharmacy’s street camera, but not the other group. When the green light came, Muldoon pulled their cruiser down narrow streets toward the east blocks, and the house rose ahead of them — a two-story frame place hunched in on itself, white paint peeled to grey.

  It didn’t look like a predator’s lair. It looked like someone’s uncle’s place after three years of neglect; it was a narrow two-story on a side street, the kind with a yard gone wild and plastic chairs left out in the weather.

  “Not much to look at,” Muldoon said, peering out the window.

  “Looks lived in,” Ruld rumbled. “At least, it did until recently.”

  Bianca was already pulling gloves tight against her wrists before the cruiser had even stopped rolling. “Let’s see what’s inside.”

  The official knock went unanswered. No footsteps inside, no shadow under the threshold. The garage was empty too, though the files listed a sedan registered to Duarte.

  “Neighbors say they heard him pull in late last night,” Muldoon murmured, checking his notes. “Then out again early this morning. No idea if he came back.” He took a bite from a large piece of cake he was holding.

  “Where did you get the cake?” asked the rhino.

  “Granny next door.” He replied, taking another bite.

  “I want some.”

  “Grannies love me. But good luck.”

  Ruld huffed and then rolled his shoulders, eyeing the door as a race finish line. “So, can I knock it down?”

  “Hold up.” Morty was already crouched, slipping a small leather case from his jacket. Tools gleamed from inside — slim picks, a tension wrench, all worn smooth from use. He fitted one into the lock and leaned in, ears pricked forward, eyes half-lidded with focus.

  Bianca arched her brow. “That isn’t exactly in the standard-issue kit.”

  Muldoon smirked. “Remind me not to piss you off, cat.”

  “Shh,” Morty hissed, tail twitching. “Doors talk if you listen. Don’t need brute force every time. But I do need quiet”.

  Morty’s fingers slid a flatpick into the lock, the click of tumblers soft and precise. He kept his face blank, hiding the small thrill in the wrist motion — the kind you get from doing something useful with your hands when your head is full of questions. A few twists and turns later the lock gave a muted click, and he pocketed the picks before either could press the point.

  “See? No splinters, no busted hinges. Clean entry.”

  Ruld snorted but stepped aside as Morty pushed the door open. It was a living room, it had stairs leading to the second floor. and a corridor leading to another room, bathroom, and the kitchen.

  Blood splatters stained the floor and furniture. A small trail of red drops making its way to what they thought was the door to the kitchen.

  Bianca slipped in first, snapping open her kit. Ruld ducked after, his bulk filling the doorway, while Muldoon peeled left, sweeping corners with methodical precision. Morty lingered just past the threshold, tail swaying, eyes narrowing.

  “Clear” Muldoon said from the next room and Ruld stepped inside followed by Morty.

  Bianca moved like she’d done this a thousand times: She took a few photos of the living room first, then took out a brush and started powdering the doorknob. Fine graphite dust clung to the metal, pulling out partial prints in ghostly swirls. She leaned close, photographing each one with a battered handheld, then pressed adhesive film over them and peeled back careful, sliding the lifts into labeled envelopes.

  “Why are you getting fingerprints?” Asked Ruld. “We know the house belongs to the horse.”

  “Yeah. But we had nothing on him,” she murmured as she logged them. “By doing this, if he’s been sloppy anywhere else, we’ll know. Cross-reference is only as good as the backlog. If his hand’s been somewhere it shouldn’t, it’ll come up.”

  Muldoon, watching, whistled low. “Feels a bit like fishing.”

  “That’s the job,” Morty shot back without heat. “A dozen smudges now means maybe one match later. When the system coughs up his prints from some pawn shop robbery or illegal run two boroughs over, we’ll be glad we took the time.”

  Bianca shifted to the closet handles, brushing again, catching partials on the frame. Every knob, every drawer got the same treatment. To Morty, it looked almost ritualistic — not high-tech, just painstaking accumulation. One fragment here, another there, each sealed and catalogued.

  The living room smelled of old carpet, stale takeout and iron rust, dried blood — across the walls there were several pictures of said horse. Morty stood at the center, hands jammed in his pockets, tail flicking with a rhythm that was more on edge than boredom. He let his eyes move slowly, like a cursor across a document. He spotted and pointed to Bianca a pair of shoes fitted for equines with blood on them at a corner.

  Duarte had been a bodybuilder and a strongman. There were prizes, trophies and competition pictures. The cat walked around taking those in. Articles from old newspapers and some magazine covers showing a younger version of the man he saw on the videos at Vermilion.

  Muldoon and Ruld had their guns out and were checking the rooms to make sure the house was safe and that they would not be surprised. Bianca threatened them with a painful death if they started grabbing stuff without gloves.

  There were some drops of blood here and there. They kept pointing those to Bianca. Muldoon gave a whistle from the kitchen and Morty went there to check, asking Ruld to canvas the second floor.

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  “Okay,” Muldoon said, crouched by the sink. He lifted a shirt out with a latex-gloved hand. “This one he washed. Same from the video of last night, maybe tried to get the worst out.” He tapped the shirt with his knuckle, as if testing the fabric. “Why would he try to wash it and then leave like this?”

  Bianca entered the kitchen and got a bigger plastic bag, bagging the shirt.

  Morty saw a tiny smudge on the fridge’s handle. Morty tugged the fridge door open. Cold light spilled out, buzzing faint and sickly against white enamel.

  A man stared back. Or what was left of him. Evan Kóvacs. Propped upright on a platter, eyes half-lidded, mouth slack, as if he’d just stopped mid-sentence.

  The room froze. Even Bianca’s gloves paused mid-motion. Muldoon swore low, a rough exhale through his teeth.

  Morty didn’t look at the face. He looked at the presentation. Centered, not crammed. Not hidden. Placed. He felt his stomach tighten, not from the sight, but from the deliberateness.

  This wasn’t storage. This was theater. Has he left this for us to find? Morty mused.

  Bianca’s camera clicked sharp, mechanical. She was already in motion, bagging the scene, doing her job. Muldoon muttered, “Guy’s sick,” like that closed the thought.

  But Morty stayed rooted, tail stiff. His claws flexed once against his thigh, the only giveaway. He stepped back, letting Bianca and Muldoon crowd the fridge. The cold light followed him as the door stayed open, and Evan’s eyes — half-clouded, half-pleading — seemed to follow too.

  Morty’s mouth formed a small line. He wasn’t looking at the head. He felt that old, slow unease thicken behind his ribs. There was something very wrong here; it felt intentionally theatrical. Muldoon opened the freezer. No grim discovery there. Then started opening all the cabinets in the kitchen.

  Morty gave them space, that kitchen could hold a big predator, but not many regular people without being cramped. No one had inspected the bathroom yet.

  Blood on the floor. On the towels. The hamper had more of those. He had showered. Looking closer, he saw a coat striking out under the towels. It had the Aldeham logo partially visible. It was the Bison’s coat.

  “Hey, he took a shower. And the other guy, Caleb Orsin, his coat is on the hamper. I will not move it, in case you want to get cleaner samples”

  “Thanks.” she replied without turning away from the head she was packing away.

  “I’m going up” he said, leaving her with Muldoon.

  As he got up, he could see the small and faint blood drops. Probably the guy had taken his clothing but hadn’t washed yet as he went to his bedroom.

  “What do you have for me?” Morty asked, as he got up and met the rhino.

  Upstairs, the search was quicker: closet with gaps where shoes should’ve been, dresser drawers yanked open with space for missing clothing. Slots were pairs of shoes. There was also a small office next to the bedroom and the drawer had been moved. Some papers scattered on the floor. There was a small safe on a wall with its door open. Empty inside. A picture of a group of students in soccer gear was on the floor. Probably that would be hanging in front of the safe. He could see a young Duarte and Caleb there, plus a group of other smiling teens.

  Ruld sighed “Textbook. He stripped what he needed and bolted. No effort to cover tracks.”

  “It does look like it” Morty felt tense.

  “Bianca is leaving the bag with the head in the fridge until we leave” Muldoon shouted from downstairs.

  “What head?” asked Ruld.

  “We found the IT guy. Evan. I mean, we found his head. It was severed and put in the fridge”

  They regrouped down stairs. “Garage?” Muldoon asked.

  Morty nodded and they used a small door from the kitchen that led to the back yard. A narrow driveway allowed a car to pass between the house and the neighbor’s fence. On the back there was a garage. As they got close, they could hear loud chirping. They all turned to Morty and he sighed and pulled his lockpick again.

  Inside there was a washing and drying machine. A few weight lifting dumbbells next to a wall mirror. and on the left wall, several cages with feral guinea pigs.

  “So, he was raising livestock at home.” Muldoon mentioned.

  “Well, that is not a crime,” Ruld replied. “You just can’t sell it around without the proper procedures to make sure it is safe and you are not going to make people sick”

  The guinea pigs were going nuts, shaking the cages. Morty to a step closer and found out they were probably hungry and thirsty. There was a package with rations and he started to put it on the feeders. The rodents changed to happy chirps and went at it.

  “Can someone fill the water bottles?”, he asked without turning from his task.

  “Why?” Bianca asked, baffled.

  “I eat burgers, but I don’t want the feral cows to starve or be mistreated,” Muldoon replied. Picking a few of the water bottles and taking it to a sink near the washing machine.

  Bianca sighed and started flashing a dark light on the floor. But she didn’t find blood.

  “Guys…. what do you think of the situation so far?” Morty asked as he finished.

  Bianca harrumphed. “Clothing gone, shoes missing, blood at the door, shirt in the sink, head in the fridge, bison’s coat on the hamper…”

  “Was it the bison’s?” Morty asked curiously.

  “Ah, Yes. I checked after you spotted it. It has fur that matches. Someone could say it could be from some other bovine of the same colour, but…”

  “Ok, it was the bison’s.”

  Muldoon started putting the water bottles next to the cages, shaking his head. “Guy didn’t even bother. Walked home, cleaned up, packed light, and walked out. It’s him. Case writes itself. This is runner 101.”

  Ruld nodded. “Blood at the alley, blood here, clothing missing, no forced entry. Timeline lines up. He came home, realized the net was closing, and bolted. We’ve got him. This is open-and-shut.”

  “I guess but I still feel like there is something we are missing. I want to have a last onceover. We can pick the head and head to the station then.” Said morty

  “What about the guineapigs?” asked Bianca.

  “Leave the door open. If the guy is on the run, we can just have a neighbor to take care of it. Or you can report it to the precinct. Usually when a predator is arrested and they have livestock, it is seized and distributed for internal use, or donated.”

  Morty went back to the house with the rest of the group. He stood in the middle of the chaos of the living room. He could in the theater of his mind imagine the horse from the footage coming in, tossing the shoes to the side. He walked into the bathroom, took clothes out. Tossed the bloody shirt in the kitchen. Upstairs. Then downstairs. The head probably was cut elsewhere and brought here. Something was bothering him.

  Outside, the day had brightened enough to make the stains on the pavement look smaller, less decisive. The cruiser engines hummed like bees about to take flight. Morty kept his questions to himself as they packed everything for the drive back. The evidence pile already looked strong to his eyes — too many obvious clues, too neat — and every neat thing was only making him want to dig more. It was stupid. He wanted it to be harder to solve.

  Later, while Bianca loaded samples into the cruiser and Ruld stomped back into the passenger seat of the cruiser, Morty was talking to someone in his terminal. Muldoon lagged with Morty by the porch. The wolf’s ears flicked, then he asked low, “What’s with Ruld? He looks like he’s carrying more than just a case file.”

  Morty blinked at him. “That's your first read?”

  “Guy’s twitchy. Not about the house — about you.” Muldoon’s grin was thin. “I’ve only met you last night, but even I can smell that tension. The way he talked about you, I thought he wouldn’t chicken out when face to face. Well, he did, we had a talk, but he looks worse.”

  Morty didn’t answer right away. His claws tapped once against the railing. His eyes slid back toward the house.

  “Ruld’s a good man,” he said finally. “That’s what matters.”