The patter of rain drops against the asphalt.

Humid summer air so dense it's almost edible. The crunch of old cigarette butts beneath his loafer, as a senior detective walks the streets of Newark. A short pea coat collar upturned against the abrasive elements while his umbrella moonlights as a walking stick.

The sensation of a thousand miniature water marks on the nape of a barely visible neck, the cacophony of each drop bringing sight to the world surrounding Dread, it was like what some described as a night at cirque de sole in his mind; Electric, almost intoxicating.

Everything in this bleak city, in all it's forms and shapes, sang a tune as original as Fur Elise, played a note as foreign as the first strum of a rock ballet to an old world old man's ear. everything only a person who took sight as a privilege rather than a given could appreciate

. It was the bald spot in his echo made vision that let him know the scene was just ahead, a tent covering the body for fear of washing away material evidence. He could smell the dull after shave and fresh roasted tobacco of his supervisor as he approached

"Ah, Jules. Perfect timing. We just got a new addition to the unit that can't stop talking about you. Meet former Detective Chief Inspector Ripley, 3 hours into the title detective of Newark, precinct 13. " His hand outstretches and I can hear him choke on an otherwise confident breath, "It's an Honor, sir, truly. We've heard a lot about you across the pond over the past few years. Some 'ave even taken to callin' you 'Yank Holmes.' "

Julians' thin lips curl in the corner, "Detective Ripley, I'm flattered. I really am. No one's given me a greeting like that in a long time unless they had a camera on their shoulder or a pen in their hand." Reaching past the flap of his jacket pocket the Doctor pulls out two blue plastic gloves "But the truth is I'm just a cop who got stuck with a lot of high profile cases, and my name ended up in the headline. "

"Aw, but sir, yer bein' a bit modest. You singlehandedly solved--" A rubbery snap whips water on the faces of the three

"So. What have we got. "

Flicking a speck off his nose with a thumb the captain pulls a sheet back on the corpse of the victim. "A Marvin Garner, age 37. Alleged ties to the crime syndication in little Italy but no upheld convictions. Judging by the burns and lacerations we suspect he was cut with some kind of hot wire, and we're talkin left the stove on for six hours at high hot. "

Bending down Julian can smell the rotisserie of his disintegrated flesh. Not many know the direct correlation and similarities of the smell of burned flesh; cooked bacon, smoked beef, or overcooked deer. It's why he became a vegan.

Rubbing a gloved hand down the forehead of the victim he can feel the frozen expression of terror, facial muscles pulled so tight they ripped at the skin's weak point.

Just above the collar bone he can feel the ridges of a laden metal, some kind of chain. further down he can feel the scab marks of a family crest.

"Sir, wudduyu think? " The young detective asked like a philosophy major at Plato's lecture.

Julian removes his glasses to show his eyes, thin white dots dashed on either side in the conjunctiva like a stricken letter O, "This man was on his way home from some type of meeting with the syndication, an initiation. Notice the tattoo on his chest? That's only a few hours old yet he didn't even jelly or cover it. It's a trademark of a certain group of what you'd call less than villains, but higher than mob bosses; the tat is a right of passage. This man just got back from his induction ceremony. "

Standing and whipping off the gloves he shoves them back in his pocket, the umbrella rolling from beneath his left arm to tap the concrete with a convincing tracing of his path meant to fool the team, "This man, was a Crime Father. Whoever killed him, is trying to send a message to the rest. Either that or draw them out, I can't be sure--" That smell. Rotting flesh. A weight of a micrometer on the curve of his collar, some type of ash. Looking up in the rain Julian can barely make out the outline with the help of the rain; Only when it moved was he sure the figure was a living animation.

"Inspector? Search the area for the murder weapon, anything to point us towards our killer will help... I'm going to the office to try and setup a profile." It was a blatant lie. The murder was above the church watching the scene of his own crime.

Tapping around a corner the professional profiler breaks out into a full sprint, darting left then right to hop onto a fire escape and ricochet up to the roof of the church with the help of a drain pipe. Only his chest is over when he stops. Looking directly in his dead eyes was a gigantic wolf's head, beside a man of equal height. "Easy Coal...easy..."

"Just tell me why you did it. "

The man leans down, elbows on knees as he wipes away a drenched expression "Tell'em detective, tell'em Flucks is commin for'em. Your gonna keep that between us until you do" He actually mounts the wolf, as it gallops to the edge of the clay roof.

"And why is that?!" Julian exclaims hanging from the roof's edge

"Because last time I checked... blind men can't do parkour." "YAHH!"

The dire wolf howls loudly into the full moon, all heads at the crime scene gazing up into the water to see the shadow of a beast against the pale O before dissapearing in a flash of red electricity.