Lycan Packs 1: Lycan Instinct

First, to my parents, who taught me to dream big, love strong, and live life to the fullest. I’m eternally grateful. I love you. To my husband, who lets me hog the computer and overlooks my faults. Thanks for being my hero, lover, and friend. To my son, you are my heart. Words can never express how much I love you both.

To my writing buddies: Jackie, who found the picture that inspired me to write the Lycan Packs trilogy, I owe ya, girl! Leanne and the DARN IT ladies—past and present—thanks for all of the chats, ideas, advice, support, and your invaluable friendship. Raq, give that husband of yours a huge hug for me, for putting up with all of my crazy questions and for sharing his law enforcement expertise. Tammy, what can I say? Thank you for sharing the journey and loving my characters as much as I do.

To Mark Donahue of Chicago’s Fraternal Order of Police. Thank you for fixing all of my goofs regarding CPD procedures and hierarchy. (Any mistakes that remain are entirely my own.)

To my editor, Roseann, at Cobblestone Press, thanks for putting up with my stubbornness. To Sable and Deanna, thanks for believing in me. And to Cris G. for her artistic talent—you amaze me!

Finally to my siblings and friends—you know who you are—to list everyone who played a role in making this story what it is today would require its own full-length book. So suffice it to say, thank you all.

“One owes respect to the living;

but to the dead one owes nothing but the truth.”

Voltaire

Some philosopher once said death is peaceful. What the hell did he know?

There was nothing peaceful about the body lying at Mackenzie Lyons’ feet. Tragic. Gory. Even terrifying. Those words fit the crime scene perfectly.

“The perimeter is secured, Detective,” a man’s voice said, interrupting her thoughts. “Coroner and forensics are on their way.”

One look at his ashen face and she decided not to bother correcting his terminology. Only a rookie would call the Chicago Medical Examiner a coroner. “Thanks, Officer...” She read the nametag on the man’s starched and perfectly creased uniform. “...Baker. Who found the body?”

Staring at the victim’s tattered flesh, she tensed against the shudder that raced up her spine. She dug her hands deeper into jacket pockets and blamed the chill on the autumn wind.

“A woman flagged me down. I called it in.” Baker avoided looking at the corpse. His back was ramrod straight, eyes forward, but his breathing was too shallow. Beads of perspiration dotted his pale face. Probably his first dead body, although he hadn’t tossed up his last meal all over her crime scene. That alone was worth a point or two in his favor.

He aimed a thumb at the building to his left. “She said she was climbing down the fire escape and stumbled over the deceased. I think she’s a prostitute trying to avoid the manager of this joint.” He paused, seemed to catch himself. “I stashed her in the back of my patrol car. She’s not too happy about it, but I figured you’d want to talk to her.”

Yep, a rookie. A little uncertain, but good instinct. He’d get used to seeing death; learn to deal with it as she had, if he lasted on the force. When overwhelmed, fall back on training. But he’d never forget, never lose feeling something for the victim or his family. Not if he was a good cop.

“You’re right. I’ll take her statement after the ME arrives,” she said, purposefully using the standard abbreviation for the medical examiner. “Until then, keep her inside and away from any media that may show up.”

“What...what do you think did that?”

“That’s what I’m here to find out.” Mackenzie looked at the body again. Male victim, older, his hair matted and gray with dark red, almost black, stains. Although he was bloodied, there wasn’t much blood around him. None splattered on the stone wall of the nearest building or pooled under the body. He lay curled, in a fetal position.

“Was this the way he was when you arrived? Did you or anybody touch him?”

Baker’s gulp was audible. “No. I mean, yes, he was like that. It was obvious he was dead. I didn’t touch him. No need to check his pulse.”

The officer drew himself up straighter, forcing Mackenzie to tilt her head back further to look him in the eye.

“I thought it was more important to clear the scene and call it in.”

“Okay, thanks.” Using a rubber band, she yanked her shoulder-length hair back into a haphazard ponytail and then snapped on some latex gloves. She wouldn’t touch the body either, at least not until after crime scene photos were taken. “Keep the alley clear.”

Baker gave her a crisp nod, spun militarily on his heels, and left her alone with the corpse. She dropped to one knee to study the condition of the man’s face and torso.

They couldn’t use his face to identify him, not enough of it left. No wallet. No clothes at all. For now, John Doe was just another crime statistic for Chicago’s Southside, but he wasn’t your average victim.

He was no casualty of a drive-by shooting or typical mugging, and he didn’t commit suicide. Such deaths offered signs easily recognizable to most law enforcement officers, even one new to homicide investigation, like Mackenzie.

“Shit. Somebody made mincemeat out of this guy, didn’t they?”

She rose to face Pete Tancock. His skin was pale, but not from seeing the results of a grizzly death. He spent most of his time in labs with dead people. She couldn’t recall ever seeing the nocturnal medical examiner in the sunshine.

“You have a talent for the understated, Tancock.”

“I do my best.” His grin beamed lightning quick, and he tugged her ponytail playfully. He stood a few inches taller than her five-foot-five-inch frame and several inches wider around the middle. Working with the dead made for a healthy appetite in Pete’s case, despite his wife’s efforts to keep him on a perpetual diet.

“Victim’s ID unknown,” she said. “Prints possible. Dental too.”

“Hmm, yeah.” They stepped back and watched the forensics team go to work, the camera flash popping in a slow and steady strobe-light fashion.

Pete’s thinning hair was combed back to unveil a smooth forehead over deep-set pale gray eyes, alive and penetrating. His gaze scanned the alley and settled on her. “He wasn’t killed here.”

“Vying for a detective’s badge?”

He snorted. “Hell no. I’d have to deal with living people then, and what fun is there in that?”

Mackenzie’s lips curved into a lopsided smile. “Don’t like for ‘em to talk back, huh?”

“Oh, the dead talk, if one knows how to listen.”

Mackenzie approached the body and squatted. “So, what is this one telling you?”

Tancock pulled on latex gloves before he examined the corpse. “Can’t say for certain until I get him back to the morgue. On the surface, it looks like our friend here had a run-in with one or more four-legged carnivores.” He pointed to a particularly nasty gash near the right shoulder. “See here? This appears to be claw marks, and these wounds are consistent with bites. Strange. He’s been dead a while. Scavengers, maybe.”

The wounds were unusual for a death in the city, but Mackenzie had seen similar ones before. Wild. Brutal. Disturbing. Her pulse quickened as she focused on the holes gnawed into the man’s flesh. Panic gripped her lungs.

Damn it. Not here
.

She tore her gaze from the body and stood. Her hands fisted as she fought the urge to rub the scars hidden beneath her jeans. Her teeth clenched against the memories. She wasn’t some frightened child in the wilderness, but a cop, a full-grown woman. Willing her system back under control, she stared at the buildings, the concrete, and the crime scene tape, illuminated by the patrol car’s flashing lights. She listened to the ceaseless rumble of city life, inhaled the stench of garbage overflowing a nearby garbage bin. Cheap booze, rot, and urine. The stench of decay.

“You okay, Detective?”

Mackenzie blinked. Tancock looked at her with curiosity. She pushed the memories aside and let the training take over. She had a job to do.

The victim had family somewhere. They deserved to know that whoever did this could never do it again. Nothing would stop the grief, Mackenzie knew, but not having the truth of what happened was like pouring salt on a wound that never healed. She would not let this one go unsolved.

“Last I heard,” she said, “lions and tigers and bears weren’t allowed to roam free on city streets.”

He shook his head. “I’m no expert on wild animal attacks, but I don’t think this was caused by a wild cat or bear. The claw marks aren’t wide enough for a bear, and the bites are more like that of a large canine.”

“How large?”

“Similar to a wolf or German shepherd.”

“Like a guard dog?”

“It’s possible. Homeless guy gets caught on the wrong side of the fence when someone lets his dogs loose. Maybe the owner chose not to have his pups’ meal found on his property and dropped the leftovers here.”

Mackenzie didn’t like to draw conclusions too soon, but the hypothesis seemed feasible. She wouldn’t rule it out. However, the theory had a flaw.

“A homeless guy with a tan line on his left hand?”

“What? Oh, the ring finger.”

“Odds are our John Doe wore a wedding ring until recently.”

“I see your point.” Tancock sat back on his heels. “That’s odd.”

“What?”

“There are no defensive wounds. See? No marks on the arms at all.”

Mackenzie studied the victim’s limbs. The wounds inflicted on the body were on the head and torso. “Could the victim be downed suddenly and unable to fight back?”

“Maybe, if he’d been drunk, stoned, or knocked unconscious.” He felt the head for signs of blunt-force trauma. “We’ll see what turns up on Tox. I’d still expect to see at least a few scratches or something on the arms and legs.”

“Most guard dogs growl and bark first as a deterrent. They make their presence known well in advance of an attack. Even our K-9s are trained to go for arms and legs.”

“True.” He stood and shook his head, his eyes focused on the body as if it were a puzzle. “I’ll check under the nails during autopsy. See what turns up.”

Mackenzie was watching them load the black body bag for transport to the morgue when Steve Cooper flashed his badge and crossed the crime scene tape. She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her bomber jacket and waited for him to approach.

“Hey, Blue Eyes. Do you ever sleep?”

“Nope, and is it too much trouble for you to use my name?”

“Sure thing, Mac.”

She gave up. “Glad you could finally make it.”

“Would’ve been here sooner if I hadn’t been on the L when I got the page.”

“Taking the train? What happened to your car?”

“What do you think? Piece of junk’s in the shop again.”

She scanned her partner from scowl to shined boots. The thin, gold chain at his neck flickered, the only jewelry he wore with his snug knit sweater and black jeans. “Bet that puts a dent in your dating schedule.”

“Hell no, but this does.” He looked around the alley. “So, what do we have?”

“A very dead John Doe who appears to have been lunch for some hungry animals. Hooker stumbled over the body. She’s waiting in the patrol car over there. I was about to take her statement, but since you’re here....” She smiled.

He rolled his hazel eyes. “You just want to be the bad cop.”