The fox from Beacon Hills

chapter three

The body has started to decay, bits of skin falling off, or chewed off, and maggots crawling over it. It's eyes are gone, picked out by birds. Behind me, I hear an officer lose his lunch. I've been called over to Norco, a neighboring city, where the police got a call about a possible dead body. Standing in front of it, it's obviously real, though I wouldn't blame anyone for thinking, or hoping, it wasn't. It's clear from the state of decay that the body has been here for weeks already, though the humid weather we've been having could have easily affected it. It's a male, or at least used to be, with what looks like light brown hair, slightly longer then his forehead. He can't be more then twenty-five. I take a picture before moving closer and taking a lock of that hair, usuing gloves and scissors. I take more photos and collect evidence, looking for anything that could be useful. A shadow crosses my path, and I look up to see Poulter, the sheriff of this town standing above me. Straightening I turn towards him, noting the fact that he's refusing to look directly at the corpse. It's obvious he's almost never had to deal with something like this.

"Did you find anything?" I know what he's really asking. Do you think this was a murder? I take a minute to study him before answering. He's in his late forties, with a receding hairline of what used to be dirty blond, but is now peppered with gray. He'd got a bit of a gut, and blue eyes, that seem to look everywhere but at me or the body.

"Unfortunately, yes." He waits for me to continue, but I pause, debating how much I should tell him. Taking a deep breath in through my nose, I study the scents that surround me. I smell anxiety and fear from the other cops around the scene, as well as puke from severel of them. Death from the corspe, but also wolf, and silver. From the man in front of me I get sweat and worry, but nothing that suggests he knows anything about this. There is a slight scent of werewolf on him, but it's so faint, I know that it only mean he passed one sometime in the last two months. I also smell sickness. His liver is shutting down, but it's so recent I doubt he's noticed yet. I hate it when this happens, because I can always smell their sick, but I can never tell them. I just have to watch, but with him, I feel the need to do something for him. Maybe it's because he reminds me of my own father, who had eyes the same shade. When I was little, I used to want eyes like his. I thought my hazel ones were boring, but he always told me to be happy I got my mothers eyes, because they were the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen. Or maybe it was because I could smell his wife's perfume on his clothes, and I didn't want another family to be torn apart.

He clears his throat, and I realize I've paused too long. I cough, clearing my own throat before continuing.
"The body has several lacerations on his neck and wrists, along with bruises along his throat, as if he was choked," The sheriff closes his eyes, as if my words pain him. If only that were the end of what I had to tell him.
"He also has multiple defense wounds on his hands, and slashes on almost every inch of skin we can see. From the way the body has decayed, it's hard to say wether these were made by animals or if they were part of his death. And that's not all." He turns to look at me, horror in his eyes at the fact that my report isn't over.

"He has wounds from arrows as well."
"Arrows?!" The shock in his voice confirms my suspicion that this as bad as I thought. I nod, knowing I have to push on, finish my report.

"Arrows. Most were removed before the body was found, but we managed to recover some. Whoever did this knew what they were doing." I have a feeling that they'd find a trace of poison on the arrow head.

"If they did, why would they leave the body?" I shake my head taking my gloves off and placing my hands on my hips.

"They didn't. We can tell that much. The wounds on his body would have left blood stains aound it, but there are none, which means they killed him somewhere else and attempted to hide it." I know that's not the whole truth. The people who did this wanted us to find it. They know we'll never be able to prove that it was them, not that they'd be scared even if we did have evidence to do so.

"There isn't even the slightest chance that they did it here?"

"Of course there is, but that would mean scrubing every inch of this place to clean the blood, and that would be more of a hassle then just moving the body after it's stopped bleeding." Also, I don't smell any chemicals relating to cleaning products, but I can't say that to him.

I'm driving home hours later. It's nearly midnight. Working the scene took longer then expected. It's obvious to me who did it, but just like with the sickness, I can't tell anyone. Although I did leave Sheriff Poulter a note telling him he should go get a check-up at Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital.

I can't stop thinking about the man. This wasn't some sort of hunting accident, which I heard some of the officers calling it. It wasn't even a plain old homicide. The person, or people, who killed him, left him there on purpose. They left him as a warning.

Hunters are coming to Beacon Hills.