Vampires vs. Werewolves, Part One

“We’re worried that our son might be . . .” Mrs. Johansson hesitated. “A vampire.”

Not exactly what I’d expected. Although life was different when I was growing up.

Rose Johansson sat next to her husband, Rick, in their living room in the northern suburbs of Chicago. They looked like the typical middle-aged couple: graying hair, comfortable jeans, family photos on the piano—and a little nervous about talking to a private detective about their son.

I nodded. “As it happens, I have some experience in . . . dealing with vampires.”

“We don’t want you to kill him.” Rick Johansson jabbed a finger. “No matter what.”

I lifted a hand. “I’m on friendly terms with several vampires.”

Of course, if the kid had killed someone . . . but I didn’t have to deal with that right now.

Me? Thomas Hale Jurgen, ex-reporter, now a private detective, with a specialty in the supernatural. I didn’t go looking for this niche. It just found me, and now I’ve got to deal with it if I still want to pay for things like the internet, medications for anxiety and depression, and dates with my girlfriend Rachel.

“All right.” They’d given me coffee. I took a sip. “Tell me about your son. What’s his name?”

“Jason.” Rick crossed his arms. “It was my father’s name.”

“So why do you think he’s a vampire?”

Rosa told most of it. Jason, 22, had been living at home after finishing college with a degree in marketing. He started working the night shift at a local copy shop while trying to find a job. He was obsessed with a local band called Vampireca. He listened to their music and went to shows downtown, then slept all day.

            “It was okay.” Rick shrugged. “I mean, holding down a job, not making trouble, paying for things. He’s a good kid.”

            “But there was blood on his clothes.”  Mrs. Johansson rubbed her eyes. “Not a lot. I thought he was fighting. He didn’t really explain. The next night he didn’t eat anything for dinner, and he had a Band-Aid in his neck.” She pressed a finger on her throat. “Right here.”

            “He didn’t come home on Sunday morning.” Today was Tuesday. Rick heaved a long sigh. “I don’t care if he’s . . . you know. I just want my son back home.”

            He patted his wife’s arm as she sobbed softly.

            I hated this part. “You realize there’s no cure? If he’s really a vampire, we can’t change him back.”

            Rick nodded, his face shaking as if he was thinking through the ramifications. Finally, he choked out, “Like I said, I just want my son back home.”

            I nodded. “All right. Can you give me some pictures?”

            Rick stood up. “You need a check, don’t you?”

            I hated this part too, especially when clients were in pain. But it came with the job. “Yes, I do. Um, first day’s fee? I’ll send you an itemized hourly bill, of course—”

            “Just write the check.” Mrs. Johansson reached for a tissue and blew her nose. “Please?”

Back in my apartment, I looked over the photos of Jason. He had long, unruly hair and a blunt nose, and he wore wide round glasses. I made two few phone calls and left two messages. I wouldn’t get a call back from either one before sundown.

            Then I started on the list of friends Jason’s parents had given me. Half didn’t answer. Those who did hadn’t heard from him in a couple of days, but they agreed to call me or his parents if they did. The nighttime manager of the copy center where Jason worked wasn’t in. The manager I spoke to knew nothing, but he took a message.

            Looking for a missing person isn’t so much as process of looking for the person, but finding someone who knows where the person is. In forty-five minutes, though, I’d run through the usual suspects.

            So after a cup of coffee I steeled my nerves and called Detective Anita Sharpe.

            “Jurgen? What the hell?” Her fingers were pounding on a keyboard. “I’m in the middle of ten reports. This better be important.”

            I winced. Sharpe and I got along fine, most days. I wasn’t sure this would be one of them. “There might be a new vampire around. His human name was Jason.” Most vampires take on a new name once they’re turned—something dramatic.  “Have you heard anything?”

            “Funny you should mention that.” She snorted. “Hawkins is on a scene that looks like a vamp murder. Maybe you should call him.”

            “He hates me.”

            “We all hate you, Jurgen.” But Sharpe laughed. “It’s just the job. Don’t take it personally.”

            I was used to that. “Thanks, detective.”

            Hawkins picked up his phone right away. “What? Jurgen? I don’t have time. I’m on a crime scene here.”

            “Is it a vampire killing?”

“Not that it looks like. The body’s right here. There’s blood and fur all over the place. Crime scene techs are still looking it over.”

            Fur? “Wait—who’s the victim?”

“Rigo Holland, in a dingy apartment over here on the west side. You have some special interest in this?”

I wasn’t sure. “I’m looking for a kid who might be a brand new vampire. Sharpe said—”

“I don’t care what she said. Body is bloody. Looks like the victim was a musician—there’s a couple guitars and posters of some band around the room. Vampire-something.”

My memory clicked. “Vampireca?”

“Let me—oh, yeah. That mean anything?”

The band that Jason liked. “Not sure. I’ll get back to you.” I hung up before he could ask me any questions.

I did an online search and found the band’s website in 3.2 seconds. Rigo Holland was Vampireca’s lead singer, backed by two other men and a woman. Not surprisingly, there was no mention of Holland’s death on the page. They might not even know.

I sent an email to the band’s agent, Linda Gilleran, asking if they’d had any contact with a young man named Jason Johansson. It seemed worth a shot.

Rachel and I were watching Mindhunter on Netflix that night when my phone buzzed. Linda Gilleran, Vamperica’s agent. “Just a second.”

            Rachel rolled her eyes and stood up, grabbing a mostly empty bowl of peanuts. “I’ll be right back.”

I picked up. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

            “Mr. Jurgen? This is Linda Gilleran. I was unable to talk to the band during the day. You can imagine this has been a—difficult day.”

            “I bet.” I waited.

            “I’ve only spoken to Adam.” That would be Adam Marx, Vampireca’s keyboardist. “He doesn’t know the boy’s name, but he’s willing to talk to you.”

            I scribbled down a number. “Thanks. Uh, wait a minute?” My mind was scrambling. She was unable to talk to the band until this evening? “Are they vampires?”

            “W-what?” A short coking sound came from her throat.

            “It’s okay, I’ve talked to vampires.” Some of my best friends . . . “Are they?”

            “Y-yes. They are. I’m not,” she added defensively. “And they’ve never threatened me. It’s—we don’t talk about it much.”

            “I understand. Have the police been able to question them yet?”

            “Adam said someone named Hawkins had called him, and he’d already questioned Tina.” Tina Michelini, the bass player. “I assume he or someone will be talking to the rest tonight.”

            Wait a minute—Hawkins had said he had a body. Not all vampires instantly crumble into dust when they get staked, like on Buffy, but killing a vamp without staking it is—difficult.

            So why would Rigo’s body be intact?

Not a question Gilleran was likely to be able to answer. “Okay. Thank you.”

            “Vampires.” Rachel sighed. “Can’t you ever get hired to find someone’s runaway cat?”

            “I wish.” I moved to my dining room table. “This might take a while. Go ahead and watch the next episode.”

            She started the show as I called Adam Marx.

            I’d seen pictures on the band’s website. He had long black hair and wore sunglasses all the time. He picked up on the second buzz. “Yo.”

            “Adam Marx? This is Tom Jurgen. Linda Gilleran said I could call.”

            “Yeah.” He groaned. “Sorry. Tough day, you know.”

            “I understand. Have the police questioned you yet?”

            “Yeah, a woman named Sharpe. She just left. Look, Linda asked about Jason, but—look, I don’t want to talk on the phone. Can we get together?”

            “Where?”

The bar was called the Backroom, in Old Town. It was quiet and dark.

            “This doesn’t count as a date.” Rachel punched my arm as I held the door for her. “You still owe me from last week.”

            “Okay, okay.” I followed her inside, peered at the tables, and spotted Adam near the back.

            She’d insisted on coming because I was meeting a vampire. And I wanted her along because she’s at least a little psychic. We made a good team that way.

            Adam was sitting with Tina and the fourth from the band, an African-American man named Brandon Toth. Tina was a slender blonde in a T-shirt and jeans—I caught Rachel checking me out to make sure I wasn’t checking her out—and Brandon wore camouflage pants and a black sweatshirt.

            Adam stood up and looked Rachel over. “Hi.”

            Rachel smiled. “Hello there.”

            I bit my lip. Rachel was wearing a vest over a white T-shirt and slightly tight jeans. Okay, she looked good.

            I introduced myself and Rachel. “Thanks for talking to us.”

            “Whatever.” Tina stretched her arms, as if she was exhausted. “I just can’t believe—anything.”

            “He was 90 years old,” Adam said. “He claimed he played with the Stones at Altamont.”

            “I’m pretty sure he was lying about that.” Brandon sipped what looked like a Manhattan. “I mean, he might have been at Altamont. In the audience.”

            A waitress in a short skirt appeared. Rachel ordered a beer and a Coke for me.

            I looked around the table. “So about Jason—”

            “Yeah.” Adam nodded. “I didn’t want to tell Linda about him. He’s kind of a groupie. A little weird. But kind of sweet.”

            “We tolerated him.” Brandon shrugged. “It’s great to have fans, you know?”

            I nodded. “So, is he a vampire?”

            Adam glanced at Tina. Brandon stared at his drink.

            “I didn’t do it!” Tina slapped the table, shaking everyone’s drinks. “I found him outside after a show, and I took him home. He was—I remember my first days. You don’t know what you’re doing. I didn’t want him to get staked, so yeah, I took him home and we took care of him—”

            “We?”

            She glared. “Me and Rigo. We’re—we were together. Sometimes.”

            The waitress brought our drinks. “So do you know where Jason is now?” I sipped my Coke.

            “I haven’t seen him in over a week.” Tina shrugged. “Who knows? It’s not my problem.”

            “He called me last night.” Brandon tapped his fingers on the table. “He sounded fine. He wanted to know when our next show is.”

            “Where is he staying?”

            “I don’t know.” Adam looked at Rachel. “I let him stay at my place a couple of nights.” He winked. “But then he left.”

            Damn it. Was he hitting on Rachel in front of me? I tried to focus. “Do any of you have a number for him?”

            Adam and Brandon pulled out their phones. “Here.” Brandon shoved his screen in my face. “But he doesn’t answer.”

            I took down the number. Then, because I had to ask—“What do you think happened to Rigo?”

            Adam stiffened. Brandon looked down at his drink. Tina looked away.

            Rigo’s murder wasn’t my problem, unless Jason was involved somehow. The coincidence was pretty strong. But I’d hit some undead nerves. “Sorry. I was just—”

            “Weregild.” Adam made a fist. “Those bastards.”

“What’s the Weregild?” I glanced at Rachel. She’d been quiet, listening to everything, and that made me nervous. I felt her foot nudge my leg.

             “They hate us.” Tina looked up, her shoulders tense. “And, you know, the other way around.”

             “They’re werewolves.” Adam grimaced.

            “Oh my god.” Rachel’s eyes went wide. “You mean that’s not just a movie cliché?”

            “Don’t even bring up Twilight,” Brandon warned.

            “Stupid movie.” Tina made a gagging motion with her hand.

            “No, no.” Adam shook his head. “It’s not like an eternal war between vampires and werewolves. Mostly we get along fine. They’re just pretentious assholes.”

            “We played a few gigs with them.” Brandon finished his drink and waved to the waitress. “Always quoting Baudelaire and Bob Dylan like they knew both of them in person.”

            “Not showing up on time, overplaying their sets . . .” Adam leaned back, disgusted.

            “And their female singer’s a skank.” Tina closed her eyes, shuddering.

            I had to ask. “Do they . . . perform as werewolves?”

            Adam laughed. “They can’t perform at all when there’s a full moon. Otherwise . . . yeah, they usually do a transformation, but the leader singer goes backstage so no one sees it happen.”

            “You can control it,” Brandon said. “Except when there’s a full moon. I don’t know what they do then.”

            That might explain the fur in Rigo’s apartment. But again, that wasn’t my problem. Still, it was something to mention to Hawkins.

            I finished my Coke and glanced at Rachel. She nodded and stood up. “Thanks.”

            “Sorry about your loss.” I shook hands with the two men. Tina wrapped her arms around her chest and nodded without looking at me.

            Out in the Honda I tried the number for Jason. No answer. I left a message.

            “Did you pick up anything?” I checked over my shoulder and eased onto the street.

            “Tina’s—conflicted. The other two are just in shock. But she’s angry. At Rigo.”

            I shrugged. “They were dating, apparently. That usually leads to a certain amount of mixed feelings.” I braced myself for a punch.

            Instead she laughed and patted my knee. “You got that right.”

The next morning I tried Jason’s number again. Still no answer. I called his parents. They didn’t recognize the number, so maybe Jason had gotten a new phone. They said they’d call and let me know if they got an answer.

            Then I looked up “Weregild” on the internet.

            They billed themselves as a “wolf punk” band (as opposed to Vampireca, which described its music as “goth hip-hop”). Five members, four men and one woman. The woman, who went by Valentine without a last name, had long thin blonde hair like Tina and posed in a crop top under her profile picture. Whether or not she was a “skank” I couldn’t determine.

            Interesting coincidence: Linda Gilleran was their agent too.

            Whatever. Not my problem. I did leave a message for Hawkins, alerting him to the werewolf connection and asking about the presence of Rigo’s body. Then I moved on to other cases. No kitties in trees, but a few background checks, and a cheating spouse case I could probably deal with through credit card records.

            Then my phone buzzed. Anemone. What the hell? I looked through the window behind my table to make sure I hadn’t fallen asleep at my laptop. “Is this—are you all right?”

            “I’m fine.” Anemone sighed softly. “I didn’t call back last night. It was . . . a long night.”

            “What’s going on?” Not that I cared about Anemone’s health. But if something happened to her, I’d have to find another vamp to replace as queen of the vampires for half of Chicago. Clifford Page wouldn’t want to take over as vampire king, and I didn’t know any other vamp who could do it.

            Still . . . okay, Anemone and I weren’t exactly friends. But I didn’t want her to die. And not just because it would be inconvenient for me. I’ve had too many people die on me.

            She took a gulp of something that I hoped was water. Or at least wine. “You wanted to know about JJ?”

            I stiffened. “Is that his name now?”

            She laughed. “I saw the picture you sent me. I found him the other night. Trying to attack a kid outside a bar. I slapped him around, took him home, gave him some blood, and then I let him go. I don’t know where he is right now. But he said he used to be Jason, so I’m pretty sure that’s who you’re looking for.”

            “Have you seen him since?”

            “No. I hope he’s staying out of trouble.” Another sip.

            “What do you know about a band named Vampireca? And another one called Weregild?”

            Anemone snorted. “Hipsters. If I didn’t know Rigo for years I’d think they were pretenders. Weregild—now they’re dangerous. They hunt.”

            “Humans?” I shivered. Chicago wasn’t ready for a new supernatural threat, even a year or so after the vampire wars.

            “Humans, animals, whatever they can get their claws into. Fortunately, they only have to hunt once a month, and from what I’ve heard, they take precautions—locking themselves up, sometimes, or simply providing a source of food so they don’t have to prowl.”

            Source of food? I didn’t want to ask. “Do you know them personally?”

            “I saw one of their concerts once. I don’t like their kind of music.”

            That was all I could think to ask. Except for one more question: “What are you doing up?

            Anemone laughed again. “Vampires get insomnia too.”