IMAN SPOKE FOR the better part of an hour. The story dribbled out at first, thick and slow and clotted with ums, but as the improbable details piled up and the cops showed no signs of incredulity, the trickle became a steady flow. A nurse interrupted them at one point to change Detective Moore’s dressing, and the detective asked her to come back later, citing police business. Iman took this for a good sign. When she finished, the two officers looked at one another. Iman sensed silent messages passing between them, but lacked the training or intuition to decode them. She could only hope that earnest, slightly troubled stare didn’t mean lock this crazy bitch up before she pulls a scalpel.
“Something’s still missing. The attacks haven’t been random, which means there needs to be a motive. This Motes guy doesn’t seem like the type to go in for the mob.”
Iman rubbed her hands together. “It’s a lead, though, isn’t it?”
“Under normal circumstances, sure. But the identity of werewolves isn’t exactly the sort of thing you usually grill a guy about. I’ve got nothing to hang over him and no logical reason to go to him for a report.”
“Trust me. This whole thing is eating away at him. I’ve seen him deteriorate over the past few months. He’s a wreck. If you put any pressure on him at all, he’ll crumble.”
“Or go to the papers claiming two lunatic cops accused him of being a werewolf.”
“Not exactly the kind of reputation that helps you make Major,” Officer Myers added.
“And the papers print it, sight unseen?” asked Iman.
“Point,” agreed Moore.
Myers clacked her teeth together. “Still, this is some heavy shit we’re laying at his door. If he’s so keen to help us, why hasn’t he contacted the police about it?”
“If he had,” Iman asked, “would you have believed him?”
Myers looked at Moore, who shrugged.
“Point,” he repeated.