Free The Wolfen by Whitley Strieber

one.
     
    It didn’t take long to assemble the search party. It was now four o’clock and the night men were coming on duty. Three patrol cars returned to the building. With the two men on duty there plus Wilson and Neff there would be exactly ten officers for the search. Of course as soon as the cars drew up to the front of the building you could assume that any junkies in it slipped out the back. But murder had been done here and the precinct so far hadn’t mounted a proper search. Pictures had been taken of the victims and a cursory dusting of the area for fingerprints, but that was all. In this part of the city a committed crime was just another statistic. Nobody bothered to find out the circumstances that led to the deaths of a few derelicts. And nobody doubted that the blind man had gotten mugged and then dragged off the street to die. And nobody was right about what happened.
    During the search Wilson and Neff were silent. The rooms of the old tenement still bore the marks of the last residents—graffiti on the walls, shreds of curtains in the windows, yellowing wallpaper here and there. Even, in one room, the remains of a carpet. But there was no child, and there were no traces of recent human habitation.
    Wilson and Neff made the reluctant patrolmen scoop up some of the fecal matter that was found. They put it in a plastic bag.
    “Empty upstairs,” a voice called as a group of five came from searching up to the roof. “Nothing suspicious.”
    What the hell did that mean? These men wouldn’t know evidence from cauliflower. “Take us through,” Wilson growled. “We’ve gotta see for ourselves.”
    The patrolmen went with them, the whole crowd going floor to floor. Becky saw the empty rooms in better light, but her mind could not blot out those plaintive cries. Something was up here just a few minutes ago, something that had left without a trace.
    They looked carefully in all the rooms but found nothing.
    When they got back to the basement Wilson was shaking his head. “I don’t get it,” he said, “I know you heard something.”
    “You do?”
    “I heard it too, you think I’m deaf?”
    Becky was surprised, she hadn’t realized that he also had heard the sound. “Why didn’t you go up with me then?”
    “It wasn’t a child.”
    She looked at him, at the cold fear in his face. “OK,” she said, swallowing her intended challenge, “it wasn’t a child. What was it?”
    He shook his head and pulled out his cigarettes. “Let’s get the shit to the lab for analysis. That’s all we can do now.”
    They left the house with the clomping horde of patrolmen. With their meager evidence tightly enclosed in plastic bags they headed back to Manhattan.
    “You think this will reopen the DiFalco case?” Becky asked.
    “Probably.”
    “Good, then we won’t be moonlighting on it anymore.”
    “As I recall we got taken off that case. Or do you recall something else?”
    “Well, yeah, but in view of—”
    “In view of nothing. We’re going to be the scapegoats now. Neff and Wilson get case. Carbon monoxide and wild dogs. Neff and Wilson close case. New evidence comes in. Case reopened. Neff and Wilson scapegoats for closing it in the first place.” His throat rumbled in a suppressed cough. “Goddamn Luckies,” he said. “Goddamn, you know I could be resigning soon.”
    “You won’t resign.”
    “No, not voluntarily. But it depends on how hard Underwood wants to stick me with blame for misunderstanding the case.”
    “But it’s only one damn case.”
    “It’s police officers killed in the line of duty. If it gets out that Underwood himself closed the case he’ll lose his shot at Commissioner. Therefore you and yours truly are going to be blamed. Might as well relax and enjoy the fun.” His shoulders shook with mirthless laughter.
    “Maybe there’s something more conclusive. If there is it’ll help a little.” She paused. The silence grew. “Who do you think is doing it?” she