Free Stones Unturned by Christopher Golden

didn't know him on sight wouldn't get in his way.
    The rookie stringing crime scene tape saw him coming and lifted the tape for him to duck under.
    "What's your name, kid?" Hook asked.
    "Castillo, detective."
    "Related to Jace?"
    "He's my uncle."
    Hook nodded in approval. Maybe the kid would turn out to be a decent cop.
    He reached for the door to the T station. Through the filthy window in the door he could see Lieutenant Nathanson talking to a CSI photographer. Nate seemed to be giving the guy a rash of shit, and when Hook opened the door, he caught the tail end of it.
    ". . . anywhere, you got me. Those pictures end up in my hands. Not in the case file, not on line, not in some newspaper. From you to me. Anyone else sees those pictures, it's your job. We clear?"
    The photographer flinched. He didn't like being bullied, but then, who did?
    "Crystal," the CSI guy said.
    Lieutenant Nathanson saw Hook out of the corner of his eye and started to turn. Before either of them could say a word, there was a ruckus on the stairs below them. Robbie Stetler, another of the crime scene unit guys, came running up toward the doors . . . toward the street. He had one hand on his belly and the other over his mouth.
    "Oh, Jesus," Stetler whispered. "Oh, fuck."
    He didn't make it to the doors. Four steps from the top, he clutched the railing like it was a bit of electric fence, turned, and puked on the concrete steps.
    "Nice," Hook observed, wrinkling his nose at the stink.
    Lieutenant Nathanson arched an eyebrow and shot him a look. "Wait'll you see it, smartass."
    "See what?"
    The lieutenant smiled. "No. Go on. The joy of discovery is yours."
    Hook shrugged and started down into the tunnel of iron bars and concrete columns that was Tremont Street station. A couple of uniformed officers were taking statements from witnesses by the ticket booth. Near the turnstiles he passed several other cops milling around, faces tinted sickly green. All of them looked like the back row of church in the last twenty minutes of Sunday mass, just itching to get the hell back outside, rain or no rain.
    The rest of the CSI crew were still in the process of doing their jobs when he went past the turnstiles and out onto the platform of the closed station. When he approached, the forensics team all turned to give him a grim hello and stood aside a moment so he could have a look.
    Something bitter rose in the back of Hook's throat, and he was glad he hadn't had his coffee yet this morning.
    "Hell," he muttered.
    "Yeah," one of the crime scene cops replied, a fiftyish woman whose dark eyes had seen it all, until now. "What does something like this? What kills like this, without any decent witnesses, with this kind of brute force."
    Hook said nothing. He was afraid it would be his turn to throw up. Either that, or he might mention that he'd already given them an answer. Hell . He'd had enough experiences with unnatural things — supernatural things — that he had no trouble looking at the human debris on that platform and knowing, without question, that nothing human was responsible.
    His meet-up with Clay the day before came back to him now. He'd asked after Conan Doyle, thinking about how long it had been since he'd seen the man. Now he realized that he never wanted to see Doyle. Didn't even really like him. Mainly because every time they crossed paths, it was because of hideous shit like this.
    Hook turned and walked back to the turnstiles. Lieutenant Nathanson beckoned to him as he passed.
    "Bad news, Adam. We've got two more over on Tremont."
    Two more. Hook swore under his breath, then nodded. "All right. Give me just a minute. I've got a call to make."
    "Later," the lieutenant replied. "You can call your girlfriend after we've secured the scene. I don't want the unis tracking their boots all over the place."
    Hook hesitated, but the lieutenant wasn't giving him any slack. The phone call would just have to wait. He just hoped Conan Doyle hadn't changed his