CHAPTER 1 - The Howl
February 23rd 2012
Daramont County Sheriff's Department
Eaton City, State of New York
Jim stuffed his hands into the pockets of his parka as he stepped outside, the imposing brutalist facade of the sheriff's department behind him. Layers of clothes - thermal underwear, forest green cargo pants, snow boots, a thermal turtleneck, tan service shirt, forest-green Goretex DCSD jacket, and black fleece cap - did not offer complete protection from the below-zero temperature. Jim walked over to the steps ascending from the sidewalk below. The parking spaces in front of the building had long been plowed; Jim's unmarked black Tahoe sat idle and running in one of the parallel spots. Falling snow slowly cascaded onto Eaton City and heavy grayish clouds hung overhead, barely obscuring the sun. Main Street, running right in front of the Sheriff's Department, carried lines of undaunted travelers up and down the Uptown area. A handful of pedestrians, heads tucked down and hands tucked into their pockets, made their way despite the snowfall. The roads and sidewalks had been plowed, salted, and subjected to a repeat of that process. Everything else, on the other hand, still bore the snowy blanket from November.
Jim took a look at the watch on his left wrist. 8:25; the crew should be pulling in here soon. Behind him, the glass double doors of the sheriff's department opened, an audio sensor emitting a loud but non-threatening beep sound. Jim stepped ninety degrees to his right, looking to see who was walking out. A tall, tan-skinned woman with black hair, dressed in a uniform of green cargo pants and a tan uniform shirt, made her way towards Jim. She smiled faintly; Jim gave a respectful nod.
"Hey Lori," Jim said, turning to face his superior. Lorraine Fielder was a fairly attractive woman for her half-century of age; her complexion barely weathered in spite of a thirty-year career. Her presence was firm, commanding of respect from superiors and subordinates alike. In her right hand was a handheld radio. Static crackled out from the line, and Lorraine held it up for Jim as if to make a point. Her expression was stoic, to say the least, but Jim spotted the concern in her brown eyes. Lorraine's eyes were routinely intense, something that Jim attributed to her Mohawk heritage.
"Bracco started transmitting five minutes ago," she said, continuing on . "And that's all that has come through. Not an actual word from him, but enough that I have Comms figuring out his exact position."
Jim nodded in response to the news. Deep down, he absorbed a pang of guilt. Devin Bracco, the rookie, had gone to Lake Malton on Jim's order. It was a decision that Jim had put little thought into; Bracco was riding solo now that he had completed his probationary phase, and it was not uncommon for deputies to head up the zig-zagging mountain highway and answer calls in Malton. It was even less unusual for lieutenants of the DCSD to dispatch officers by name. A simple fucking welfare call. That's all it's supposed to be. And now the button on his radio is being held down. He shook the thought from his head, and motioned to a road parallel to the north wing of the department.
A Ford F250, emblazoned in the colors and decals of the New York State Police and towing a snow mobile in the bed of a trailer, sat as the first vehicle in what was a very long, figuratively "blue," line. A quartet of four DCSD Crown Vics sat in waiting behind the State Police vehicle. And behind the Crown Vics was another DCSD vehicle - this time an '01 Dodge Ram pickup in department colors. At the rear of the line, was a blacked-out Suburban that gave off some very "federal" vibes. Jim frowned, he and Lorraine pacing about the department courtyard and surrounding sidewalk to see that the street was barely long enough to hold the entire line of law enforcement vehicles, and that line was now blocking traffic in two directions on the street behind it. Lorraine shifted her attention to the parallel parking spaces lining the street.
"Jim, there aren't enough spaces for all those cars," she said.
He looked over at the spots, and saw that a few civilians had already parked where the line was due to form. His left hand went to the mic that was clipped to his parka, and his index finger held down the transmission button. Communications within the sheriff's department were held in plain language, as opposed to ten-codes.
"Riker to all units in the vicinity of the Sheriff's Department," he stated, beginning his broadcast. "Every second Crown Vic that's pulling up is to pull around the south end and use the rear parking lot. Not enough room up front. Over."
Jim released the mic, and turned back to face Lorraine. "I can take things from here and get everyone brief."
She nodded to the affirmative. "I'll leave you to it then, Jim. You guys be safe."
"Bet on it," Jim replied. Lorraine let out a faint smile, and turned one-eighty to re-enter the building. Jim keyed his mic again, slowly walking out towards the street, eyes focused on the State Police vehicle.
"Everyone come around to the front once you've parked. If you're up front, leave it idle. Rally on me. Over and out."