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  I took a few pictures with my phone and then walked over to the officer in charge. He was a younger male by the name of Mallory. Slightly short and with brown hair. “Officer.”

  He practically jumped and turned around. Bad set of nerves here. “Marshal Tennant. Sir. What can I do for you?”

  I bit back a smile. One, it wasn’t professional and two, it would only ruin the poor guy’s day. “Only a Deputy, Officer. Regardless, you said there was a witness. Can you give me a report on what she saw?”

  The officer grimly shook his head, “Afraid I can’t sir. Dispatcher received the call and said she only got through ‘Thing eating someone’ before there was a grunt and the line went dead. She was slumped against the wall when I came here. No blood, but a hell of a dent in the wall. She’s already been shipped off to Saint Anthony’s.”

  I nodded knowingly, but inwardly frustrated. Knowing that the attacker fled when the cops were called was useful information. It suggested someone who didn’t want to deal with the cops, be it fear or the practical advantages of anonymity. Useful, but not as useful as an eyewitness report.

  “I’m going to chase some leads, but this scene is clear. Make sure CSI looks around for the missing heart, but don’t hold out hope for it showing up.”

  He nodded and I pulled out a card for him, “I’ll talk to your superiors about getting our witness some protection. In the meantime, if you hear anything, I’d appreciate a call.”

  The officer nodded as he took my card. “Of course.”

  I smiled, encouragingly I hoped, and set off into the early morning. The only person I knew with a larger thumb on the crazy and oddities of the world than the US Marshals worked for the local FBI office.

  So, I pulled out my phone and called my contact in the Chicago FBI.

  Chapter 3

  Old Friends

  Miles, being a busy man, didn't answer his phone. So, I loaded up, and started heading towards the FBI building on the Near West Side[11] calling Miles’ office en route. Instead of Miles picking up the phone, however, I was greeted by an angry and dismissive prick who wanted to know how I got this number. Apparently, Miles had stopped working for the FBI three months ago and the new guy was sick of people calling his new office. By the time I had convinced him I wasn’t some kind of crank caller and had gotten information where Miles was, I was sitting in line to be checked into the secure FBI parking lot.

  Frustratedly, I pulled out of the line, earning me several odd looks, before rerouting to the nearby University of Illinois. I punched in the number the prick had grudgingly given me, and got directed to a slightly bored sounding woman, his new secretary at the University. Instead of trying to set up the usual lunch date, with a trip to Serendipity for burgers and drinks that was half business half catching up, I pumped the woman for information.

  The secretary jumped on the chance to gossip and filled me in. I tuned out the inane chatter and focused on the details. Apparently, he had been on a raid with a tac-team, ran into a couple of young vampires, and it had ended poorly.

  “How poorly?” I asked, worry uncomfortably slinking into my voice.

  The secretary’s voice turned conspiratory “When he interviewed for the position,” she confided, “He was on crutches and missing a chunk of his left leg. Now, he’s moving so well, you wouldn’t believe that he had ever been crippled.” There was a pause before she corrected herself, “Handicapped, I mean. Still, he doesn’t let it phase him. When he walks, you can’t even tell that he was ever hurt and it’s clearly not affecting his research. He’s working on it at all hours.”

  Hearing that, I immediately became suspicious. Encounters with vampires of any age usually ended in fatalities for normies like Miles.[12] Hearing he was already up and moving made me wonder if he had become some kind of metahuman now. Coupled with the fact that I wasn’t told about it until now, and it made all the paranoia come out. I mean, a few months without talking wasn’t unusual for Miles and me. We were good enough friends that we didn’t sweat downtime, and both had busy enough schedules that regularly meeting up was a hassle. However, we weren’t so distant that I expected his hospital stay to completely miss me.

  I asked the nice lady where I could find Miles, and she helpfully gave me the building and room number of Miles’ first class of the day along with the warning that campus might be a bit busy, with today being only the second day of classes.

  Seven short minutes later, I parked, used one of the local maps to make my way across campus, and into an average sized lecture hall. I surveyed the room and picked a seat in the middle of the row, but towards the back of the hall. I wasn’t the first to arrive, but I guarantee I was the only one there who wasn’t there for class. The detective dress of slacks and a button down stood out amongst the swaths of shorts, polos, and occasional sweats. Even fifteen minutes early, the pile of knots that passed for my back, and still not having slept, I resisted the urge to catnap. Miles was my friend and I needed all the information I could get my hands on about this sudden change.[13] There enough crazy and spooky things out there that could’ve commandeered his body or compromised his mind that I didn’t want to risk missing anything for a for a few z’s.

  Which meant that despite it being 1045 on a Tuesday morning, scanning every student who filled in the hall and mentally running through explanations for his spontaneous recovery. Vampires were mostly out, especially as young as Miles would be. They normally didn’t get the sunlight resistance until they broke 150. Likewise, Alips, Ghouls, and the other things that go bump in the night. The lunar calendar said that most of the new moon creatures were out, they’d be too tuckered from the nights past to be teaching classes. Though, with the full moon so far off most of the furry options were still on the table. Werewolves healed fast regardless of how furry they were at the moment. Not a realistic option, mind you. Even this away from the full moon, most freshly turned were-creatures had poor impulse control and I hadn’t heard anything about mood swings from the gossipy secretary.

  I carefully fingered the rings on my right hand, making sure they were in place while considering other options.[14] It was a bit late for a Mayan gift occurrence in Miles. Post Mayan empowering events were possible, but unlikely. And given the Keane Act’s position on any event resulting in powers, Miles wouldn’t be sitting pretty in a Bureau feeder classroom teaching classes. He would’ve been Section 13’d so hard and fast it would’ve made his head spin so the Feds could figure out if the process was replicable. I paused going through my mental list when I noticed a low murmur raising through the classroom and checked the clock. Miles was running about 12 minutes late at this point and the lecture room was full. Annoyed at myself for losing track of time, I pulled myself from my thoughts and started listening to the student’s whispers. It involved a bit of leaning, some cursing, and a lot of curiosity about why they were whispering at all in a teacherless lecture hall.

  Apparently, University policy was that if a teacher was 15 late, the students could leave, and the teacher would personally pay them back for their lost time. A few were hopeful for the refund, but most were frustrated at being stood up on the first day of this class.

  I was mildly concerned, as Miles was generally a punctual person. Then again, Miles had never been exactly excited for “research projects.” Given, or in spite of, the secretary’s warning, I figured he’d be here any minute.

  Sure enough, right around the time the impatient students were getting ready to leave the room, in sprinted Miles carrying a stack of papers almost as large as he was, his short black hair barely visible over the haphazard pile. He was dressed in denim jeans, a wrinkled polo shirt, and sports shoes, all several sizes too big which just made him look unhealthily thin. Not exactly what you’d expect a Doctorate to wear, let alone a teacher. He stumbled over the door frame, spilled the papers all over the floor and planted on his face.

  Despite the slapstick of the moment and the barely restrained laughter of the students around me, all I co
uld think was, “Huh, no crutches.”

  Quickly, he kneeled up and started gathering his papers into a haphazard stack while he began talking. About halfway through the sentence, he seemed to realize that his microphone wasn’t on and paused his shuffling, dropping the papers once again, to turn it on. Immediately, feedback cut through the hall, and his voice uncertain and slightly shaky, “Ah… sorry about that. As I was saying, my name is Mr… sorry …. Dr. Cross and welcome to… uh…. Behavioral Analysis two-seven-five.” He paused to stand up with the disorganized pile, talking as he went. “I apologize for my tardiness,” he continued, “but the copy machine was slightly occupied when I went in there.” He moved to the table at the front of the room and dropped the papers on it. Straightening his shirt unsubtly as he continued, “I don’t have your syllabus on hand as I was already running late. Our topic for today is….” He stuttered, shuffled through his notes, and paused hand on a frayed yellow legal pad, he flipped through the pages, seemingly at random. “Where was it? I know I put it here somewhere?”

  While he looked, I hazarded a glance around the room. The students were somewhere between disgust and shock at the state of someone who had literally written two of the textbooks the course had required them to purchase. A few had taken out notes and one was on his phone taking a video. Miles showed up clearly, his round face clearly flustered, which I both noticed and filed away for later,[15] before turning my attention back to Dr. Cross as he spoke again. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “Cognitive biases. Please take out a piece of paper that you won’t mind turning in and something to write with.”

  He glanced over the room as students slowly started responding to his requests. If he noticed or cared about me, he certainly didn’t show it. Following the classroom trend, I pulled out a notepad and pen, prepared to take notes.

  The projector, seemingly unlike everything else in Miles’ day, worked like a charm. A small bit of text showed up on screen.

  “A man is under investigation for potential political candidacy. File states that he’s a decorated war hero, vegetarian, doesn’t smoke, infrequently is a social drinker, and has no extramarital affairs.

  1. Based on that description, would you vote for him?”

  I smirked slightly, and put “No.” After a few moments, 75 pairs of eyes looked up at Miles.

  “Question 2,” he said, face placid. “How about now?”

  The slide wiped into an image of Adolf Hitler with the caption, “Political Candidate”. A small swell of discomfort crept into the room as the students sheepishly changed their responses to no., I could even see two students trying to discreetly change their first answers.

  “Question 3,” Miles continued, this time showing the image of an attractive young blonde woman in a small-town cheerleader outfit, clearly posed on the bleachers for what was probably yearbook photos, “Would you want to be friends with this girl?” Immediately, a flurry of pencils wrote.

  “Question 4,” asked Miles showing the next slide, with cheerleader image adjacent with the wanted poster of the most wanted Necro-Terrorist in the world, Mary Morbid.[16] Frantically, students looked from image to image, trying to reconcile the innocence with mug shot next to it. You could feel the tension as the discomfort turned from a creeping sensation to a cloying flood.

  He waited for the disgust and resignation to take hold, before asking again, “How about now?” Once again, sheepish pens and pencils marked the page.

  “Question 5,” Miles offered, trying to hold back a smile, “Write down your first impressions of me. Don’t hold back anything. It’s part of the exercise.”

  I smirk slightly and start writing on the page, starting with the disclaimer, “NOTING THAT I KNOW THE SUBJECT AND THUS AM BOTH ADVANTAGED AND CLEARLY BIASED.” The hall rapidly wrote, trying to redeem their seemingly poor judging of character with observational skills.

  After about three minutes, he interrupted our silent scribing, “When you’ve finished translating your impressions to the sheet, go through and star any of them that are lacking evidence.”

  When the last pencil clicked down, he let the hidden smile shine through, and he began the lecture. “They often say that first impressions matter. And that’s true. Research shows that even after interacting with people personally, your first impressions color how you interact with them, regardless of whether or not those impressions hold up. As potential Psychological profilers, it’s your job to be able to recognize cognitive biases and check them against reality.” I smirked, sat back, and learned.

  ✽✽✽

  1215 came, and Miles was just wrapping up the lecture, “Up here there are three areas for piles. The warmup activity goes in the first, then grab a syllabus from the second, and your homework from the third. Have a good day, I’ll see you Thursday.” I sat back as the mad dash for the exit began and looked around the room. The tension had faded away and notably, none of the students were laughing or disgusted now.

  They all seemed rather happy, or at the very least content with the lesson. As the last person made dropped their paper off, I stood up and approached the desk, handing my scrap paper to Miles personally. He smirked slightly as he took it, “Tennant,” he said as a way of greeting.

  “Cross,” I offered along with my right hand. His head cocked in curiosity as he carefully assessed the rings on my hand before firmly grasping it and giving me a prolonged shake. There was no screaming or tell-tale sizzling sound, so most of the cursed types were out. Still, something was off. I’d have to get him to bleed for me later to verify my suspicions[17], but for now, I was just happy I wouldn’t have to worry about putting a bullet in his brainpan. Whatever his “research” was, it certainly was paying off. I immediately pulled him into a tight hug, “What the fuck happened man?”

  He hugged me back before responding, voice muffled by my shoulder, “Life. We’ll talk about it over a few beers.”

  I wasn’t entirely happy with the response, but I knew that’s as good as I was going to get right now. Plus, that response was so perfectly in character for Miles that I was willing to kick my paranoia to the curb. I gave a satisfied nod and he asked the obvious question.

  “What are you so stuck on you came to me for advice?”

  “Well, that was originally the plan. But I’d imagine being a teacher has granted you some more free time.”

  He scoffed, “Spoken like someone whose classroom experience ended with college.”

  I shrugged, conceding the point, “If you say so. Still, since you’re officially badgeless it wouldn’t be that hard to have you brought in on as a consultant. You could actually tag along this time instead of being remanded to desk duty and research.”

  He laughed, “Do private citizens get a check? Teacher salary is much thinner than what I was getting from the bureau.”

  “Do you take IOUs?”

  “Only from you.”

  “Well, then yes. You get paid in IOUs”

  He nodded, turning from joking to business as he neatened the stack of warm-up questions, “Right, so what’s the case?”

  I rolled my shoulders slightly, trying hard to keep details of the morning from resurfacing and knotting my stomach, “I’ve got something eating just the hearts of people and has super strength to boot. Any ideas before I dive ass first into the fire?”

  He pursed his lips and nodded, “A few. We worried about running into this monster?”

  “I don’t know,” I honestly responded, “But best to be prepared.”

  His voice turned skeptical “And what’s in this for me again?”

  “My continued well-being and a chance to catch up. Plus, a chance to pay back for abandoning me in basic AND not letting me know you were in the hospital.” I adopted a mock pleading tone, “I spent five years arguing with Afghani Tribals about where it was appropriate to carry rifles and you don’t even call me when you’re knocked down?”

  He looked genuinely hurt, before conceding, “That might almost be worth it,” He turned away fr
om me to stack his piles into a single larger pile, the ruffling disconcertingly loud in the empty lecture hall. That more than anything verified it was my Miles still rattling around in there. Man had one hell of a guilt complex. When he spoke again, his voice had turned formal, “Take it there are no Metas in the area that fit the bill.”

  I took his lead and moved past the tension that had filled the air. “None registered at least,” I stated with a shake of my head.[18]

  He pursed his lips in thought, “Not a ghoul I take it?”

  I shook my head, “Nope. Operates during the day, or at least close enough to sunrise that most ghouls wouldn’t risk it. Also ruled out most types of zombies and skinwalkers too. No one’s going crazy and the drizzle would’ve stopped the animating effect.”

  Miles just nodded knowingly, “I figured as much based on you coming to me, but still good to ask. You got a lead you want me to take a look at?” I pulled my phone, loaded the recent pictures, and handed it to him.

  His face turned sharp as he considered the images, but I could see the steel enter his spine and the wheels start spinning in thought.

  “Fun times,” he said handing back the phone, “Let me grab my fun bag and some spare ammo and let’s go.”

  Chapter 4

  Information Gathering