Bulldog Armstrong, a Glock 29 in his right hand, used his left hand to twist the doorknob, on the off chance the front door of Frederick Apennine’s apartment was unlocked. It was not. Standing to one side, Armstrong pounded on the door. He didn’t want to rouse the neighbors but he wanted the occupant to know he was there. In a firm voice that was not quite a shout, he called out: “Federal agent! I have a search warrant! Open the door now!” He emphasized the word “now.”
It was true that Bulldog Armstrong, so named for his tenacity and the fact that his physical appearance vaguely resembled that of a bulldog, was a federal agent. It was also true that he wanted Apennine to open the door immediately, if not sooner. However, it was untrue that agent Armstrong had a search warrant. It was just a thing that sounded good to say if anybody happened to be listening. Agents of the secret, and secretive, Vampire Investigation Unit worked well outside the law. Officially, the unit did not even exist, so therefore a judicially authorized search warrant was quite unnecessary.
“I’m gonna count to three, then this door is coming down, I’m coming in, and I won’t be happy, Frederick.” Agent Armstrong paused a moment, giving the object of his quest a moment to unlock the door. There was no sound of footsteps scurrying toward him, nor even the faintest hint of locks being undone. “All right, Freddie, here we go. One...” Never being one to bother with the rest of the count, Armstrong stood squarely in front of entrance, then raised a well muscled leg. His rubber soled size twelve shoe hit just next to the knob. The door gave way easily and Armstrong entered, led by his gun.
Armstrong spoke again, in an even lower voice. “Freddie, you need to show yourself right this minute. We don’t want any problems. You don’t want a bullet in your heart by accident, do you?” His demand was met with silence.
He scanned the living room for any sign of movement. There was none. Candles on a coffee table dimly lit the lifeless living room. A half drunk glass of red wine sat alongside the candles. There was a beige sofa, a sleek black leather recliner and not much else in the room. More candle light flickered from behind a semi-open door at the end of a short hallway. The apartment seemed oddly still, since the tip that led Armstrong here said Apennine might have company with him, a lady friend to be exact. Creeping along slowly, Armstrong wondered if Apennine really was at home.
Armstrong reached the room with the flickering lights. He nudged the door open with the toe of his shoe. It was a bedroom. Lying in bed was Frederick Apennine, a well known interior decorator, womanizer, part-time bank robber when his design business was slow, and vampire. He was naked as a jaybird except for the hunting knife standing straight up in the middle of his chest.
“Hmmm,” was the only comment Armstrong made at the sight. Tossed on a chair in the corner were Apennine’s clothes. There was no other clothing, not a woman’s nor anyone else’s, to be seen. A small amount of blood had trickled from the wound, then dried up. There weren’t any signs of a struggle.
Armstrong approached the body, looked down at the knife. The handle was engraved with small gold letters, “To Molly” on one side. He leaned over and read the other side, “Happy 21st.”
“Well, Freddie,” agent Armstrong said out loud, “looks like this Molly person took a strong dislike to you. Guess I’ll have to find her and ask her about it.”
“You won’t have to look far,” a female voice said from behind him. As Armstrong spun around to face the voice, he was confronted by Molly Kwiat. Not having had time to dress, she was as naked as the blood sucker she had just stabbed to death.
Before Armstrong could utter a word, Molly’s fist hit him squarely on the right side of his jaw. The heavy black flashlight she had found while hiding in the closet (the closet Armstrong didn’t notice when he had entered the room) made an excellent blunt object. She used it to strike his left temple before he could react to her punch. Just as in the old cartoons, stars swirled about his head and birds chirped in a mocking fashion. Then darkness overtook him. He crumpled, unconscious, in a heap at Molly’s feet.
With great alacrity, Molly dressed, removed her knife from Frederick’s chest, cleaned it in the bathroom sink, and then used a towel to wipe her fingerprints from anything she may have touched in the apartment. Not giving too much thought to the fact that she had almost been caught murdering a vampire, if indeed that really was a crime, she gathered up her purse, gave a quick glance to the federal agent she had just assaulted, then exited from the apartment and into the night.
It was true that Bulldog Armstrong, so named for his tenacity and the fact that his physical appearance vaguely resembled that of a bulldog, was a federal agent. It was also true that he wanted Apennine to open the door immediately, if not sooner. However, it was untrue that agent Armstrong had a search warrant. It was just a thing that sounded good to say if anybody happened to be listening. Agents of the secret, and secretive, Vampire Investigation Unit worked well outside the law. Officially, the unit did not even exist, so therefore a judicially authorized search warrant was quite unnecessary.
“I’m gonna count to three, then this door is coming down, I’m coming in, and I won’t be happy, Frederick.” Agent Armstrong paused a moment, giving the object of his quest a moment to unlock the door. There was no sound of footsteps scurrying toward him, nor even the faintest hint of locks being undone. “All right, Freddie, here we go. One...” Never being one to bother with the rest of the count, Armstrong stood squarely in front of entrance, then raised a well muscled leg. His rubber soled size twelve shoe hit just next to the knob. The door gave way easily and Armstrong entered, led by his gun.
Armstrong spoke again, in an even lower voice. “Freddie, you need to show yourself right this minute. We don’t want any problems. You don’t want a bullet in your heart by accident, do you?” His demand was met with silence.
He scanned the living room for any sign of movement. There was none. Candles on a coffee table dimly lit the lifeless living room. A half drunk glass of red wine sat alongside the candles. There was a beige sofa, a sleek black leather recliner and not much else in the room. More candle light flickered from behind a semi-open door at the end of a short hallway. The apartment seemed oddly still, since the tip that led Armstrong here said Apennine might have company with him, a lady friend to be exact. Creeping along slowly, Armstrong wondered if Apennine really was at home.
Armstrong reached the room with the flickering lights. He nudged the door open with the toe of his shoe. It was a bedroom. Lying in bed was Frederick Apennine, a well known interior decorator, womanizer, part-time bank robber when his design business was slow, and vampire. He was naked as a jaybird except for the hunting knife standing straight up in the middle of his chest.
“Hmmm,” was the only comment Armstrong made at the sight. Tossed on a chair in the corner were Apennine’s clothes. There was no other clothing, not a woman’s nor anyone else’s, to be seen. A small amount of blood had trickled from the wound, then dried up. There weren’t any signs of a struggle.
Armstrong approached the body, looked down at the knife. The handle was engraved with small gold letters, “To Molly” on one side. He leaned over and read the other side, “Happy 21st.”
“Well, Freddie,” agent Armstrong said out loud, “looks like this Molly person took a strong dislike to you. Guess I’ll have to find her and ask her about it.”
“You won’t have to look far,” a female voice said from behind him. As Armstrong spun around to face the voice, he was confronted by Molly Kwiat. Not having had time to dress, she was as naked as the blood sucker she had just stabbed to death.
Before Armstrong could utter a word, Molly’s fist hit him squarely on the right side of his jaw. The heavy black flashlight she had found while hiding in the closet (the closet Armstrong didn’t notice when he had entered the room) made an excellent blunt object. She used it to strike his left temple before he could react to her punch. Just as in the old cartoons, stars swirled about his head and birds chirped in a mocking fashion. Then darkness overtook him. He crumpled, unconscious, in a heap at Molly’s feet.
With great alacrity, Molly dressed, removed her knife from Frederick’s chest, cleaned it in the bathroom sink, and then used a towel to wipe her fingerprints from anything she may have touched in the apartment. Not giving too much thought to the fact that she had almost been caught murdering a vampire, if indeed that really was a crime, she gathered up her purse, gave a quick glance to the federal agent she had just assaulted, then exited from the apartment and into the night.
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