October 15, 19XX.
The rain fell like a curtain of tears.
It had been pouring nonstop since early morning, cascading from a permanently gray sky and forming rivers that ran through the streets. And yet it was impossible for it to wash away the filth of the city, eliminate the traces of decay in the air, or purify the corruption that permeated every corner.
The city was like an elusive and cunning lover, a chameleon that adorned itself with tinsel and glamour during the day to lure unsuspecting victims with its ill-fated siren song. But the shadows of the night revealed its true nature: a human dunghill built on a foundation of broken promises, destroyed souls, ruined lives, and spilled blood.
It was a wild animal, beautiful and horrible in equal measure. If you weren't careful, it would catch you in its jaws and never let you go.
She had lost count of how many broken people she had encountered in her line of work. Young, enthusiastic girls excited about starting a career that would lead them to stardom, only to find themselves thrown into utter degradation, struggling to survive day to day. Enterprising young men obsessed with making a fortune or a name for themselves, turned into mere cogs in a machine well-oiled with their forgotten dreams.
There weren't many other options. Not when the powers that be were always at the service of whoever was currently in charge in the ongoing cold war between the major organized crime families.
Not when the police were little more than another organized gang.
She had no illusions about it, she knew what she was getting into when she rebelled and took the badge.
And even so...
Sometimes, just sometimes, a few managed to get by. Or at least find a place they could call their own without compromising their convictions or their spirit. Strange but true, even in that piece of hell spewed onto Earth, you could find good souls just trying to live their lives. Those were the reasons why she had ultimately persisted in her work, the reasons why, even in the cesspool of corruption that was the police department, there were still people like her and her partner trying to fight the good fight.
But those good people were also the ones who seemed to pay the highest price in that place. At least that was the impression she couldn't help but have as she let the taste of nicotine flood her throat while her lungs burned, ignoring the rain on the balcony of a forgotten apartment, her mind returning cyclically to the grotesque scene that a monster had orchestrated in the room behind her, lost in thought, trying to figure out what...
“Are you in another one of your internal pseudo monologues about how life is full of nihilistic shit?”
Wednesday Addams, homicide detective, turned around, letting the smoke from her cigarette escape through her nostrils in a frustrated exhalation that gave her a draconian look, focusing her gaze on the person who was her partner in more ways than one.
“No, just thinking about the case,” she replied, causing the newcomer to let out a quiet snort.
Wednesday would never cease to be amazed by the oddity and contradiction that was Detective Enid Sinclair.
Baby blue eyes that looked at everything with a sense of wonder that was occasionally unnerving, a suit so colorful that it almost broke the department's dress code and made her a walking, shining target. And an attitude of optimism that bordered on the pathological.
But Enid was also one of the few werewolves with a license to use her abilities in public outside of the designated areas, she had a capacity for violence on a scale that could turn the stomachs of some of the most veteran agents, and she was the only person capable of working with Wednesday Addams without developing long-term psychological scars.
If only because, in many ways, Enid was essentially an Addams in all but name.
The she-wolf had stepped out onto the balcony, carrying two disposable paper cups filled with hot coffee, covered with plastic lids, which were the only thing preventing the rain from spoiling them.
“You're going to catch a cold out here,” said Detective Sinclair, offering one of the coffees to her partner, “Maybe even pneumonia, one of those nasty ones where you end up coughing up pieces of your lungs.”
“Promises, promises,” replied Detective Addams, taking the cup in her hands and dropping the finished cigarette down onto the wet street, “Do we have any news?”
Detective Sinclair turned her head, looking through the large window into the well-lit interior of the apartment, where members of the forensic unit were finishing up their work. "They're almost done cataloging everything... just doing a final check, I guess. Before we remove the bodies, I mean,“ said the she-wolf. She took a sip of coffee before continuing, ”The neighbor, Mrs. Burton, has talked. We have the names and at least a possible time frame for the victims' last know movements..."
“Thrill me.”
“Walton and Eleanor Astin, 24 and 22 years old respectively, recently married, both from Rhode Island,” Detective Sinclair began, her voice taking on a clinical tone. "They're clean, at least as far as we know at the moment. He worked at the Warrington cannery and she was teaching sewing at a workshop on the corner of Carver and Clinton. No criminal record, not even traffic tickets, and no known ties to organized crime. Oh, and they're both normies, so we can rule out a hate crime."
“Warrington has occasionally been used as a cover for smuggling by the Frattelli and Munster families,” observed Detective Addams, “Although not recently, and if he was just a low-ranking worker...”
“New employee. If there was any underground business going on, they wouldn't have involved him, too risky.”
“Well, then we can also rule out a settling of scores. The modus operandi in those cases is usually cleaner.”
Of course, “clean” was not the word one could use to describe the crime scene. The mutilation the victims had been subjected to was grotesque, with dismembered limbs and remains scattered throughout the main room of the small apartment, the only exception being their missing heads. Blood spattered the floor, walls, and ceiling in multiple spots.
“What else did the neighbor tell us?” asked Addams, taking another sip of coffee.
“She last saw them when they met at the elevator door around four in the afternoon. She was leaving to run some errands and they were coming home. Mrs. Burton returned at half past five and said she heard what sounded like an angry conversation coming from their apartment, although she couldn't make out the words.”
“A hard-of-hearing gossip, great.”
“Now comes the interesting part,” Sinclair continued. "Mrs. Burton says she heard the apartment door open and close twice, about ten minutes apart, between quarter to six and six o'clock. She heard a noise similar to a roar and screams during that time frame, and the sound of hurried footsteps toward the stairs at five past six. We've combed the area, but there are no footprints or traces of blood outside the apartment."
“And she didn't see anything?” asked Addams.
“She didn't dare look, she was too scared,” replied Sinclair. “After a few minutes, she called the police. That was around quarter past six.”
“Hmm...”
Detective Sinclair looked at her partner with a curious glance, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.
“You don't think it was him, do you?” she asked. “Normally you'd be more... ah... fired up if you thought this was one of his.”
Detective Addams shook her head. “No, I don't think it was Galpin.”
“Well, it fits his pattern... mutilated bodies, body parts taken as trophies...”
“But there are inconsistencies,” said Addams, “Galpin's condition makes him unpredictable; there is a wild randomness to his murders. They tend to take place in open, remote locations. On the few occasions when he has killed someone in a closed environment, we have found clear signs of forced entry. And we know that he always operates at night.”
“And here, on the other hand, we have a double murder in broad daylight... what little daylight there is with these clouds...” continued Sinclair, “No signs of forced entry into the house...”
“And the arrangement of the bodies,” said Addams, “I suppose you noticed that.”
Sinclair nodded, “It seems random. Key word: seems.”
“This was premeditated and planned. Brutal but calculated and designed to resemble one of the scenes from one of the murders committed by the serial killer Hyde,” said Addams. “But it wasn't him. Galpin has clean claws in this.”
“A copycat?”
“Yes and no,” Addams continued. “A pure copycat would have been just as spontaneous, or would have tried to be. The scene would have been natural, more clumsy. No... I think we have two possibilities here.”
“Someone with a specific motive to kill the Astins trying to throw us off the trail,” said Detective Sinclair, “Making the crime scene look like something it's not.”
“That's option A. The other is that we're dealing with another budding serial killer who is trying to imitate the aesthetic of a fellow practitioner, either to cover their tracks or out of some twisted admiration. But the bodies and other remains have been placed in overly visible positions; whoever did this was consciously trying to achieve the most grotesque result possible. So it wasn't Galpin, I'd bet on that.”
“What delightful individuals we encounter in this line of work.”
“It's one of its perks, I suppose,” said Addams, “That's how I met you, wasn't it?”
“Did you just compare me to brutal serial killers?” Sinclair laughed.
“I've seen you covered in the blood and guts of others, lobita. And you've always been ravishing.”
“Someone's getting a good bite tonight,” said the she-wolf, in a tone that didn't indicate a threat at all. Quite the opposite, in fact.
“Er... Detectives?”
The two, slightly annoyed, turned to see a member of the forensic team stepping out onto the balcony where they were standing. “We're done, at least with the initial examination, and we're going to proceed with the removal of the pieces... I mean, the bodies,” said the individual, clearly nervous beneath the face mask covering his nose and mouth. "Oh, and the janitor called. Someone wants to talk to you in the lobby."
“Another witness?” asked Addams.
The forensics guy shrugged, “No idea, ma'am. I was just told it's important.”
Wednesday finished the last of her coffee in one gulp and lit another cigarette, getting ready to leave the apartment with Detective Sinclair following close behind.
“If pneumonia doesn't kill you, those things will,” said the werewolf.
“My lungs yearn for the tar in tobacco.”
When they reached the lobby, Wednesday frowned as she immediately recognized who was waiting for them. Standing in the middle of the room, his silhouette bathed in the flashing red and blue lights of the patrol cars parked at the building's entrance, was a tall, thin young man. He was exquisitely dressed in a tailored black and gray striped suit. His smile, crowned by a well-groomed, thin mustache, was broad and sincere, though slightly mischievous when he saw the two detectives.
“Sister! Miss Sinclair!”
“Hey, Pugsley,” Detective Sinclair greeted him, slightly concerned about what the young lawyer's presence might mean. His visits were almost never out of courtesy, as he was not only a member of the Addams Family, one of the city's most notorious criminal clans, but also their chief legal advisor and consigliere.
“Pugsley, what are you doing here?” asked Wednesday, not bothering to hide her irritation at her brother's presence.
“I came with Lurch. The car is waiting,” said Pugsley, “I came to take you home. A family matter has come up.”
“You know very well that I have no interest in getting involved in family business, Pug,” replied Detective Addams, “Isn't it enough for you to have Thorpe on your payroll to report back to you on how I'm doing at the station?”
“Ah, the family matter in question has nothing to do with business, big sister,” said Pugsley, “It's something more personal, complicated, and... well, frankly strange even by our standards.”
“Okay, that has to be fucking kooky,” muttered Sinclair.
“Indeed, and since I know you would be skeptical about this... allow me to introduce you to one of the guests who arrived at our house this morning,” said Pugsley, stepping aside.
From behind him, they could see a figure approaching that they hadn't noticed until then. Detective Sinclair's eyes widened in surprise, and Detective Addams almost dropped the cigarette from her lips as she tried to process what was in front of her.
It was a young woman, about twenty-something. She was wearing a simple dark blue dress, and her long black hair was pulled back into braided pigtails, framing a pale face that was both familiar and strange.
“What the…?” muttered Detective Addams.
“Weds… why does that girl smell like you?” whispered Sinclair, “I mean. . . and the resemblance. . . she can't be you, but she is you. She feels like you."
The young woman crossed her arms, looking at them with an expression of satisfied and calculated calm, with an unnerving smile. “Let's get straight to the point. My name is Wednesday Friday Addams. But for convenience, you can use the nickname Shark to refer to me. And yes, I am you. Sort of.”
“It's complicated,” added Pugsley, clearly enjoying the surreal nature of the scene.
Detective Addams took a deep drag on her cigarette, her brow furrowed and her gaze fixed on what appeared to be a younger replica of herself, with some marked differences in her facial features but who could be none other than another Wednesday Addams. All her instincts were screaming this at her.
“Congratulations, Pugsley,” she said, exhaling smoke as she spoke, “It's been a long time since you've left me so flabbergasted with news.”
“Wow,” said the young woman suddenly, leaning forward as if sniffing the air around the detectives, “When they told me you were police officers, I found it hard to believe, but at least I'm glad to see you're not the boring kind.”
The girl's smile revealed her teeth, her mouth suddenly resembling that of a shark, worthy of her nickname.
“You both smell like a lot of blood, and it's not yours. This is going to be interesting.”
NOTES
Attempting to emulate a Se7en-style noir vibe with this first look at detectives Addams and Sinclair, inspired by Karen Acobs' Mafia AU.
The artwork in the mosaic is the work of Karen Acobs (thatwomanlovingpotatofromtwitter on Tumblr and k-acobs.bsky.social on BlueSky).
Ah, don't focus too much on this murder case. These two have our particular problem to deal with.
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