The Feathered Corpse

By Bill Bibo Jr.

In a world where mythical creatures lived and worked alongside a human population, anything could happen, and it usually did. That’s why they called me, Special Agent Ramses II, and my partner, Bernie Clayberg, with Mythical Crime Scene Investigations.

The alley was a narrow space filled with police bumping into one another like a bad game of pinball. I followed Bernie in. One of the benefits of having a golem as your partner was that even in the most crowded situations, people cleared a wide path. At least they had better. And when you had the brittle bones of a mummified Egyptian pharaoh, that was a necessity.

On one side, a group of detectives interviewed a mild-mannered human male. He was trying to answer their questions while blubbering into a handkerchief. On the other waited Chief Inspector Krupke and his junior officer Carl Yaztremski, both of the Rainbow City Police Department.

“Hey, Carl, what’s a mummy’s favorite music?” Krupke said as we approached.

“I don’t know, Chief,” Carl answered. “Wrap music?”

Krupke’s eyes narrowed, probably a warning not to steal his punchlines. “No, idiot, it’s Ragtime.”

“Nice to see you too, Krupke,” I said. “Where’s the body?”

“That’s why we called. We had a body…”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s gone.” Krupke led us to a taped off area. “We got a call. Someone heard a scream then gunshots. When we got here, we found pretty boy over there gleefully dancing in the alley. Then we see the body. A young woman, hands and feet bound, seven gunshots. When he sees us, the guy starts to cry. Says he didn’t kill her. No priors, not even a parking ticket.”

“Why call MCSI?”

“My squad’s taking photos, gathering info, when there’s this big bright flash like the air around us is on fire. Only lasted a second and it’s gone. Only thing, so’s the body. All that’s left is a pile of ashes and this.” He hands me an evidence bag with a long black feather in it. “I can’t deal with this. Dead human bodies don’t go all blazing out in glory.”

“If the body disintegrated in flames, why not this feather?” I turned to Krupke. “Mind if I take this?”

“Might as well. Without a body, I’m not sure I have a case.”

We walked over to where the suspect was sitting. I left Bernie standing next to him while I looked for anything that might help make sense of what happened.

The man was nervous. He tried to engage Bernie in conversation, but Bernie just stood there, perfectly doing his thing—standing mute and motionless. When we were again alone in the car Bernie spoke, “He kept muttering over and over that he didn’t kill anyone, that it was her job. Mentioned something about meeting her at The Gates of Hell.”

Another benefit of having a golem as a partner is that everyone believes they can’t think, that they only act on instructions given to them. I know Bernie’s secret. None of the myths are true.

That night we staked out The Gates of Hell, a nightclub where it was rumored every craving might be satisfied for a price.

“Why do I have to wear the dress again?” Bernie tugged at the lacey neckline.

“Because we’re undercover. No one thinks twice about a couple out on a date.”

“But I’m a golem. Pharaohs wore dresses. I’ve seen the statues.”

”It’s called a shendyt and—”

I was cut off by a screech from overhead. A giant bird circled and landed nearby. It shimmered into a beautiful woman who entered the nightclub. After she was gone, Bernie walked over and picked up a single black feather.

Minutes later, the woman emerged with a finely dressed older man. He was nervous as she held his arm, leading him away. We followed. They turned down a nearby alley.

“I love a good dark alley,” she said. “They have so much potential.”

“I’ve never done this before.” His hands shook as he placed one in the pocket of his coat.

“Just be quick. This isn’t exactly painless for me.”

He stopped, a gun in hand. “I didn’t know this caused you any distress.”

“Don’t you worry. The money makes everything right for me.”

She held out her hands, which he tied behind her back.

“No! Don’t!” Her scream echoed off the alley walls.

He smiled as he leveled the pistol.

“Bernie, now,” I said. We ran toward them.

The man pulled the trigger and the sound echoed down the alley. She collapsed dramatically. He shot her again.

I pulled a foil blanket from my bag and threw it over the woman. There was a brilliant flash. The blanket deflated.

“Bernie, hold the edges down. Don’t let anything out.” I removed the gun from the man’s hand. “And you, don’t try to leave.”

He nodded as the blanket started to rise, but the weight of my partner pinned it down. From beneath the blanket, the head of a large black bird poked out. It tried to peck Bernie, but he slapped it away. The bird shimmered and became the woman again, now barely contained by the blanket. She nearly broke free, but Bernie held tight.

“As I suspected. A phoenix. Every time she died, she was reborn anew, leaving behind a single black feather.”

I called Krupke. He wasn’t happy I had solved the case so quickly and without him. As they loaded our shooter and his victim into a squad car, I turned to Bernie.

“A brilliant but misguided scheme. Ra knows you can’t have people shooting each other, even if it’s an act. Innocents might get hurt or, worse, someone might get a taste for the real thing. On the bright side,” I straightened my partner’s collar, “if we get a few more feathers we can make you a nice boa to go with that dress.”

“Shoot me now,” Bernie said.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bill Bibo Jr. lives in Madison, Wisconsin. Late at night he writes about friendly giants, intelligent mummies, incompetent zombies, and other things that scare him in the hope someday they no longer will. This story features the two main characters, Ramses and Bernie, of his in-progress novel, “The Wrong Side of the Rainbow”.

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