So, our story started out on a Friday with a little domestic squabble in a Sizzler steakhouse. Not the likeliest of places for a woman to rip her husband's throat out with her teeth, is it? Marriage can be so rough. Gary Grant is our victim's name. (That's a funny name, isn't it? It reminds me of Cary Grant; I used to watch his old black and white stuff with my dad whenever they got played on the weekends. My old man's favorite Grant movie was Arsenic and Old Lace, but me? Notorious all the way. The very name of that flick just pops at you, doesn't it?)
Anyway, Gary Grant. Imagine if you will, a family night out to celebrate the beloved patriarch getting a promotion at work. Dinner and a movie. Sounds swell, doesn't it? The Grant family, which includes two lovely children and his too-young for him second wife, head out for the steakhouse first, because Papa is famished. Mrs. Grant, wishing to watch her figure decides to split some ribs with her daughter. They are apparently delicious and she ends up eating them all before her girl can get around to her first bite. Then she starts snorting and licking her plate, all the while trembling, just like an old, palsied dog.
"Honey?" Gary asks. She's not responding, refuses to answer him. She grabs her daughter's plate and begins licking it as well, all the while making the most embarrassing moaning noises. Practically orgasmic. Gary is getting upset, he wants to know what the hell is going on. He tries to pull the plate away, and wifey doesn't much like that. Three seconds later, she's a blur of motion, leaping for him over the table and Gary is spurting crimson into the faces of his screaming children. Mrs. Grant smacks her lips and decides that she likes the way his neck-meat tastes. She hunches over 'ol Gary, and tears into him. It took four grown men to pull her off, and one of them lost a finger doing it.
Pretty bad, right?
That atrocity repeated itself six times that night. Nice start to the weekend, wouldn't you say?
Now, I'm not the sort of man who likes to do any traveling. I like my town and I don't care to leave it. I've also got a slight sun sensitivity issue that makes driving in the daylight a real chore, but when I heard about the 'Sizzler Slaughters', as they were calling it in the papers, I couldn't resist heading down to Ansonia, Connecticut. It's a tiny place, nothing special. One of those 19th century rush jobs that young people run from and old people die in. The sort of quiet town a man could raise a family in.
Nothing about this place added up. One moment, six strangers eating in three different locations are enjoying a nice meal, and the next, they're making meals out of the closest saps nearby. They all did it the same way too, knocked 'em down, ripped out their throats. It's funny, because I've met a lot of interesting people in my life with a tendency to maul people in exactly that same manner. No playing with their food, all business. Typical newborn behavior. It's so interesting. Sizzler slaughter. Heh.
It's a little past midnight by the time I find Ansonia's police Department. I did not intend for that at all, hell, I normally hate showing up anywhere at Midnight of all times; it's so melodramatic. It was just a bit more work than I thought it would be finding the place, but find it, I did. Mrs. Grant has been in custody for three days, in a little room all by her lonesome. The rest of the psychos all have their own cells as well; No attempt was being made to let them near anyone else, because the bastards liked to bite. I rolled into the parking lot, made sure I had everything in my travel kit, and headed on inside. The officer sitting at the desk gives me a look as I stroll in. I guess he doesn't like my loud Hawaiian shirt. Whatever, it's hot outside.
I wave my hand at him before he can speak, make eye contact, and lay my Jedi mojo on his bored, graveyard-shift mind.
"Hi," I say brightly. "I'm Hannibal King. I'm--uh, supposed to be here. To talk with Mrs. Grant, yeah? You make up the details, okay?"
Was that lazy of me? Probably. I really didn't care, it was a time saver. The desk Cop wrinkles his brow while his brain formulated a reason for a stranger to show up at midnight and talk to a nutjob. It takes a few seconds because it's a real stretch of the imagination, but after a little while he buzzes me in to the cells.
"Sure thing, Doc," he says. " Cell 23, same as last time. You need anything, just call." I nod at him, and head inside.
I'm whistling the theme to notorious as I head to cell 23. It's been years since I watched it. Ever since my old man died, I just haven't been in the mood. My whistling is the only noise in the entire place, which is weird. Jails are never quiet. That silence had a weight to it as well; ominous didn't nearly cover it. Like birds before a storm, all the locals seemed to have had all the noise sucked out of 'em. I flair my nostrils and breath it all in--huh. It stinks.
Looked like my hunch was right. I check my kit one more time, before I head over to speak with Mrs. Grant.