Chapter VI: Some Kind of Police Station

"Hey, what's going on in here?" yelled the guard, banging on the bars. "Back up, all of you. Away from the door!"

The women's cells of the Bistritz police station had been busy last night. Three women stood, backs to the cell door, staring fixedly into the cell. At the guard's command they moved slowly away from the door, but always with their backs to the bars, never looking at the guard, never taking their eyes from the cell. They jostled for position, trying to stay as close to the door as possible.

"That's better," said the guard, seeing that the door was cleared. He looked at a clipboard in his hand and asked rhetorically, "So, who's next?"

"That one!" said one of the women, fear bordering on hysteria in her voice. "That one over there!"

The guard looked up at the scene before him, noticing the women's peculiar behaviour for the first time. Usually people in jail cells sit around on the benches provided looking bored, possibly dozing. Or they pace anxiously, waiting for the next step in processing, worrying over what might happen to them. Never before had he heard someone volunteer another to leave ahead of them. And never before had he seen everyone in a cell crowded into one corner, backs to the bars, staring forward as if they were all afraid to blink.

"Yes, that one!" another woman agreed. Soon they were all in agreement, pointing toward the opposite corner of the cell.

Before the guard could follow their pointing fingers, his rather slow assessment of the situation was interrupted by a growl from the other end of the cell. There was a growl, and a snarl, a howl and then mad barking.

The guard turned to the other corner, expecting to see a bear, or a cougar, or a rabid dog. In the opposite corner of the cell, on the benches where prisoners would normally be, was a single person wearing a red hooded sweatshirt. This person was lying down, back to the cell, making the most horrific array of sounds the guard had ever heard.

The guard took a moment to remember what he was doing, but then quickly found the key to the cell and unlocked the door. The door swung inward, and the three women immediately grabbed it, pulling it toward them to make a tiny, triangular cage in the corner for themselves.

The guard slowly approached the benches, and hesitantly placed a hand on the person. "Hey, get up!" he said, trying to sound authoritative as he gave the body a quick shake, then leapt back to the center of the room.

The body snorted, then rolled over with a low growl. It yawned, and stretched, and sat up, placing its bare feet on the floor, then reaching up to pull the hood from its head. The guard stared, not quite sure what to make of the sight in front of him.

"What are you doing in here?" the guard finally managed to say.

The person looked around the cell, at the bars, the other prisoners and the guard.

"You tell me," Larry finally said. "I just woke up."

"You're in the wrong cell," the guard told him, not sure if he was still meant to be frightened and not yet willing to approach.

Larry took in his surroundings again, staring groggily at the jail scene before him. "I didn't lock myself in here," he finally replied.

"Come on," said the guard, finally feeling the situation had returned more or less to normal. "You're next. Time to be processed."

Larry stood and followed the guard out of the cell. As the guard closed the cell door the three remaining prisoners turned and backed quickly to the opposite side of the cell. The guard locked the cell door, then led Larry down the hall.

"Where are my shoes?" Larry asked, feeling the cold concrete floor on his naked feet. Checking more closely he then asked, "And where are my pants?"

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Larry was led through the holding area, past a locked door, then up some stairs to what appeared to be an open office space. Numerous desks sat in rows, each with a computer monitor and piles of paper. Only one person was in the room, sitting at one of the desks, smoking a cigarette and typing with one finger on his computer. The guard left Larry seated beside the desk, dropping a single sheet of paper from his clipboard on the overflowing stack before leaving.

"This some kind of police station?" Larry asked, looking around at the office.

"Some kind," said the man at the desk without removing his cigarette from his mouth. He continued to type, ignoring Larry.

"So, where is everybody?" was Larry's best follow-up question.

"Busy," replied the man, scanning his computer keyboard and hitting keys one at a time with great deliberation. He continued to speak without paying a lot of attention, "Big emergency. Lost tourist. Top priority. All available officers. Load of crap."

"You don't look like a cop," said Larry. "I mean, you're not wearing a uniform or anything." The man was, in fact, wearing a brown plaid shirt with suspenders and a tie, with a jacket, trench coat, and fedora hat thrown over a nearby coat tree.

The man searched his keyboard for slightly longer than usual. Eventually he hit the period key with a sense of finality, and turned to Larry.

"Detective Miklos," he said by way of introduction. He didn't offer to shake hands, but instead reached for the sheet of paper left by the guard.

"So let's see who you are," said the detective, looking at the page. He immediately rolled his eyes. "Terrific. A blank sheet of paper. So who brought you in? Arresting officer, Officer Barbu. Idiot. What's he expect me to do with a blank sheet of paper? No ID, no officer's notes."

Detective Miklos continued to review the blank sheet of paper for a while. Eventually he set it aside and looked up at Larry. "Okay, so why don't you tell me why you were arrested?"

"I wish I knew," said Larry. "I just woke up here."

Miklos sighed, never getting used to how truly screwed up things could be made for him. He looked at the paper one more time for any clue.

"The only thing written here, it says DD. That might mean that you're David Duchovny, but I'm betting it means drunk and disorderly," said the detective. He set the paper aside again and looked at Larry, assessing him. "So here's what I think happened. American on vacation, decides to party it up in Romania. Too much booze, too many drugs. Loses his shoes, loses his pants, picks a fight in the wrong part of town, picked up by the cops and passes out in the cells. Any of this sounding familiar?"

Larry self-consciously pulled his sweatshirt down as far as it would go when the detective reminded him of his pantless state. The sweatshirt covered him, but just barely.

"No, I wasn't even drinking," said Larry, trying to remember. "I was out at a gypsy carnival, on the edge of... Wait, I remember! I was attacked!"

"Attacked," said Miklos with disinterest. But, he decided perhaps he should write some of this down and so he looked for a pad and a pen. "Where? At the gypsy carnival?"

"No, I was leaving the carnival. I was in the woods."

The Detective had his pad open and started writing. "So, attacked in the woods by gypsies. And you want me to believe they stole your pants? Those must have been some pants."

"No!" said Larry in frustration. "It wasn't gypsies. It wasn't anybody. It was an animal, a huge wolf! We fought for about fifteen, twenty minutes."

Detective Miklos looked up from his pad with a stare which he hoped would illustrate his total disbelief. "A wolf?" he said. He looked Larry over again. "You fought a wolf for fifteen or twenty minutes? I don't see a single bite or scratch on you."

Larry looked at his arms and legs, starting to question what happened himself. "It wasn't like that," he finally said. "He didn't use his teeth or claws. But he punched me a few times."

The detective's mouth hung open at this. There was no telling what kept the cigarette from falling out.

"You're telling me, a wolf attacked you, but instead of teeth and claws it punched you? Wolves don't have fists you know."

"I'm telling the truth," Larry pleaded. "Then he had me pinned, and he picked up a rock and hit me with it, right here!" he said, pointing to his temple as if it were proof. "That's when I passed out."

The detective just stared at Larry, no longer even writing any of this down. There was no point; he didn't believe a single word Larry was saying. And if this ever got to court, no judge would believe he had said it.

"Well, I guess that's what you get for running around the woods dressed like Little Red Riding Hood," Miklos said sarcastically.

"It's all true, I swear," Larry said meekly, tugging at his sweatshirt again while holding his knees together. "I was holding him off with my silver walking stick, but he took it from me."

"So at what point did you lose your pants?"

"I'm not sure," Larry answered honestly, even though the detective was obviously just laughing at him and not asking serious questions any more. Then he remembered the end of the fight...

"The wolf must have taken them!" Larry exclaimed. "He was trying to... I mean, before he hit me with the rock... look, I think it was the wolf, don't ask why. You just had to be there."

The detective went over his notes. "So, a wolf beat you, robbed you of a silver walking stick, hit you over the head with a rock, stole your pants, and left you half naked wandering the streets of Bistritz. Have I left anything out?"

"Only that... I don't think the motive was robbery. I think he wanted... I'd rather not say."

"Fine," said the detective. "Let's not speculate on the wolf's motive. Now I'm not saying I believe any of this, because I really don't, but just to be thorough is there anyone who can confirm any part of this story?"

"Gwen Williams!" Larry nearly shouted. "She was there; she ran off to get help when the wolf attacked me! You need to find her. You need to make sure she's alright!"

"Gwen Williams?" said the detective, suddenly taking an interest. "That name sounds familiar."

Miklos turned to his computer, clicked his mouse a few times and punched some keys.

"Here it is," he announced, looking at the screen and reading. "Gwen Williams. Registered a missing person report last night. Near the gypsy carnival, edge of town. She and the missper were attacked by... a wolf. She ran to get help. Officers were dispatched to the scene. Missper presumed lost in the woods."

"That's me!" Larry cried out.

"What's your name?" the detective asked.

"Larry Talbot."

The detective looked over the report. "That's right, and you match the description. Larry Talbot, six foot, brown hair, American, red hooded sweatshirt and jeans. Except for the jeans. The entire police force has been looking for you. So if you were in the cells, why didn't anybody notice?"

"Search me," said Larry. "Except maybe, that guard told me I was in the wrong cell. This must mean Gwen is okay, doesn't it?"

"Son of a... Barbu, you idiot!" swore the detective. He looked at Larry with slightly more sympathy than previously and said, "Okay kid. It looks like this verifies your story. At least, some of it is making some kind of sense. Look, I've got to go call off a search and rescue, and I can't afford a man to take you to your hotel. Is there someone you can call to come get you?"

"I'll call Gwen," Larry suggested. "She's probably worried about me."

"Use my phone," said Detective Miklos as he went to operate the radio dispatch and call off the search.