The old Volkswagen pickup rattles and teeters as it lumbers down the rugged dirt road; Moonlight beams onto the rusted and cracked exterior and reflects in the round and empty eyes of the headlights that are not presently operating – as if the lack of lights might lend stealth to the creaking groans of the bouncing truck.
Within the cab a large, broad-shouldered man seems intent on the road ahead; his two most striking features would have to be the lack of a left arm and the hellish red glow of his eyes. Perhaps even more frightening would have to be the mass of fur and tusks on the seat beside him – the great boar’s head noses out the window, the wind sweeping over the dirty, razored short furs of snout and upper body that pokes into the chilly night air.
The driver’s crimson gaze shifts to his grunting and snorting passenger, a look of concern and uncertainty crossing his thickly bearded face before his focus returns to the fog-shrouded fields and road that lie ahead of him. It was the type of night that puts one on edge; the fog that always seems to linger over this cold place seemed to seep into the truck and touch him like icy fingers, and the landscape seemed to be changing, decaying, as if he had driven through once-fertile lands straight into some abyssal painting. It felt… Wrong.
“Easy Gage, we’re almost through it,” he comments to his side-kick, though the words do nothing to soothe the agitated boar or the driver himself.
He frowns at the sight to his left – the wall of trees give way to a barren and fallow field stripped of all but weeds and the frame of an old water tower. Thick fog swirls and rolls over the field like some misty midnight tide, slicing through the razor wire that cordons off the plot of land and it hangs like a death shroud over the decayed, limbless and barkless trees that stand like ghostly white sentinels over the barren land.
Within the truck the driver is speaking again, a whisper of words calmly mumbling over his lips as if in rote; the steady flow of Latin verse is repeated once, then again, seeming to occupy the driver and lend some measure of comfort – though the comfort seems an outward affection at best and is belied by the action of his single hand leaving the steering wheel long enough to retrieve an old shotgun and rest it across his lap.
With the firearm within easy reach the truck rolls onward, picking up speed and roaring through the moon-lit fog, causing the banks of misty air to froth and churn in its wake; driven with a determination to get somewhere – or to get out of somewhere – in a hurry. The truck bounds on. The creaking of axles and rusted steel clang through the fog while the grunts of the boar are swallowed by the night. From within the darkened cab the sound of Latin verse grows louder.
Local Businessman found shot in Car
At 4:15 AM Thursday morning police found the
body of local businessman and philanthropist,
Detlef Boedker, dead behind the wheel of his
auto. The police suspect foul play but no
information was forthcoming.
Mr. Boedker is survided by his ex-wife Marla
and his two sons Wilhelm and Karl. He is
known for his contributions to many local
youth charities and to programs to keep
teens off the streets.
Police spokesman Heinrich Frauch asks that
anybody with information contact the investigators
at Berlin Polizei station, Treptow.
Nov. 29, 1992
Rochus pauses midway between the Egyptian Museum and Charlottenberg Palace and with a sigh he glances down at the number scrolling across his humming pager. He pushes a hand through his curly brown hair, adjusts his glasses then continues walking onward. His walk is as casual and unassuming as always as he continues forward, but he can be heard to mutter to himself, “I’d better see to this.”
Once below Prince wilhelm’s Palace he makes for your conference room and uses the open phone line found within; after dialing and waiting a few moments you can hear as his frustrated voice carries into the hall through the partially closed doors.
“Look, I’ve already told you that I have no sway in the District Attourney’s Office or the city police…”
He pauses as if listening to the speaker on the other end of the line, and when he speaks again his voice has softened considerably.
“Hey, I am truly sorry about your father, but losing loved ones has to be an accepted part of your new existance.”
Again there is a pause with the Ventrue filling in a quick, “Yes I understand.” And “I am aware of that also.”
He concludes the phone call in a tone that suggests that he wants no further part of this topic at any time.
“Berlin is a big, dangerous city and I’m sure that there very well may be a serial killer walking the streets – probably more than one. But the fact that this psycho is targeting the homeless and the destitute leads me to believe that he is not one of us, I think you’re on the wrong path here. Now, please accept this as my final word on the topic. If you want to pursue this avenue then please look elsewhere for assistance. Goodbye Madame.”
With the phone call finished he exits the conference room, using his keys to bolt and lock the door behind him. He then tells any loitering in the hall to get to their rooms as the sun will soon be up. He then walks briskly down the hall to his own apartment.