Chapter Text
In the morning, Nick donned what remained of his clothes, which was pretty much everything below the waist and nothing above it, so he also pulled on an over-long but very soft blue sweater of Eddie's. He managed the drive home without fuss and only walked a little slower than usual to the front door, where Juliette was waiting.
She opened the door. "I heard you pull up; I'm glad you're home. Are you okay?"
Nick winced as he pulled himself up the porch steps, but then smiled. "Yeah. I'll be fine. Glad to be home."
She slipped her arms around him, but didn't squeeze as she kissed him and then laid her head briefly on his shoulder. "C'mon, Nick. Let me get you something for breakfast."
"Just cereal is fine. I know you have to get to work."
She pressed her lips together but nodded.
At the kitchen table, Nick ate like a wound-down automaton.
"Eat any slower and that'll turn to mush."
"It's fine," Nick said.
Juliette sighed. "Nick. What's going on with you?"
Nick set his spoon in the bowl and looked up. "What do you mean?"
Juliette scrubbed a weary hand over her face. "These hours you're keeping, not telling anyone where you're going… injuries and… I don't even know what."
"It's nothing. It's just my job, Jules. You know that there are times like this."
"Times when I have to worry about you and times when you can't tell me what's going on; I know that. But getting in bar fights? Hanging out with some guy you've never told me about--"
"Eddie's the guy, you know, that guy I visited on Christmas. We get together sometimes; he's, uh, a consultant on a few jobs I've had."
"Oh." Her tone was suddenly friendlier.
"We just went out for a drink. I don't even know who started the fight, but some guy had a knife--"
"A knife, Nick!?"
"It's no big deal. You can see I'm fine."
"But for how long? You were never reckless like this. And I'm going to check you over before I go anywhere this morning."
A muscle ticked in Nick's jaw. "Okay."
=
Eddie Monroe opened the door to reveal Nick's worried face. The Blutbad glowered. "Now what?"
"It's Juliette. She wants you to come over for dinner."
"No." Eddie started to close the door, but Nick's booted foot darted forward to intercept it.
"I don't think you understand. When someone like Juliette gets determined, there is no weaseling out of it."
"I don't do dinner. And I don't do girlfriends. …Wait. That didn't come out right. Um, but I didn't mean--"
"Tomorrow," Nick interrupted, "seven o'clock."
Eddie closed the door. "Shit." He opened the door again. "You know, I did make it into the twentieth century. I have a phone."
"It's the twenty-first century. And, well, it's easier to say no to someone on the phone. Seven o'clock! Tomorrow!" he yelled when Eddie closed the door again.
=
Eddie brought a bottle of merlot and wore what he thought might be his least old-fashioned sweater. He cleared his throat, took a bracing breath, and drew himself up to his full height before he knocked on the door. But if he had a tail, it would have been tucked between his legs.
"No, let me get it," he heard Juliette's voice on the other side of the door. Footsteps, then: there she was, framed in the doorway, trim and pretty with a lipstick smile. "So, you're Eddie. Please come in, let me take that-- oh! This is great; merlot is my favorite. Nick, why don't you open this and pour out three glasses for us? Eddie, come on in to the living room and sit with me. It is nice to meet you; I didn't realize you'd been working with Nick. He finally told me a little about you."
"Not too much, I hope."
Juliette laughed sweetly, the ideal hostess.
"Jules! The sauce is boiling over!"
Juliette jumped to her feet. "Then turn it down!" she yelled back, heading for the kitchen on light feet.
Eddie sat stiffly, trying not to listen to the low conversation from the other room, but his senses were on high alert, and he couldn't tune them out.
"Oh, c'mon; that's not boiling over. Silly."
"Sorry. I guess I'm just nervous."
"What do you have to be nervous about? I'm the one who's never met him."
"Yeah. Um, if you've got that--"
"Oh, go take him his wine, you overprotective manly man."
"You're the only one who thinks I'm a manly man."
Nick slouched in, two wine glasses in hand. "I didn't realize she was going to turn this into such a production. Actually, I think she's a little nervous."
"Oh, really?" Eddie asked, taking his wine glass. "What did you tell her?"
"Um, I guess I told her that you're… uh, a lonely guy who really loves Christmas and has helped me out on a few cases."
"And gets you into bar fights."
Nick smiled and muttered, "I believe that was your invention."
They offered one another awkward smiles.
Nick looked over his shoulder and bit his lip at the silence. "I hope pasta is all right," he offered.
"Sure. Pasta's good."
Juliette poked her head in the room. "Salad's ready, boys."
"Shall we?" Nick asked.
Eddie smirked and they headed into the dining room. Clutching their wine glasses like security blankets, they each found a place at the table.
Juliette offered a variety of dressings and Nick snagged the ranch. Eddie chose the vinaigrette and asked some inane question about the crumbly cheese on top of the lettuce and arugula. Then he realized he was more out of practice with small talk than he'd thought. Fortunately, dinner gave them the opportunity to talk about food and cooking, which Eddie was reasonably adept at. In fact, he and Juliette left Nick in the dust when they got onto the subject of ricers and food savers.
After that, Eddie steered Juliette toward the subject of her work, which got him off the conversational hook for as long as he could look interested.
By the time their plates held nothing but swirled sauce and small pieces of pasta too small to fit on a fork, their words had run out.
Juliette looked to her boyfriend. "Nick, why don't you clear the table for me?"
"Oh," he looked between her and Eddie. "All right," he tentatively agreed, pushing out his chair and collecting the dishes.
Juliette watched him leave, then turned to Eddie. "So, I think everyone's heard enough about me. What is it that you do for a living?"
"I'm a clockmaker."
"Really?! Nick said you're a consultant. Why do the police need to consult a clockmaker?"
"Oh! Well…" Eddie's mind raced as he looked toward the kitchen in hopes of Nick's return. "I used to be a drug dealer -- they never suspect the guy in a sweater vest -- anyway, that's all behind me now, but… I still have certain connections. You know, useful intel the police don't have access to. Oh, there you are, Nick! Never told her I was a drug dealer, huh? No wonder he never told you about me; I mean, really, who would? …So, how about that dessert?"
=
Juliette peered out the window, watching Eddie slouch down the sidewalk to his funny little car. "He's a strange man, isn't he?" she quietly asked.
"Hm? Oh, yeah, I guess," Nick said, joining her at the window. "He kind of grows on you, though."
She smiled as she leaned into Nick and half-closed her eyes. "You're a good guy, Nick. Not every cop would give the drug-dealing clockmaker a chance at friendship."
"Uh, yeah," Nick agreed, privately thinking that she didn't know the half of it.
The trill of Nick's cellphone broke their brief tranquillity. Juliette sighed and broke away, heading back to the kitchen as she said over her shoulder, "Aaannnnnd... you have to get that."
Nick pulled out his cell to see the caller's name on the screen. "Yes I do," he said. "Hey, Hank."
"Nick, we've got an ID on the vic."
=
Nick had barely had a chance to hang up his coat before Hank accosted him. "Victim was Gerald Springs, a parolee. When he didn't make his weekly phone call, his parole officer called it in. Once forensics had a name, they could match the prints, and we got ourselves a positive ID. We've got the parole officer in a room right now. You ready?"
Nick nodded. "You think I'll forget you're making me skip my morning coffee, Hank. But I won't. I won't forget that."
Hank slapped his upper arm, smiling. "C'mon."
Hank led the way to the interrogation room, but as Hank preceded him into the room, Nick slowed, felt his heart speed, felt his breath slow, felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise when he saw the woman seated there facing away from him. Tall, thin, ash blond, unremarkable. Then the spine stiffened, the head turned on willowy shoulders and she saw Nick.
Already pale eyes misted over to mossy bog-like spheres, blonde hair turned seaweed-tangled and gray. Her skin bleached of color and sharp teeth were bared in his direction as long, white fingers clutched at the desk.
In all of this, Nick saw only fear and so he slowly approached and offered a steady hand. "I'm Detective Nick Burkhardt. You've met Hank Griffin? Thank you for meeting us."
The creature traits receded, leaving in their place a beauty too sharp to be purely feminine, too cold to be truly beautiful. She declined to take the extended hand, but said, "I'm Birgit Hoffman. You found my parolee."
Hank and Nick sat across from Birgit and Hank corrected her, "A pair of hikers found him, in the Waucoma Ridge Area."
"We're investigating his death," Nick said.
"Was it murder?" she asked.
"We… can't reveal information about an ongoing case," Hank said. "But, you are here to help. Cause of death is… unconfirmed at this point."
Birgit pulled her mouth into a grimace and then took a moment to collect herself. She said quietly, "I heard it was gruesome."
There was nothing to say to that.
"Gerald Springs loved to hike," she told them. She was calm and cold now, emotion wiped away. "He was found guilty of -- and imprisoned for -- two counts of aggravated assault. He'd served time previously for assault and battery, and aggravated larceny. Since he was released, Gerald had been attending anger management classes, seeing a therapist, and on a solid medication. He was troubled, yes, but not a bad man."
"Did he have any enemies?" Hank asked.
"I can't think of anyone who would have wanted to kill him," she said, staring hard at Nick.
"Did he have any family?" Nick asked.
"He grew up on Long Island. Most of his family is still there. He has a brother in Madison and grandparents in Florida, but he hasn't been close to any of them in years. He never married, nor had any romantic attachments I'm aware of."
"And when was the last time you saw Mr. Springs?" Hank asked.
Birgit pulled a personal planner out of her purse and opened to a calendar page displaying the month of February. "We had a meeting three weeks ago, February third. A Friday. That was the last time I saw him, but he calls every Monday to check in. And he called me last Wednesday -- the twenty-second -- to tell me his plans for the hike. That was the last time I spoke to him."
"Was that unusual?" Hank asked.
"No. I encourage all my parolees to let me know if they're going to be away from home at all, or vary their routine greatly. Gerald knew the trails were closed, but he's a very capable outdoorsman. I wasn't worried."
"What did he tell you on that phone call?" Hank asked.
"He was excited because the snow had receded enough for hiking. He said he'd be driving up to the Chinidere trails to find one that looked promising."
"There was a tent in the pack we recovered," Hank pointed out.
"The cold didn't bother him much," Birgit said simply.
"Would you be able to identify the bag or tent?" Nick asked.
Birgit slowly shook her head. "No… Wait. He e-mailed me a picture of his campsite during the summer. If it's the same gear, I might recognize it."
Nick leaned forward. "Instead of lugging all that stuff up here, would you be willing to come down to evidence lockup to take a look?"
"If it will help, yes."
"We're just trying to piece together what happened," Nick assured her as he stood.
Birgit pulled a paper from her planner. "I brought a copy of his schedule, and the names and numbers of his therapist and anyone else he associated with; it's not a long list."
"Hank," Nick said, "would you follow up on that while I take Ms. Hoffman down to evidence?"
"Sure."
After obtaining the necessary forms, Nick led the way down the hall to the elevator. Once inside, Birgit stood as far away from him as she could, and let out a sigh of relief when an officer joined them.
Nick and Birgit stepped out one floor down. They were alone in the dark, narrow halls. When the elevator doors closed behind them, leaving them alone in the dreary, windowless place, Birgit did not move, but glared fearfully down at Nick from behind blonde hair that took on a stringy, tangled appearance under his gaze. "Are you going to kill me?" she asked.
Nick's first impulse was to tell her that even if he intended to, a cop really couldn't murder a parole officer in cold-blood at the police station, but he could see how that wouldn't exactly be a comfort. He also wanted to ask what she was, if she was really a parole officer, if she was like Eddie. Instead, he simply asked, "Do you hurt people?"
"No."
"Then I'm not going to do anything to you. I… I'm not like the stories you've heard. And look," he nodded to a dark corner behind him, "there are cameras down here if you're worried. No microphones though." He took a conspiratorial step forward and lowered his voice. "Listen, I have to tell you: Gerald Springs was killed by a Wilderbull."
"What?! In Oregon?"
"I went out there three days ago to see what I could find." He turned to place his good side more carefully toward the shadowed camera, and briefly lifted the hem of his shirt to reveal the lightly bandaged wound. "Got me pretty good. I tried to apprehend him, but he was too far gone. I had to shoot him. …I thought you'd want to know."
Birgit nodded solemnly, a film of tears showing in her pale eyes. "So Gerald's murder will become a cold case. At least I know what to tell his family, if they care. …He was a Blutbad."
"Really?"
"A Wieder-Blutbad," she elaborated. "I don't know if that changes anything. Dead is dead, I suppose."
Nick clenched his jaw in sympathy, but then asked, "Did Mr. Springs ever say anything about Wilderbullen?"
"Not that I recall. But if Gerald stumbled on what this Wilderbull considered his territory, there wasn't much he could have done. Not if he was taken by surprise, weighed down by all that gear."
"Speaking of which, let's take a look at that evidence." Nick led the way through the narrow halls to the evidence desk and handed over the form for the requested items.
A minute or so later, a trolley was wheeled out from behind a locked door. It contained a torn orange backpack and camouflage-patterned tent, along with other hiking and camping paraphernalia. The smaller items had been bagged. Many were still spattered with blood.
Birgit's nose wrinkled and she said, "They're his. I'll… I'll find the e-mail with the photo he sent and forward it to you."
"We'd appreciate that," Nick said. He retrieved a pair of latex gloves from the desk. "You'll have to wear these if you want to examine anything."
She slowly pulled them on as her pale gaze perused the ripped bag and collapsed tent.
"Once your alert allowed us to identify him, we could track down his car. It had been parked in a different lot. But his wallet was inside. Our forensics team retrieved all of that yesterday, but it's still being processed, so those things aren't down here yet."
Birgit nodded in understanding as her gloved fingers traced the sharp tear in the bright backpack. "Took him from behind. He didn't have a chance."
"I'm sorry for your loss. …Most parole officers don't seem so close to…"
Birgit glanced at the desk attendant, but he was busy. She lowered her voice. "Most of my parolees are creatures. We come from an old world, from times when hiding was much easier. The real killers, maybe they deserve the death that a Grimm deals out. But the rest of us are just trying to live. It's harder for some than others. Gerald was a good man from a bad family, and he's been trying for years to find a balance in his life. He genuinely wanted to be… good. And I wanted to help him. That's what I do."
"It's good work," Nick said. "I'm glad there are people like you. Someone who can… stand between two worlds in an effort to connect them."
She glanced aside at him. "I can't figure you out," she said. "You were right. You're nothing like the stories I heard as a girl."
"Maybe we can trust each other, then. Work together?"
She did not answer immediately, as she picked through the bags; compass and pocketknife, flashlight and paperback. "If the need arises," she agreed, picking up the paperback book in its clear, labeled bag. "Fairytales," she mused. "A page has been marked. Do you know what it was?"
"No. We can't break the seal, but if there's enough room…"
Working together, they could open the book within its plastic enough to see what story had been bookmarked. "The Singing Bone," Birgit said.
"Do you know the story?" Nick asked.
"Don't you?"
"Uh…"
"You're new at this, aren't you?"
Nick tried not to take offense. "Not that new."
"The story has variations, of course. They all do. But it's about three brothers who set out on a quest to kill a wild boar that's been terrorizing the kingdom. The youngest succeeds, but the two eldest kill him and dump his body in the river in order to take the glory and the prize themselves. When one of the youngest brother's bones is revealed in the riverbank, a shepherd carves it into an instrument and when he plays it, the bone sings the truth:
Oh shepherd dear,
Play true and clear;
Twas my brothers two
Who ran me through
And you play upon my bones.
They took the boar
For jewels and more:
The king's daughter.
Now my grave's the water
And you play upon my bones.
"The older brothers are condemned, drowned in the river as punishment for their crime."
Nick's brow furrowed in contemplation. "Kind of… gruesome, for a fairytale."
"Many fairytales are more gruesome than that."
"Do you think it has anything to do with Gerald Spring's death?"
"It's just a story, Detective. Barely enough truth can be culled from the old tales to have any meaning for us now." She looked at him. "That doesn't mean you shouldn't read them."
=
"I've got a question," Nick said when Eddie opened the door.
"Shocking. Come in."
"Thanks. So, the DB in the woods was a Blutbad."
"Huh," Eddie said.
"He was a parolee, but get this: his parole officer is some kind of creature, but I couldn't find her in any of my Aunt's books."
"Well, some rarer creatures have taken care to avoid getting themselves into those books. And Grimms don't always concern themselves with the more innocent creatures. Not there's much discrimination." He acknowledged Nick with a nod, "Usually. So?" he asked as he took his seat at his workbench.
"So?" Nick echoed.
"So," Eddie said, "what did she look like?" Eddie put on his glasses and readjusted the magnifying lens as he bowed over his brightly lit work surface.
"Creepy. Like… almost like a corpse that had been in the water, but thin. Bony, really. Pale eyes, ashy skin, tangled gray hair. Her human appearance was pleasant enough, but still… frigid-looking. Unapproachable."
"And her creature side: lots of sharp teeth? Abnormally long fingers?" Eddie asked as his fine tools manipulated the innards of an antique cuckoo clock.
"Yeah."
"Did she smell?"
"Smell? No, I don't remember smelling anything on her."
"Good," Eddie said, still absorbed with his work. "That means she's a Weisseweibchen, and not a Grünanne. They look a lot alike, but Grünannen smell foul - like brine - and they like to drown people: it's their life's work, you might say. Rare now though, since most have been killed off. No great loss, in my opinion. Weisseweibchens, on the other hand, are almost always helpers, especially known for helping children. Their name means white female, or white woman, not to be confused with the urban legend of the Woman in White. They get the shit-end of the stick sometimes, because they're water sprites like the Grünannen, and they look a hell of a lot alike. I'm no expert though. I've never met a Green Annie -- that's what the English call 'em. But there was an old Weisseweibchen in my neighborhood when I was growing up. She was real sweet, always looked out for us kids."
"So I can trust her?"
Eddie shrugged. "As much as any Grimm can trust a creature."
Nick stared at the Blutbad, hunched over his cogs and gears. "I do trust you, Eddie."
Eddie did not turn around, but shook his head as though baffled. "I know."