This chapter opens with an extended discussion about the Blue Beetle that is not blue despite the fact they’re not taking it, because this book is just barely above Babysitter’s Club forced exposition.

Technology tends to foul up around wizards—flip on a light switch, and it’ll be the time the bulb burns out. Drive past a streetlight, and it’ll pick just then to flicker and die. Whatever can go wrong will, automobiles included.

Magic seems to be playing even worse with technology than last book.

Anyway, the reason they’re taking Murphy’s car despite the fact Harry’s probably wearing it down at 100x speed is that they’re on a strict time limit.

She was in a hurry, taking a few too many chances cutting in and out of traffic, and I put on my seat belt. At least we weren’t on her motorcycle.

This is a nice moment.

He expresses mild concern about the speed and she explains they need to beat other people there. They continue to drive and Harry realizes they appear to be beyond city limits, which he thought were, like, a thing as far as policing went.

She points out that lolwhat he’s the only magic consultant around and she’s the only one in charge of dragging him out and then yelling at him to actually do the job. She adds that yeah, the local police approved of this, presumably convinced by the same reasoning. I mean, would you want to work with Harry? I’d invite Murphy in to do it for me too.

Also, turns out that this is but one in a series of killings, but presumably she couldn’t bring Harry in earlier because of the whole thing where, for reasons outside her control, people disapprove of that.

Oh, and that club that Refrigerator Tiger had that he burned for insurance money after Harry trashed it is now being rebuilt at a new location, blah blah exposition, and that’s where the guy is, and okay maybe it’s time to actually investigate this guy because he’s either doing something to cause himself to be in the center of supernatural fuckery or he’s been cursed.

Inside the building, the floors were rough, unfinished. Someone had turned on a couple of halogen work lights, and they cast the interior into brilliant, clear white light. There was drywall dust everywhere. There were a few card tables set up, with workmen’s tools left out on them in places. Plastic buckets of paint, tarps, and a sack of new paintbrushes waited for use off to one side. I didn’t notice the blood until Murphy put her arm out in front of me to keep me from walking into it.
“Wake up, Dresden,” she said. Her voice was grim.
I stopped, and looked down. Blood. A lot of blood. It began near my feet, where a long splatter had reached out like an arm from a drowning man, staining the dusty floor with scarlet. My eyes followed the path of the long bloodstain back to a pool, maybe an eighth of an inch deep, surrounding a mound of ripped cloth and torn meat that must have been the corpse.

Harry evidently has no sense of smell.

Also, whatever killed the guy had a supernatural effect keeping the blood fresh and shiny. I can’t see why werewolves would care, but maybe that’s where the idea of vampires keeping werewolves comes from – it’s like vampire jerky, where the food probably doesn’t taste as good as fresh, but their kills can be stored and drained later without the blood going bad. Werewolves were created by vampire magic for this purpose, and vampires that turn into wolves are like people processing game rather than eating it on the spot.

Come to think of it, supernatural preservative effects might significantly reduce the smell since they’re trying to keep as much of it in its original state and smells floating off gets in the way of that.

Whatever had killed him, it hadn’t been human. His face was gone, simply torn away. Something had ripped his lips off. I could see his bloodstained teeth.

That really doesn’t rule out human, just saying.

His nose had been torn all the way up one side, and part of it dangled toward the floor.

I think you’re grossly underestimating the strength of the human jaw, Harry.

His head was misshapen, as though some enormous pressure had been put upon his temples, warping his skull in.

Like, say, by a rock or something held by a tool-using species with opposable thumbs for better grasping?

His eyes were gone. Torn out of his head. Bitten out.

That’s not even hard to do! Eyes are the easiest thing to damage, they’re basically gooballs in your head.

There were the ragged slash marks of fangs all around the edges of the sockets.

OH, so you’re seeing dental marks that don’t match human ones. See, that and that alone is actually evidence a human didn’t do it.

The body stank, a sickly sewer-smell that rose up from the torn innards. My stomach wanted to roll up my throat, out my mouth, and onto the floor.

But somehow this is only noticeable when you’re standing right over it. Hm. Maybe the preservative effect includes a reasonable range around the body, keeping all of it as at the moment of death. That way when the vampires decide to snack on their preserved humans, they still get to experience the yummy smell.

The curl of his body hid his abdomen from me, but that was where the blood was pooling from, spreading out like ink from a spilled bottle.

I wonder how long past the obsolescence of the inkwell we have to get before it stops being the goto metaphor. Is the problem that modern society tries to build stuff that’s less disaster prone? But then, nailpolish is still kept in glass bottles and if anything is worse in terms of staining. I guess that’s too girly for widespread use.

The guy is Icebox Cougar’s bodyguard.

I could hear her frown in her words. “Yeah? Who was he?”
“I don’t know his name. I always called him Spike. For the haircut.

This is one of those weird things you get in books. Harry is telling US that this is the character he referred to in his internal narration as, because no one in normal life gives people nicknames in their thoughts then tells totally unrelated people that’s what they “always” called the person later as if it’s even relevant, but if he’s been chatting to us, the watchers in his head, then yeah, he does call the guy Spike a lot.

Incidentally, there is a way to say almost the same thing without sounding like you’re getting confused about reality vs the inside of your head: “I don’t know his name. I thought of him as Spike. For the haircut.

“Take a look around a little more,” she said. “Then we’ll talk.”
“What am I looking for?” I asked her.
“You’ll know it,” she said. Then added, in a whisper that I think she didn’t intend me to hear, “I hope.”

This actually isn’t a matter of tension and drama for its own sake. Murphy has a theory something is up, but she doesn’t want to risk priming Harry to see the same stuff she did when it’s actually nothing. She wants to see if he comes up with the same thing she did on his own.

Harry finds blood on glass from a window something came through. He informs us the blood isn’t yet dried, which last book means that he can use it for a seeking spell.

I took a white handkerchief from my pocket, folded the shard of glass into it, and then slipped it into the pocket of my duster.

Or could’ve, if he’d storied it in something other than a piece of absorbent fabric jesus christ Dresden invest in ziplock bags.

He says that most of the dust is gone but there’s one spot that was missed, and there’s a giant wolf print, illuminated by moonlight because Harry needs to be walloped over the head to have any chance of getting it.

Murphy confirms the last killings were at the previous full moon, and Harry confirms that werewolves are a thing, though of course Not like you see in the movies except the popular idea of the moon having to do with werewolves comes from the 1941 movie The Wolf Man so no, they’re like you see in movies.

This is the sort of bullshit you get when an author does no research and just takes a general cultural idea he’s already familiar with, changes the bits he feels like, and smugs it up about how his stuff is soooo different you guys so very different you have no idea.

Then the FBI show up and Harry’s all ooooooooh she wasn’t worried about the press seeing me on a case she was worried about these guys showing up.

“Godammit,” she said. “How do those assholes get everywhere so fast?”

They’re apparently real go-getters, too!

“I told you that you weren’t welcome on this investigation,” Denton said, his words crisp. His grey eyes flashed, and I saw a vein bulge rhythmically on his forehead. His gaze shifted to me. “Who is this?”
“Har—” I started to say, but Murphy’s snort cut over my words.
“No one,” she said. She flashed me a look that said, very clearly, to shut up. That annoyed the hell out of me.
“Harry Dresden,” I said, making the words loud and clear. Murphy and I exchanged a glare.

God, Harry’s a dick. And an idiot on two levels, because in addition to the obvious, names have power and he makes a big deal about it being a bad idea to give yours out. So what if he figures these guys aren’t magic users, what happens if there’s a fairy lurking to overhear? Loose lips sink ships, Harry.

Denton’s all shoo so we can do actual science detectiving and calls over another agent. Let’s compare and contrast.

The man in front was not quite as tall as me, but still very tall, six feet and three or four inches. His hair was jet black, as were his eyebrows, while his eyes were a shade of grey as pale as wood smoke. His dark blue suit fit him well, and I had the impression that it concealed an athletic build, in spite of the fact that he had obviously seen more than four decades.
vs
A woman, not quite into her thirties, with a shoulder-length mane of hair gone prematurely grey, turned toward us from her intent contemplation of the corpse. She had olive skin, deep, green eyes, and a thin, severe mouth. She walked toward us with a sort of hard-muscled sensuality, moving like someone who is capable of being fast and dangerous when necessary. Of the four FBI agents who had entered the room, she was the only one obviously sporting a weapon. Her jacket was unbuttoned, and I could see the straps of her shoulder rig against the white of her shirt.

Again, we see a woman have a basically okay description with a wtf sitting in the middle. Note also that the man just has less description, and it’s built solely around the message the author is trying to get across (tall black grey pale smoke suit muscles = imposing) while the woman is more of a hodgepodge (long grey olive deep green severe muscles sex dangerous weapon open jacket = not sure if want). I think it’s better than it could be that at least the woman is a mix and not just pure sex or pure evil – the fact her hair has gone grey strikes me as an extremely neutral remark (though it’s only there because…well.) – but this is roughly half legitimate description and half if case you were wondering how bangable she is.

Also, eyes are tiny and it’s hard to tell that they’re green, let alone have opinions about them being deep, if the person is a short distance off. Denton at least is close enough to be talking, but Benn had to be called over.

I gathered myself to go, but paused. Murphy planted her feet and lowered her arms casually to her sides. I recognized the stubborn out-thrust angle of her jaw. She had that look she got when she was behind on points in one of her martial-arts tournaments. Murphy was ready to fight. Damn. I had to get her cooled off before we could accomplish anything.

So when Harry takes offense at absolutely nothing and does what he likes, it’s okay, but when Murphy is going to object to something that has to do with her job where she does in fact have every right to be here, it’s her being a hotheaded nutjob who needs a man to tell her that her dumb girl emotions are irrational.

Just listen to how ridiculous she decides to be about this:
“Like hell,” Murphy said. “Whoever this killer is, he’s knocked off half a dozen people in the last month. I’m here, and I’m after this man. The Rosemont department has given their consent for me to be here.” Murphy glared up at Benn. The FBI agent had her by a considerable margin of reach and muscle. I saw Benn’s eyes narrow, her shoulders grow tenser.
“Do you have that in writing?” Denton demanded. The vein in his head throbbed more angrily. “And do you really think you want me reporting this to your superiors, Lieutenant?”
“Don’t push me, Denton,” Murphy said, her voice hot. I winced.

WOW IS SHE PMSING OR SOMETHING OH NO DRESDEN THROW CHOCOLATE AT HER OR SOMETHING!!!!!!!!!!

Harry tries squeezing her shoulder while asking her to maybe leave please.

Murphy turned back toward me. She chanced a brief glance up at my eyes, and then relaxed a little, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her features.

This just reads as gaslighting. She knows more than you about the situation, but instead of support, there’s undermining.

But anyway, we have not even begun to crazy bitch this up:

“Get them out of here,” Denton said, and there was a note to his voice that I didn’t like.
Benn didn’t give us any warning. She just moved, fast and hard, stepping toward Murphy and flicking some sort of martial-arts blow I wasn’t familiar with toward her temple. There was a quick blur of motion. Murphy’s hands got there before the blow landed, and she turned, somehow levering Benn’s weight off from her legs and slamming the grey-maned woman hard into a wall.
Benn’s expression went from shocked and surprised to furious in the space of half a second. Her hand dipped into her jacket, hesitated for half a second, and then resumed motion. She drew her gun with an expert’s precision, smooth and quick without seeming hurried. Her green eyes blazed. I threw myself at Murphy, colliding with her and driving her over and down as the gun went off, louder than a close clap of thunder in the interior of the half-finished restaurant. We landed in a heap on the dusty floor.
“Benn!” Denton shouted. He lunged for her, heedless of the gun, and got between the armed woman and us. I could hear him talking to her in a low, urgent voice.
“You crazy bitch!” I shouted. “What is the matter with you?”

So in other words, although in theory the setup is Murphy vs Denton with their respective subordinates Dresden and Benn, in practice it’s Dresden vs Denton in who can control their womenfolk better.

The whole SUDDENLY GUNSHOT makes all the other police run inside (an older man with thinning grey hair; a skinny kid with red hair, big ears, and freckles; a bulky, overweight man in his late forties, his hair receding and his gut overhanging his belt), because they’re not incompetent. Denton claims the gun went off accidentally, Harry attempts to explain (“This crazy bi—”) but is cut off by Murphy saying it was absolutely whatever Denton just said. Harry does not take the hint until she cuts him off the second time.

“I can’t believe that. You all right? Why the hell didn’t you tell them what she did?” I asked
Murphy, sotto voce.
“That bitch,” Murphy said back, not nearly as quiet. “She tried to sucker punch me.”

Why answer a question when we can just continue with the author’s new favorite word?

Harry looks back.

Forensics had arrived, and the team was getting set to sweep the room. Denton was kneeling down beside Benn, who had her face in her hands, and looked as though she were weeping.

Definitely an interesting development there.

Denton was watching me, his grey eyes calculating and expressionless

Harry then Just Knows Denton’s up to no good, despite the actual scene looking more like he’s pissed the two of them being there pushed his unstable coworker over the edge.

The awkward redhead kid (see how much more focused the male descriptions are?) explains that “Maybe give Deborah some slack. She’s really stressed out about these Lobo killings. She hasn’t slept much the past month. She knew one of the guys who got killed. She’s been tense ever since.”

and that fat one tells him to shut up and for Murphy and Harry to just gtfo.

The door shut, leaving Murphy and me on the outside, away from the investigation and the evidence at the crime scene.

Harry, you stole the glass with the blood on it. Remember? The still-wet blood you could use right now to track the killer?

But instead of thinking about what’s actually going on and what he can do about it, Harry decides to remind us we’re in genre fiction, bub.

I looked up through the clear night at the almost-full moon. Werewolves jumping through windows at gangster’s lackeys in unfinished restaurants. A mangled corpse in the middle of a blood-drenched floor. Berserk FBI field agents drawing guns and shooting to kill. A little kung fu, a little John Wayne, and a few casual threats.
So far, I thought, my nerves jangling, just one more night on the job