There was blood on the cuffs of Detective Brock Winslow's shirt.  His knuckles were still smudged with it, too.  There was little doubt that Brock was the toughest sonofabitch cop in town, just as there was little doubt that he didn't get the job because of his education, brains, or ability to close cases but patronage from a high-ranking officer who appreciated Brock's toughness and willingness to hurt people in the line of duty.  Of course, there is a considerable difference between stupidity and lack of education - and many people confused a lack of formal education with lack of intelligence.  Brock Winslow was not a well-educated man.<br/><br/>It was a big man, and he seemed bigger.  He was broad-shouldered and tall, with long legs.  He wore a cheap suit because he couldn't afford better - blue, with a red tie, and even though he didn't have his shield out it would be obvious to anyone with the least touch of savoir-faire that he was a harness bull for the PD.  He was good-looking, though world-weary, with dark hair and intense dark eyes.<br/><br/>He came into the bar because he saw it and wanted a drink.  Increasingly, after a job from his patron, he wanted a drink.  He did not understand anything about magic, and it would take considerable effort to get him to believe in it, anyway, but he had something special about him.  He had a kind of shine.  He didn't know it, or, rather, he had suppressed all knowledge of whatever talents he was born with.<br/><br/>At the door, he took it in.  It seemed a little strange to him but the town was full of many strange things.  It seemed... improbable that the bar worked on the trust system, but he had seen many an open bar in his day and recognized one here.  He poured himself a double shot of bourbon - Four Roses, not bad - and took a sip.  When he put the glass down, there was blood on its rim.  That was his blood.  The inside of his mouth stung like the dickens, so he took another drink.