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Chapter 4:

Voices begin to sing out and camera bulbs snap and crack as the remaining force of police officers exits the building. The captain raises his hands above his head to gain their attentions, his antler-dominated silhouette towering above many of his subordinates. News crews from every channel across the city, not to mention papers and radio stations, push towards the front to get the best optics, the best audio, and the best chance at getting their questions answered.

The coyote covers up the chains that bind us together at my right hand and his left. At first I wondered why he was slipping his overcoat off and down his arm, but the reason is sensible enough. Of the numerous animals who are paid to notice every small detail, this was likely a good idea to keep any questions from being raised. Plus, I'm not sure I want to walk through a crowd of newsmen chained to a predator. It would raise too many awkward questions.

Off to the right of the bottom of the stoop is a makeshift podium, towards which the captain wades through the crowd of bodies. It is to the other side of the building that we walk, trying our best to inconspicuous. With the distraction my superior is providing, it isn't a difficult task. But pushing by the crush of bodies in front of us is. And it's all of the forms that press up against me that begin to make me feel in over my head. I need a distraction.

"Where is the camera?" I ask, keeping my eye on the captain, hoping to hear some of his statement as well as keep my mind off of the fact I can't breathe right.

"It's down below the fire escape," Quartz replies, leaning forward to minimize the chance of others hearing.

"Why is it down there?" I question him sharply. "Shouldn't you keep that kind of thing on you at all times?"

"I wasn't about to let some of the most valuable equipment I own go into a scene like that," he replies. "Look, the thing's fine, it's safe. I hope."

I roll my eyes but keep quiet. Just then cameras begin to crackle and hum and voices commence competing with one another, the sound of numerous on-location reporters reading their lead-in. After clearing the edge of the crowd, allowing me to take a deep, cold, cleansing breath, I slow down and look back over my shoulder. The captain has just climbed behind the podium and is waving his hands for calm and quiet.

"Thank you," he says loudly, almost cheerily. "While a more formal statement shall come out of precinct one at One ZPD Plaza tomorrow morning, I shall take a small number of questions now. Yes, you there."

"Hallie Maddox, ZTP News, channel six," A female voice asks from somewhere out of sight in the crowd. "My question is this: This is the sixth murder in as many weeks by so-called Mad Murderers. What is the ZPD doing to protect the vast amount of its citizenry, most of whom have no way to protect themselves from such horrid events?"

"Thank you, Miss Maddox," the captain replies. "Here at the ZPD, we hold the safety and security of this city and those who cannot protect themselves in highest regard. We are doing everything we can to provide for it, and thus have increased our presence on the streets. And, city hall willing, we shall expand the amount of funding we receive and bring a new presence to the streets of Zootopia. Next question?"

"Officer Brooks?"

"J. Marks, Daily Prowl, what can you tell about this murderer? Is this all the actions of one predator gone mad? Or is this the corruption of those who live in the worst parts of our fine city in such economically trying times?" Another, this time male, voice cries out.

"What happened here can be described as a tragedy. While it is true that over the past several weeks, murders of similar MOs have occurred throughout the city, there is no need for panic," the captain says with a shake of the head. "We are currently looking into the motives of our suspect, and it is likely to be attributed to a domestic dispute gone wrong. I assure you, this is not a serial killer."

Murmurs begin to spread, about a pred-and-prey couple. Couples like that aren't illegal per se, but they're highly taboo, and people have been fired, evicted, and shunned for less. While it isn't newsworthy in and of itself, that was a juicy bit of information that the captain should have thought twice about releasing. The look on his face, growing concern, echoes my sentiment. Over the low roar, he clears his throat and then coughs.

Whitebuck then tries to regain control of the crowd, saying, "What I meant to say was--"

"Then you have a suspect in custody?" A voice suddenly exclaims.

"We shall, well," the captain stumbles, caught off guard, "have a suspect in custody within the hour. We know who they are, we know where they live, and there is no escape for them. It is only a matter of time before they are off the streets and delivered safely into the hands of the rightful authorities. It is my aim--"

"The public has a right to know who this animal is! Who is the predator that has mutilated yet another prey victim? Why have no street prowlers been brought in?" Another voice screams out angrily.

"Who is the ZPD protecting? Zootopia's citizens or itself?" A third voice cries.

"That's enough questions," the captain harshly declares, waving his arms, obviously flustered, losing control entirely.

"We want the truth from the ZPD!" The same voice screams out. "You can't hide the chompers gone psycho forever!"

"We're done here, we're done here!" The captain yells, knowing a lost cause when he sees one, and steps away from the podium allowing a lieutenant to step up and take his place, most likely an administrative representative.

I feel a tug at my arm and turn to see the coyote. He's standing between two cars that block off the alleyway from the rest of the streets. Their lights flash, illuminating the darkness beyond with an eerie blue and red haze. The colors cover him as well, making his figure appear cartoonish, like a panel out of a comic book.

"Over here," he says.

I nod and begin to follow. The lieutenant, a rhino I've never seen before, begins to read off boiler plate answers to most of the reporter's questions; which means that they answer absolutely nothing and satisfy nobody. The more right-leaning reporters in the crowd have ruined it for the rest of them. And while I disagree with the attitude of their questions, I understand the content. And I understand the emotions behind them.

Most of these animals just want answers. And the wall of silence that many news outlets have received by the city and the department over the last couple of months concerning similar murders, as well as disappearances, has many riled up. I've heard calls for a recall on the mayor, a shakeup going all the way to the top. But that doesn't seem to be the feelings of the majority, just a few anti-pred groups. Well, as far as I can tell. In the end, I think nothing will change. The only ones affected have been predators, after all.

"Where's the camera?" I ask as soon as I slip through the cars, my tail almost getting caught on the hood ornament of the car.

The coyote slips the jacket up and over his shoulders once more, now that we're clearly out of sight of the crowd on the other side of the barricade. He gives the top of his head a rub with his free hand and then looks forward. Blue and red color everything, alternating between the two every other moment.

"Down there," he replies and gives a point towards a line of silver trash cans beneath the fire escape.

"It's in the garbage?" I ask, surprised. "Why would you put it there?"

"Well, 'putting it there' is sort of a strong word," he replies and drags forward. "The better phrase would be 'dropped it'."

"You dropped it in the garbage?" I ask, this time blatantly sarcastically.

The coyote doesn't really give a response, instead showing me a cold shoulder while moving forward. Then he pulls one of the cans towards him. I at least see him roll his eyes, so I know he heard me. He delves his free arm into the filth beyond. A few seconds later, he comes up empty handed and turns to another one.

"Well, what I saw up there wasn't pretty." he then says as he pulls another can towards himself "Most people wouldn't have kept their lunch let alone their stuff."

"Did you see her die?" I ask him, a little colder than I desire.

"No, I didn't," he replies flatly. "When I climbed up, the deed was already done. But seeing it, and then the psychopath standing over her was shocking to say the least. I stumbled from my vantage spot and the camera went down when I ran into the railing. I don't see pieces scattered across the alleyway, so it must have hit one of the open cans. I mean, what would you have done?"

I would've remembered my training and took him down, not hid in the shadows like you.

His arm comes back up from that one without a thing either. The final can sits away from the fire escape, to the right. The lid isn't one it anymore. It sits on the ground, the one side bent very noticeably. Quartz must take this as a sign that it must rest within and begins to search. Well, the answer to that question is really easy.

"I wouldn't have dropped it is what I would have done," I tell him angrily. "Even in that situation, I wouldn't have dropped it. That's critical evidence, and the worst thing that can happen is it being lost. But it's understandable, you're not trained the same way police or military are."

"Training? Give me a break," he replies, shoulder-deep in that waste bin. "When you're sitting ten feet away from an animal having her belly ripped open by some guy gone completely nutso, get back to me. You're lucky I got the shots at all."

"Yeah, I suppose. I thought preds didn't mind the sight of blood," I say, annoyed but no longer angry, as he begins to stand upright once more.

"Right, because every sharp-toothed citizen of this city is just one tiny, crucial step away from regressing back into our baser selves. Or possibly it's because of our secret desire to commit crimes that we're so desensitized to the sight of brutal murders. Maybe we are now, since it seems to happen so often in our neighborhoods," he loudly argues. "Here's the camera. Thank Jesus, it isn't broken."

I can almost hear my father talking, "It is a known fact that prey species are more evolved than their carnivorous and omnivorous brethren. While predators grew their strength, speed, and brutal killing abilities, prey thought, read, wrote, and grew society. We came together to form this city, this country ,our very civilization, but it is us that lead it into the future."

I sigh, maybe wonder a bit. Then I watch as Quartz turns the camera over in his hands a few times, surveying the damage. The lens that thrusts forward from the black body of the device is cracked and quickly discarded. So is the flash that has been bent into odd shapes, the bulb crushed inside. The moment of truth comes when he opens the backing to the device and turns it to show the film still inside, rolled up into the canister that holds it.

Seizing the moment, I snatch the camera from his hands before he's able to wrap the alligator leather strap around his neck. For my own assurance, I snap open the back again and gaze at the film canister. With a sigh of relief, I snap it shut again and then put the strap around my own neck. The camera hangs well below my breasts, swinging into my stomach.

"I'll hold onto this," I tell him before getting one more jab in. "It's safer, it won't get dropped or lost."

"Oh, yes, because I'd purposefully discard the one piece of evidence keeping me out of the Zoo to spite you or the ZPD," he sarcastically says.

He pulls out a packet of cigarettes and bums one from the soft packaging. They're Bucky Strikes, the same brand that Ashe smokes. That's sort of odd, I thought predators preferred Lion & Mongoose or maybe Clawports. Afterwards, he retrieves a small lighter from his pocket, one that's round in shape. It lights when he squeezes it in his palm.

"Just because I'm a predator doesn't mean I'm trying to undermine you or everything you do," he says and takes a puff, his collar blinking yellow for a split second.

"I didn't say you were," I inform him. "But this is important."

"And you don't trust me with it?" He asks, his collar finally beeping and staying yellow.

"Not specifically, no," I reply, trying to keep calm, while wondering if he'll shock himself. "But I'm trusting you enough to make this deal, aren't I?"

"You are because you have something to gain from it. But what about those people, who want to see someone like me strung up just because they want a sacrifice, someone to blame?" He asks, aiming to cut.

To that I make no response, because I don't want to have this stupid argument. He simply puffs on that cigarette and watches me, clearly unhappier than I am to be handcuffed to me. I don't blame him, honestly, I'd be miserable, too. But that's the deal we made, even if it came with caveats that I didn't negotiate. The anger and hatred raised by both the rest of the cops on the force and the news crews would most likely worry me as well. But I don't want to be a receptacle for his misery.

When I look back, Quartz seems satisfied by my silence, his collar having returned to green, so I don't respond to the thought at all.

I sigh, "Ok, we have to get back to the precinct."

"Where's your car?" he asks calmly.

"I don't have one," I reply.

Which is the truth. I work on-hoof, I wasn't assigned to a squad car. In some of the outer precincts, it's common to still have foot patrols. But we're not one of the outer precincts. I was selected specifically to work some of the more dangerous beats in the precinct, which I accepted with pride then and work with pride now.

"I don't either," he says. "I took a cab here, so nobody would notice a strange car on the block. And there isn't any way we're getting anywhere after dark that way."

"Why?" I ask him.

"I'm a predator, and it's after dark. Do the math," he says bluntly.

I'm a bit surprised by that response, I guess because it was something I never even considered. His whole body is bathed in the alternating blue and red from the car roof lights behind us. A pang of regret hits my stomach after I consider some of the things I've said already and I look away.

"Well, the Riverfront Station is only a block or two away, we'll just take the el-train back into Savanna Central," I suggest.

"What about the cops here?" He asks.

"You want to ride with them?" I reply.

It takes him only a moment to figure out why that's an unattractive option; for the both of us. All political issues aside with my own higher ups, I'd like to avoid any confrontations with other officers, especially those with Ashe's more abrasive personality and worldviews. And having a predator handcuffed to me would definitely do that. So it looks like the el-train would be the best option.

For him, though, it's likely we'd end up riding in the back of the cruiser, with an officer who would likely lavish misery on him. The joys of being hauled into a police station in the back of a locked cruiser while swallowing grief from someone who hates his mere presence all at the same time. The collar would shock him to death before we arrived. God, he's a pain in the ass.

Wordlessly, I turn and begin to lead him away from the scene towards the station. He doesn't fight me and follows quietly. His padded paws silently touch down onto the concrete while my hooves echo into the darkness. I'm wondering about the bet I placed and its worth, while I'm sure he's wondering about the deal he struck. Blue and red, everything is blue and red.