FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Chapter 6:

It's so hard to think in here. The bullpen back at the precinct is supposed to be the officer's home base, their home-away-from-home. I've never once felt that way, that this is a home-away-from-home. This place feels more like a high school I've trapped myself to work in for twenty years. Despite how much I both enjoyed and excelled during my education and my time at the academy, and look forward to the prospect of standing up for the city and making a name for myself, every job has its downsides. The officers that I work with are the worst part of my job.

If it isn't people like Captain Whitebuck, whom I do respect and admire for his dedication, making a choice to put his career before this department, it's people like Bullworth making working here as an average police officer miserable. Bullworth has, graciously, decided to leave me alone after our little spat outside, but that doesn't mean anybody else will.

Bullworth is a special case, but he illustrates the issues I have to deal with on a daily basis. Oh, sure, I came armed from college with the ability to protect myself from any sexual harassment that might come with working in a job where 85% of its employees are male, and where 99% of all beat cops city-wide are male. Thankfully I get very little of that, the officers opting for avoidance. But the silence and the cold shoulder can be just as bad.

What I didn't come prepared for was the constant nagging feeling that I'll never really be good enough for any of these people. I'm stuck with the most disliked shift, assigned to the most difficult department in the entire ZPD, I work the longest hours and make innumerable arrests and still, it's never enough. My rewards are more work, worse shifts, and worse beats. I could have worked a cushy beat route in the financial center Downtown, or in the hotels and spas of Sahara Square. But, no, I'm working here. I guess it's better than the shipyards in Tundratown, or on the boat.

I've tied Quartz up to the desk as I sit, filling out paperwork covering our adventures up to this point: initial arrest, first responder's report, not to mention the evidence entries, and the paperwork required for emergency access to precinct equipment. In the quiet, over the shuffling of papers and the scratch of pen or pencil on it, I can hear chatter.

A quick glance over my nose gives me a clear line of sight to a couple of officers on the other side of the pen, giggling. One of them points my way and mimics something that I want to take as insulting. Something that makes me think of snogging. God, I bet Ginny is already running her mouth to every cop that passes her by. Come morning, I'll be known as the 'predo' on top of the lone female working the beat at this precinct.

It's all too much to handle at once. I sigh and lean forward, giving my forehead a rub. With all the excitement, my head is pounding. Must be an aftereffect of having so much adrenaline pumping at once and then having the rug pulled out from under me. I blink at Quartz, who has been silent for an uncomfortable amount of time and see that he has been watching me this whole time. He's been quiet, kind. I don't know what that's about and I'm sure I don't like it.

"It'll probably be a few more minutes until the evidence is processed. This stuff takes time, even on emergency requests like this," I explain to him, trying to get my mind somewhere work-related.

"Sure, I understand," he replies, courteously. "I know my way around developing film. Comes with the territory."

"Right," I reply, suspicious. "Why don't you tell me the story again, for the records? When this is all over, the less time you and I have to spend back here doing this, the better."

I retrieve the corresponding paperwork and begin to fill it out. The beginning of the story I remember him telling me. It's everything in the middle that is sort of murky or completely untouched. He leans forward and peruses what I've written from the other side of my desk, his chains clanging when he pulls them taut. He gives an approving nod and then sits back into his seat again.

"Ok, you told me you see the perp arrive. What next?" I ask.

"He gets out of a taxi, obviously coming from somewhere across town," he says. "He's dressed to conceal. He must know this is taboo at best, an action punishable by being ostracized at worst. I watch from the street, this still a job for me, of course. I take a couple of photos of them meeting, embracing. Then they eat some dinner, I think, illuminated by candlelight and TV screen. At this point and from my angle, it's all shadows and silhouettes. This should all be on the first roll of film."

I dutifully write all of this down, trying to recreate it just as he's telling it, so that when it's entered into the file it isn't mucked up somewhere down the line. Quartz pauses as I write, my fingers moving as quickly as I can, making it as clean as possible. When I double check what I've written down, I glance back up to signal him to begin again.

He continues, "It's maybe a half an hour before I'm convinced I'm not going to get the shots I need from the ground level. Can't rule something true unless you get the money shot, the customers don't like that. I figure, well, no point going up through the building. If I go up through it, there's no way I'd get any shots of them, not without windows in the hallway."

"So the fire escape?" I interject.

"Yeah, the fire escape. Window on the outside is open, curtains billowing in the wind, it seemed like a perfect route. I gotta add, by this point, everything seemed to be going smoothly for them, at least there didn't seem to be any fighting. I crossed the street and went to the bottom of the ladder. That's when I got whiff that something wasn't right. Once I got in earshot, I realized they were yelling. Then I heard glass break. As I climbed up, the fight got more and more intense, though I couldn't really make out any words. It sounded more like just guttural growls and screaming."

"Why continue up at all?" I ask him, clarifying it for the record.

"Why walk your beat every day?" He replies. "It's your job. And this was mine. By the time I got up to the third floor, things had deteriorated to a point that wasn't recognizable anymore. The boyfriend? He was nothing more than a flurry of claws, teeth, and fur. I snapped a couple of pictures in quick succession, on the second roll, crouched outside of the window.

"The flash I stuck in beforehand must have spooked the guy and he went ballistic. Started tearing up the joint and disappeared after steamrolling the front door. That must've been when I dropped my camera off over the railing. When it clicked for me what I had just witnessed, I went inside through the open window to see if the girl--if maybe she was alive. She wasn't. She just wasn't."

And that's when I showed up. I'm able to finish my report with my own recollection and then put an 'x' beside each place I need him to initial or sign. Spinning it around, I slide it into his fingers and he reads over everything quickly before signing, in big, swooping letters, Jack Francis Quartz. He slides it back silently and I insert it into the file the lieutenant gave me with everything else that I filled out for Ashe.

"So what now?" Quartz asks as I lean back in my chair.

"We wait," I reply. "You must be used to that in your line of business."

"More than I care to be," he replies. "But compared to being crouched down in the garbage waiting to catch somebody's old guy or lady coming home early to bang the postal worker, this is a lucky break. But, hey, I get paid by the day."

Paid by the day? It's almost like the longer he could stretch out a job, the more he'd get paid. That seems scuzzy. Or is that just my judgement of him coming through? Hard to tell. The amount of mixed messages this guy sends me is headache-inducing. I was taught to get inside people's heads, to figure them out while I was in the academy. But I can't read this guy with the amount of times his personality has switched.

Is he some sort of Average Joe just going about his job? Or is he a bottom feeder content with just barely making ends meet in the easiest way possible? First he won't talk to any of the detectives, and the psychologist, well, she comes up with null. Then he seems to open up when I come in and give him the time of day. Is that being smart, or being an opportunist? Well, he is a coyote. His kind would probably take the easiest route at the first sign.

But, then he's miserable again. Like that easy route didn't go the way he wanted to and he's resentful for it. And now he seems to be personable once more. Is that because of the scene outside? If it is, why would he care? I'm just thrown for a loop that I can't seem to get my fingers around. Or maybe I'm just contemplating the white spots in my tawny brown fur just a little too hard.

"Did you always do this?" I blurt out without really thinking.

"Being a private eye?" He asks.

I look up and nod.

"No, not even remotely," he says. "I've done this for almost three years now, maybe a little less. While life hasn't exactly been milk and honey, I've been relatively successful so far. I can't say I can complain. Why do you care?"

I shrug, which is not entirely an honest response. Knowing more about him gives me a little better judgement about him. It also might make it easier to smooth the next few hours if I know who I'm working with.

"We have time to kill," I say to him. "Plus, we're gonna spend a lot of time together, and it would be smart for me to know something about you. Why, don't you trust me?"

"Like you said, no, Officer, I most certainly do not but we have a deal," he says, though with a smirk on his lips. "What about me? Do you trust the 'fucking chomper'?"

I lock eyes with him, wondering how he heard that. Then again, with how loud Ashe was screaming, I suddenly wonder why I would think he wouldn't hear that. After that, I just ponder the question. Do I really trust him? I guess at the end of the day I have to. Then again, he's still in cuffs, even in a building filled with police officers. But I doubt that's what he's asking me now.

"I . . ." I begin to say, before pausing, still unsure.

"Officer Brooks?" A voice suddenly asks.

I turn to my left to see a courier, a hare, holding a thick manila envelope under his left arm. He pulls it out and presents it to me. Then he tips his hat at me and proceeds to eye up the coyote who sits across from me. The photos, finally, and they couldn't have come at a more opportune moment. I let my answer disappear with that courier.

Untwisting the tie holding the envelope shut, I reach inside and pull out the thick stack of large 8x10 photographs. They're still slightly warm to the touch, too, as if they were printed mere seconds ago. Spreading them across my desk, it's like watching a movie in slow motion spread across my workspace.

To the far right is the most recent photo to have been taken, so I start to the left. The first photograph is a still of Savannah, very much alive and wearing an exquisite black dress accentuated with gold and silver jewelry while standing in her side bay window, near where the bedroom is. Then there's a photo of the new boyfriend, arriving in a taxi.

His entire frame is covered up, head-to-toe, definitely to conceal himself. I'm wondering if he knew what he was doing was very wrong, or if he suspected he was being watched. Either way, the photos of him exiting the car and heading upstairs don't show even a hint as to who he is. The photos that follow show a relatively normal, if taboo, acts of the burgeoning couple.

She greets him, her shadow cast on the back wall as she opens the door to let him in. They embrace, very sensually, and then they seem to sit down to eat, the light inside the apartment dimming. Their shadows portray a very happy evening of food, wine, and conversation. After some time, they get up and disappear into the bedroom where the curtains are drawn.

The first roll of film seems to end there. This photo the last one shot from the street. He's right, none of these photos definitively prove that she was cheating, or who this person is. In the next photo, the story of Savannah comes to an abrupt end. The 'money shot', he calls it. The next six photos must have been taken in quick succession, most likely over a fifteen second period.

First there's a shot of him, back towards the camera, hovering over the body of Savannah which is splayed out in the center of her apartment. The entire room is already in disarray, though there are some marks and damage I remember that I don't see here. The next two has him turning towards the camera, to give a full view of his face, one of shock and confusion. And then it's one of pure rage, accentuated with the shine of teeth and eyes in the flash.

He's a leopard, a wide, wild one, big as a house and as thick as a truck. And the look in his eyes makes me think that's all he is: a creature. The only words that I can use to describe him are 'psycho' and 'savage'. It all confirms everything that Quartz has given me. Nobody the coyote's size could have done even half of the damage to this apartment.

The final photos are of the perp, first a feinting lunge towards the camera before turning away and making a beeline towards the door, tearing up everything in his wake. It must have been after this that Quartz drops the camera. Yeah, there is another photo that was taken afterwards, of it making its way over the side of the railing, a blurry hand reaching out away from it.

"Jesus," I mutter to myself as I sit back into my chair.

Quartz doesn't say anything, he just looks to the photos and then to me. Looking over him, my thoughts begin to wonder. This guy, he just went mad. No, he went madder than mad, he's absolutely gone, Wonderland insane. It's like he reverted back into some primal form that I didn't know truly existed in preds. Like the things my father used to say. Jesus, he can't be right, can he?

Oh, sure, my father always swore by the fact that preds were always further down the evolutionary ladder than the rest of us, but that isn't possible, is it? What did it take for this leopard to devolve from a normal, functioning citizen, to whatever it is that's in this photo? What happened in those missing minutes? Could it affect any predator? What about the one sitting across from me?

Quartz suddenly looks away from me, his brow furrowing. My thoughts stray, wondering why he's suddenly angry. Was it the way I looked, or looked at him? I don't have the time to figure that out. The next hour or so are spent coordinating with our support team to match a name to this face. It takes a lot of digging on their part, but a name finally surfaces: Jacob Joffer. And that's literally it. It comes from an expired driver's license lodged with the City of Zootopia about four years ago, though it looks like a new license was produced for him somewhere.

All of the remaining information is out of date or missing entirely. The address listed no longer exists, that road was closed off when the new train line went out towards the Animalia complex, which was then under construction. Other than that, there are no occupations, no relationships, or any crimes listed. If he was ever booked, those records are long gone. There aren't even any traffic violations.

I leave Quartz upstairs the entire time, handcuffed to my desk. Not only does he not complain, he doesn't say a word at all. When I return to him, it's almost as if he never moved an inch. I collect what evidence I'll need, including photos and my street jacket before I plan our next move. It's been threatening to rain all day, and I'd like not to get caught in it.