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Chapter 7:

Quartz, oh, so helpfully, finally suggests hitting up a few bars in the area to try to scrape up some leads, since the precinct couldn't provide us anything more, which is an idea I had as well. He says that everybody needs to socialize, even the possibly criminally insane. And most normal folks will hit up a bar or a restaurant near to their own home, which is most likely where the preds will choose to live: Happy Town. So his contribution is the places most likely to be frequented by our suspect.

At least we're now able to take a car instead of being forced to ride the dingy public transportation system. Since I don't work with another officer and haven't been assigned a patrol car, I'm forced to take my own: a relatively new Chrysalis Zootopian, not that I couldn't be issued one from the garage. That car is probably the only thing that has made my father happy in years. And outside of what little stuff I own at my apartment, it's my most prized possession.

At first things seem to go well. Quartz is able to conjure up four or five little hole-in-the-wall dives that a pred like him would frequent. They're mostly on the very edge of the neighborhood proper as well, making it likely to be a place that Savannah might have stopped at on her way home or after getting off of a shift at her job Downtown. Some place they could have met.

But that's when we hit a roadblock: the animals there. Being a pred-heavy neighborhood, seeing a white tail like me makes them standoffish. Seeing one in uniform makes them suspicious. Finally, seeing one handcuffed to a predator, well, that just shuts everyone up entirely. I try to force something out of the staff at every place, but most turn their noses up. "I don't know" becomes a very popular phrase. After two years, I'm used to it, but can't change their minds.

We finally catch a break at the very last location, a 24-hour diner on the edge of Downtown proper. A ditzy waitress, a cow and one of the few prey species I speak to, there tells me that she swears she recognizes the cat's driver's license photo. She says she sees him come in all the time during the day and night. The short order cook, a bear, tries to drag her away, doesn't want them to get involved. What he means is, he doesn't trust me and wants to protect his own. But I don't let them get away, instead pressing them harder.

He only stops trying to stonewall me when I roll out the story of Savannah's murder, of course redacting any information that might identify her, and show the pair Joffer's picture. The chef then offers up a piece of advice that seems conclusive: the Aries. He says to go there, says preds like him frequent it and we'd find something there.

At the mention of the Aries, Quartz seems to become apprehensive. While he didn't seem very helpful convincing any of these people to talk, and not minding having him quiet for a few minutes, I find it very odd that he's somehow defied physics to become even quieter. As we're exiting the diner, raindrops now threatening to fall from the already over cast skies, I can't take the silence anymore.

After I pull shut the door on my car, I look over and ask him, "What do you think so far?"

"I think you've finally gotten a good lead," he says dismissively.

He doesn't look my direction even once, even while he's putting on his seatbelt. It's highly obvious he's trying his best to avoid any kind of eye contact to try to keep me from asking, which makes me want to ask even more.

"What do you know about the Aries?" I ask him more directly this time.

"Well, it's a pretty large venue on the edge of Happy Town and Downtown," he says, still looking out the window on his side of the car. "It's pred-heavy and generally caters to pred tastes, but I believe the owner is a prey species of some kind."

"Have you been?" I press him.

He licks his lips, seeming to consider his response before he gives it.

"Yes," he replies. "A couple of times. Not in a very long while, but, I used to know it quite well."

"Then stop holding out," I tell him, trying to be as non-confrontational as possible. "What do you know about the place?"

He sighs and looks over. I turn the key in the ignition and the small V8 under the hood roars to life. As I shift it into gear, the headlights coming on to illuminate the blacktop in front of me, rain starts to splatter onto the windshield. Slowly at first, then quicker. I throw the wipers on and then slow the vehicle into traffic.

"The Aries Theater is a concert hall slash nightclub that functions solely to provide preds entertainment in a city that isn't very friendly to them. It's one of the oldest in the city, predating the majority of the buildings built in ole Happy Town since it was called that," Quartz says as he looks out of the window. "And because it attracts such a large audience, it means it often serves as a base for some unsavory clientele."

"Like Joffer?" I ask him.

"I doubt it," Quartz replies. "Joffer doesn't seem like the type that would operate out of the Aries. And I highly doubt the Aries would protect him. There's a difference between organized crime and random murderers. One usually doesn't approve of the other. It's more likely that Joffer just frequented it because it was a welcoming environment for him and nothing more."

I would beg to disagree, but his assessment at least makes sense. Most cops know about the Aries as well, and about as much as Quartz has just stated. The place has been accused of housing one of the Five Families, organizations that run the underground and perform other criminal activities around the city and possibly beyond. But no conclusive proof has ever emerged from it and every time we think we're getting close, the owner somehow disappears into the shadows.

"Would the employees recognize the photo if we showed it to them?" I ask.

His lips purse.

"Yes," he replies flatly.

"Would they tell us?"

"No."

"I'll make sure I talk very clearly, then." I reply, confident.

"You don't get it, do you?" He suddenly says. "The moment you walk in there and flash that badge, those people will not even acknowledge your existence. If we're lucky, they'll let you beat your head against the wall until you're bloody and let us leave. At worst, they'll beat the ever-loving shit out of us and throw us into the alleyway."

"Then we'll have to get a warrant," I declare, annoyed.

Then I realize that that would be a dumb move and wish I hadn't said it aloud. Getting a warrant at this time of night, just after one am by the digital display on the radio, would be difficult at best. And then serving the warrant would present its own challenges, at least without back-up and some very good leverage. I guide the car through traffic as the rain begins to pick up, threatening to dump a deluge of water on the city.

"No, I won't," I correct myself before he can comment. "We'll have to find another angle to this, then. Let me think."

I turn the radio up and an FM station comes through loud and clear. Some popular Gazelle song plays for about a half a minute and then begins to fade into the silence. The station plays its call sign, WZOO, and then begins to banter off the weather, traffic, and news for the hour. According to the weather radar, the rain is supposed to carry on all the way through daybreak, making me thankful I'm no longer on hoof. I'd be soaked by now.

Traffic accidents are reported in the usual places around the city: highways leading out to the Burrows at the cross-channel bottleneck, a couple of fender benders and disabled vehicles Downtown, and a particularly nasty one up in Tundratown with emergency personnel on site. The radio plays a short commercial and then rings off a ditty before the news is read out.

"Welcome, WZOO listeners to the weekend at last," the announcer sings cheerily. "Mayor Bellwether is set to announce that comprehensive funding for historically segregated predator schools shall be increased by a little over twenty percent, triggering a strong reaction from the predator representatives on city council who had pushed for just under thirty-five percent. They claim they aren't reaching the funding levels currently present at historically prey-only schools, and are falling further behind each year.

"In other news, the CAEP, or Collars and Effective Policing Act, has failed to come to a vote. The two predator representatives on the nine member council admonished their fellows for failing to even consider the reform and removal of the shock collars that keep unruly predators in line, despite the concession offered to re-arm the uniformed police force with standard firearms. Of the remaining seven, only two had expressed any amount of support. If brought a vote, it would be the first time in Zootopia history that collar removal was considered. A new vote has yet to be announced, though it is unlikely to pass even if voted on anytime soon, especially with the city-wide elections just months away. Mayor Bellwether has declined to make her stance clear. Looking to sports--"

I sort of tune the rest of it out. The city council was considering removing the collar requirements for predators again? How did I miss that? Have I been buried in my work that much? It's such an odd thought, predators suddenly no longer required to wear the shock collars. How would that affect us? Something tells me that would make our jobs that much more difficult. At least we would have regained the firearms stricken from us when the collars went up all those years ago. Though that proposition worries me as well.

"It'll never happen," I mention without thinking.

"What won't?" Quartz replies.

"The collar reform," I clarify. "They'll never do it, regardless of concessions. It almost feels like they've been talking about that since the fences came down. I just don't think the will is there."

"On the council? Or in public?"

"Both, and each because of the other," I say. "The council representatives and the mayor don't bother pushing forward doomed proposals because the public would never accept it. Well, the thirty-five percent of predators that make up the public would, but how many of the prey species would? Not enough."

"So they shouldn't push for any reform because it's unpopular? That's cruel," Quartz says, a little louder than before.

"That's politics. I see it every day. Risk nothing you can't afford to lose, and don't ever lose face. Most of the prey representatives would lose their jobs if they voted to approve it. And the pushback from the Fraternal Order of Police and the Prison Officer's Union would be immeasurable. Most would rather just let the preds continue to wear the collars like they're used to," I say with a shrug.

Quartz leans forward in the car. He pulls down the collar of his jacket and shows me the shock collar wrapped around his neck, compacting his white, brown, and gray fur tightly around his neck. The battery and monitor unit mounted slightly off-center left blinks a small light to let the user know it's charged and ready to use. The myriad of metal prongs that jab down below the fur are just barely visible from where I sit.

"Used to?" He asks, annoyed. "They put this thing on me before I even hit puberty. I don't even remember what it's like to not wear this thing. In just about fifteen years and probably as many adjustments with growth, I have yet to become truly accustomed to wearing this stupid thing. And if you wore one, you'd say the same thing."

I try to guide the car while still looking to the coyote either in the rearview mirror or directly, a bit surprised Quartz has gotten this ardent. Thankfully the traffic has all but thinned out by this time at night, especially this far from the bump and bustle of the clubs Downtown. Though I try to pay attention anyways, because smaller vehicles, especially those made for rodents or other smaller species, can be difficult to see past my boat of a car.

"I'm just saying those collars must serve a purpose," I say with a shrug and a shake of the head. "Why else would they be mandatory for predators? Without those collars, people like Joffer would be roaming the streets in droves and predators would be harmed by it just as much as the prey species would. It would be absolute chaos."

Why is he getting so worked up about this? A quiet buzz comes from the other side of the car as Quartz leans forward, his collar blinking yellow.

"Are you joking?" He demands in a loud voice. "These collars are mandatory for one reason and one reason only: fear. People like Mayor Bellwether and her stoolies on the council fear people like me. And then they use people like Jacob Joffer as a buffer to justify their response to the vast, unquestioning public that votes them into office year after fucking year."

"And that response is to protect animals," I assert, trying to not raise my voice as loud as his, but failing. "It's all for your protection!"

"My protection?!"

The nerve that I've hit must be massive as the collar around his neck begins to buzz and beep, the light burning bright red, and then to shock. He gasps for breath and begins to thrash around in his seat, his paws reaching out at anything he can get in order to get a grip. But he can't, those claws slide effortlessly off of the alligator leather that makes up the majority of this faux-luxury car's interior. Meanwhile that collar throws off a deadly buzz and a spray of electricity that illuminates every contour of my car.

His cries are almost heart wrenching, tears streaming down from his eyes. I've never heard a canine yelp the way he does, crying out in fear and pain. Out of my own worry and surprise, I pull the car gently off to the side of the main stretch we're on. But by the time I come to a standstill, the shock treatment has passed. He's panting and whimpering, but quiet and calm. The collar has done its job, and well, too.

Thank god for modern technology.

Quartz sits in his seat, his head resting on the cool of my window, curled towards the door. His ears are folded back and his mouth hangs agape, his black nose running slightly. Streaks of tears run down from his eyes and he gasps for breath until his breathing becomes steady and measured. I cross my arms, my tail flicking behind my back. The only noise in the car is from the engine and the guitars over the radio from some new band out of the Rainforest District.

"See, it's for your protection," I tell him. "Just try to keep calm and you'll never know it's there."

"J--just," Quartz says slowly, quietly, "just drive."

I do. The radio is turned off, though I was actually enjoying the music they were playing for once. The rain is now coming down in sheets, and I have the windshield wipers swinging as fast as they're made to swing. My rouge-colored cruiser moves through it like a rocket. As I round the final turn onto Grasslands Avenue, we're able to see the venue up ahead.