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Chapter 9:

Happy Town. I've always thought that 'Happy Town' had to have been a mistake. And it sort of was a mistake. The neighborhood was originally named Highland Terrace, back when it was being constructed maybe sixty or seventy years ago. But the residents around it and in it began to nickname it HT, which devolved into the derisive 'Happy Town' or, more infrequently, Happytown. The unfortunate moniker stuck, and by the time the first apartments and rowhomes were completed, the neighborhood was officially labeled Happy Town. And it is anything but.

I've been through the edges on my routes every day, but this is the first time that I've delved so deep into this broken neighborhood. The police rarely come here, and for good reason. It's too much of a risk. And you can't put a fire out after the house has burned down. The buildings crumble the further we go in, eventually becoming abandoned skeletons of their former selves. Businesses are all boarded up and most of the residential homes are in desperate disrepair. The shadows they cast make me uneasy, though Quartz doesn't seem to feel the same.

The address we shook out of that bartender leads us almost to the waterfront, to where the train tracks go over the narrow straight to Rams Island. It looks like this street used to be housing for stevedores and dock workers when this was a busier part of the city. Now that the economy has shifted away from manufacturing and shipping, it's mostly abandoned, with only one or two buildings having lights illuminating their innards.

"Pull over here," Quartz suggests, pointing towards the end of the block.

"Don't want to let him know we're coming?" I ask, beginning to trust his suggestions a little more since the Aries.

Quartz gives a curt nod, "A car like this stands out here."

And he's right. If the car is even functional at all, as we've passed by a couple of burned out husks on our way through the streets, it's most likely much older than mine, or in a miserable state, or both. The brakes give a shrill shriek as I pull up to the curb and douse the headlights. Rain continues to pour down onto the windshield, the wipers struggling to keep up.

What a miserable night.

We've parked at the peak of a hill, with the street descending towards its ultimate fate at the front gates of an abandoned warehouse on the waterfront maybe a mile out. With the way that I've parked, we are given a grand view of the prison complex that constitutes the little isle of Rams Island. Bright lights dot the harsh concrete buildings that vary in color from yellow to red to blue. Some even strafe back and forth. It's like looking at a depressing Yule tree.

"That's where he'll go," I say, "Rams Island."

"The Zoo," Quartz says affirmatively, "either that or upstate. If he's lucky he'll go upstate."

He's right. Rams Island is known for its brutality, its callousness, and its low survivability. When I was still in college, and later when I was in the academy, I read that prisoners come out of there hardened by their experiences. Even those just being held for trial are apt to either commit worse crimes, or to come out mentally changed afterwards. But every time the possibility of reform comes up, it's lost in the political process and promptly forgotten.

"You been?" I ask.

Quartz glances at me, his gaze communicating a mixture of displeasure and offense, but he softens a moment later.

"No," he then says.

"You been arrested ever?" I continue to ask, more curious than anything else.

I honestly don't know, I didn't run any information on him back at the precinct. I guess in the struggle to find out who this Joffer guy is, the thought sort of escaped me. Any other officer most likely would've run a background on the animal who has been forced to be attached to your wrist for a day. I suppose I can find an excuse, though. I mean, there's a brutal murderer afoot.

"Come on, we have to go," he says, completely ignoring my question. "Don't forget your belt and badge."

The door opens and he disappears out into the pouring rain and swirling darkness. That coat he wears has definitely come in handy tonight. The collar is turned up high to protect his collar from the rain, but, even with it, I can see the sparks jump as he rounds the nose of my auto. I bet it would a thousand times more painful without it.

Killing the engine doesn't change much; the radio has been silent since our argument, over which I'm starting to have regrets. At least the dome light comes on to assist me in reattaching my utility belt. Huh, utility belt. That thought never really occurred to me. I guess a little bit of me always wanted to be a superhero. Well, I'm a crappy superhero now. It's a cinch to put back on, and I'm quick to get out into the pouring rain.

I don't bother to lock my car. We shouldn't be too long inside. And the worst thing that could happen is us losing this suspect because I had to fumble with my keys. Too many perps have been lost by officers over the dumbest things, and I'd like to not have my first major arrest marred by simple idiocy like that.

My hooves splatter in the puddles as I race across the dark blacktop. The fur on top of my head is soaked, my ears folded back to keep the water out, and my thoughts wish I would have remembered my cap when I left my crappy apartment this evening. Then again, I doubt it would have helped me much here. It would be like trying to bail out a sinking shipping freighter with a bucket.

Quartz stands in front of the building and peers in the window, making a cup with his hands around his eyes. As I approach him, he steps back and shakes his head. The window looks like it's completely covered in newspapers anyways. Somebody definitely didn't want to be disturbed. Then his eyes look around and see a sign hanging from the overhang above that reads: deliveries around back.

He brushes by me to see where it leads and I follow, glancing up the alleyway. I draw my flashlight out and click it on, giving me at least a small cone of visibility. I have it on for only a moment before Quartz glares back and shakes his head. He wordlessly mimes, 'no lights, he's here' and I click it off.

But in the short moment that I do have my light on, I notice a brand new car parked back the grass and loose stone covered alleyway. And when I say a brand new car, I'm mean that it was a nice car, something I doubt even I could afford on a lieutenant's pay grade. It's a Lionheart Touring Sedan, brand new with white walls and a full metal roof. The chrome bumper and wheels shine in the light.

A courier can afford a car like that? Something definitely isn't right. I wonder if Quartz even noticed. He seemed more focused on the wooden steps that lead up to a door on the second floor. While seemingly unnatural, it does look like it leads to an apartment. The wood definitely appears worn enough to be.

He begins up the stairs and I follow just behind him, my hand naturally resting on the butt of my gun. After he takes a few tentative steps, the whole staircase threatening to buckle under his weight, he stops. His fingers go down to the wood and he wipes something and tests it between his hands. Then he gives it a sniff and wipes it off on his coat.

"He's here somewhere; or was at some point," Quartz says.

"What is it?" I ask, looking for more of whatever he found.

"Blood," he solemnly replies, "and it's washing away with the rain."

"Maybe I should take point, I've got the weapon," I suggest.

Quartz doesn't argue, stepping to the side to allow me by. My tranquilizer gun swiftly leaves its holster as I move past him. My hooves almost slip on the wet wood below them, so I move very carefully with each step. The whole staircase threatens to fall down around us at any moment, shaking and groaning, but never does.

Lightning crashes above and I'm able to get a clear picture of the scene in front of me in that brief window of time. Streams of red-tinted water collect in every nook and cranny, streaming off the sides when a board isn't even. Claw marks dig into the stained, greening wood and at the very top, where the door opens to a porch, the entire banister has been pushed out and hangs precariously off the side.

The door at the top looks like somebody tried to bash it in but wasn't successful. With the way it's bent and pockmarked, they, assuming it was Joffer, must have thrown their entire body against the metal door to no avail, then took a few swipes at it. Seeing that this was futile, he then turned his attention towards one of the second-story windows on this brick building and leapt off of the railing, breaking it off in the process.

The window has been smashed in completely, with large claw marks gashed into the old bricks below it. He must have dragged himself up and in successfully. Or maybe he fell down and tried some other place. It's honestly hard to tell in this low light, and with these weather conditions. As I walk over to the door, I try the handle.

It twists immediately and the door swings inwards gently under its own weight. I glance over to Quartz who surveys everything with great interest. Looking back, I begin to wonder if Joffer completely lost his mind. He bashed away at his own front door and never tried to twist the knob? What kind of psychopath does that?

As I step inside, my wet hooves finding safe purchase on the carpet inside, I try the light switch. While the switch makes several resounding clicks, nothing turns on. Again, I pull out my flashlight and hold it up. No longer able to alert anyone from outside, I flick it on and begin to look around. Quartz this time raises no sounds of protest and lights his own lighter as he steps inside.

"I'm going to check upstairs here, why don't you go look around downstairs?" I suggest to Quartz.

"Sure," he says. "He's gotta be here somewhere."

"Are you armed?" I ask him.

"I'm a predator. Compared to you, I'm always armed," Quartz says quietly, surprisingly without a hint of sarcasm. "But, yes, I'm armed if anything escalates beyond that."

Sweeping my flashlight along the open apartment before me, I see that I must be standing in some sort of combination kitchen, dining room, and living room. I also see a lot of blood soaked into every soft surface available, as well as pooled in the depressions in the kitchen linoleum, like a horror movie irrigation system. Well, he definitely made it inside.

"So, this guy murders his girlfriend and comes back home, somehow clearing a distance of, what, twelve blocks and nobody reports it?" I ask, mildly surprised. "Nobody notices a half-dressed leopard covered in blood stumbling angrily through the city?"

"Hooves, you don't get it," Quartz says as he passes through the kitchen, using his light to survey the piles of plates and appliances within. "It's the code of the street not to snitch. And with the animals that live in this neighborhood, doubly so."

There's that nickname again: Hooves. I'm not entirely sure why he's chosen it, beyond the obvious. Glancing down at my slender legs, I turn a flashlight towards them and then look away. I was angry before, but, I guess it kind of works. I've been calling him only by his last name, or just 'the coyote' all night, so I suppose we're even. Whatever keeps him talking, I suppose. What he suggests I don't dispute, but I have to ask. I've never been even half friendly with anyone who would answer.

"Why? We're trying to protect these folks," I argue congenially, waving my flashlight around the living room area. "We're not here to harm them; we're just trying to do our best to keep the peace."

The television in the corner is on, though it only displays the hold message that plays overnight. It's late enough that even Johnny Cattleson isn't on anymore. I see the brightly colored face of my watch and see it's closing in on three AM. Gently illuminated by the static-covered screen, the living area seems untouched, even if everything seems very heavily used and not remotely new.

"That definitely isn't how most of these people see it," Quartz replies. "And even if you did go to them to ask, they'd lie."

"Why?" I ask him honestly.

"For the sheer joy of it," Quartz says as he moseys through the dining room, where the table and chairs have been flipped and sullied. "Suspects lie because they have to. Witnesses do it because they think they have to. Everyone else does it out of fear, and to uphold the unstated principle that 'under no circumstances' do you provide accurate information to a cop. Preds don't trust cops because cops don't trust preds. We think you'll sell us out the moment it suits you, so the only winning move in that game is not to play."

"Is that why you wouldn't give anything to the detective?" I ask him while moving towards a door separating off the back of the apartment from the front.

"No. Well, partly. He was just an asshole," he replies with a chuckle. "Plus, he was going about it the wrong way. It was the wrong tone. He didn't even want to build any trust, just skin me alive. Starting off an interrogation with a threat to be buried under Rams Island wasn't helping his case."

Before reaching the door, I see some pictures hanging on the wall. Pointing my flashlight to illuminate them as I walk by, I see that they're family photos. It looks like they consist of our perp Jacob Joffer. In one he's young, in his school bests. He's not wearing a collar. This must be from before desegregation. In the next he's with similar figures I assume are his parents. Then he's older and wearing a collar, too. He doesn't seem so happy anymore. Finally it's just him, around college age or maybe a little older. His parents are gone, but there's a girl with him, though he seems to be forcing the smile. I can tell by the look in his eyes.

Maybe he didn't have a happy life and lost his mind from it? Is that all it would take for somebody to just break down? That can't be it, even my father wouldn't buy that.

"Then why did you talk to me?" I suddenly ask and sweep my flashlight around to him.

He pauses at the top of the stairs and turns to look back at me. The appearance on his face when he glances back to me is a mixture of surprise and confusion. His free hand rests on the doorway at the top of the stairs where his claws absentmindedly tap. His tongue appears as his lips seem to stumble over what he's saying. Then he looks away.

"Because I--I liked you," he says quietly, sheepishly, as if worried by my reaction. "And because I think of every cop that I've ever met, you could probably sympathize with me the best."

"Why?" I ask him, surprised.

His eyes look to mine again, his look piercing.

"You're a girl trying to join a boys-only club," he says. "And the longer you push, the more you're gonna get kicked in the teeth from every direction. That's every day being a pred."

The words surprise me, they do. But I think they surprise me because they come from a source I would never have expected them to come from. I've faced a lot of misery ever since I left the academy. My father claims I only got put in as a beat cop because of political pressure coming from city hall, though that's just the lawyer in him. I always wonder if I keep my job because I'm one of their best performers, or just because I'm some pawn in somebody's political game of chess.

I go to answer Quartz, but by the time I come out of my daydream, he's gone. Sighing, wishing, surprisingly enough, that I could talk to him some more, I turn around and look to the door beside the wall of picture frames. I'm only a couple of strides from the front door, but already I'm getting the feeling that I shouldn't be here. Gently, I turn the knob on my radio on, ready to alert a response unit at a moment's notice. That's a risk only because it emanates the quiet chatter I've become used to which stands out in the dark silence. Then again, we haven't exactly been silent here.

The door, having been already ajar, swings open gently and without any noise. Lightning flashes and thunder rolls a moment later, illuminating the room for a brief moment. To my right the window that was broken lets in streams of light. The curtains that hang around it have been torn to shreds halfway down and blow in the wind from the storm. Glass and fabric litter the hardwood floor as rain spatters on the sill.

Stepping inside, I sweep my flashlight from the right and see blood everywhere. Paw prints are very easy to see here, stamped into flooring like wax seals. Water also pools in little puddles almost everywhere. A table in the corner has been smashed in, its contents poured down onto the floor as if Joffer didn't know it was there when he climbed in. As I move my flashlight around, surveying the room, what I see is sort of jarring.

It's a normal bedroom. And I mean that honestly. Knowing almost nothing about this animal, I can only extrapolate their life from his crimes. The people that Quartz knew only knew the guy by sight, not anything about them. But seeing a normal animal's bedroom, it's sort of unexpected. No weapons, no crazy string theory wall, no drugs, or booze bottles. It's clean and clear of clutter. There are even simple paintings between the windows, some old posters hung up to cover the off-white walls.

A radio stands in the corner, old but well kept. Some sports gear is stashed along the wall as if it's famous equipment being displayed. To my left, on one side of a wide, sliding-door closet is a dresser with some pictures and a lamp on top. On the other side is a full bed, neatly made and not disturbed. A rug sits in the center of the room, soiled by blood and rain water.

Following the tracks, they lead all around the room including out into the main room, as if he's looking for something that he can't find. But I don't see them exit anywhere, at least I none that are visibly discernable from any others. Looking down towards the dresser, I see something that does standout: a uniform, folded neatly, ready for the next day. Walking slowly across, conscious to avoid stepping on any evidence, I get close enough to lift with the edge of my gun in order to read it.

"Paw Print Flowers and Courier Service" it says in bright, colorful letters, plus an address and phone number underneath. A matching hat sits on top of the dresser and a pair of nice slacks hangs along the footboard of the bed to complete the uniform. A delivery cat did all of this? That's completely unreal. Not only that, but he's able to afford an extremely nice car, able to take out a girl that isn't a pred and who's dating a high-level insurance adjuster at the same time. Something here just doesn't . . .

Something creaks behind me. Standing up, I gasp and turn around and see that the room is completely empty. A low growl comes from somewhere nearby, but Quartz isn't anywhere to be seen, and is most likely too far away to be heard if it were him. Slowly sweeping my flashlight around, I gasp when I see a figure standing in front of the closet.

Catching myself, though, I realize it's just me. The closet has a mirrored face on one of the sliding doors. It features a big, bloody paw print smearing down the far right side. The noise has disappeared, but there's only one place in this room it could possibly be coming from. I aim my tranquilizer gun over my flashlight and begin to move towards the slightly ajar closet door.

I nudge my gun forward in order to use it to slide the door open. When I do, it reveals the slouched form of Mister Jacob Joffer. He's sitting with his back to the rear wall in the tattered remains of his finest blue suit. The sound I thought was a growl turns out to be him moaning in pain. His eyes look dazed, cloudy, or maybe almost lifeless. He's covered in blood that includes some of his own pouring from cuts on his face and torso. Looks like Savannah got some swings in before she went down.

What's insane is that he's still wearing his collar. He never got it off. He fought and killed another animal, fled on foot back his home many blocks away, and not for a moment did that collar come off or stop him. That has to be impossible. The collar looks like he's been kicking and pulling at it, though. Regardless, it isn't shocking him now. Its status light blinks weakly, like its batteries are all but completely drained.

As if confused as to what is even going on, he looks up to me unknowingly. Whatever madness struck him has obviously passed on. Lowering my arms, I walk forward and kneel beside him to check his vitals. He doesn't fight me as I lift his arm up to feel his pulse. It's erratic, as if he's having a heart attack. Setting my gun and flashlight down, I pull up my radio.

"Dispatch, this is Officer Brooks, we have located Jacob Joffer at his home in the five hundred block of South Palm Avenue, please send response team," I say into the microphone. "Be advised, perp is seriously wounded and disoriented, an ambulance is urgently required, over."

"Acknowledged, Officer Brooks, help is on the way," the dispatcher replies after an uncomfortable pause.

"Oh, g-g-od," Joffer suddenly stutters, almost incoherently. "I'm cranking again! You have to run, I'm cranking!"

"Mister Joffer, you have to stay still, if you move around anymore, you'll only worsen your condition," I tell him.

Unfortunately, I'm unable to really give him any aid. Cops like me don't carry around any medical equipment and there's nothing here I can really use. At least that I know of.

"Mister Joffer, is there a first aid kit somewhere around here?" I ask of him, loudly and clearly before turning to yell. "Quartz, I found him! He's up here!"

Suddenly Joffer grabs my shoulders and jerks my head back to face him. Some of the crazy I saw in those photos is back, but this seems more like desperation than insanity. What I see is fear, pure, unadulterated fear.

"You fool, you don't get it!" He screams. "I'm cranking; you have to run, you have to save yourself, you have to--to--to . . ."

Suddenly he frowns and his arms go limp. He seems to become very quiet, as if he's passed out with his eyes open. Then his collar begins to beep, slowly at first, then rapidly. Leaning down, I go to check his breathing, but I never even get the chance. His face turns back towards me, his teeth bared in hatred, the look of murder coursing through his frame as his pupils dilate, becoming wide, black pools. His collar shocks him with whatever force it has left, but that only makes him scream and growl.

Reflexively, I tumble backwards as the leopard, now very clearly no longer the one I was talking to moments before, begins to thrash about. That collar continues to shock as hard as it can, gunning for death or submission, whichever comes first. Howling in pain, he claws and rips at it, but it doesn't budge. When the big cat twists around to leap at me, I realize my gun and flashlight are still at his feet where I put them down. Footsteps pound through the house somewhere nearby.

Lightning flashes and thunder rolls. I scream in fear as the leopard pounces from his hiding spot. Then I throw up my arms to protect my face, the only thing my white tail instincts will allow at the moment. But another growl joins the chorus of the damned and Quartz appears. With all the force he can muster, he intercepts the much-larger feline mid-air. They crash onto the ground to the nearside of the bed, biting and scratching at one another, neither scoring any hits.

Regaining my composure, and remembering my training, I begin to crawl towards my gun as quickly as I'm able to. The leopard growls and screams as Quartz digs his teeth into the side of the murderer's neck, drawing even more blood. Then the coyote is screaming as claws shred his overcoat and blue suit in retaliation. Quartz flies through the air, kicked away by Joffer, just as I reach my gun, and slams down onto the floor with a loud, bone-crunching yelp.

The leopard wastes no time licking wounds and turns to face his opponent, teeth shining in the low light, his eyes wide and wild. Then he begins to pace to and fro, claws ready to kill. But by the time he does, Quartz is already up onto both sets of paws, his tail puffed and his hackles raised. His own collar begins to spark up and then shock, but he seems to persevere with no more than a tensing flinch, adrenaline most likely keeping him going. It's not like the last time, when he wasn't expecting it. The worst he does is almost lose his stance for a moment. I can see his clothes are shredded from the feline's talons, and he's bleeding from cuts on his cheek and neck.

They both seem to gasp for a second. Then the leopard jumps and then they tussle once again, with Quartz screaming out this time as loudly as he can, then yelping in desperate pain. I finally snatch up the tranquilizer gun and fire it off two rounds as quickly as the gun allows and as soon as I have a shot. They whiz into the leopard's exposed back and inject their sedative load into his skin.

He howls and swipes at his back, but is unable to reach where the two darts are. Angered, he settles for attacking its source: me. Slamming down onto all four paws, he wheels about and barrels in my direction, making me freeze in place. But before he's able to reach where I'm lying on the ground, Quartz dashes up from the side and sinks his teeth into the cat's exposed neck once more, dragging him onto the ground.

This gives me enough time to fire the remaining rounds into the cat at much closer range, expending the remaining four darts house in the rotating chamber of the gun. Joffer's eyes, bright and yellow as the sun and fueled by pure rage, seem to go soft as he stares at me and fights his canine attacker at the same time. Then his struggles become weaker and weaker before he collapses entirely. It is only when he's finally gone into a narcotic-induced coma that Quartz lets free his quarry from his teeth and hits the floor with a thump.

Quartz rolls away from the fallen form of his adversary, shaking as the collar continues to try to shock him to death, his extremities thrashing about in excruciating pain, desperate to escape. Still shaken from the experience, I rush over to him and draw a small key from a pocket inside my shirt. Not a small silver key like the ones that cuff suspects, this wide, flat key unlocks pred collars, something we're never supposed to do except in a life-or-death emergency.

When the collar flops off of his neck, he goes limp and gasps, looking up at me. The entirety of his face is saturated with either blood or tears or both. His hand rises up and touches my face, and his lips struggle to make words. But, he isn't able to say anything. Moments later, he just rolls his head to the side and begins to gasp. Blood streaks down his face and neck now, matting his fur. A wide bite mark covers his left shoulder where Joffer clenched down as hard as possible, almost reaching bone. Deep, crimson blood pools below where he lies even just moments later.

"Quartz? Don't go, Quartz, don't--" I beg him, almost begging, feeling my eyes go hot. "Jackie?"

He doesn't respond, using what strength he has left to look up to me with existential fear, gasping, before he simply slips into unconsciousness. I feel my heart break as those eyes roll gently shut. Taking up my radio, I hold the button down and begin barking into it as loudly as possible, desperate to get my savior help. I'm not entirely sure what the words are that followed, but I'm sure the dispatch girl does. Already sirens were wailing in the distance, probably the first time they've gone this deep into old Happy Town in a very long time. Jackie's head rests in my lap the entire time, his chest rising and falling weakly.

The officers that arrive sweep the entire property for any other dangers. They don't touch me when they find me, drenched in my own tears, holding Jackie's head up from the floor and making sure he continues to breathe while my nose is buried in his muzzle, deep in his fur. Nobody questions why he has his collar off, or why I'm nuzzling him. Most are just at awe at the big cat, at the amount of blood that covers everything, at the damage in this tiny apartment.

When the police wagon shows up, the officers carefully cart Joffer out. It takes nearly six officers to finally do the job, with him being dead weight and all. It screams away to whisk him to a medical holding cell at the Central Precinct Downtown. And when the ambulance shows for Jackie, I watch as they gently take him away on a stretcher.

I can't go with him, though I desperately want to. There's work to do here, even if he possibly saved my life. The paramedics take his collar with them, but they don't put it back on. The medics seem to be a lot more considerate when dealing with issues like this. I'm thankful for them, too, even though there are many officers here who object.

The best I can do is stand at the window and watch them go, to somewhere Downtown.