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Chapter 10:

I spend the rest of the night on site, though not with Captain Whitebuck. Lieutenant Longenecker, who works in the detective's bureau, is who takes charge. Like most of the other officers here, he is stunned silent by this entire situation. From the cat that somehow slipped back into pure, unadulterated insanity, to the blood and destruction we find at his home. I also get the distinct feeling that he's surprised that I've pulled this off. Maybe he's lost a bet. With these officers, that wouldn't even be remotely surprising.

The officers do a quick sweep of the entire building where Joffer and his family seem to have lived. They uncover little next to nothing. There is nothing to explain why, or even how, this strange, yet otherwise unassuming person could just go criminally insane in the way that he did. But in the end, it doesn't matter. We caught him quite literally red-handed.

The ground floor appears to have been at one point a store, more specifically a butchers shop. As a prey species, and a deer, I find the eating of any kind of meat to be disturbing, but for many of the residents in this neighborhood, it's just an everyday fact. Obviously no mammals are murdered and sold by the pound in butcher shops across the city. But fowl, seafood, and sometimes reptiles and amphibians are sliced, wrapped, and readied for market in stores just like this one.

But, it doesn't look like any of it has been touched in a decade or more, suggesting that Joffer never worked here and that, while a murderer, he isn't a serial killer they're looking to crucify Downtown. It might just have been his father's shop before he left his photograph. It takes until just before six AM for the crew to finish up the documentation they need to do here, at least for now. Then everything is cordoned off with wide, yellow tape and we report back to the precinct.

After that, I pass most of the morning, of what remains of my shift, by filling out paperwork and filing it away neatly. Other beat cops in the bullpen congratulate me for the arrest, on the risks that I took, and on the payoff. Some comment on the blood on my uniform, in my fur, telling me how brave I must be to take down a dirty, prey-killer like Joffer. Even Bullworth and Oxley give me cool space instead of instigating something. While it isn't praise, I'll accept it. It's better than nothing.

It should be the best moment of my life, to have finally proven myself to these animals. But the truth is, my stomach ties itself into a thousand knots inside my abdomen, and my mind speeds a million miles a minute. I desperately want to see Jackie again, to make sure he's ok, and to thank him profusely for everything he's done. Even just knowing he's alive and recuperating would be acceptable right now, but nobody has any answers. No one seems to care. The only comfort I get is to twirl the evidence tag on Jackie's camera, looking at his name and signature.

It's just before nine AM when I get a page over the intercom to report to Captain Whitebuck's office. As I'm walking through the office, my case file in hand and Jackie's camera around my neck, I get smiles and thumbs up from every direction. Ginny gives me a broad, bucktoothed smile from the front desk, knowing that the rumors have died and the narrative has changed around here. I can't help but smile back, her joy contagious. I'm no longer Jane Doe, anonymous female beat cop, but Jane Brooks, hero officer who took down a dangerous perp.

My pride is matched only by the hollow ring of it all.

Going upstairs, I pass by the detective's suite, where I'll be transferring soon enough. Many of the detectives aren't there right now, since it's late enough in their day shift that most are handling the cases they're working on. But a few lounge about, dressed in dingy suits or flashy street clothes. Their semi-private cubes are all stacked with papers that twitter and flicker with the motion of the ceiling fan. On the wall directly opposite both of the open entrances, a tack board displays cases that are open, being investigated, and closed in color-coordinated marker. A lot of red, I see.

A bit of excitement flutters in my stomach, that I'll soon be up here, finally playing in the league I've been batting for since I donned the blue. Captain Whitebuck's office is at the end of the straight hallway that extends back from the stairs, his door propped wide open. As I approach, I hear him humming and wait in the doorway. I know he's paged me, but I have no idea how I should approach him, as he will soon be not only my boss, but my commanding officer as well.

The captain's office is huge, not only for his species. It's almost as big as my bedroom at my apartment. The detective's bureau gets a lot of respect in this precinct and beyond. Succeeding as a detective here is known to be a fast track to Assistant Chief, Chief, and possibly Commissioner, even in one of the worst precincts in the city. So that kind of respect comes with its perks, like his oversized office, personal furniture, and plush decorations.

Aside from the desk and chairs constructed from fine, exotic woods not grown in the area, his office comes complete with broad bookshelves filled with law and enforcement texts, a display bureau, fine lighting, and an alligator leather-upholstered swivel chair. His desk and most of the walls are lined with personal photos, police merits, and medals for distinct service in the name of the city of Zootopia. There's enough gold, silver, and bronze here to host the Olympics in the city for decades to come.

The only thing that stands out is the fact that most of his photographs feature only himself and maybe his parents through the ages. There is no wife or any kids. I've never pried into the lives of any of my fellow or commanding officers, but it's a known fact that single cops seem to attract the worst luck. I can attest to that, but I doubt it's due to the lack of a gold band on my finger. Captain Whitebuck is an animal dedicated to his position, something I respect.

Whitebuck stands at the back of his office, in front of his display case. The backdrop of the case is mirrored, which he uses to primp himself. He's wearing his dress blues, something we only do when we graduate, retire, or attend functions where fine dress is a requirement. His gold ropes hang from his left shoulder, beneath the insignia on his arm. His peaked cap covers the space between the antlers on his head; all the while he hums and finishes tying his tie.

"You requested me, sir?" I say politely, announcing my presence.

He continues to hum cheerily.

"Ah, yes, Officer Brooks," he replies cordially, still humming. "Or should I say, Detective Brooks?"

I smile at finally hearing someone saying it aloud, my stomach settling down for the first time in hours, my cheeks burning with pride. The captain turns and paces towards his desk, his fingers still deftly working at the full Windsor knot below his chin. His gray fur is clean and combed, and I detect a distinct perfume coming from him. Or, that could be the potted plant sitting on his desk.

With a free hand, he tugs at one of the numerous stalks from the plant, which is green with short, funnel-shaped white petals that slowly fade to gentle lavender at the top. It cracks and he places it gently into the front pocket of his jacket, so that the tightly wrapped flower juts out only justly. It has a sweet scent, something that almost makes my mouth water with desire. I'm not sure what it is, but I could live around it forever.

"When I went to bed last night, I had very little hope that you would fulfill your bargain, Detective," the captain tells me honestly, though still with an air of praise. "While I do not doubt your skills, I found the task Sisyphean. Not only had you few leads, you were dragging around some flea-bitten predator like dead weight. Imagine my surprise when I awoke this morning to your success."

My smile broadens at hearing him acknowledge my success, and its unlikeliness. But I get a bit of a sting hearing him talk about Jackie that way. Then again, wouldn't I have described him as much just a few hours before? The captain finishes tying his tie and then turns his eyes down over me as he grins with pride, and those thoughts dissipate. I have been waiting for this moment for years, I'm not going to let anything ruin it, especially my neurotic thoughts.

Deliberately, he reaches out with a hand and opens a drawer at the top of his desk. Then he withdraws a small, black box. My stomach leaps into my chest at its sight and I feel my arms and legs go numb. I can tell my tail is standing up as hard as possible, and that my ears are at attention atop my head. Turning the front towards me, he cracks open the front and reveals a stunning gold shield. I've finally arrived.

"And I am nothing if not a mammal of my word, Detective Brooks," he continues. "As of this moment, you shall be presented with the rank of Detective, Grade 2, as you requested. While we shall do a more formal ceremony at the end of the month, as is customary, I shall grant you your promotion and all the rights and responsibilities that go along with it. You will report to Lieutenant Longenecker, who will give you your first assignment on Monday. Congratulations, Miss Brooks."

Taking the badge from its felt-topped bed, the captain gently pins it to my chest, where I hastily removed my silver patrolman's shield moments earlier. Afterwards, he gives a starched salute, which I return in earnest. Then he beams a smile and offers his hand to shake. While I have to reach up, I shake his hand with honor, wondering if he can feel my enthusiasm and pride zapping through his palm. The box returns on the top of his desk with an unceremonious thump.

"Thank you so much, sir, I won't disappoint you," I announce loudly, looking down to my badge.

The captain slowly turns and walks back towards his bureau, as he returns to tidying himself up for whatever he has planned. His eyes alternate between appraising himself and looking to me in the mirrored backing of his display case. The look in his eyes is almost predator-like in appearance, in the way that he looks over me; but also fatherly, or in the way a professor appraises a star pupil.

"Oh, I doubt you will, Detective. I will be informing the panel of Assistant Chiefs, the Chief, and possibly the mayor herself of your successes last night," the captain informs me happily. "The ZPD is always looking to promote the most qualified officers to positions of authority. We're always looking for good earners. Keep up your good work and I think you will find yourself rising in the ranks much quicker than you expected."

Rising in the ranks?! I barely contain a loud gasp that wells up inside my throat.

"The mayor, sir?" I ask, dumbfounded.

"Oh, yes," he replies, running a brush over his cheeks. "I'll be speaking with her this afternoon, as she is giving a speech at city hall to answer questions about the murders that have happened city-wide over the past few months. As one of the only captain outside of Precinct One who has offered up a successful arrest of a psychopathic predator, I will be giving an introductory speech for her. I hope you'll watch."

"Of course, sir," I tell him as if commanded to.

He chuckles; likely the answer was already expected. He smiles to himself in the mirror and then sighs loudly, contently. Suddenly he becomes quiet, his chuckles fading away into nothing, not even a petering out. The shadow he casts from the open blinds widens and grows as he stands tall. Then he turns around, his brow hardened, and he towers behind his desk, his antlers looming. His shoulders are square, his hat perfectly straight, that tie perfectly beneath his chin.

"I hope you understand the risk I've just taken for you," the captain apprises me firmly. "Allowing new detectives into the bureau is a long process, and one that I take very seriously. While other precincts simply have officers pass an exam and meet certain educational requirements, joining the bureau here in Precinct Twelve is no easy task. And while it is extremely rewarding, it comes with risks for all involved, especially its commanding officer. So what I'm asking you, Detective Brooks, is: Can I trust you?"

Can he trust me? Why would he be asking me this, didn't I just prove myself last night? No, no, that's not what he's asking me right now. He's asking me something completely different, but what exactly, I don't know. I feel my jaw slacken and my lips open as I stumble for words, the right words, the ones that he's looking for.

"Trust me, sir?" I ask him, slightly frightened.

"Yes, Miss Brooks," he explains, nodding his head forward, his hat casting a shadow over his eyes. "The bureau works very differently than what you would be used to as a patrol officer. It's small, intimate, personal. We're family here, and we like to keep it that way. You protect your fellow detective, and they'll protect you. And at the end of our watch, we all go home, safe and sound. Understand?"

"Y-yes, sir, of course, sir."

I, nervously, nod and then stiffen up, committing to my answer. The captain leans his head back slightly and smiles. He chuckles again and stands back away from the desk. That shadow disappears, and his form, once cast in shadow, returns to the bright blues and golds of his uniform. His medals glimmer on his chest, so many years of excellent service. I feel the weight release from my shoulders, knowing that I've said the right thing, the first in quite some time.

"Fantastic," he replies. "I'm sure you'll be one of the best shields we have. But for now, I would suggest you take some time for yourself. Take the weekend off, you've earned more than that. Although, I hear you rarely take days for yourself, even working days you aren't assigned to. We like that kind of dedication here, and you'll find it will be rewarded handily."

"Yes, sir, of course, sir," I reply, beaming yet another smile, waving away whatever just happened.

"You'll be able to pick up your new issue equipment down at supply, where you'll also return your old uniforms. At your convenience, of course," the captain instructs me. "Now, if that's all the questions you have and all of the introductions you require, you are dismissed."

He gives an impersonal wave of his hand, as if he's now 'done' with me. At first, I comply, turning to leave. But, before my hooves can cross the threshold back out into the quiet hallway, I pause. There are way too many questions swirling about in my head, and to not ask them now would be a sin unto itself. So, I turn and look back to the captain, who has stepped away to look out the window, enjoying the rays that are coming in on a bright morning after a dark night, even with clouds in the distance.

"Just a few, sir," I pipe up. "What will become of Mr. Joffer?"

The captain hums at my question; though not the happy go-lucky hum he had moments ago. This is contemplative, as if what I've asked requires a very tactful response. Maybe he wasn't expecting to have to answer such a question from me, assuming I would know as I'm in all the same systems he is. At least, I think I am.

"The leopard is being held at a special facility downtown," Captain Whitebuck explains, in a somewhat dismissive tone.

"What will happen to him?" I press.

"He will be held there until he is deemed worthy to stand trial, like the others who have lost their marbles in recent weeks," he explains, his tone becoming a bit more exasperated. "It's unlikely he'll see in the inside of a courtroom anytime soon. He's homicidal most of the time. And when he's not, he's never lucid enough for anyone to get close to him, babbling and crying. Then something happens and he becomes enraged once more, lashing out. No defense lawyer wants to defend a monster like that, -hell, the doctors don't go near him-- and the DA's office is refusing to touch him. At this point, I can only assume he'll spend the rest of his days in a padded cell; for his protection as much as ours."

"Are they trying to understand why he went mad, sir?" I continue to question.

Finally, the captain turns. He looks to me with growing suspicion, as if I'm not supposed to ask these kinds of questions. Stepping forward, he retrieves a small briefcase from the floor and pops it open in the free space atop his desk. He begins to place folders, papers, and other documents within. All the while, he looks over me, his ears flicking about beside his hat.

"What's your curiosity, Detective?" The captain questions, his tone no longer jovial, one eyebrow raised. "Not thinking of going forensics on us, are you?"

"No, sir, I'm merely trying to understand what would cause an otherwise unassuming predator to become homicidal," I explain, the camera rustling around my neck as my arms move about. "It is our job after all."

"Ah, but you've already hit on the cause: predator," the captain explains as he lowers a thick, bound presentation into his case. "For his kind, it was merely just a matter of time before he slipped back into baser, more unrefined instincts. Spending your whole life walking around creatures he could only perceive as tasty morsels, well, let's just say that he was just a bomb waiting to go off."

'His kind'? The briefcase snaps shut and the captain stands it upright, the brass and bronze shining in the afternoon light. I've never heard the captain talk this way. Those kinds of words would only sound familiar dripping from Detective Sergeant Ashe's lips, though without half of the refinement the captain possesses. Then again, this is possibly the most time I've ever spent in the captain's company. And while a bit of me does agree with him, what he's saying isn't fair. What if we were talking about Jackie?

"But, sir, people don't simply go insane like this," I try to explain to him, conjuring up whatever counterpoint I can. "He was terrified when I found him, and completely lucid!"

"A break in the storm, Detective, I assure you," the captain replies dismissively, his eyes flaring slightly.

The captain lifts his briefcase and then steps around the room, his heavy hooves tromping on the hardwood floor. I back out of the door as he flicks the light switch off and then watch as he locks his door shut. The stenciling of his name on the window glitters in the light, drawn in metallic black and silver. His rank and insignia hang above it in pure gold.

"I would think so, too, sir, but, he was warning me," I continue to explain as he deposits his keys into his pocket. "It's like he knew what was happening, but had no way to stop it. I don't think he just went mad, I think something drove him there. He kept talking about 'cranking'."

The captain looks down to me with an odd look on his face. His eyes seem to question everything I say, though not as if I'm making it up, while his ears stand straight up, listening to every syllable that rolls off my lips. The rest of him seems hard, strong, tough, like an ice cutter plowing through the arctic, nothing will slow him down.

"You think something, or someone, drove him to become homicidal?" The captain replies, a bit incredulously. "And what exactly would have caused that, Detective Brooks? Maybe the kitty wasn't getting enough milk in his diet."

He turns away while rolling his eyes and begins to walk down the busy hallway, almost brushing by me. A bit taken aback, I turn and quickly race to follow by his side. When we pass by the open detective's suite door, the noise from within dulls down, as if the officers inside are listening to the drama taking place right outside. The captain does his best not to look at me, even though I'm basically riding his heels. He's also moving towards the wide stairs as quickly as he can without running.

"I don't know, sir," I reply, feeling a bit defeated. "But I'm sure there must be, there always is. If I just had a little bit of time to follow up, I could do it over the weekend, to focus on my new work next week. Maybe I could go back to Savannah's apartment, or go to Joffer's place, I could run some--"

Suddenly the captain comes to a full stop near the top of the stairs, making me stumble to not bump into him. Then his form swings about like a truck, those golden chains jingling and jangling under his shoulder. He looks down to me, now truly angry, as if I've stepped on an artery. The look of praise, of watching a favored student succeed, is completely gone. Now all I see is frustration, accusation, and his strong will. I feel myself shrink.

"No, Miss Brooks, there won't be any need for that," the captain commands, his arm reaching out to the bannister just ahead. "You got your perpetrator, officer. We caught him covered in the victim's blood, unintelligible as a primal, after attacking an officer in his state of delusion. He was surrounded by misery and poverty, teeth and claws. An explanation for what sparked it isn't necessary. You're a fine officer, and you'll make a fantastic detective. Don't screw that up by sticking your nose where it doesn't belong. Remember that your job isn't to prosecute, just apprehend. Case closed."

My hand trembles a little, the one that holds my case file. My ears are folded back as hard as they can and my tail is sunk, hidden between my legs. Even above the dull roar from the open bullpen below, I can almost hear Captain Whitebuck's eyes screaming their anger into my form. I'm at a complete loss, confused by the commander who was lavishing me with praise just moments before. I begin to feel like a fawn being punished by her father for being naughty. So I say nothing in response.

Seeing that he has finally gotten his message across, the captain turns and begins to descend the stairs at a more metered pace. I follow him only to the edge of the top step and then watch him go. I don't understand. He isn't interested in finding a cause to this? Wouldn't that be his job to, to understand the cause of crimes in order to stop them before they occur? Or is that just what I want to do?

Joffer would be the third predator, assuming I'm counting correctly, to descend into madness this summer and then kill. So far, no one knows why. And I'm not talking about regular murderers, or even cold, calculating serial killers. I'm talking about teeth-and-claws, blood on the floor, completely insane monsters. I have a firsthand account, too, and maybe insight that no one else has. So why isn't anyone interested? Maybe I'm just looking for closure. Closure? Oh, crap, Jackie.

"What about Jackie Quartz, sir?!" I yell to the captain from the top of the stairs, the camera shaking its reminder around my neck.

"That coyote is no longer considered to be in the custody of the ZPD, Detective Brooks!" The captain yells back without turning. "He can consider his deal fulfilled! Good day!"

Then the captain disappears, plunging into the morning light outside. Ginny, her shift all but over as well, tries to flag the captain down, but he straight up ignores her when he marches by her desk. As the door swings shut, the noise of the precinct taking over once more, I can't help but feel completely unsatisfied. At least I'm free to go see Jackie now. I suppose I should turn in my stuff, file my case file, before I leave.

I give up my silver badge, but keep almost everything else. They tell me to wash my uniform before turning it in, after seeing the filth I'm covered with. So from there I go to the hospital, St. Animus, downtown, leaving my copy of my case file and Jackie's camera in my car. While a bit of me wonders if he would even want to see me, I go inside anyways. I tell myself that I'm only going to check in on him, to make sure he's ok, but I end up staying way longer than I had expected to. Maybe that's what I had really planned, at least subconsciously.

When I arrive, Jackie still isn't wearing his collar, which I don't find surprising. Doctor's offices, hospitals, and anything medical in general don't allow predators to wear collars during any kind of procedure. And Jackie's procedures have been quite intense. Dozens of stitches, an IV drip, several blood transfusions, and a cocktail of medicine have all been administered, all courtesy of the ZPD, of course.

And even with all of that, they still make me sign release forms. Forms freeing them of liability in case an un-collared predator decides to make me his lunch. And then they lock the door behind me when I go inside. It's all too much. I find Jackie in a hospital bed, where he's been stripped and is wearing a hospital gown, and isn't conscious, though he seems snug in his covers. He sleeps peacefully, which calms me. His administering physician tells me he's been unconscious since he arrived, but should be ok soon.

After everything that happened, the only thing that is worse for wear is his shoulder, which Joffer tore to shreds, though deep scratches and bites can be seen on his face and neck. I can assume the gown and blankets cover even more on his torso. The doctor tells me he's been talking in his sleep, most likely due to the heavy narcotics he's being served to suppress the pain from his injuries, as well as flush out any infections he may have picked up.

He seems to say a lot of phrases while I'm there, making me think he's having nightmares. They include a lot of names, but the one that surfaces most frequently is 'Anne'. The doctor, an old goat, jokes that I must be Anne and leaves with a smile. The urge to take his hand to soothe him strikes me, but I don't, not feeling so bold. Thankfully, he seems to calm down, his face relaxing. So I just take a seat on a large, faux leather-wrapped recliner and wait.

Two nurses, one a civet, the other a donkey, make their rounds several times over the course of my stay to check out their charge and to change out medications. I'm able to get some good sleep on that chair, probably some of the best I've gotten in quite some time, though I don't know why. The only noise comes from the monitors that keep watch over Jackie's vitals, and the television hung from the ceiling in the corner, which I turn on to clear my thoughts. Nothing like daytime drivel aimed at housewives to make you stop thinking so hard.

Just after noon, the captain finally makes his appearance on the steps of City Hall, flanked by officers from precincts across the city on one side and officials from the mayor's office on the other. His introductory speech consists entirely of uninspired, politically-neutral statements, including a call for 'unity and strength across the city as we tackle the spate of predator murders citywide' and 'to trust in the brave, selfless warriors who stand between a glittering new decade and the descent into chaos'.

Then the mayor herself appears. Dawn Bellwether, now nearing the end of her first time, though every political commentator in the city experts her to be reelected this November, is an odd creature as politicians go. She wears bright colors, often yellow and green, that her thick, purple glasses do not accentuate. The words I'd best describe her as are awkward, gaudy, yet somehow impressively likeable. Like the captain's, her statements can only be described as boilerplate. It's typical crap like a call for 'renewing the trust between City Hall and the ZPD, to promote a new era of stability and cooperation' and 'to not allow fear to grip prey homes, from the Burrows, to Tundratown'.

But then she goes on to blame the predators who have descended into psychopathy, though that accusation is tactful. She claims it's only nature at work, that those who wear the tame collar can only be trusted so far, and that trust like that is easily lost. Like my father always said, we can trust them in our country, but we can't trust them with the freedom it promises. She calls for updating the collars, making them more sensitive, to eliminate any known 'variables', whatever that means. Calm and civility out of one side of her mouth, anger and accusation from the other. Typical.

She even claims that some predators are developing an immunity, which is insane, as if someone would develop an immunity to being shocked. God knows Jackie hasn't. It's safe to say that the CAEP Act is dead in the water, if it ever even makes it a committee vote, let alone a floor vote. As she finishes up her speech with 'Zootopia will prevail', I begin to lose interest. But the reporters on the scene see blood in the water and begin to ask the hard questions. Who's to blame? What can we do? Are we safe? What are you going to do?

The mayor seems to revel in it all, getting a chance to pad her ballot box come fall, and I click off the television before burying my head down into the chair so I don't have to listen to any responses. I feel too guilty. My mind spins too fast to stop and I almost feel sick. So I simply try to block it out, everything that's happened, and delve back into sleep. I'm not sure exactly what time it is that I wake up, but I only resurface as I hear stirring in the room. Tearing my head up, I see Jackie kicking his paws under the blankets and his arms rustling at his pillow.

Without a second thought, I'm up out of the chair and am standing at his bedside. His shoulder is wrapped in heavy gauze, now stained red, and his face is pockmarked with stitches, some of which run out of sight beneath his gown. When he opens his eyes, he seems terrified, confused, so, without even thinking, I grab his right hand with mine and squeeze it gently. It's an action I don't understand, but feels good anyways.

He looks to me, shocked, and there isn't any recognition. He just seems disoriented, and stares at me like I'm a stranger. But he doesn't pull his hand away. For a few seconds, his bright, blue eyes travel around the room in a dazed manner. But then something must come back and he begins to panic. So, I squeeze his hand again and finally he looks to me, his ears standing straight up. His brow rises when he finally realizes where he is and who I am.

"J-Jane?" He asks after a heavy second, making me smile.

"It's ok, you're ok, you're in the hospital," I tell him, relieved. "It's all over now."

"It's over?" He asks, confused.

I nod, "Joffer's downtown, in holding. You just missed the press conference at City Hall a few hours ago. The captain's honoring your deal; you're free."

With this revelation, Jackie lays his head back, sinking it into the pillows, and draws a deep breath, his eyes held shut as his mind whirrs. I free his hand and rest my palms on the cool surface of the crisp, clean sheets. When his eyes open again, he stares to the ceiling and then begins to take stock of himself. For him, everything must be in order at least until he gets to his left shoulder, and then he groans and throws up his hand to grab it. I intercept it and lead it away so he won't pick at his bandages.

"Jane, w-what happened?" He asks, looking to me for any explanation.

He really doesn't know. Maybe it's the pills or something. Or maybe it's just the shock of everything.

"You fought Joffer in his apartment," I tell him calmly. "He took a huge bite out of you, but, you won. I tranquilized him and then you passed out. I thought you were a goner. I can't believe you don't remember that."

"I honestly don't remember everything very clearly," he replies with a shake of his head. "The night becomes so foggy the harder I think. I do remember the fight, but, it doesn't seem real. It feels like a home movie I watched as a pup."

"It's just the medicine. You'll start to feel better soon, after we get some food in you," I tell him reassuringly. "But, it was all real, and it's all over now."

Suddenly Jackie reaches up to his neck, his arm jerking as if he suddenly remembered. He feels that his collar isn't on and looks to me, surprised. It seems he's just now remembering the very end, what happened. At first he's speechless, those ears standing as tall as I've ever seen. His lips gently part and those eyes grow wide, showing just how surprised he is. But hiding underneath is something else that I don't comprehend.

"You--you took it off," he stutters, astonished.

"Well, of course I did," I tell him kindly. "You would've died had I not."

"And you're not afraid of a predator being loose?" He asks me, his eyes wide, brow high, ears back. "You weren't afraid I'd hurt you? Oh my God, I went absolutely nuts. I fought like some feral monster, tooth and nail, I could've turned on you and--and . . ."

Suddenly, he starts to panic again, as if he can't control what he's feeling. His chest heaves and his eyes look around for something to cling to. I want to say something, but I don't have the right words to comfort him. So, instead of answering, I lean in and give him a soothing, gentle hug, very conscious of his injuries. He becomes quiet and calms, then he only gingerly reciprocates my affection after a few moments.

When I pull back, he looks to me surprised, and then smiles gently, sheepishly, that fear and anxiety dissipating. He smiles in a way that I've never seen before, on him or pretty much anyone else. It's genuine, and it's truly happy, something I can only vaguely relate to. Then he reclines into his pillows and takes a cleansing breath, his mania now passing.

Then he reaches up and rubs at his neck, feeling the fur move freely under his paw pads. With my own hand, I touch his neck as well, giving it a ruffle of my own. This makes him gasp in surprise, his eyes locking onto me. I stop, fearing that I've gone too far. But, he doesn't say anything. He simply sighs and relaxes back into his bed, allowing me to continue to rub his neck as he does as well. Afterwards, we sit in silence for a few, awkward seconds, his hand resting near mine on the bedspread.

"Thank you," I say, barely above a whisper, and very solemnly.

"For what?" He asks.

"Saving my life."

"Ah, yeah, it's--it's nothing," he says, shaking his head. "You'd have done the same for me."

"No, it's not that, really," I tell him.

I try to think hard about what I'm going to say next, but, everything's going too fast. I have so many things that I want to say, but I can't get any of them straight. So I take a deep breath and try to keep it all simple, to say just the bare minimum. You know what you need to say to him, Jane, you've been thinking about it all morning, ever since he almost died in your lap.

"I guess I was so focused on my job, on my promotion. I'm a detective now, see?" -I point to my new badge, which he gives a crooked smile, like he's happy but confused at the same time--"I guess I wasn't fair to you. I did some things I regret now. I treated you like a . . . like a . . ."

"Like a predator?" He interjects, though his tone isn't insulting or mean.

I look to him and feel my ears lie back. Shame wells up inside my stomach, but, tempers when those icy blue eyes pierce me. He's not blaming me, but, I still feel bad. He's right, though. I treated him like shit, and only because he wasn't a prey species like me. I don't know why I did that, but he didn't deserve that, he deserved better. At least start with a blank slate to prove himself. Instead, he started with a handicap, which is something I should be well acquainted with. At least, I thought I should.

"I'm sorry," I finally say firmly, not really knowing what else there is to say.

Half of me expects him to berate me, to sling the insults and misery I gave to him right back. But he doesn't. To my surprise, he takes my hand gently, this time of his own accord, and gives it the same, understanding squeeze I used to calm him. At least, as hard as his wounded body will allow him to. I look to it and feel a bit of cool relief run through me. When I turn my gaze to his muzzle, he's a slight smile pulls at his lips.

"Hey, you're still the most decent cop I've ever had to deal with," he tells me, cutely, a bit playfully. "I guess I saw you differently, too. You were just a badge to me. In some ways, I was using you the same way you used me. I saw you as a possible route of escape and not much more. Do you remember that kind, open, understanding officer in the apartment that night? I'd like to see more of her around."

I purse my lips, not sure how to take that compliment, assuming it was meant to be one. But, I squeeze his hand in response and try to give him an honest smile.

"Well, you remember that smart, personable coyote in the club? That's who I want you to be more like. Not the miserable prick on the el-train," I tell him, verbally giving him a playful jab in response.

We both laugh afterwards, him giving a pained laugh and coughing, me trying my best to not sound so damned awkward.

"But, I'm glad you were there, that you did what you had to save me," I say and then sigh. "I wouldn't have chosen anyone else."

"But, why did I have to?" He asks. "I thought we were looking for some insane predator off his collar. Instead, we found a very angry, laser-focused killing machine looking for a pincushion to put his claws.

I look to him and shake my head. I keep wondering the same thing. I tried my best to get some answers out of my commander, but he didn't seem very interested. Everything is so odd, so confusing, and I don't have any answers. At least, I don't have any official answers, just my own suspicions and hypotheses.

"He wasn't off his collar," I tell him. "It was still very much around that neck of his, though it looked like he tried his best to tear it off. And when I found him, he was docile, normal, cowering in his closet. That's why I didn't shoot him, I thought whatever happened had passed. He even spoke to me, warned me. Like he knew what was happening. But, after a few minutes, his lucidity seemed to dissipate. I guess it was just a break in the storm."--To use my captain's phrase--"He became enraged, homicidal again. And it only happened after his collar began to shock."

"But, it's over right? You still got him," Jackie reminds me. "It's done, it's over."

"Yeah, over," I mutter to myself, unsure.

But that's just it. I get the feeling that we're missing something here. Like we've put together a thousand piece puzzle, but we're still somehow missing half of the pieces. Everyone is insisting that it's done, but there's this huge chunk in the corner that isn't there at all and everybody is acting like I'm crazy for noticing it. I guess there's really no reason for me to think this way, but the thought is still there. It's like we understand the 'what', but not the 'why' or the 'how'. He is right, though, Joffer is behind bars. Well, a padded door. He's being held downtown to receive treatment. What happens after that is beyond me; functionally, not intellectually.

The doctor returns not long later. The old goat tells me how lucky Jackie was to get away with as minimal of injuries as he did, and tosses it up to a mixture of skill, Jackie wearing such heavy clothing at the time, and dumb, blind, fortunate luck. I'm not sure how much information the police shared with the hospital, but these people are smart. My mother is a doctor, and she is unnaturally good at sniffing out bullshit. She's just better at pretending it isn't there.

By about four o'clock, Jackie becomes restless, insisting he doesn't want to stay. Even though he's still shaky on his legs, he manages to climb out of bed and dress himself in the remains of the clothes they brought him in with. His overcoat is torn completely to shreds and is thusly discarded. The old suit of his is similarly ruined, being torn, blood-soaked, and threadbare. But he wears it because there's nothing else. The clothes at least look recently cleaned. Maybe the staff took the liberty to launder them. It didn't really help.

The nurses don't stop him from getting up, though they do keep a very sharp eye on him. With me helping him, as there was no way I could tell him 'no', they don't intervene. At the very end, we refill his pockets with everything he owns. It includes his wallet, a set of car and house keys, a nearly-empty packet of Buckys and that odd, circular lighter, an arrowhead necklace, an antique gold watch, and a notepad like mine. It also includes a set of brass knuckles and a white-handled stiletto switchblade, which he puts away with a coy smile and I, unlike what I would have done just twelve hours ago, ignore them.

Finally, in order to leave, he hast to put the collar back on. It almost breaks my heart to have to put it back around his neck, but, he doesn't fight me. I can see the torment in his eyes when I put it under his chin. The white, gray, and brown fur mats down under the black canvass strap, lined underneath with a mesh of thick, steel prods I didn't know were there. Then it beeps on and the deed is done. Jackie doesn't blame me, but I hold his paw anyways and he tries to smile, to make me feel better.

Not long later, he's demanding to leave. His IV and medicines have all but run out and he's anxious to get home, possibly to get back to work. The medical professionals put up only a paper-thin argument as to why they should hold him overnight. But the doctor, that kind, old goat, signs his paperwork to release him and then I'm pushing him out in a wheelchair.

Hospital regulations, they insist.