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Chapter 17

By the time I was sixteen, I found myself alone. Most of Stagworth, the private, prey-only school I attended, had heard of my little 'incident.' That's what my mother called it. And high schoolers don't let each other forget anything. At first, I found being excluded from everything, ostracized from my circle of friends and the student body at large, to be excruciating. Then, I became accustomed to the isolation, as I found I wasn't really friends with a lot of these animals, and took up other hobbies. Reading and films became a classic pastime, with my favorite books being old detective novels and more modern police thrillers. Tauritt and The Foreign Connection are among my favorites, even to this day.

My relationship with my parents, on the other hand, became sort of a miniature cold war encapsulated solely within our Forest Slope mansion. My father became testy with his uppity daughter and tightened his control around me. My rebellion, as he called it, became more intense the harder he squeezed. A new t-shirt here, a loud record there, even some night-time escapades into the neighborhood all alone, that's how I hit back.

All the time my father fumed, my mother stood aside and drank her wine, publically refusing to take a side while privately supporting my father. It never kept her from letting me use her credit card, though, so for that I thank her. Things came to a head sometime early in my junior year, when I was still sixteen. The conversation of what I would be doing with my life caused sort of détente in our little war, at least for a period of time.

My father was adamant that I should follow him into law or my mother into medicine, two options I found disagreeable. Not because I wouldn't enjoy the perks that come with such high paid, well respected positions. No, I didn't want to do it because I found medicine to be depressing and law, especially the kind my father practiced, to be heinous and evil. It also felt good to stab him in the heart.

The war got hot one night in October of that year. We were at dinner, my parents, my brother Red, and I. The discussion of college came up and, as usual, my mother tried to redirect to no avail. My father demanded to know what I was going to do with my life, if I was going to piss away the Brooks family legacy. At first, all I could do was parry or ignore him. But, he wouldn't be dissuaded.

So I blurted out that I wanted to become a police officer, an idea I had toyed with but never thoroughly considered. I wasn't serious at the time, I was just flustered. My father was furious, admonished me for wasting my talents, my position, my future. He said that he could provide me with whatever I wanted in life if I only just allow it. Reaching my boiling point, I accused him with wanting to control me, to twist me around like a marionette, and that I wasn't his puppet.

He said it was his right, as he was my father. I told him I was too old to be treated like a naughty little fawn, that he couldn't dictate my existence. He said I would go to Pranceton and I would damn well like it. I told him I wasn't one of his little political cronies. Then he told I was being a petulant, thankless little brat. Without thinking, I told him to go fuck himself which earned me banishment to the upper floor, something I gladly accepted.

My mother just drank and said nothing. Angry, hateful, full of resentment, I did the only thing I thought was reasonable at the time: flee. I took some money, put on a nice jacket and slipped out the back balcony and down the columns before disappearing into the cold autumn night. I had no plan to where to go, I just wanted to vanish. When I reached the end of the block, I thought of a place to go.

I took the El-train into the city, to a little nickel theater that played out-of-date movies. It was in Boiling Springs, a neighborhood known for its rundown businesses, seedy docks, and tough denizens on the upper west side of the peninsula, just thirty minutes by train from the Meadowlands where my parents still live. I was going to go see _Tauritt_in theater, since my parents would never let me. And I didn't give a shit when I would be back, either.

The trip down was smooth, exhilarating even. And the movie was everything the book was and wasn't! It had everything I could possibly ask for, violent shootouts in run down hotels, improbable car chases through sloping streets, corrupt politicians, and handsome detectives. By the end of the movie, I realized that what I had said was true, I wanted to be a cop. But not just a cop, I wanted to be a detective, where the _real_policing is done. The movie swirled in my head afterwards, images of what my future would be like.

I guess I was still shoulders-deep in my little fantasy world when I came upon him: a predator. He was lying beside the road and it looked like his leg was hurt. He was crying and when I approached him, feeling brave and bold, the detective within me springing forth, I asked if he needed assistance. He nodded and said he wanted me to help him to his car so he could get home, his leg was hurt. A war injury, he said. Asserting to myself that I wasn't prejudiced, I agreed and lifted him to his paws and helped him hobble into the alleyway where he said his car was parked. I should've known better, my senses were telling me to run, but I ignored them. I wasn't going to be like my father. It wasn't fair to ignore an animal in need.

By the time they appeared, it was too late. The predator I had helped was suddenly no longer injured. He wrapped his arms around my neck and torso and squeezed. From deep in the darkness, a hyena and a cougar approached and evaluated their prey. They said how pretty I was, what nice things I had, asked if I was lost. Their leader, the one I helped, told me to lose my jacket, to empty my pockets if I wanted to walk away. My delusions disappeared and I meekly agreed. I just wanted to get home.

But when the jacket was pulled from my form, they decided that wasn't enough. Their fingers rifled through my pockets and then their leader held me close again and I felt his hands go over my jeans, feeling my rump and sides up. Gasping, I knew what was going to happen and began to sob. The hyena giggled, said I was the best catch they'd had in ages, and asked when they would get a turn. Their leader brandished a knife and it shimmered in the cold moonlight. He said whenever he was finished. My mind went blank.

Without thinking, I stomped onto his paw and then kicked him squarely in the groin, making the knife clatter to the concrete and my assailant to double over. He howled profanities and his collar began to shock. But his compatriots' collars were green; nothing was holding them back. Without wasting a moment, the cougar landed a punch squarely into my stomach and I fell to the ground. Slinging insults, they began to kick, hit, claw, anything their bodies, built to kill, would allow.

I suffered blow after blow about the torso, the neck, and the head before the squeal of tires and sirens made them stop and retreat. And as quickly as it had started, it was over. Their collars, shocking loudly as heartrates rose, echoed into the night as they melted into the shadows. A police car pulled up beside me and a very kind zebra stepped out. He plucked me up and took me into the car. His partner, a thin hare, lavished me with sympathy and placed my jacket over my form.

Yeah, after all that, they didn't even take the jacket. Their leader, a raggedy coyote, must have dropped it when I kicked him in the nuts. I told them where to take me and soon I was whisked back home, where my parents were a mixture of furious and horrified. My mother, calm and collected, patched me up while my father spoke with the officers in the foyer. To my surprise, he wasn't angry. In fact, he didn't really say much of anything afterwards. It's like he stopped caring, or at least stopped pushing. When he asked me what happened, I told him.

And I told him everything. That I ran out, that I had seen a movie, that I had put myself into harm's way to help somebody else. Terrorized as I was, I didn't skim over any of the details, and told him about the predators, about how fearful I was, how betrayed I felt. I told him I thought they were going to kill me, rape me, even eat me. And all I wanted to do was help someone in need, be the good guy, I cried. Why would they do such a thing? Throughout my entire story, he said nothing. When I finished, tears coating my fur, he stood up and said something that I never forgot.

"Remember your place in this world. And never forget where they belong."

Then he left. And I began to think hard about what had happened, about what my father said. Part of me couldn't help but agree with him. I still didn't regret leaping to defend that innocent jaguar all those years ago, even then. But, a buried part of me began to question things with a different flavor. A little bit of my father's lessons began to creep out to play, and at the time, they didn't seem so scary, so wrong.

The following afternoon he conceded his point and asked me what I did want to do. When I told him resolutely that I wanted to become a detective, to make sure what happened to me didn't happen to anyone else, the best he could do was sigh in a disappointed fashion. He requested that I at least complete a bachelor's degree so that if, and when, my little escapade into the lower classes would end, I could retake the mantle as a Brooks. I agreed, knowing I would need it to rise into the upper echelons in the force, but wanted to do a degree in criminology.

My father accepted and shifted all of his hopes and dreams onto my then ten year old brother Red. It's funny, looking back. They didn't know then the brand of hellion Red would turn into, one that would make me look good by comparison. My mother was disappointed, but, I think she knew I wasn't going to be herded around like chattel, something she agreed with. And the cold war finally dissipated, replaced by indifference and silent resentment.

It was terrifying, that night. But, strangely, at the same time I found it to be exciting, exhilarating. Maybe even something else. Everything clicked into place and I knew what I wanted out of life: to help those who need it, to not flee from danger, to forge my own path, and to change the world. And it wouldn't hurt if there were car chases, fist fights, gun play, and all the other theatrical stuff that came along with it. If I only knew most of my job would be paperwork and mediating disputes.

Seeing that knife appear around my neck, I couldn't help but to dredge up the memory of that night in the alley, something too eerily similar to be coincidence. But, then I remember who it was that perpetrated that assault, what they wanted, and I glance to my newfound friend, my best and only friend. I feel ashamed, having seen them in him at one point, especially their leader. Proud, too, that maybe I'm beyond that, that I'm better now. I have to be.

Right now, though, the only thing I truly feel is adrenaline, fear, and relief that we've just escaped the jaws of hell. I can tell that Jackie concurs, even if he's quiet. His collar stopped shocking a few blocks back and we both ride along in my car in silence, quietly processing what just happened and contemplating our next moves. R&B and rock and roll from my childhood sweetly serenade us from the radio, jarring in comparison to the fight and flight we just experienced.

"I need to call into the precinct," I tell Jackie.

"For what?" he asks after a few moments.

"I have to let them know what happened, send a cruiser out to look for them," I assert. "They attacked a police officer and an innocent witness. They need to be off the streets."

"Jane, they're long gone," Jackie replies, deflated, shaking his head.

I look at him, surprised and confused, and wonder what he means. His icy blue eyes turn in my direction and he realizes I'm asking for clarification. His fingers, which had drifted to his lips to chew on, lay onto his lap before he sighs loudly. Then he turns away.

"They're cleaners," Jackie explains. "Highly paid professionals that search crime scenes with a fine tooth comb for anything they need to bleach. Their entire job is to make things as if they never were. By the time a beat cop gets out there, there won't be anything left to find."

I go to argue, but I know he's right. Jackie simply looks away, leaning his head onto the cool of the glass. I sigh loudly, not content with just letting them go, to letting all of this dissipate. But I have no solutions. Jackie's right, they'll have disappeared. In a city like this, they would turn to steam, shadows slipping into darkness. Being a cop, even with my resources, does have its limits. I drive the car, my eyes peering over the steering wheel, but I'm on autopilot. My mind is churning away, looking for a solution that has to be there.

"But," Jackie suddenly continues, smacking his lips, "we may not need to follow them. I may know somebody, who knows somebody, who can find out who sent them. Obviously, it's whoever sold Catwright those drugs. Or had them stolen, if what that ram said was true."

"If only we knew where he came from, maybe we could trace his steps backwards," I say, hitting the steering wheel. "Those two were there to make sure we don't find that. They want us to think the buck stops with Catwright. They said they'd do anything to keep us off the trail, even burn the building down. Now that they know they're too late, we're working against the clock; at a disadvantage, too."

"Well, what if we had something they didn't?" Jackie questions.

I look over. Jackie reaches down and lifts his camera from the floor between his paws. I had forgotten it in here when I went to see him in the hospital. Hell, it was the reason that I had gone over there, or at least that's what I told myself. A little lost, I simply look up to him and try to run everything through my head. His photographs? His photographs! When Catwright arrived at the apartment, Jackie took a picture of him arriving!

"He came by taxi," I utter, surprised. "Jesus, and you took a photo of the car, too!"

"And that's at the precinct, right?" Jackie questions. "On file or at your desk or something. They can't possibly get that, they're safe."

"Yeah, of course they are!" I insist, excitedly. "I can call in! The desk sergeant can call the company and get whatever information they have. Maybe we can find the source that way."

"And while you're doing that, I can check around," Jackie says. "When you've been doing what I have for as long as I have, you start to learn what rocks you need to turn over to find what you need. Pull over here."

I guide the car swiftly to the side of the road, to the corner where a cluster of phone booths stands. I pull the parking brake and both of us exit the car. Once outside, Jackie immediately stuffs the butt of a cigarette into his lips and then lights it with that round, silver lighter that sparks after being squeezed. He takes a long drag and leans into the door of the car as I mount the curb.

"Are you ok?" I ask him, feeling a bit worried. "Does your shoulder hurt?"

He shakes his head and then taps some of the ash from the end onto the sidewalk.

"No, my shoulder's fine," he answers, rolling it stiffly. "But thanks for asking. I've just--uh--I haven't had to call some of these animals in a very long time. Coupled with being attacked and having the shit shocked out of me has made for a very long, confusing night."

That I can agree with. I'm not even sure what I'll say to the desk sergeant or whomever is on duty right now. Yeah, you remember that case I tied up? Well, I believe that the perpetrator was under the influence of some mysterious white drug, and while following up off-duty, out of uniform, and with the original suspect in tow, I was attacked by unnamed animals whose intent was to prevent any ties to whoever that doesn't want us to know the leopard didn't just go insane from being discovered. Even in my mind that sounds crazy.

"Tell me about it," I reply, mentally exhausted. "I can always take you home. This isn't your fight, this isn't your investigation. And I'd understand if you want no part in it."

Jackie just chuckles, sucking on that Bucky Strike. Then he smiles, showing row after row of teeth, before letting the smoke filter between them. He leans away from my car and sort of shakes his head, though not in a condescending or miserable manner. Then he knocks more of the ash from the cigarette before stepping towards me.

"I know we just met, Jane," he begins, periodically sucking on the cigarette, "but I've been doing crazy shit like this for years. When I first started off, I got a job from this bear up across the river. Didn't think it was Boris 'the Bear' himself, but definitely one of his caporegimes. Bratva you know? Terrifying to be sure, but I needed the money. He wanted a job done that his own muscle couldn't do because they would be too obvious: track down and shake up this Doberman drug pusher named Black Spot. If doing a job for the Bratva won't deter me, this won't either. I'm here until the end."

Then he flicks the cigarette onto the ground and crosses the narrow sidewalk to the cluster of telephone booths. It takes me a couple of seconds for me to process what he's told me, that he's done work for the underworld, heavy work. Looking over, I can't seem to add up this new information. But, I try not to see him any differently and feel a bit of cool relief run through me that I don't. What we've done doesn't change who we are.

As he closes the booth door, I go to the one directly beside him. Before I close my door, I can hear him lift the handset and twist the number into the phone after plunking a few coins into it. As I close my own door, I pull my badge and lift the receiver. I plug in the phone number and then provide my identification, my badge number, and how to direct my call to the operator at Central Precinct when they answer.

Jackie sits down into the little seat in the far corner, his tail wrapping around his frame. A new cigarette appears at his lips and is immediately lit. Afterwards, I watch him feel his shoulder up before running a finger through the wounds on his face. I take a seat as well, facing him, as my phone rings into my ear. Beyond the glass walls around me, I don't hear much of anything. Just the low pulse of the city.

"Hello, front desk, New Haven Police Department, Precinct Twelve, this is Sergeant Ginny O'Hara, how may I direct your call?"

"Ginny!" I exclaim, before suddenly catching myself.

It must be later than I thought if Ginny is the one at the front desk. That at least is a bit of a boon since maybe I'll be able to bypass some of the usual bullshit we have to fill out at the precinct. Technically speaking, I'm not entirely sure how above-board what I'm doing right now is. I guess I'll have to face those consequences whenever they hit me. Hopefully by then it won't matter.

"Jane Brooks, is that you?" Ginny inquires, her voice a mixture of surprise and joy. "Honey, what could you be calling about, aren't you off tonight, what with the 'being a hero' thing and all?"

"When am I ever truly off duty, Ginny?" I reply playfully.

Ginny seems to hum for a second, but not in contemplation. I think this might be the most pleasant I've ever been to Ginny, not exactly because she's a bad person or that I've ever specifically been rude. I've been so focused on my work, I saw her mostly a nuisance than as a fellow officer. So my interactions with her have been curt, short, and always duty-minded. Being so friendly to her now most likely comes off as unusual.

"I suppose not," Ginny replies, her voice still sounding unsure. "Well, in any case, what can I help you with? There's nothing up on the schedule for you and the boys won't move your things up to the detective's suite until tomorrow morning. You didn't forget anything, did you?"

"Oh, no, no it's nothing like that," I tell her. "I just need you to do me a little favor."

"A favor?" Ginny asks, her voice now sounding both suspicious and playful. "In two-and-a-half, three years, you've never asked me for a thing. What could you want now? It doesn't have anything to do with the detectives, is it? I told them you're an extraordinary officer, and will be an equally impressive detective. The whole 'Jane Doe' thing has even died down around the bullpen. So, if I find out they've been spreading rumors, I'll--"

"Ginny, focus," I tell her before she can run off on a tangent. "It's nothing big. Do you remember those photographs I had you take down to be processed last night?"

"Yeah, of course."

"I need you to pull one out and call up a number for me," I say, giving very few details. "Think of it as a little covert detective work."

"What are you working on?" Ginny asks, still sounding suspicious. "You haven't been given any assignments from Lieutenant Longenecker yet, have you? I didn't think your first day was until Monday."

"Well, that's just it, what I'm working on hasn't been handed down by the Lieutenant," I say and stand up. "In fact, some of this isn't entirely official, you understand?"

Turning towards the sidewalk, I rub the back of my neck as I try to figure out how I'm going to ask this and wonder how she'll reply. In two and half years, I've never considered for even a second that I should ever do anything beyond what was expected of me. I sort of got that kicked out of me in my first couple of months. Not that what I'm doing is illegal. It's just dangerous, and some officers may not understand. Plus, I don't know where Ginny stands.

"I'm trying to mop up some details on the Catwright Case," I try to explain, not feeling very confident. "I went back to the crime scene to take another look around, which I know is technically against regulations. It's just that things haven't felt right since finding that leopard and I just needed to make sure we didn't miss anything. So, if the lead I'm tracking down turns out to be nothing, no harm, no foul, the captain doesn't need to know I ever looked into it. But, I need that information and photos from the case file to proceed. Can you do that for me, Ginny?"

What follows is silence. During it, I look to Jackie and see that he's standing now, his forearm resting on top of the telephone. His mouth is moving briskly, his eyes staring into the darkness beyond the halo of light cast by the booth bulb. His fingers grip the half-spent cigarette, its smoke rising wispily towards the ceiling where it collects like a storm cloud. I can't hear a word he says, not through two privacy booth walls.

"Well, I suppose if it's not hurting anything," Ginny then replies, her voice wavering. "I'll send somebody to get the photographs now, but, I got to know: what brought this about? The last I heard, you had left to go check up on that coyote you hauled in like a fresh kill last night. What happened behind closed doors, honey? Finally warming up to somebody with a pulse?"

Oh, Jesus, Ginny. I sigh loudly, probably enough that Ginny can hear me, and lean back into the door causing it to squeak and rattle under the weight. I should've known this was coming. These were the consequences that I was talking about. She's a blessing and a curse. Squeezing the bridge of my muzzle between my eyes, I try to recompose myself. I guess she deserves to know at least a little. Maybe that's my payment.

"What, uh, exactly are they saying around the bullpen?" I ask, wondering where even to start.

"Well," Ginny begins, "finding you nose-deep in a predator's neck was cause for speculation, of course. Like I said, the 'Jane Doe' moniker has finally disappeared. Now they just talk about how brave you are, how impressed they are. They're talking top of the food chain now, honey. The topic of the coyote only surfaces here and there, in whispers. But you know how these beasts talk, it's worse than a teacher's lounge! But I have been wondering; did you go to see him to just say thank you, your coyote friend?"

I chuckle a little and look out through the booth window. Jackie isn't facing my direction, but, I can see him still talking, nodding. He hangs the phone up abruptly and lifts it again, plunks in the dime retrieved from the return, and cranks the dial around. Then he leans onto the back wall and taps his finger, his cigarette now out but still smoking in the ash tray. His eyes glance to me for a moment before he looks away and begins to talk again.

"His name's Jackie," I admit to Ginny over the phone. "And, maybe I went to say a little more than thank you."

I can almost hear Ginny's heart squeal through the phone as she presses it against her chest, the rough material of our uniforms making a scratching sound into the handset. Then I hear her place the phone down onto the table and start talking. It sounds like my payment was more than accepted. She's doing her job. A comforting sigh escapes my lips and I try to relax.

Jackie doesn't seem to be making as much headway as I am. From the way he leans on the booth, it appears he's hit a brick wall. Finally, he places the phone back into the hook and pushes open the door leading outside. He steps out into the darkness and heaves a heavy sigh, not looking towards me. I go to ask him what he's found out, but before I can, I hear a fumbling at the phone.

"Ok, I have the photograph," Ginny says through the phone. "I had to pull everything up through records, since you returned the photos before you left. It's signed out under your name, ok?"

"That's fine, Ginny, what's the number?" I ask her, feeling a bit impatient.

"Just a second, you have to tell me a little more than his name," Ginny interrupts playfully. "This coyote friend of yours, he seems dark, mysterious, dangerous. I never took you for the type."

"No, Ginny, it's nothing like that," I insist to her, testily. "And I'd rather be out doing something fun with somebody I like than waiting by the phone for some buck who will never call back."

"So you're out with him now, are you?" Ginny extrapolates, her voice rising giddily. "Oh, Jane-y, that's so wonderful! You'll have to tell me all about him, it'll be so nice to hear something a little more interesting roll off your tongue than your swinging work schedule, clearing out the barrel folk beneath the bridges, and filling out your nightly report sheets in triplicate. He seems so mysterious, so handsome. Mmm."

"Yes, I'm sure I will, Ginny, can I have the phone number now?" I ask her, my voice bordering on frustrated. "It's getting late and I fear I'm working against the clock."

She laughs a little.

"Sure, it's 212-555-5681, the cab's number is 442," Ginny says.

I knock on the glass door and then open it with a loud squeak, drawing Jackie's attention. I then mime the action of writing into the air and he draws his notepad from his blue shirt pocket. As he hands it to me, I shut the door once more and dutifully write it down as quickly as I can. I'll call right after I get off the phone with Ginny, if she'll let me do so.

"Thanks, Ginny, I'll talk to you--"

"Wait, Jane," Ginny interjects, her voice shifting from playful to serious. "Internal Affairs was by today, looking for you."

"Internal Affairs?" I repeat, bewildered. "What could IA want with me?"

"I don't know, they've been talking to a lot of the officers," Ginny explains. "I tried to flag down Captain Whitebuck as well, because they're trying to force an interview, but he went to his appointment with City Hall before I could get his attention. They've been asking a lot of difficult questions and they seem to be aimed at the detective's bureau. I caught them walking with Oxley and Bullworth this afternoon, too, so, I'm not sure what they want."

Turning, I watch Jackie, who dawdles just outside the door, looking out to the darkened shops across the street. As I'm observing him, he glances over with a curt smile before finding something else to peer at. We call Internal Affairs the Rat Squad, and for good reason. And, no, they're not rats. Most officers just dislike them. Not that I disagree with their mission, they do fantastic work. We wouldn't have shaken down the narcotics ring all those years ago, the Sherpa Case, or broke up the protection ring on the docks without them.

But they're mysterious, aloof, work only for the Commissioner's Office. And because of that, they're distrusted. The police who police the police, which many officers find distasteful. I tell myself the only officers who fear them are the corrupt ones, the bad ones. But in reality, even I fear them; because their investigations are secret and their justice without appeal. I'd hate to be under their sights, because when they're around, I wonder what rules I've broken. Or, as this case may be, what rules I'm currently breaking.

"Did they leave a message?" I ask.

"Just that you should get in contact with them as soon as possible," Ginny replies. "They left a number here for you to reach out to them. They didn't tell me anything beyond that, not even why they want to talk to you. The one just smiled when I asked, from behind those mirrored glasses, you know? I'm not sure if it's urgent, it's so hard to tell with them. Beasts in Black, right? So I'm sure if you follow up with them tomorrow or Monday, there would be no harm."

"Right," I tell her. "Well, thanks Ginny. You've been a big help. And, yeah, we'll talk when I get in, ok?"

Ginny titters happily, "Have a nice evening, Detective Brooks."

Then the phone goes dead. I replace the handset and then turn towards Jackie. I hold the notepad up to display the number and cab digits. He smiles and nods approvingly. We can finally move on. Before I dial in the new number, I stop and think. Internal Affairs wants to talk to me? That's very strange. It seems like everything over the last couple of days has been very, very strange.