FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Chapter 23

Jackie and I sit on the curb just outside the alleyway leading back to the loading docks. To our right, a swarm of police, emergency personnel, and the usual cavalcade of reporters and other gawkers mills about. The Black Maria is parked in the alleyway so both of the cleaners, as well as the once-Detective Sergeant Ashe, can be led out without being seen. That was the last kindness Captain Whitebuck paid the disgraced officer.

Ashe refused to say much of anything afterwards. But the way he looked at me was enough. His eyes were filled with accusation as well as the patronizing glint of somebody who thinks they know better than others. He kept saying I'll regret this, that this isn't how this is supposed to go. But when he was read his rights and Whitebuck arrived, he suddenly wasn't so tough anymore.

The captain was nearly first on the scene, which is highly unusual. Not only has he showed up to two crime scenes in the same week, but this is the first time I've ever seen him arrive before anyone else, leading the charge. At first I expected him to ream me out, but the tongue lashing never came. In fact, he's been unusually cordial. Maybe that's because a representative from the mayor's office arrived about twenty minutes after he did and he has to put on a kind face.

Either way, everything that has happened since the arrest has been a blur. Of course, Ashe threw curses at me and Jackie after he came upstairs. He did end up finding Howie, who was locked in the basement. I half expected, reading from the sad look on his face, that Howie was long gone, just as homicidal as Jacob Catwright was when we found him. But he wasn't. What he found was quite possibly a fate worse than becoming a killing machine. Howie Wolfowitz is completely mad.

And, unfortunately, completely incoherent. Whatever they did to him, his mind is broken. He was chained around the neck in the basement, walking in a circle, his restraint taut, babbling to himself. His clothes were ripped to shreds and he didn't recognize anybody or anything. In fact, he seemed terrified of everything he encountered, especially other people. And what he did say was unintelligible, sometimes only grunts and whimpers, other times fragments of sentences. His favorite phrase seemed to be 'I want to go home.' And so he shall, though not in one piece.

So, we have two witnesses that could corroborate what has occurred here with the evidence and paperwork I'll be turning in, and neither of them can talk. Great. From over in front of the building, cameras snap and crackle as photographs are taken. Journalists and reporters hurl questions and bludgeon each other for exclusives. From the front door, on a long gurney, the old lion is wheeled. Lawrence Scharstein, proprietor and manager of the first and largest Paw Print Flowers.

The ambulances are parked curbside as they couldn't get them through the alleyway with the police presence, not that Larry would mind. He's unconscious and unlikely to utter anything if he were awake anyways. He sustained broken bones in his hands, arms, and legs, not to mention a horrible concussion, and the internal bleeding from the attempted strangulation. The garrote crushed his windpipe. He won't be saying a word for months, if not longer.

Next, in a protective jacket, Howie Wolfowitz is paraded through the door. His eyes are wide with fear, his lips hang open and his shoulders and body heave. But he walks while the police encircle him to prevent the reporters, all of the vultures seeking fresh carrion, from getting at him. Soon, he's in the back of the ambulance and the sirens commence their fervent wail. As they pull away, Lieutenant Longenecker approaches a podium that has been placed near the door.

Camera crews are setting up in the street that has been closed off in a two block radius. A small stage has even been constructed. Captain Whitebuck might be the sole police brass here, but the rep from the mayor's office brought an entourage. Apparently, they're going to make a statement, one I think is going to be conclusive. Even with my own lack of political experience, I can see how this paint-by-numbers is going to turn out.

I don't know how Ashe could have done any of this. The drugs, the dead or homicidal predators, everything. Howie Wolfowitz wasn't the only thing they found in that basement. They uncover enough Nip to supply the city, stacked floor-to-ceiling in unmarked crates and corrugated cardboard boxes. Long tables to cut and package it and, of course, the packages they're finally distributed in. It didn't look like they were producing any here. No supplies, no cooking equipment. But, I've been distracted, so I may have missed it. Tonight's been incomprehensible and my stomach and head pound.

"What happens now?" Jackie finally asks.

He's been very quiet since finding Howie. I'm not sure it's shock, or just resignation. His hand rubs at his shoulder and he wearily observes at the circus unfolding before us. It's all so familiar, like we've been here before, even if the circumstances have changed. I curl my legs into my chest and then hug them. They're still sore, even though I'd forgotten about them. So much excitement.

"Well, they'll make their statement," I venture, unsure myself. "Offer up as good of an explanation for tonight as they can."

"Are you gonna be in trouble?" he gently asks, genuinely worried.

I spread my lips thin and look at the ground. The truth is, I don't know. What I did tonight wasn't exactly procedure. Or legal. Honestly, I think most of what I'd found wouldn't be admissible in court. But, something tells me they'll find a way to paperwork it all away, like everything else that happens on these streets.

"No, I don't think so," I assure him, but not myself. "But, I'm going to have to answer some very awkward questions. I can't believe Wolfowitz was right. I can't believe a detective did this. Poor Howie."

I glance over and watch his ears fold back. His collar blinks green. He'll have to go to Diana and try to explain to her what happened. I'll be glad not to be there. But, I guess that being only off his rocker is still better than him being dead. Although, from the way he looked, his madness might be a fate worse than death. At least with a murder the family gets closure by burying a body. How do you bury a mind?

"What are you going to tell his wife?" I ask him in the same tone he used.

Jackie sighs and looks away. "What I have to. It's my job. And a payday is a payday."

Before I can say anything further, a female camel approaches, hooves clicking on the sidewalk, wearing a tight, black pantsuit which strikes me as both strange and intimidating. She smiles, though, lips covered in a pastel pink lipstick just below blush-touched cheeks. A clipboard is held firmly between her thick fingers, an expensive pen in her free hand.

"Are you Detective Brooks?" she inquires politely, her voice gruff.

"Yes, I am," I tell her.

She smiles.

"My name is Rosaline Sandstone, I'm chief of staff for Mayor Goetz," she explains cordially.

She offers her hand, which I tentatively take. Gently, I rise to my hooves so that I can talk to her from a more civil position. Miss Sandstone steps back and taps her pen a few times.

"Captain Whitebuck and I will be making a statement on the case levied against Detective Sergeant Ashe and his accomplices in a few moments," she explains with a flick of her wrist purple pen. "If you would be so kind as to say a few words as the arresting officer, that would be greatly appreciated. First female police detective on the force and she brings down a plot like this? That would be great for our publicity, mending the bonds between City Hall and the force."

I glance over my shoulder to Jackie, who looks on with only fleeting interest. He doesn't want to make eye contact, even momentarily, with the rep from the mayor's office. At first I wonder why, but I don't have to think hard to conjure a good reason. He smiles at me anyways, telling me silently that I should. The truth is, that I don't want to. I'll open my mouth and insert my hoof.

"I don't know," I tell her awkwardly, looking at the ground and rubbing my neck, "I'm not the best talker. Every time I open my mouth up, I tend to put my foot right in it."

"Well, listen, if you're reluctant to say something, you don't have to. Why don't you just come up for the photo op?" Rosaline suggests. "All you'd have to do is stand and look official. Put your badge on your shirt and come over when you're ready. We'll be starting in a few minutes."

Rosaline smiles warmly when I nod gently in agreement. It's settled. Her hooves click on the macadam as she strides away, towards the circus of bodies just fifty feet away. My mind swims as I envision myself up on stage, shaking hands with important beasts, finally making my way in this world. It's been an incredible couple of days and I can't believe that I'm arriving. And Jackie's made his money. Oh, Jackie. Turning around, I find him gently smiling up at me.

"You know, you could always come up as well," I offer him, feeling guilty at being a bit selfish.

Jackie just shakes his head and rises achingly to his paws. From the cool look in his eyes, I think he's knows that'd be impossible, even if he wanted it.

"No, that's alright. This is your thing," he says and shrugs. "Plus, I have to make some phone calls. This is my night, too, you know. Also, uh, I don't do too well in front of that many animals who want to see me skinned. Unless there's a piano between us."

I just chuckle and feel grateful.

"Detective Brooks?" Miss Sandstone calls.

"Go on, I'll be out here," Jackie encourages and takes a step back. "After making those phone calls, of course. Don't be nervous, it'll be great."

Then he gently gaits away, one hand delved into his pants pocket. Satisfied, I turn and stride to where Rosaline is waiting. She babbles some instructions into my ears as we walk, but I don't absorb even a single syllable. I'm too enthralled with the police officers in their work uniforms alongside suited officials that flank both sides of the stage. And the reporters waiting for the biggest story of the year are terrifying, yet exciting.

"Go on up, Captain Whitebuck will commence his speech in a moment," Rosaline instructs as we round the side of the portable riser.

She then checks a few items off of her clipboard and turns idly away. Quietly, cycling a cleansing breath, I climb the steps to the stage. I shoulder past a few uniformed officers who eye me warily and cross to where the captain waits, poring over notes with a stern chin and busy eyes. Quickly, I pin my sparkling gold badge to my chest, in a place where it is prominent and visible.

The captain lifts his eyes up as I approach. While he doesn't smile, his brow arches slightly and he nods his head.

"What you've done tonight, Detective Brooks, is commendable," he informs me, in an oddly neutral tone, "stupid, dangerous, and reckless, but commendable."

"I'm sure there will be a lot of paperwork, sir," I joke and try to smile through my nervousness.

"That is to be expected," the captain comments. "Just promise to never do this again. If it weren't for the fantastic photo opportunity and campaign boost for Mayor Goetz, I dare say you'd be fired. Regardless, you did well. Stick by me and you'll be wearing a captain's bars soon enough. You know, I think there's a sergeant's position about to open up."

He cocks his head with a knowing smile. I laugh idiotically and then control myself. Don't say anything stupid, Jane, your career is finally here. A cleansing breath flows through my nostrils and I try to recompose myself, to try to be natural and not an excited fawn about to open a birthday gift.

"What will happen now?" I inquire curiously.

Returning his gaze to his work, the captain flips to the next page in the packet of paperwork he's reviewing.

"John Ashe will likely be stripped of his rank and a replacement will be selected, assuming an internal review damns him," the captain explains. "As for anything after that, it's out of my hands. We're still waiting for the DA's office to bite. Otherwise, the whole operation is being investigated with a fine-tooth comb by our very best to uncover what happened here, to piece it all together."

"What about Howie Wolfowitz?" I ask him.

"The wolf? Psychiatric will handle him. Nothing we can do. Shame. Would've helped us build a case," he replies dismissively and returns his eyes to his papers. "We'll start any moment, walk with me to the podium and try to look, hmm, official."

His eyes glance at my clothes. I look down over them and realize how dirty and unkempt I am at the moment. Well, after a day like this, what can be expected? I'm so nervous; intensely, unbelievably proud, but incredibly nervous. I haven't been in front of this many people staring at me since I graduated from the police academy. And these animals aren't colleagues. They're sharks.

"We're ready for you, Captain," a thin hare announces with a nod of his head.

He sighs through his nostrils and then looks up.

"Oh, and, Detective," he says, staring down at me once again, "I know you leaned on the same source to run this down. Very resourceful. But, if you want to move up, you must surround yourself with better animals. Remember who your friends are."

Before I can even process what he's said, the captain is already turning away. Despite my confusion, I follow and then stand at attention at the front as he takes to the podium. We stand before a sea of bodies, some familiar from the day before, others very much unknown. Audio equipment handlers crowd the front while reporters jostle and compete for positioning. The whole crowd seems to lunge forward as the captain touches the microphone to test it.

They aren't scary. What is scary are the three makeshift towers built in the far rear of the street. Atop them are mounted large, unwieldy cameras operated by heavyset beasts of all stripes. Vans with tall broadcast towers are parked on the sidewalk on the other side of the street. On-site reporters read their lead-ins into the cameras, their lights blinking an on-air red. The last thing I perceive before the captain commences is who is where.

All of the reporters, and most of the crew, are prey species. The few predators that hang around aren't employees, reporters, cops, or anyone important. They're just locals, milling about the edges or viewing the chaos from a safe distance. Unlike the hungry reporters, the preds look on with distrust and anxiety. Finally, the crowd begins to quiet as the captain waves his arms.

"Quiet down, quiet down!" he orders gently. "Yes, I know, I am surprised as you are to be here, late on a Saturday night, only twenty four hours after hosting a similar event just miles away. But what has happened here is extraordinary. An extraordinary event in extraordinary times. New Haven has never been a stranger to drugs. Combatting their scourge, be they predator-marketed Nip, cocaine, or heroin, it has been like combatting a hydra. And like the mythical beast, with every head the NHPD severs, two spring up to takes its place. That is why what we have discovered here is special, and may truly damage the trade: a drug manufacturing plant."

The captain waves his arm and just to his left several large crates of drugs are tossed up and have their tops removed and contents poured. Blueish-white sacks, like sandbags, thud out from within. Cameras flash and reporters gasp, writing down whatever it is those kinds of people write down. Whitebuck pauses momentarily for the sounds and flash photography to subside before he continues. That pride I once felt feels to be melting away, washing down my form. I swallow hard.

"Enough Nip has been uncovered in the basement to supply the city for months, Nip that, thanks to the valiant efforts of the NHPD, will never reach the streets. What was also found was a deranged pusher, who has lost his mind to addiction. The leader of this operation was successfully arrested today. A predator who preyed upon his fellow beast without remorse, without hesitation. He has been remanded to St. Animus for medical treatment and will be charged come morning. And we have but one beast to thank for this arrest," Captain Whitebuck proudly announces, swinging an arm up to rest it on my shoulder, "newly promoted Detective Second Class Jane Brooks.

"She took initiative to investigate a thread of vast importance to the NHPD provided quietly from my own desk. This is where it led! Without assistance, without backup, and on her own time, she has struck a mighty blow against the blight of drugs on our fine streets. And with officers like her, the days are numbered for those who manufacture, for those who supply, for those who sell, for those who dare endanger the lives and livelihoods of the innocent citizens of New Haven with this ilk!"

He smiles widely and touches me to do the same, which I do. But the smile isn't genuine, I have to force it. All of the pride I once had is gone completely. I've just listened to my boss bend the truth in front of dozens of reporters, on television as well. I can't correct him; he's probably just saved my ass. Plus, there are too many animals, the cameras are rolling, and the flash photography is blinding and stunning. Beyond that, I can't hear or see a thing. I feel trapped.

"Don't ever do that again," the captain harshly hisses to me before leaning back promptly. "I will now entertain a few questions. Please state your name and organization before asking your question. Yes, you there."

Hands bolt up immediately, but the captain has already chosen. I don't remember what the reporter's name is, or who he writes for, because of my heart pounding into my chest. Realizing I'm still smiling, I let it fade until it's more natural. My eyes try scanning the crowd, looking for the source of the voice. Instead, I end up searching for, and finding, Jackie. He's standing off to the side, near where we were seated. Seeing him calms me down a bit.

"Can you tell us who perpetrated these acts?" he asks.

"At this time, those suspected of committing these crimes have yet to be charged and the facts are still unknown," the captain replies.

"Follow-up question!" a voice calls out.

The captain nods in the direction of a pretty horse in a commanding suit.

"Yes, Amber Bells, HNN, I've heard tell that the ringleader here is a police officer, and a detective in your own command! Can you comment on these allegations? Can the people of New Haven trust the animals in blue around them?"

She's boxing him in.

He skillfully wrests control back, saying, "At this time, I cannot comment on the validity of that statement. I can tell you that the perpetrators were, and shall remain, predators. The only drug cut, bagged, and distributed through this front was Nip, a drug favored among the predator population. Whether or not a police officer, indeed a detective, is involved, I can only comment that he was not in command."

There is a short pause as reporters jot down notes hastily and more photographs are taken. I'm getting the feeling inside of standing on the edge of a cliff, one that I could tumble off at any moment if I don't stand straight enough. The captain selects another reporter, a zebra. He's dressed impressively well, better than any other beast in the crowd. I hastily find Jackie and see him standing, his arms crossed and his ears tall. I can't discern his facial expression from here.

"Richard Woodcrest, the New Haven Times. Is this operation linked to the murders and deaths that have plagued the city?" he asks. "The predator who was walked out of here was near madness. Are the drugs causing predators to become homicidal? Are they unhinging their users?"

The captain sounds reluctant to answer that question, but he knows he must. Clearing his throat and pulling at the knot in his tie, he grips the side of the podium and leans into the microphone.

"At this point, the cause or motivation of the predator murders and deaths, regardless of how the papers have portrayed them, is unknown. Drugs may or may not be a contributing factor, but at this time we cannot assume that the drugs are causing them."

"Then what is?" a masculine voice calls out without identifying themselves.

Despite breaking protocol, the captain answers anyways, saying, "At this point, the NHPD has no information identifying the cause of these murders. One can only assume it lay in the perpetrators themselves, something more instinctual. It is my personal opinion and not that of the NHPD that, if the drugs _are_involved, it merely gave them the means to act out repressed impulses. The drugs enabled them. As to the deaths, the NHPD is not in the business of investigating the deaths of every two-bit punk predator and Nip-junkie. Those are questions best reserved for the city coroner."

The crowd quiets down. They're not pressing against one another as strongly anymore. The air grows heavy, thick. My eyes soon become unable to focus in the hot lights shining from all around and all I can do is take a deep, cool breath and look down my clothes. My hands are prickly and I feel nervous, trapped. I'm so alone. The mood of the crowd shifts from frantic to pinpoint focused. They smell blood. My eyes dart back up to where Jackie is. He's farther back now, his ears are folded back and his arms aren't crossed anymore.

"I have time for one more question before a representative from the mayor's office shall speak," the captain explains. "Yes, you?"

The reporter he selects is near the front, dressed in a blue dress. She's a pig, and certainly older. From the half-moon glasses hung with chains around her high ears, I would assume her career is both long and lustrous. She smiles and raises up a tape recorder to get a better read.

"Louisa Mudd, High Street Journal," she begins. "What does the NHPD, and indeed you, sir, intend to do about this? An operation as large as the one you describe, functioning without reluctance just miles from the city's largest amusement park? How did this happen? Are there more? And if they only involve Nip, could Happy Town be hiding an even bigger trove? What about the Five Families--"

Before she can continue prattling off more questions, the captain waves a hand and cuts her off. His back straightens and he peers into the crowd authoritatively. He waits a few moments for them to calm themselves and then clears his throats.

"It is my sacred duty, not only as a captain in the New Haven Police Department, but as a member of this community to root out the supply of this drug in the city. I will not stand for it flowing freely through the streets or predators endangering themselves, or the lives of the average everyday animals simply trying to survive in our proud city. I do not know how an operation like this could have taken root and flourished. But, I promise you now that I and the NHPD will not sleep, will not rest, will offer no quarter until this drug and every single predator that involves themselves with it is off this street permanently. Tomorrow morning, I will be implementing a new, focused strategy to combat this disease." He spits with force. "And on Monday morning, this city shall be secure in the knowledge that our streets will be safe from this drug and every predator who uses it. Good night."

Even as the captain steps away from the podium, voices continue to ring out, screaming for details, demanding answers while I keep smiling. Some even plea to know what predators are selling the drugs, where they're getting them from. Not animals, predators. The journalists on camera turn and begin to give impassioned speeches into their glass megaphones. Meanwhile, newspaper and radio journalists clamber for any new tidbit, any new pieces of information.

The captain is offstage by the time I realize I'm glued to where I stand, still processing. Some of the reporters are demanding answers of me. They want an inside scoop. One even flashes several hundred dollars in his palm to get an exclusive, anything to set himself apart on this, the night careers are made or die. A hand grasps my shoulder and I look over to see an officer. I think he tells me they're done, but I don't hear any actual sound come from his porcine lips.

I find myself stumbling back across the stage and down the steps, feeling numb and far away. I think disillusioned is the correct term. At the bottom of the stairs, Rosaline Sandstone stands with a broad smile on her face. Pausing, I look up to her and her pink lips stretch a little bit bigger.

"You did well, Detective Brooks," she commends. "Maybe next time--and I do believe there will be a next time--you'll be saying a few words of your own. You could even be giving the speech."

"Yeah, maybe," I tell her noncommittally and try to feel proud again.

"Don't sell yourself short, it's good to see a female on the force, and one being celebrated too," Miss Sandstone kindly says and touches my shoulder. "Go get some rest. You've earned at least that. When you come into work on Monday, I think you'll be arriving to a whole new world."

I smile, feeling a smidge of pride return, and she mirrors it. Then she turns and climbs onto the stage, no doubt to give a much longer, much better written speech for those piranhas to eat up. As soon as she's out of sight, behind the blue wall of officers, I shuffle away. My heart is pounding and my stomach hurts. Maybe because I haven't eaten, maybe because that really shook me.

Looking to where Jackie once stood, I find the sidewalk empty, save for a half-smoked cigarette and a discarded soft pack of Bucky Strikes. Walking over to the spot, I spin and frantically search the crowd. I don't see his shirt or his bright white pants. I don't see him anywhere. Where did he go? Stepping out into the dark street, I glance over at the crowd and see that the Miss Sandstone is talking. I can't hear a word she says, not that I really want to hear it. The crowd of reporters is riled up. I'm afraid of what they'll report. I'm afraid of what they'll say and do.

And I think every predator here had the same thought. They're gone as well, hiding themselves away like coastal residents bracing for a hurricane. As I stand on the yellow lines, I spin about and feel truly, existentially alone.

"Jackie?!" I call out.

There comes no answer.

Jackie's gone.