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Chapter 24

Going home is quiet. Chillingly so. I can't listen to the radio, it just makes me feel depressed. I search for Jackie for a moment, but I can't find even a trace of him. What did now ex-Detective Sergeant say he could be? "Gone like a fart in the wind?" Yeah, that's about right. After a while, I get the feeling that Jackie abandoned me. It's just a fleeting thought, but it's there. I try to push it away and head on home since it's been a long night. A long couple of days and I'm sure he has his reasons.

My mind swims that night, making it impossible to fall asleep. When I do, my dreams are filled with foreboding shadows, malignant shapes, and acid-laced words. In one, I'm out in the streets of New Haven, but it's completely empty except for me. It doesn't look like a war happened, more like everybody just got up from dinner, from work, from play, and walked out of the city. The silence is heavy wherever I walk and when I cry out to find somebody, I jerk awake. And, of course, I wake to the silence and stillness of my barely-decorated apartment. I should buy some things.

I wake up a few more times at night, but as soon as I'm conscious, I recall that dream again and my mind refuses to quiet. So when my alarm clock rings at around seven-thirty, I'm actually grateful. I think I managed maybe seven hours of sleep, a record if recent memory serves me well. As I'm eating breakfast, standing next to the tiled counter just inside my kitchen, I watch the red display of my answering machine blink '13,' '13,' '13.' I don't know what I was hoping for.

As I dress, I turn the heavy knob on my television, and walk out of the room. The news starts and barely catches my attention. They mention my name a few times, which is a bit chilling and nice, but the hero of the day, indeed the year, is the captain. He's on every channel, giving his speech, and doing further interviews. When I wander back near my bedroom door, a few choice words tug at my ears and I stop to watch the tube. It seems that not only was Captain Whitebuck not joking when he promised he'd stamp out the drug problem, I wasn't prepared for how far he would go to make good on it.

News helicopters flutter over Happy Town and some streets near the neighborhood's border. Police cars, ARU vans, riot squads, firefighters, and masses of bodies in a menagerie of colors and shapes swarm the streets. On Pack Street, south of where Jackie lives, they wander from house to house, dragging occupants from their beds, from their breakfasts. The police do so without remorse, without grace, without even a modicum of decency for the predator inhabitants.

On Fence Street, businesses are shaken down, tables turned over, cash registers thrown onto the ground with a satisfying thud. Shop owners leap to their defense and are immediately thrashed into submission by physically immense officers in heavy padded gear. Near the riverfront, a fire engine hoses down angry residents who hurl stones, half bricks, bottles at their aggressors.

A blue wall stands along the north end of Fence Street, where prey protesters yell over bullhorns and wave colorful signs in solidarity with their sharp toothed brethren. But even they are not spared and a fire hose is turned on them as soon as the hydrant is able to be cranked open. Interspersed in this display of heartlessness are anchors and on-the-scene reporters who broadcast these events with callous indifference at best or unbridled glee at worst.

On every channel, every news station, and even a few that generally don't report the news, broadcasts these events county-wide. A few of the brass, and even the mayor herself, safe at City Hall, give interviews while a storm rages in the background and the cameras mounted on the choppers soak in everything happening just a few hundred feet below. I don't see the street Jackie lives on, but out of a sudden fear, I snatch up the phone and dial the number on the card I hastily recover from my work clothes.

It rings and rings and rings before going to his answering machine. It's the same business-minded greeting. When it beeps, I leave a half-metered message hoping he's ok, asking why he disappeared and leaving my number so that he can call back. After that, the only thing I can do is watch, wait, and hope. The apartments which surround me are unusually quiet, as they undoubtedly watch the same thing I do with shock and awe.

The raid lasts for another two full hours before the police call it off entirely. Dozens of houses are turned over, businesses are sacked and upended, and an innumerable amount of lives are thrown into disarray. For all of this nonsense, only a few pounds of drugs are discovered, consisting almost entirely of dime bags of coke, marijuana, and some Nip. But dozens and dozens of predators are arrested on charges ranging from the reasonable possession of drug paraphernalia, illegal firearms possession, and assault, to the ridiculous resisting arrest and impeding an investigation. I hope the judge who signed off on this shit is happy. City Hall sure is.

The station I watch cuts back to the newsroom and the anchors go into analysis mode. Males and females with perfectly-manicured fingers, exquisitely-kempt fur, and immaculately-applied makeup comment on the lives of animals they will never encounter on the street. It really strikes me is how cold and detached these animals are regarding these events. As I flip through the channels to hopefully get a more honest perspective, I land on a channel where a pretty palomino mare smiles and giggles at a joke her moose co-anchor cheekily delivers. Giggles.

I flip the television off. I can't take any more. The ensuing silence is even less bearable than the apathetic ramblings of the television news talking heads, if only just. The large living room/dining room of my apartment shrinks with the loss of noise. Its off-white walls soon become oppressive and I'm desperate to get out.

Snatching up my brown coat from where I threw it over the footboard of my bed, I leave my apartment for the steady rhythm of the street below. The answering machine still blinks '13.' Instinctively, I cross the street at a slow jog, even though traffic is nonexistent, and pass by the wide windows of the diner we ate at last night. Or was that two nights ago? I can't even recall anymore. I pause as I near the corner and stare inwards.

A fresh group of prey watches the television mounted behind the counter. It's a good mix of bovine, equine, lagomorph, and other ungulates. Most watch the events with a mixture of interest and surprise. Unfortunately, I see a few, mostly older males, smiling and pointing, relishing the misery of others. Only a handful or less appear horrified. A zebra couple, looking to be in their twenties, shrinks back into their booth in shame.

With only them I can relate.

While it's to be expected that most stores would be closed on a Sunday, Downtown is different. Sunday is a big sales day and the sales attendants smile at me when I enter. They mustn't know. I peruse through maybe a half a dozen stores without buying a single thing before I end up on the street again.

Here they bustle with foot and street traffic. Wealthy housewives draped in the finest fabrics and silks smile and bat eyelashes at each other while their husbands flash credit cards and expensive suits. All the while I press by, basically unnoticed. I weave in and out of several stores in an attempt to distract myself, but it doesn't work and I end up on the sidewalk once more. Nearing the end of the block, I pause to collect myself and look in through the windows of a store.

Initially, I hardly look at all. It's a store that sells a mixture of music, books, comics, and toys. A lot of colors and a lot of soft shapes. But, oddly, I spot something behind the counter that I desire and am pulled to immediately. Without a second thought, I enter and peruse the records before selecting a few I like, just to appear more normal.

When I check out, I point out what I want behind the counter. The sales clerk, a thick buffalo, glances over to it and then eyes me suspiciously. But he shrugs when I hand him a twenty for everything. He bags my purchase and then I leave with a jingle of the doorframe bell, going back home. As I'm walking back, my mind begins to clear up. Finding that normality has returned to the diner is a comfort as well.

As I re-enter my apartment, I realize I've been out for maybe two or three hours. I don't look to the answering machine and instead pull out my turntable to fill this space with music. It helps some. It's just so odd to be home and not thinking about work. Because it'll be there tomorrow, something new, something I've spent the last ten years striving for. And that's a comfort. My career, indeed my life, is finally coming together.

The answering machine blinks '13' and I flip Jackie's card over and over in my hand. The little, howling, outlined coyote glimmers in the light. Sighing, I lift the handset and dial. The phone rings and rings, just like before. But when the answering machine picks up, it's not the same greeting. Initially, I can't make out what it's supposed to be. There's just silence and then a little bumping sound.

But then it comes through: a piano. It's playing a classical, angelic rising and falling medley I'm familiar with and which makes me think of some movie where everybody's being killed all at the same time. The only thing it lacks is a girl with a heavenly voice singing in Latin. The piece goes on and on, never switching over to the actual answering machine. In the background, police sirens and gunfire wail. Finally, when it feels like my heart is going to be torn out through my torso, I gently hang up.

Not knowing how to feel, I sit down on my couch and curl up to watch some movie that's coming on for the evening. I'm not even sure what it is. I order takeout and hardly touch it. Then I put out my clothes for the next day, my new equipment, and try to get some sleep. After lying awake for an hour, I rise and go to the bag I put on the kitchen counter. From inside, I retrieve a stuffed coyote that's a little dinged up. Returning to my bed, I cover myself and then bury my nose into its chest. Tomorrow needs to be a better day, even if it's just me again.

It doesn't matter; I've been alone so long. Now that things are moving in the right direction, it should all be smooth. And when morning comes, that's where my mind is. My thoughts are quiet and I'm focused enough that after I'm done dressing and about to leave, I don't look to the phone. If Jackie doesn't want to talk to me, fine. I'm not playing babysitter for some ungrateful predator. I've got more important things to do. And I'm feeling good to be doing them.

At the precinct, Ginny waves excitedly and I offer a half-hearted smile when I arrive, her shift just ending, and continue onwards. Before reporting to the briefing room, I pick up a shoulder holster and swap any equipment that I need for my new assignment. I also reload my tranquilizer gun. I'm offered the option to take a .38 special, but decline for now. I'm hoping I won't ever be in the situation where a lethal firearm would be necessary. I mean, that's what the Howlers are for anyways.

I meet Lieutenant Longenecker just outside the detective's suite on the second floor. Despite my smile and bright face, he's dreary and tired, having had just pulled a long night and long day still in store. For the detectives, I'm not sure how involved they were in yesterday's activity and I'm not very keen on finding out. He shows me to my desk, which is far against the rear wall next to a window. A few desks are empty and coated an inch thick with dust. They always insisted they didn't have the space to promote any new detectives. But I don't mind, I'm just excited to be up here. At last.

As I'm leaving, I stare up at the task board with all the open assignments. I smile and know that soon, one of them will be mine. Or maybe more, who knows? There are a lot of open investigations. I wonder how much effort they actually put into each. While it's odd to say, I hope I pull something gruesome, something real. Murder, high stakes robbery, something like that. Because that's what I prepared for. I need something to sink my teeth into.

Upon entering the briefing room, I'm greeted with cold unfamiliarity or disdain from the other detectives. Even though I try to project a more welcoming demeanor, they stare at me with either knowing smirks or offended frowns. Knowing better, I discard the fresh recruit-like excitement, sit in the back and wait for the lieutenant to do the morning run down, which he does after the suited beasts quiet themselves and pay attention.

He spends only a few minutes going over the active cases before addressing the situation in Happy Town. It's something like, 'that's a brass issue now, not ours.' The detectives chuckle, and I get a few glances that make me feel uncomfortable. But before my mind can go somewhere self-conscious, the lieutenant hands out new assignments. Thankfully, he makes no introductions as my reputation precedes me.

The detectives file out one by one, or two by two depending on rank and assignment, until there's only me. The lieutenant, from his foot and a half advantage over me, stares down at the lone case file left and holds it up. He calls my name and explains that because we're down a sergeant, that I'll be handling this alone. I'm sure it's only because they're down an officer and not that nobody wants to work with me. I smile and say I understand. As I'm taking the file, which is thin, he chuckles and says it shouldn't be a problem for me. It's an easy one to get my hooves wet. I shouldn't need my hand held, since I could take down even one of our own.

It isn't until I'm outside and heading for my car that I realize how cutting that remark was. It turns out that it's a harbinger of things to come. My first assignment is north of Happy Town, only a few blocks above Savannah's apartment on a more affluent street. The blackbuck owner of a high end clothing store called in and said that he was robbed. I take a preliminary statement first from the owner himself. He initially is reluctant to talk to me. He only opens up after I flash my badge.

He claims that he was robbed two nights ago and that he knows who did it. The back window was smashed, though all of the glass was on the outside. The cash register was the target, but I found no obvious signs of a forced entry and the amount that was stolen was less than $200. No clothes were stolen, or jewelry. Out of curiosity, I asked the owner what the volume in sales he did on a normal day. He said between three and five thousand dollars. He says he's insured and that this is merely a formality in his claims process.

We finally come to the point when I ask if he knows anybody that has been acting suspicious. Perhaps an employee acting strange or needy or any unusual customers hanging around the shop or on the street. He says he does and indicates an arcade down the street. He tells me there's a group of predators that hang out there day and night and always seem to cluster around his store's side alley at dusk. He points out a thin cheetah and says he knows the cheetah did it. When I ask how, he says he's been in the shop too many times and never buys anything.

Dutifully taking down every note, I then proceed to question the only other full-time employee, and the only employee there the day before the break-in, the owner's son. The father hovers over his son, who is only just out of high school. The son hardly talks, looking over his shoulder nervously at his overbearing father. Realizing I won't get anything productive this way, I'm able to have the son take me outside to point out the predators as an excuse to separate the two.

That's when the truth truly comes out, confirming my initial suspicions. The son is thin, dresses in rather tight clothing, and doesn't look at me the way many other males do. So I venture a guess, hoping not to offend the boy, that he isn't very interested in females. Any of them. He looks pained, but doesn't deny it. Then, feeling awkward myself, I ask if he knows the predators. He does and calls them by name, which I write down.

Finally, I ask him where he was the night the break-in happened. He says he was out having fun, a last hurrah before going off to college, and mentions his stingy father not paying him a good wage despite working more than full time. I ask if anyone was with him. He says yes, a boy named Vance. I ask for his description. He's a cheetah. With that information in mind, I bluntly ask if he took the money. He becomes sheepish, but admits to taking it.

He says his father doesn't like the way he is, doesn't like the friends he's made or the animals he dates. The shop is a prison. Nearing the verge of tears, he tells me he didn't mean any harm; he thought his father made more than enough money to not miss what he took. And he doesn't want to lose the only friends who more than accept him. I thank him for his time and try to comfort him with a smile. This, unfortunately, is where shit proverbially hits the fan.

I inform the father of my findings: no crime was committed, unless he wishes to charge his own son. I tell him there was no evidence the predators did anything and that the crime scene is staged to cover the indiscretions of a rebellious youth. I tell him that I didn't appreciate him wasting police time, trying to frame innocent predators for his son's poor judgement, and for trying to make a bit of change off the insurance. The father doesn't take this kindly. Rising to his hooves, he browbeats me for several heavy seconds while his son stands by, embarrassed.

It's all the usual shit: demanding to know whose side I'm on, why am I protecting a bunch of chompers, that it's my job to put degenerate predators away. Then he curses me and tells me I'm not a real cop, just some housewife playing pretend. When he's done, I rise and tell him I could arrest him for filing a false police report, insurance fraud, and wasting the time and energy of not only a police officer, but the entire department. But I won't because I don't need to prove who I am. He sighs and shows me out. But to get the last swipe in, he spits on the sidewalk and pulls shut the door.

Feeling beat down, I return to the precinct to file my report. It's just after noon and I'm already exhausted, my fawnish giddy tossed to the winds. The detective's suite is empty and quiet when I arrive, save for undulating desk fans and ticking clocks. Thank Jesus. With shoulders slouched, I limp to my desk to finish up my report. I'm glad Whitebuck at least took care of having all of my things brought up. And that's where I find it: a big piece of teletext paper, torn from the end of the machine.

On it is a note, written in nearly illegible black marker reading, "Go back to being a beat bitch, Jane Doe!" A pang of horrible pain sears across my heart and I lift it up with shaky fingers, not really believing what I'm seeing. Gritting my teeth, I crumple up the insulting letter and thrust it in the trash bin next to my desk. Then I throw my case file onto the desk and sit down to bury my face in my hands. I'm back at square one.

It's only now that I perceive how truly and utterly quiet this room is. And that dream I had two nights ago comes back, striding down Prideway, in the center because there's no traffic, to Primal Square with all its signs off and no tourists. The entire time, I have the feeling of somebody watching me, despite every street in every direction being barren. Pulling out Jackie's card, I look it over and pick up my phone. Anything to break the silence.

After I dial, I let it ring seven times. As the answering machine picks up, but before the music can commences, I hang up. Rapping my fingers on the desk, I think to maybe call someone else. Well, my folks would probably be home. With Red going off to college, I could make that an excuse to call. Or maybe they saw me on television; I could call with good news. No, no, I don't want to talk to them. That's just a fight ready waiting to happen. Well, there's . . .

That's when it finally strikes me. I have nobody to talk to, to confide in, or to seek help from. Nobody at all. I lean forward, over my desk and cup my hands around my muzzle and eyes. Wet, hot tears soak into my brown fur and my chest heaves as I quietly sob. As dignified as I try to make it, I can't contain myself. Even biting my tongue and hunching my shoulders over doesn't help. My breaths become short and shallow and soon, I feel the tears running down my neck and into my sleeves.

This day has turned into a disaster, even though it's supposed to be my homecoming. But what did I expect? I'm a female detective dealing with untrusting, standoffish victims on the streets only to come back to the bile-filled stares and accusations of my fellow detectives. And then, Capybara, I can't even go home to something, somebody. That place is as empty as this one is. I can't do this.

"Having a tough first day?"

Jerking backwards, I look upwards to find two beasts standing before me. Hastily wiping my tears off on my jacket and shirt, I peer up at them with surprise and humiliation. But the two sets of eyes I find aren't judgmental. Maybe a little uncomfortable, but understanding. A mountain goat about my height and a llama who towers above him hover in front of my desk in finely pressed suits. I give a gentle nod and angle my tear-drenched muzzle away.

The mountain goat, his fur pure, arctic white, takes off a pair of black aviator shades with silver rims and attempts to project a comforting smile. The llama, who wears no sunglasses, simply clasps his hands in front of his waist and surveys the crumpled note in my trash can, the sole item at the bottom. Both of them are hooved like me, which makes me wonder how they snuck up on me across the hardwood floor. I guess I was so deep in my own thoughts.

"Are you Detective Jane Brooks?" the mountain goat asks, his voice rough and masculine.

"Ah--" I stumble over my tongue. "Y-yes, I am. Excuse me."

Again I wipe my face and try to make myself look a bit more presentable. I'm not sure that it helps, even a bit; I just want to buy time to compose myself. I don't know who these two are, but the way they're dressed: crisp, powerful, official, I know it can't be good. When somebody dresses that well, there's a reason for it. As I finish brushing my fur as dry as my jacket will allow, I glance up to see the mountain goat still waiting, dark eyes unblinking and a small goatee wiggling.

"You're a hard cop to track down," he jokes with a chuckle and points a gentle finger in my direction. "We've been trying to get ahold of you for the past few days. Left a message at the front desk and hoped you'd call us first."

"I've--uh--I've been b-busy," I stumble, still trying to calm myself.

"I read about those busts you made the past two days," the mountain goat continues with a suave smile. "That's some good work and all before even making detective grade. Your commander must be proud of you."

"Sure," I reply. "Who are you and," I sniffle, "w--what do you want? I'm very busy."

"Of course," the snowy white goat says and glances sideways at the only file on my desk, "My name is Detective Weaving and this is Detective Cudder. We're with Internal Affairs."

Immediately, my ears fold back and I feel my tongue grow heavy, hesitant to even continue talking to them. Every single sin that I've committed over the last few days rushes forth in my head and I see myself being fired, thrown into prison, and left to rot until old age. But I don't know what they could be here for. What have I done that they know about that the Captain didn't legitimize? Then I remember I never filed any paperwork on the Ashe situation and I begin to stutter.

Then I shakily assert, "The Nip bust paperwork. I meant to file it, I swear, it's only about 24 hours later than I usually file and I--"

"Whoa, calm down, Detective Brooks," the llama, Detective Cudder, says with a chuckle, "we're not here to investigate your handling of the Nip Bust."

The llama's voice is calming and friendly, unlike the coarseness of his partner. He's obviously the much younger of the duo, despite his advantage in height.

"Or the Catwright Case," Detective Weaving, the mountain goat, interjects.

"In fact, we think that the work you did commendable," Detective Cudder continues. "No, we're here to ask you a few questions about your new commander, Captain Whitebuck."

Looking towards the door, I think about how near I sit to his office. Close enough that I'm sure I could hear him coming and going, which I haven't today. In fact, his office has been dark all day. I'm sure he's politicking at City Hall or with his own superiors. I did hear on the radio the hall commending him and lavishing him with praise. I'm certain he's making sure to lap up every ounce.

"I--I don't really know much about him," I say without confidence. "Before now, I've never worked closely with him."

"That's ok," Detective Weaving says and leans forward onto my desk. "In fact, we'd love a candid opinion from a recent addition to the bureau. Most of the detectives here are veterans and have been in the system so long they've become part of it."

"Add in Detective Sergeant John Ashe being exposed on Saturday night and, well, they've circled the wagons," Detective Cudder adds. "Most just sneer and tell us to talk to their union rep."

"Like I said, I don't really know him. I'm sorry," I hastily reiterate with a shake of the head.

This brushoff doesn't deter them. The mountain goat just smiles and looks around to the window. The llama cranes his neck towards the assignment board on the wide wall behind us. My name hasn't been put up yet, but I know I'll have a space soon enough. My guess is that he's not very interested in it, instead in who's up there and what they've been assigned.

"Oh, but I think you do," Detective Weaving says and scratches his chin. "You see, you've come into a lot of fame in the last week. You've caught the eye of some very influential animals, both police and political. You're their new, darling child."

"You're making a lot of beast's careers," Cudder comments without looking back. "Including one Malcolm Whitebuck."

"So?" I ask them, a little lost.

"He's been on our radar a lot over the past few months, though that hardly stands out in the detective's bureau," Weaving says as he parts the blinds with two fingers. "He's been making a lot of headlines. Improbable and impressive bust after bust that's lead him into the limelight with City Hall, all with little explanation or questions being raised. Add in a refusal to discuss his tactics, odd comings and goings, and officers linked to him suddenly performing ten times better than just months ago and, well, it's raised questions. It's looking like he's got a shot at making Assistant Chief or Chief of the Detective Bureau. Maybe even Commissioner. He's good. Some might say too good."

My mind whirs as I process what they're asking, but I don't get the chance to ask. Weaving turns around and steps back towards my desk.

"We'll be blunt. We believe that the good captain might be involved in some more unsavory activities that may be contributing to his career. Political corruption, or ties to outside criminal outfits seems to fit the bill," Weaving explains, finally arriving at the point. "We're looking for something conclusive and we can't get close. We need an in. You're new, you haven't formed any unbendable loyalties to him, and you have a fantastic track record."

"We are impressed with your work," Cudder confidently states and smiles over his shoulder.

"Incredibly so," Weaving agrees with a nod. "And you seem to have a penchant for tracking down real criminals with real problems, even when nobody else wants to. Even when you shouldn't. And it's a drive like that we need."

Weaving leans forward onto my desk, his hands splayed out on its scarcely utilized surface. He smiles, as if he knows exactly what I'm thinking and has me exactly where he wants me. And, for a moment, perhaps he does. But it passes as my ears fold back, my tail flags, and my lips part in a silent stutter. I need to get out of here. With everything that's going wrong, I can't add this to my troubles. Trying desperately to come up with some excuse, my thoughts run together and turn to mush.

"I think you have the wrong person," I tell them as I stand up. "I can't help you. Please, I have--I have other cases to handle."

The wooden office chair rolls backwards with a clatter, and I hurriedly snatch up my casefile. As I try to bolt, Detective Weaving straightens and smoothly inserts himself between me and the door. As I bump into his chest, he throws his hands up and gives a gentle, toothy smile. The llama turns about, but doesn't close in.

"That's ok, we know you're busy," Weaving gently says with a shake of his head, his brow resting high upon his forehead. "But please, if you change your mind, if you think of anything that might be of value to us, don't hesitate to call us."

With unparalleled grace, Weaving produces an unblemished white business card with his contact information on it. My eyes snap to it uncertainly and then politely retrieve it from his fingers. Satisfied, he steps to the side and allows me to pass. Cudder simply smiles and nods a silent goodbye as I cross the room. A feeling of cool relief rushes down my back as I near the door. After I pass the threshold into the hallway beyond, I throw my back against the wall and peer around the corner to observe them. The Rat Squad.

Weaving has returned to looking out the window, his arms hugged over his chest. Cudder has kneeled down to retrieve the note I crumpled up. It makes me wish I had shredded it instead. As he uncurls the hate mail, I turn and scurry towards the stairs with the intense desire to go somewhere, anywhere coursing through my blood. There's too much going on, I can't parse it all. I need something to make sense.

And as I reach my car in my detective's reserved spot, I leave to find it.