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CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

NED

"It wasn't Dr Rath. Couldn't possibly have been."

The speaker was a Lycaon surgeon called Edmund DuBois, and they were sitting in one of the hospital's conference room. Dr DuBois was trying to sound professional, but there was no denying that learning of Joey Rath's death had affected him. His big tufted ears flicked backwards, while a finger absently picked at a tiny hole in his blue scrubs. "He wasn't that kind of person."

Diego and Montoya shared the slightest of glances. The conference room smelled sterile, with a faint hint of coffee, and had clearly been decorated by someone with no ascetic talent whatsoever, judging by the plain grey walls, simple abstract art, metal table, and uncomfortable metal chairs. Dr Dubois had retrieved a clipboard detailing Joey Rath's work hours, which now law before him on the table, although he did not seem to be looking at it.

"Is this because of your impression of his character?" Diego asked finally. Ned and Scarlett were silent; in situations like this, senior detectives got the floor; the two rookies were spectators only.

Dr DuBois cleared his throat. "Yes. I mean, yes and no." His finger had worked its way into the hole in his scrubs, tearing the material. "Dr Rath was a good kid. The kind we don't get very often here; does - did - what he was asked; never complained, got along well with the other interns. His only flaw is that he struggled with attachment to patients, but that is something many young surgeons must learn to deal with."

"You never saw any signs of homophobia? Religious leanings?"

That time, the Lycaon actually looked offended. "With Rath? Of course not! He was gay, out and proud."

And suddenly, Ned's perfect picture of the solved case began to crack. Homophobic as he was, Senator Johnson would never have hired an openly-gay guy to do his bidding. Besides which, if Rath had been gay, why would he start killing other folks just like him? It didn't check out.

Diego and Montoya evidently hadn't been expecting this revelation either, because they both looked noticeably taken back. "Wait, he was gay?" Montoya asked. "You're sure?"

"I'm not sure, I'm positive" DuBois answered, looking incredulous. "He talked about it, occasionally. His family has money. I think the father is a shareholder with Burger King. What I'm getting at is; they disowned him for being gay. He was living - and paying his for his education - from a trust fund he'd got from a deceased grandfather."

Every word was like another crack in the case against Rath. The collie seemed like someone to sympathise with, not a heartless killer. Granted, they were only going off of Dr DuBois's opinion, but then again, from what Ned knew of medical internships, during an internship the intern almost literally belonged to the doctor to which he was assigned, so it was likely that the Lycaon would have known his intern well.

Judging by Scarlett's sympathetic expression, she was probably feeling the same way, and even the two detectives frowned, Montoya's claws tapping the table. "Can we see his hours, then?" the jaguar asked.

"Of course" DuBois said, holding out the chart. "Our interns are here for such long shifts that I rather doubt any of them could find the time to be a serial killer. As it is, most off-hours are spent sleeping."

Diego took the chart and held it where the other officers could read. Ned scanned it for the previous morning, when Conner Wilson had been blown up at the university. Sure enough, Rath had been off at that time - but when he looked for the date of Holly Vaughn's murder, Rath was on shift at that time, and so the same with the night the Harding twins had died. In fact, when they compared the estimated times of death for each victim, only two - Claudia Wittmore and Conner Wilson - could possibly have been killed by Joey Rath.

"What does this mean for Dr Rath?" the Lycaon asked as they prepared to leave. "Is his name cleared?"

"With this in light, it's likely" Diego granted. "Although I can't imagine how he got mixed up with the Prophet. Did Dr Rath act oddly anytime recently? Did he have a boyfriend?"

"No and no." Dr DuBois closed the door of the conference room behind them and stuck his spotted paws in his scrub pockets. "Rath was always a real bouncy guy. Not many friends save those here. He was more into sporty stuff than being social."

The wolfdog sighed. "Well, thank you, doctor. Please give us a call if you think of anything else. And have a great day."

"The same" the Lycaon said, taking the note with their numbers on it.

He was still standing there by the door as they walked away, paws in pockets, with the bearing of a man who is grieving on the inside but must remain professional on the out. "Find the real killer" he yelled after them as the elevator doors clicked, "find him and make him pay."

"No matter how you look at it. This makes it hard to believe that Joey Rath is the Prophet" Diego growled when they were back in the car. Dr DuBois had given them a print copy of Rath's schedule, showing that he was on shift most of the nights when the Prophet's victims had died, which was now laying in Montoya's lap.

"How else then did he end up in the senator's car with the bomb detonator in his pocket?" Scarlett asked. "I agree, it doesn't make sense, but there has to be some connection between Rath and the killer...if he was an ordinary victim, number ten, he wouldn't have had the detonator in his pocket, or had his house blown up."

"Or own a white Prius" Ned added, although he did not believe Rath was a killer.

Diego's eyes rose to glint at Ned through the mirror. "Yes, that too. Although the doctor did say that he'd never known Rath to drive a Prius. He had something else, a...."

Scarlett, who had the nicest handwriting of the four, glanced at her notes. "A Lexus."

"Yes, that. Which leaves us to explain how he came to acquire a white Prius?"

The answer was pretty simple, Ned thought. "Rath's Prius is just a coincidence, probably. It's a common enough make of car, especially in a city this size."

The answer to that was partially answered when they'd returned to headquarters. The police report from the investigation of Rath's house explosion was on Arkady's desk, and it detailed that while the remains of a car believed to be a Prius had been found in the ruins of Rath's garage, the car had exploded and been incinerated to the point that locating evidence in the wreckage was unlikely. Additionally, Jason had talked to the VIN inspector, who said that when Rath had called in to request the inspection, he'd said the Prius had not been driven recently, so perhaps he really did just happen to have the same car as the killer.

But that still didn't explain the presence of the detonator in his pocket.

"I suppose it's possible that Johnson has multiple guys killing for him, but somehow that doesn't seem likely" Arkady mused, when they had all gathered by the evidence board. "He's still staying tight-muzzled. Very evasive about his actions the evenings since he's been in California."

"Rath had no history of violence, and didn't own a gun" Nolan added.

Also, he didn't have a false tail, Ned thought. He'd almost forgotten what the Black Panther leopard had told him. Whoever had killed Holly Vaughn had a false tail, which meant that either they'd arrested the wrong guy, or he had other people killing for him.

"Whatever you find, find it quick" Captain Williston growled. "We got a media shitstorm goin' down outside, all screamin' about the senator's guilt an' all. Wouldn't want no screw-ups here."

The officers dispersed, but Arkady looked like he wasn't done yet, and when Ned noticed Lennox pausing to speak with the fox, he paused too. "What is it, Arkady?"

"In light of all this, I don't know how much this is worth, but I finally heard back from the jeweller who made the ring the Wittmore kids found" Arkady pulled out another sheet of paper.

"Oh?" Lennox's ears perked, and so did Ned's. "And who was that?"

The fox put down the paper, rubbing his eyes - they never lost that tired, overworked look. "Apparently the ring was made in 1995 for a William Rosgen, paid for by his wife, Nancy Rosgen."

The name William Rosgen meant nothing to Ned. He waited for Arkady to continue - the fox would not have approached Lennox with this information unless he'd done more research.

"Now," Arkady cleared his throat, "I poked around a bit with this name. Bill Rosgen was a prominent Chicago attorney back in the late eighties and through the nineties. Had a precedent for going after big-time offenders - crooked investors, bankers, politicians, and the like."

"I have a feeling from your wording of 'was' that Mr Rosgen is no longer with us" Lennox observed.

"That is true" Arkady said. "I thought briefly we might have something, because Rosgen apparently looked into some potential mismanagement of campaign funds. Back in 1996, when Senator Johnson was just two years into his first term, he was in Chicago supporting a religious-right mayoral candidate, and it seems our attorney Bill Rosgen got whiff of some dishonesty in the way Johnson's TMF group was giving money to the mayor candidate. He must not have found enough evidence though because it never went to trial."

Lennox was looking really interested now, and Ned could see why. Suddenly they had a connection, if a loose one, between the ring - something found at a crime scene - and Johnson, as well as a possible history of dishonesty on part of the senator.

He found himself smiling in the 'ah-ha" moment of discovering a clue. "He kept on investigating Senator Johnson?"

"Not necessarily" Arkady flicked an ear in a way that didn't really imply yes or no. "Johnson was never his main focus; it was the mayoral candidate he was after. Either way, Bill Rosgen died in 1999 and has no living family today. Whoever dropped that ring, it wasn't him."

Lennox sighed as if she'd found that disappointing. "He must have had some heir of some sort. If his estate had gone to the government, a ring like that would have been sold off and had the engraving removed. How did Bill Rosgen die?"

"Murdered" Arkady replied, deadpan. "Not necessarily surprising considering the kind of people he went after. I haven't had time yet to read into it specifically, but I gather it may have had something to do with a gang, or at least that was what it was listed as. Honestly I haven't even located anything that references his species. One of the news articles said he had the 'tenacity of a tiger' but I suspect that's merely a simile."

"His manner of death could mean something...." Lennox was looking at Ned know. "Let Parker handle this. Parker, I'd like you to call the Chicago Police Department and ask for a file or report on the Rosgen homicide. Find out who all was involved; was the attorney the only victim; did they catch the killer." The wolf rubbed a paw on her muzzle, sighing. "I'm thinking there's a connection here between the killer, Senator Johnson, and the late Mr Rosgen....we just need to find it."

"I'm on it" Ned ejected, tail wagging. What a great responsibility, being saddled with investigating the lawyer's murder!

"Here you go" Arkady held out a folder. "The stuff I've come up with so far." On the outside of the folder he'd written William (Bill) Cabot Rosgen: November 14, 1954-May 4, 1999. "Better make the call today."

Ned promised he would, tail still wagging as the senior wolf and fox left him alone there at the evidence board, folder in his paw. Lennox was right; this was a clue, something obscure, but it had to lead to something. That and Joey Rath, he thought. Connect the two and he could find the killer. The collie had not been a planned victim; Ned was sure of that. Too many discrepancies between his murder and the others for that to be anything but true. And now with this new evidence that Senator Johnson had been investigated for mismanagement of funds, and that a ring belonging to the lawyer who'd done so had been found at the Wittmore home - he paused, considering. Could Bill Rosgen have faked his own death and spent years plotting revenge? No...probably not. After all, the guy would be what, sixty by now? And if he really had been murdered, that would be difficult to fake anyway.

"All these different suspects and witnesses and clues thrown together; it just doesn't add up" he mused that evening to Garrett, after he'd met up with the coyote at Salty Sebastian's. They were perched on barstools, Ned the only cop in the place other than Montoya, who'd brought Sofia, who looked more scandalous than ever, wearing a red top that was little more than a bikini. Sebastian was trying to impress the pretty jaguar with "Did I ever tell you about the time I wrestled an alligator? Held 'im off with nothin' but my bare paws."

Garrett flicked an ear in the direction of the rat's voice. "You've got kind of a jumble of different bits of clues and evidence" he acknowledged, frowning at his wine glass. Given the expensive vintages he was used to, the bar's wine probably seemed cheap and classless. "If this were a setting in mystery novel, I would suggest you look at the person you'd last expect to be the killer."

"If that was the case, the killer would end up being Arkady, or the senator's wife, or Congressman Van Holling's secretary, the fox" Ned chuckled, nursing a Corona. He sobered, scratching an ear. "There has to be a pattern here we aren't seeing...."

The coyote flicked his ears, having apparently lost interest in Sebastian's tales. "Do you think the senator is involved?"

Ned could only flick his own ears. "Honestly I have no idea. He could be. Or not. He's been booked for the murder of the young surgeon, Joey Rath, at least."

"No alibi?"

"None. No one can confirm his position yesterday. Arkady thought his wife was hiding something, but apparently when they first took Johnson from his room, his wife and kids all went kinda crazy so it's impossible to say for sure." He put down the beer. "Someone thinks he's guilty, though. The Mayor already called up a trail hearing for tomorrow morning, to determine whether to post bail for the senator or not. Judge Clay himself will be presiding. I guess because of the importance of the suspect in this case, they'd like to get the matter settled early."

Sebastian had left to wait on a new customer, so Montoya and Sofia had swivelled on their stools to listen in on Ned's words. "Hey man, Arkady said you were calling Chicago to get info on some lawyer guy? The owner of that ring the little hyena found?"

"I did call them" Ned said. "They're going to send me a file. Rosgen, the lawyer, he's dead, but Arkady was hoping the report on his homicide might give us an idea how the Prophet, or someone associated with him, ended up with Rosgen's ring." The bar's radio was playing "A Fox Like You," a romance-y song which made him think it was about time to forget about work for the day and head home with Garrett.

"I tell you man, it's loco" Montoya shook his head. "I still can't figure out how that badger did it. You see the man? He's old and overweight. I wouldn't pick him as physically capable of being a serial killer."

Garrett nodded thoughtfully. "That and it seems too...is set up the right term? Like you keep finding links to the senator, as if someone wanted you to find him guilty."

Ned had considered that too, but if that was the case, who would want to set up Johnson, and why? It could be his homophobia, but a gay person was not likely to start murdering other gays just to set up Johnson. The key might be Bill Rosgen, and whoever his heir was. If that was the case, then the whole matter of murdering gay celebrities might in truth have very little to do with actual homophobia, if they were a demographic picked for killing only because it was they who Johnson hated.

Sofia hadn't said a word while Garrett and the officers made their discussion, but presently the jaguar put down her glass, folding her paws thoughtfully on the table. "I think you boys go about this all wrong. You look in the wrong place."

Three heads swivelled her way. "How's that?" Ned asked, although he did not imagine Sofia knew much about homicide investigations.

"Let me tell you a story." Reaching into her purse, a shiny thing bedazzled with an excess of bling, Sofia pulled out a black leather wallet, flipped through it, and extracted a photograph. She held it in front of the two canids, a faded polaroid of a tile-roofed house with a jungle in background. A gathering of jaguars, some black, some normally-coloured, were seated in front of the house, ranging in age from kittens-in-arms to greying elders.

"I come from little village in the mountains of Venezuela" Sofia explained. She taped a finger at one of the children in the photo. "This is me, when I was six years old. This" she tapped a barely-visible figure in the back of the group "is Alberto, my abuelo."

She laid the photo on the bar. "My abuelo owned much land for farming. Many crops, many animals. One summer, though, animals started disappearing. First, just a few goats. Then one day, one of the otters who tended goats disappeared. He went down to the creek. The other men heard him yell. But he was gone when they got there.

"My abuelo suspected that a crocodile had swum upstream from the river, and it was he who had killed the goatherd and the goats. But how to kill such a beast?" Sofia tilted her head, as if she wanted her audience to attempt answering. "The crocodile lived in the deep pools of the creek, where he took his victims to drown. But no one could follow him there."

At this point in her story the jaguar looked down at the photo, smilingly fondly in apparent memory. "But my abuelo was a very wise man. He knew he could not go to the crocodile. Instead, he took the bloody carcass of a goat, and left it at the bank, partway into the water, so the scent of the blood could move through the water. Then he waited...."

Ned leaned forward a bit, waiting for the punchline. Sofia was grinning now, enjoying the interest in her story. "The first day, nothing came. But the second time, the crocodile did come for the goat, and when he did, my abuelo shot him in the head with his rifle. He was a very big crocodile, the largest my abuelo had ever seen."

She raised a black finger to point at the mounted swordfish above the bar. "My abuelo had the head of the crocodile preserved and hung it in the living room of his casa, to remind us of a lesson." The smile vanished, serious now. "If you want to catch a crocodile, and you cannot find him, then you must make him_come to _you."

Her story finished, Sofia leaned back into her own stool, returning the photo to her wallet, while the others contemplated the implication of the story. She had a point, Ned thought. SF Metro had tried to find the Prophet by searching, and had failed epically. The alternative was to try to draw the killer to them....to beat him at his own game, as it were. But how?

"Thanks, Sofia" Ned said at length. "That's an excellent point you've made. You'd make a great detective."

The jaguar waved a paw dismissively. "I am no detective. But I do know that to catch a crocodile, you must be sure that you are smarter than he. It is a battle of wits, no different than poker."