Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.
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The Fire Triangle
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Part Two:
Oxidizer
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Chapter 5—Unintended Consequences
(Cont'd...Part 6)
"But anyway...good work, Wilde."
"Uhhh, can I get that in writing, Chief?"
"Don't push y' luck, fox."
Lieutenant Saw had been unavailable to take Nick's call, but Chief Bogo was at his desk, and had insisted on hearing his report immediately. Never one to buck too much authority, he'd complied without objection.
The next thing he said was a testament to his knowledge of just how far you could push the big Cape buffalo before backing off.
"Well...it's a pretty decent start Chief...but honestly, I don't know how close we're going to get to our suspect from this end."
A burst of static came over the line, a sound instantly recognizable to the fox as a snort of disdain—but not for his benefit, thank goodness.
"Yes, thanks to the ZYPD being just ever-so-helpful." Vinegar dripped from Bogo's every word as he spoke. "D'you know, I've already had my first complaint about you...an email from Zoo York City Police Commissioner Waghorn. Something about a scene you created at One Police Plaza..."
Nick grimaced and screwed his eyes shut, sincerely glad that this was an audio only call. Holy fox-trot, it was starting already. He could only hope that the ZPD Chief would have his back, as promised.
The next thing Bogo said had him pumping fist in the air.
"I read the first two lines and then deleted it. Crikey, after the way you bent over backwards to show you've NOT come to Zoo York to make trouble, you'd have thought they'd ease up a bit." Nick heard another burst of static, a sigh of frustration this time. "But no such luck, eh? Seems Waghorn's still determined to stonewall you; the blithering jerk."
There was only one correct answer to this, "Yes sir."
"Right, then," Bogo's voice faded slightly and he heard a rustling of papers before it came back again. "Where d'you go from here, Wilde?"
"Detective Pennanti's supposed to get hold of me later," Nick told him, choosing his words carefully, "He didn't say exactly what for; only that he needs to 'talk to a guy' about meeting with me sometime tomorrow."
"Hmmmm," Bogo mused, sounding both dubious and hopeful, "Has he got time to be helping you like that? Working as a PI is anything but casual labor, y'know."
Nick smiled even though he knew The Chief couldn't see him. "He said he's got nothing big on his plate at the moment and that Minkerton's owes him a ton of vacation time." Out of habit, he lowered his voice, "Just between you and me sir, I think he's hooked on this case."
Another snort rumbled out of his cell phone. "Not surprising that; right up until The Company went down in flames they were his baby, weren't they?"
"That's what I thought too, Chief," the fox replied, not bothering to mention his suspicion that former ZYPD Detective Martin Pennanti had another, darker motive for choosing to help him. It was the fisher's way of laying some spite on his previous employers. He and Mr. Big might have been polar opposites where the issue of law and order was concerned—but when it came to nursing a vendetta, they were on the practically same wavelength. "You ever meet him, Chief?" he asked.
"I have, that," Bogo replied. "Once in Zoo York City, and twice here in Zootopia—though I couldn't call our third encounter an actual meeting; he had to get back to Zoo York right away, 'Hello, I must be going,' and that was pretty much the end of it." He paused to emit a small grunt. "Those other two times though, I must say, I was quite impressed, very tough and professional. D'you know he was the first mustelid to be accepted to join the ZYPD?"
"Really?" Nick answered him, "No I didn't know that." True enough, he'd had no idea; just the same it was hardly a surprise. Given the treatment that he, as a fox, had received at One Police Plaza, it naturally followed that the ZYPD wouldn't be especially tolerant of a member of the weasel family either.
But now, he figured, was as good a time as any to make his request.
"Uhmmm, if possible, there's something I need you to do on your end, sir," phrased as respectfully as possible.
"I'm listening," Bogo answered him; a non-committal reply, if ever there was one.
Once again the fox had to cherry-pick his words. He began by dangling a teaser.
"You know what Oxxam's Razor is...right, Chief?"
"Yes, it's what I use t' shave me face every morning," The big Cape buffalo answered in an almost singsong voice...before immediately lowering the boom, "'The most likely solution to a problem is always the simplest one.' Listen Wilde, I've got better things to do than play Riddle-Me-This, so stop wasting my time and..."
"Sorry sir," the fox replied hurriedly, though he actually wasn't sorry. Sometimes getting Chief Bogo riled was the price you had to pay for getting his undivided attention. He went on quickly, "It's just...well, it seems to me that the reason those diamonds were delivered so late is most likely the obvious one; the courier's flight was either delayed or canceled."
"Hrrrmmmnnnn," The only answer he got was another rumble, but even so, Nick could imagine The Chief nodding his head in agreement. Who, amongst us, hasn't flown and been stuck in a holding pattern at least once?
"So," the fox continued, warming to his subject, "Putting that together with the fact that the Mister liked to, 'run a tight ship,' as Mr. Wolf put it..." he paused to review his figures, "I estimate that the diamond courier's flight must have landed no more than an hour, two hours at most, before he made the drop...and probably a lot less. That puts his arrival in Zootopia at anywhere between..." he consulted his notes again, "...09:00 and 11:00 AM ZST."
"Wilde," Bogo's voice was both pained and exasperated, "Zootopia and Zoo York City are only two of the biggest air hubs on this side of the planet. D'you know HOW many flights arrive here from Zoo York on any given day? Even in the time period you cited, there must have been half a dozen, at the very least."
"Yes sir," Nick told him and then laid down his trump card, "But only ONE that got in seriously late, I bet." He was unable to keep from sounding triumphant...but then, he wasn't really trying. "Find that flight and we find the one our courier was on. And then, once we have that information, we can check the passenger list, and...who knows, maybe we'll get lucky and nail him."
"Assuming a delayed flight WAS the reason for that late delivery," Bogo cautioned—but from the tone of his voice, it was clear that even he knew it was a weak argument. And in any case, he wasn't about to dismiss such a tantalizing possibility. "I'll get someone on it right away."
"Thank you, sir," Nick was almost beaming. Well-l-l, wasn't he entitled to feel a little self-satisfied? He'd made a heckuva lot of progress and it was only his first full day in Zoo York.
Unfortunately for him, those good feelings had less than a minute to live.
"Right then, Detective..."
Nick froze in place with his tail spiking. He had never before heard Bogo speaking in that tone of voice; unhappy, and also...unsure of himself? Something was coming, and it wasn't good.
"No sense trying to beat 'round the bush about it, Wilde; Detective Hopps had to be taken to the ER last night. By now, she's probably been released but...hullo, are you still there?"
Yes, Nick was still there, but he was too stunned to breathe, much less speak. Even though it wasn't...it couldn't have been that serious, not if she was already being released, but...
No, not Carrots, not his Judy!
"What...happened, Chief?" the words came out as a metallic rasp.
He was answered by another burst of noise, but this time without the accompanying rumble.
"I can hardly believe it meself Wilde, but Lieutenant Tufts was right all along; the Lewis boy did turn up at the ZAPA auditions." From there, he went on to a brief recap of all that had happened, the arrests, the riot, and everything else that went with it.
Nick felt his brows knitting as his horror gave way to bewilderment. When Bogo got to the part where Judy and Conor finally met, it brought back his fears with a vengeance.
"Hopps caught up with him in the school auditorium, as he was attempting to flee the scene, more or less stumbled right into him. She was alone and unable to call for back-up and so..." A moment of dead air followed, "And so, rather than give himself up, Mr. Lewis chose to fight it out ..."
"WHAT?!" It came out as a fox-scream. Only seconds ago, Nick had been horrorstruck; now he was thunderstruck. Conor couldn't...he wouldn't; no way, it wasn't possible. For God's sake, he had saved Judy's life that one time!
"Yes, I'm afraid it's true," Bogo informed him wearily, having for once correctly interpreted the fox's silence. "And yes Wilde, the Lewis boy drew first blood; came at her with a collapsible baton. Luckily for her, she was also armed. But..."
The rest of his words petered out in Nick's head as he felt something strange coming over him. His entire body seemed to be clenching up like a fist, and if he hadn't known better, he would have sworn that he'd broken a fever. On the back of his neck, his fur seemed to be breaking out in shards of glass, while his tail was shivering like guy-wire in a gale. The thoughts that came into his head to go with all of this sounded guttural, almost demonic. "No good little silver-fox punk; when I get back to Zootopia, you'd BETTER have been caught. Because if you haven't, and I get MY paws on you..."
But the red fox's emotional roller-coaster had not yet reached the end of the line. Bogo still had one more piece of news to relate, "What really triggered it though was when Hopps grabbed him by the back of the neck. He went absolutely crackers, tried to bite her blasted face off."
Whoops, okay...now here was something Nick had NO trouble believing; he'd experienced for himself what happened when you grabbed Conor Lewis by the scruff of the neck...and had long since come around to the belief that the kid couldn't help himself in that situation. It wasn't enough to completely dampen his anger—in no way did it alter the fact that the fugitive young silver fox had attacked first—but it helped at least a little.
However, a final question remained to be answered.
"How...badly was Car...Ju...Detective Hopps hurt, Chief?" It couldn't have been that bad if she'd already been discharged from the hospital, right...RIGHT?
"A few cuts and bruises, a cracked finger," Bogo read off Judy's injuries like a laundry list, "Possible damage to her diaphragm; that's why she had to be taken to hospital. I've ordered her to go on light duty for the duration."
"What, no medical leave?" Nick was more than a little incredulous.
He was answered with a snort and a snigger. "I would if I could, but you know HER, Wilde. She'll make up a hundred excuses to come into the precinct—and then, 'as long as I'm here anyway, do you mind if I take a look that the case file again?'"
Nick couldn't help snickering back; that was Carrots all over the place. "Mmmmmm, yeah...true enough, Chief."
"At least this way, I can keep track of her, and try to limit her activities" the big Cape buffalo was saying. And then a familiar buzzing came up in the background; someone was hailing him on his desktop intercom. "Right, I've got to ring off now, Wilde. I'll let you know if we have any luck finding that delayed flight."
Nick just had time to say, "Thank you sir," before the call disconnected.
He did not set the phone down right away, but instead spoke into it as if someone else he knew was still on the other end. "If I know you, Carrots, you're probably there at Precinct-1 right now."
In this, Nick was mostly correct; yes, she was, but it wasn't entirely on her own initiative.
It had happened right after she left St. Bartholomeow's; a call had come in from ZPD Forensics, asking if she might possibly be available, "for just a few minutes? There's some...questions we have."
The tone of whoever had called made it clear that if she declined there would be no hard feelings; nope, none...no hard feelings, cross my heart and swear to die. And so she could have begged off if she'd wanted—but this was Judy Hopps after all; as IF she'd turn down a request like that. She'd immediately asked Claudia to divert to Precinct-1, and the red panda had been neither surprised, nor dismayed by the sudden change of plans.
Now Judy was seated in a small, plainly furnished conference room, parked across the table from a female aardwolf and a pangolin, both of whom were done up in less-than-spotless lab-coats. A plate of bagels was sitting less than a foot away from her, but the tinge of formaldehyde in the air had put the doe-bunny's appetite on hold—and besides, those things looked about as fresh as a mummified lizard. A voice recorder also lay on the table top, but it didn't appear to have been turned on.
"Thank you for coming, Detective Hopps," the pangolin said, opening the proceedings. "We'll try not to take up too much of your time."
"Yes, we'll have you on your way ASAP," The aardwolf chimed in.
"Absolutely," his companion agreed, raising a pair of fingers.
Judy didn't know whether to laugh or roll her eyes. Ohhh, seriously? What the heck was this, the ZPD Forensics Lab or a vaudeville show?
She was much relieved when the pair got right down to business.
"The important question we have is this," the aardwolf's voice was all seriousness as she leaned forward, folding her paws on the tabletop. "In your report you stated that you shot the suspect with a red pellet first, and then with the blue one. Is that correct, Detective Hopps?"
Now the doe-bunny really wanted to roll her eyes. They'd called her all the way into the precinct for THIS? She could just as easily have answered that question over the phone.
"Yes, that's right," she said, offering up her most penetrating glare, "And yes I'm sure, but...why?"
The two forensic specialists exchanged sidelong glances; they seemed to be mentally urging each other to answer Judy's question.
Finally, the Aardwolf cleared his throat.
"We found nothing in the barrel of your suspect's weapon..."
"Well, DUH!" the doe-bunny thought but didn't say. She was in a cranky mood at the moment. Her injured finger was beginning to hurt like a toothache, and she had left her meds in the car with Claudia.
"...but we were able to recover some residue from the magazine," he said, and at once Judy's irritation was gone with the wind. Ohhh-kay, now we're getting somewhere.
"And what did you find?' she asked.
It was the pangolin who answered her. "That you were right, Detective; the blue pellet did contain Nighthowler—but it's the other that has us confused. THAT one was apparently loaded with Morningmew."
Judy gasped so hard it made her chest hurt. That...couldn't be right. You could mix up a batch of Nighthowler serum using a stovetop pressure cooker; Doug's old subway-car lab had looked like a thrift store special.
But Morningmew; for that you needed a topline bio-engineering facility with all the trimmings—and even then the formula for the Nighthower antidote was a secret known only to a pawful of scientists at LPN Pharma.
And yet...somehow a fourteen year old fox-kid had managed to get his paws on some of the stuff; no wonder these two lab-jockeys were feeling so apprehensive.
There was something else as well, something she was seeing—and yet not quite seeing.
But then she realized; those two dart-pellets had originally been meant for her.
And that brought up another question.
"Wha...? Why the heck would Conor have darted me with Nighthowler antidote...and then with Nighthowler?"
As Judy spoke, she heard the door opening behind her—and then a new voice joined the discussion.
"Because, just as Morningmew is the antidote for Nighthowler poisoning; so too does Nighthowler counteract the effects of Morningmew."
Turning to look, the doe bunny saw that Dr. Irene Hocico had just entered the room; Judy hadn't seen her since the Rafaj Brother's jewelry sting—but she hadn't forgotten the coati either.
Now, leaving the door ajar, Dr. Hocico spoke to the pair of lab technicians—in that same flat, uninterested tone she'd used on the previous occasion.
"All right, you two...back to your benches; I'll take over here. Oh, and I'll want your reports on my desk before you leave...and this time, would you PLEASE double check your findings?
"Yes ma'am," they replied in unison, nearly stumbling over each other on their way out the door.
Closing it behind them, Dr. Hocico made her way to the opposite side of the table, taking the chair directly across from Judy.
And then primping her skirts, she sat down with a sigh, making a casual observation as she scooted her chair up to the table. "Ah, these rookies...so gung-ho; always thinking they're just going to walk in and make the world a better place."
Judy sucked at a corner of her mouth, trying to look away without making it noticeable.
"Still," the coati went on, "They did think to check that dart-gun's magazine for residue—and without any prompting—so maybe there's hope for them yet. But as I was saying," she leaned forward, waiting until Judy had done the same. And then, speaking as if she was addressing a full-to-capacity lecture hall, she went on to explain a few things. "Very few animals understand the full properties of Trichloreximeronozene...Morningmew, as it's more commonly known."
Judy almost snickered; she had heard several times that the Nighthowler counter-agent was almost never referred to by its clinical name; now, she knew why.
"Most folks think of it as the wonder-drug that cures Nighthowler poisoning," the coati was saying, "And so it does, but there's more to it than that...a lot more as a matter of fact." Laying an elbow on the table, she regarded the bunny seated across from her with a penetrating eye. "Tell me Detective...have you ever wondered what happens when someone that hasn't been darted with Nighthowler gets a dose of Morningmew?"
"No," Judy admitted, drumming irritated fingers on the tabletop. When the heck was this band-tailed snob going to get to the point?
The coati accomplished that goal with her very next words. "Depending on the dose, it can cause anything from a mild case of the jitters, to a full-blown panic attack. An overdose could even trigger a heart attack—though we've yet to see that actually happen, thank The Maker."
"But, um..." the doe bunny prompted cautiously, "You...have seen what happens when an animal is given Morningmew without Nighthowler?" She could feel her nose beginning to twitch up a storm.
"I have," the Forensics Specialist answered, with a nod like a death-knell, "Happened up in Old Growth City, right after the Nighthowler antidote was discovered. Some tiger had a bad case of road rage and one of the officers called to the scene mistook it for Nighthowler poisoning; shot him with a Morningmew dart-pellet. He screamed and took off like a cat out of hell...ran right through the afternoon traffic and nearly got hit twice. We finally found him two days later, cowering behind a dumpster in the back of a grocery store, telling anyone who came near him, 'please...don't hurt me, I'll do anything.'" She paused for effect and raised an eyebrow, "And the only animals near him at the time were a couple of deer-fawns and a wood-rat."
Judy's brows shot upwards—along with her ears.
"Whoa, you mean that actually happened?" She had heard the story while recovering from her museum-chase leg wound, but dismissed it as an urban legend.
"Well yes, but you have to remember something," Dr. Hocico told her, having correctly surmised the root of the doe-bunny's skepticism, "We had Bellwether in custody, yes... but her shooter was still at large in the city somewhere."
"...And we had no way of knowing whether or not Doug had a spare supply of Nighthowler handy," Judy tried not to groan as she finished the sentence and then did anyway—but for reasons other than embarrassment. Sweet cheez n' crackers, if that was what Morningmew did to you, it had BETTER be kept under lock and key; the potential for abuse was almost staggering.
But now, at last, she was beginning to understand what the fugitive young silver fox's plan had been. 1. Dart her with Morningmew. 2. Either knock her out or tie her up 3. Give her the antidote before making his exit.
It was a plan almost breathtaking in its simplicity...
...Except that Conor hadn't been able to pull the trigger, even at point-blank range; why hadn't he pulled...? Oops, Dr. Hocico was still talking
"And yet somehow a fourteen-year-old fox kid managed to get his paws on some of it," she said, stating the obvious—and then moved on to something her visitor hadn't considered. "We can guess where he got it, of course. The question is, where did The Phantom get it?" Her face became waxen, "And more importantly, what else is he planning to do with it?"
Remembering her injured diaphragm, Judy stifled a gasp just in time, settling for a swallow instead. One thing was for certain; no one was ever again going to question the decision to make apprehending The Phantom a top priority—not after this revelation.
However, there was still one, small, loose end that needed to be tied off.
"I know this is kind of a silly question, Doctor, but I have to ask it. The reason Con...um, the Lewis boy felt no effect from that Morningmew dart. It was because of the Nighthowler dart I shot him with afterwards; i-is that correct?"
The coati raised another eyebrow, "Yes Detective, you're right...that IS a rather silly question. Honestly, why are you even asking, don't you think that's the case?" Her eyes were like a pair of rock chisels
"Of course not...I mean yes, I agree with you," the doe bunny answered, nettled, and trying not to show it. But then...wait a minute, did she believe it? WAS that second dart reason the Morningmew pellet hadn't had any effect on her adversary? She had no concrete reason to doubt it, and yet... Wait; hold it, now she remembered. That look on Conor's face; the nearly invisible ghost of a smirk he'd flashed—before she'd pulled the trigger a second time. It was almost as if...
"Excuuuse me, Detective...are you still here?"
The arch voice of Dr. Hocico brought her instantly back down to ground level; dangit that was the second time she'd spaced just now.
"Yes, yes, I was just considering the implications," she said, getting another stony look for her troubles. Casting about mentally for an exit, she thought she found one.
"Have we notified LPN Pharma about this yet?"
"Yes," Dr. Hocico nodded, "we called and sent them an e-mail; so far they haven't gotten back to us." And then, as if anticipating the doe bunny's next question, she went on to say, "And yes, I've also notified Chief Bogo...and also..." A look flashed across her face as if she'd unwittingly taken a swig of rancid water, "And also Lieutenant Tufts."
At first Judy was unsurprised by the look on the forensic specialist's face. Nobody liked the head of ZPD cybercrimes, and Dr. Hocico didn't like anyone, period. It stood to reason that any meeting between the two of them would rapidly degenerate into a clash. But then she realized something else, and a sour feeling began to swirl in her stomach as well.
Right again...that blankety-blank little bushy-tailed jerk had been proven right AGAIN. Ooooo, she could almost hear him now. "See? I TOLD you the Lewis Investigation should be at the top of our case-list."
Ohhhh swell; there'd be NO stopping him, now.
It might have pleased Judy to know that 'the little jerk' was in a highly agitated state at the moment.
Today was his Sunday with the kids, and so he'd decided to take them to the movies. Neither he nor they had especially wanted to see this particular film; about a Zoober driver that picks up a grizzled cop on a dangerous case. Not a must see for any of them, especially after the dinosaur-driven blockbuster that had premiered the weekend before. Unfortunately for Albert Tufts, Beth and Tommy had already seen that flick and so it was this or stay home and play computer games all day.
They were 20 seconds into the first trailer when his cell-phone rang. Dangit, he thought he'd silenced that thing. Pulling it out, he disconnected, making sure that it was set on vibrate before stashing it back in his pocket. Ten seconds later, it rang again—and again out loud, this time drawing reproachful looks from the other patrons nearby. He pulled it out and shut it OFF. There; anyone trying to call him now would just have to tough it out until...
It rang again before he could even get it back in his pocket. Now, he was getting more than just angry looks—and from his own son no less.
"Da-a-ad, turn that thing off, before you get us kicked out of here."
Tufts tried to do just that, but when he hit the disconnect button, nothing happened; the phone just kept on ringing—and now as he listened, the ringtone changed from a marimba to a peeling church-bell and then to a hunting horn. Clutching the phone close to his chest, in a desperate attempt to muffle the sound, he leapt up from his seat, ordering his kids to stay put, and then made a fast-break for the exit. As he hurried down the aisleway, he could hear them starting in already.
"Hey, gimme back the popcorn!"
"In a second...you always take too much."
"Daaaaaad, Tommy won't....!"
Hurrying out the door, Tufts pulled the cell-phone away from his chest and looked at it. What the heck now? The caller ID was just a single word,'Pigasus.'
Pigasus...who the heck was...?
His thoughts slammed to a jumbled halt; Pigasus wasn't a 'who,' it was a 'what', a spyware app developed in Israel for the express purpose of hacking smartphones.
And now, as he watched, the screen switched over to text and a message appeared.
There is nothing wrong with your cell-phone...
Well...actually there's a whole lot wrong with it,
But do not attempt to adjust anything.
WE are controlling transmission...
And then the phone rang once again, this time blasting out a ringtone that the squirrel had never uploaded...but one he nonetheless recognized immediately.
"We're not gonna TAKE it
No, we ain't gonna TAKE it..."
As if that wasn't enough...in response, a pair of young voices, practically shouted in his ear. "Right on, dude!" When he looked up, he saw a pair of young pikas walking past him, raising fists of solidarity.
He almost threw the phone at them...and maybe he would have if he hadn't realized then just who it was on the other end of that call; the smugness, the mockery, as if he'd never heard that before. Jamming his thumb into the 'connect' button he slapped the phone hard against his face.
"LEWIS!"
"Hey Tuff-Guy, did I catchya at a bad time?'' The voice was bright, brash, and brassy...and yet with a wheezy quality to it that bespoke of stifled pain. Detective Hopps really had given it back to that kid—and with interest.
Not that Tufts cared one way or the other; he had other things on his mind right now. "Oooo, you shifty, conniving, little..."
"Listen kid, do you have any idea how much trouble...?"
"Sorry, my trouble-box is full," the young fox interrupted smartly, "you'll have to try again later."
Tufts took a hard breath and let it out slowly; his tail was flipping like a rag on a clothesline.
"All right Lewis...what do you want?"
"Come on, Tuff-Guy, you know what I want," Conor chided him gently. He could have been a father, trying to coax a kit into taking his first baby steps.
Tufts didn't appreciate the fugitive young silver fox's tone of voice—and he especially didn't appreciate being addressed by that nickname. If squirrels could snarl, "You snot-nosed little punk; if you think..."
"I don't think, I KNOW!" Conor snarled right back, cutting him off like a meat-cleaver. "And do YOU think this is the first time you got your phone hacked? Huh? Get real dude, maybe THIS will adjust your attitude a little!"
He went away and a new voice came back in its place, one the Kaibab squirrel recognized immediately. He ought to; it was his own.
"So The Phantom's mule, Conor...Lewis is it? So he knows you and Officer Wilde by sight AND by scent?"
There was probably more—heck, there was more—but just then, the playback ceased and his adversary returned.
"I could give ya the rest of it, bu-u-ut I think you already know what it says...oops. 'scuse me, what YOU said."
Tufts response was reminiscent of pressure-cooker on the verge of blowing its valves. "You punk! You miserable punk; I swear I'm going to..."
"Hey, don't be too upset Tuff-Guy." Conor had reverted back to his smug fursona, "I mean...you've been wondering all along how I found out the cops were onto me—the day I allegedly picked up some money from a beach locker. Well...now you know." His words seemed to slur a bit and in spite of his anger, the squirrel couldn't help but wonder if his antagonist wasn't high on something. Perhaps...but the next words the young silver fox spoke were as hard and cold as black ice. "YOU gave the game away you nut-cracking jerk, you're how I found out that locker was staked-out. Hopps and Wilde didn't blow that op, you did. I got it all here on MP3 with four backups, just in case." A yip of derision came over the air. "Heck, you even identified yourself at the beginning of that call—which you made on an UN-secured cell-phone by the way. And I can prove that too." Back came the oily voice again, "Boy-howdy, I wouldn't wanna be you if this ends up posted to the net; no way will your boss not find out about it. And then, slice up the avocados, coz you're toast!"
Had this been a visual call, Conor would have observed all the color draining from the Kaibab squirrel's face, so rapidly it would have been visible right through his fur. Even for a regular police officer, a breach of security like that was a serious matter.
For the head of ZPD Cybercrimes, it was unthinkable.
"You have until the courts close tomorrow at 5 in the afternoon, Tuff-Guy. And we're talking all four of 'em over here, not just one or two. You know who they are, and you know which one especially should get a break. So get your fluffy lil' tail in gear and do the right thing. Oh, and one last item before I go..."
Tufts didn't ask what that one item was, but the young fox told him anyway.
"You understand, I wouldn't have anything to do with it...but if the right thing DOESN'T happen, then I'm betting that something you don't even wanna think about will. I can't be 100% sure, but if things don't turn out the way they should...well-l-l-l, then I wouldn't be surprised if what happened to your phone is nothing compared to what happens next, you follow what I'm bringing out? By 5 tomorrow, that's it."
The call ended without another word.
For a moment or an eternity, Tufts stood with his phone in his paw, staring almost catatonic at the screen, indifferent to the curious looks of passersby. His mind was a kaleidoscope.
That rotten kid...he hadn't said one thing, not one lousy thing that would hold up as a threat in court. And yet, with stunning clarity, the Kaibab squirrel knew exactly what the young fox wanted—and what he'd do if he didn't get what he wanted.
He had underestimated the Lewis boy...badly; not his intelligence, he had never doubted that for a...
No...not quite true. He HAD made that mistake; only once, as his adversary had just graphically pointed out—but then the Titanic had only hit one iceberg.
But even that hadn't been the Kaibab squirrel's worst miscalculation; up until this moment he would never have imagined that Conor Lewis was capable of such viciousness. There was no doubt in Albert Tufts' mind; if that fox-kid's friends weren't released by the deadline he'd set, he was going to make good on every single word of his unspoken threat. But for the youthful voice of the animal on the other end of that call, he could almost have been a delinquent bettor, conversing with a mob enforcer.
"He's had my career in a sling ever since the day he was arrested," the tassel-eared squirrel now realized, "So what the heck took him so long? Why didn't he get rid of me earlier?"
The answer came like a creeping mist.
"Because...he wanted this; he...WANTED me to lead this investigation. Because...he thought I'd be an easy mark. Yessss...the way he called me Tuff-Guy just now... All right kid, I may have underestimated you—but you made the same mistake with me. You never expected me to be waiting for you at the ZAPA auditions with half the force at my back. And then, just as I knew you would, you showed up anyway"
He felt his grip tighten up on the cell phone, while his face tightened into a look of resolve.
"But guess what Lewis? You just repeated that mistake. There've been a lot of things said about me over the years—but nobody ever called me a coward. You want me to do the right thing? Okay, you've GOT it!"
"Dad?" a voice spoke from over on his left, and he turned to see his son standing in the doorway of the theater with a worried look on his face. His tail was flipping almost wildly. "Dad...aren't you going to come back and watch the movie?"
"Sure son," the Kaibab squirrel said, shutting down the phone again. He went over and put his paw on his boy's shoulder, and walked with him back onto the theater, earning himself a strange look from the youngster for his efforts. There was nothing heavy about his footfall; his tail wasn't even trying to drag.
-------------------------------------------------------
Meanwhile, over at Precinct-1, Max March was headed back to his cell after meeting with his father.
Typically, Max Sr. had blamed his boy's arrest on everybody but him, the ZPD, the Performing Arts Academy, Erin Hopps; he was already talking about suing the soccer camp. His most sulfurous comments, however, had been reserved for the 'no-good, shifty little silver-fox kid' who, in his mind, had started it all. Ordinarily, the athletic young buck-bunny would have been heartened by his father's support. Today, it left him with an ashen taste in his mouth, although he was at a loss to explain why. The only encouraging moment had been when Dad assured him that he and Zack were definitely getting out of here tomorrow.
He hadn't seen his cousin since yesterday; they'd been whisked away from the Gazelle Amphitheater in two different police cruisers and then booked into jail separately. For the longest time since then, the athletic young bunny had been speculating; was he going to Juvie after all? He had given that squirrel, Taft or whatever his name was, just about everything he wanted—but then that Conor kid had slipped through his fingers anyway. And so Max had been left to wonder, was their deal off the table? Lieutenant...Tufts, yeah that was his name, had seemed like just the kind of animal to back out of an agreement on a technicality. Sweet cheez n' crackers, he still seemed to believe that the holes he and his cousin had dug had been for Conor Lewis to use in making his escape. It was only after his father had arrived that he'd learn his release was still a go; he was getting out tomorrow after all.
But...Conor Lewis...
The rumors had been swirling ever since this morning's wake-up call. And was it true; had he really gone mano-a-mano with Erin Hopps's sister Judy...and then beaten her to a pulp before making his escape? Max seriously doubted it; but at least some small part of the story was probably true. Bottom line—that fox-kid wasn't in here; the ZPD hadn't caught him yet. If they had, it would have been all over the detention center by now.
A small shudder rippled through his frame. It was almost scary, the way the kids in here were talking about that silver fox; his latest escapade had elevated him nearly to the status of a Greek Hero.
For Max March though it was a different story...as the athletic young rabbit was only just now beginning to find out. As he moved along the third story tier of the youth jail, followed closely by a maned-wolf corrections officer, it seemed as if practically every other kid he encountered either turned their back or averted their gaze. Even his escort was avoiding his eyes...or was he? Were any of them? Was all this only his imagination; had his judgment been clouded that badly by his guilt? If the others in here knew how he'd fingered those kids he'd seen talking to Conor Lewis...wouldn't they be doing a lot more than just ignoring him?
But wait, here was a familiar face; Deputy Mac Cannon was coming his way from the Lieutenant's office, moving with tight fists and a purposeful stride. As he passed Max by, the young buck-bunny tried to raise a finger, only to have the bobcat walk past him without so much as a sidelong glance.
It wasn't a snub however; the Bunnyburrow deputy was simply preoccupied with something else—or, to put it more correctly with somebody else.
When Mac got to the interview room, there was Craig Guilford, waiting for him. He had traded in his street-duds for the ubiquitous day-glo orange jumpsuit, but except for his facial fur looking a bit wild and unkempt, he appeared none the worse for wear from his time in jail. It wasn't any kind of surprise; this coyote kid was no stranger to incarceration; he knew the ropes, or at least he knew the rudiments. At the moment, he was sitting with his arms crossed and his jaw set...in a sullen humor; oh, wonderful. Over the past couple of weeks, he'd been going through so many mood swings, at least one correctional officer had suggested he might be suffering from multiple fursonality disorder...and he'd only been half-joking.
Mac didn't care about that, one way or the other. Or that is...he hadn't until the word had come down that Craig had changed his mind about testifying against his father—again! When he'd gotten the news, the bobcat-deputy had stormed out of the diner where he'd been having an early lunch, leaving his meal mostly uneaten. Hitting the street, he'd flagged down the first cab he'd seen—by practically jumping in front of it. That did it as far as Mac Cannon was concerned; no more Mr. NICE Burrow County Sheriff's Deputy! From here on out the routine was going to be bad cop/worse cop.
Now, yanking the chair out from under the table, he threw himself into it and scooted up to edge, drawing shrieks of protest from the chair legs as they scraped against the concrete floor. In response, Craig Guilford grimaced and slapped his paws over his ears. Good!
Not bothering with any form of greeting, Mac got straight down to cases, thrusting a finger across the table at the young coyote, with the claw unsheathed.
"All right bub, this is it; no more messing around."
"I..." Craig started to say.
"Shut up you little cornflake, I don't want to hear it," the bobcat hissed, showing all of his teeth, and then pointing at his watch. "I'll be back later this evening...with an affidavit for you to sign; I think you can guess what I'm talking about. And if your signature isn't on that paper within two minutes of my arrival, YOU'LL be on your way back to Bunnyburrow—in shackles and cuffs. And when you get there, be prepared to have the book thrown at you. I'm done with your coyote-games, boy."
He got up from the table and kicked the chair back under it, at the same time signaling to the pig-cop stationed outside the door—while Craig stared wide eyed and slack jawed.
"Y-You came all the way down here...just to tell me that?"
Mac wheeled and shot another finger at him.
"THAT'S how you know I'm serious, kid—Oh yeah, do it...come on, boy!"
Craig had also jumped out of his chair...but now he slowly, and wisely, sat himself down again. "Wh-When will you be back?" he asked; in the shaky voice of someone groping for anything to say.
"When I get here," the bobcat growled, just as the door opened...and stalked out of the interview room without even so much as a farewell-glance.
Craig sat for a moment staring after him. On the other side of the two-way mirror, Claire Swinton thought he'd been stunned into submission by the bobcat's tirade. While she was normally an excellent judge of character, in this case the pig-cop got it enormously wrong. The REAL reason that the young coyote was unable to move was because he was paralyzed with rage. Had she opened the door right then, he might even have gone after her.
She didn't, because other footsteps were approaching just then. Claire knew who it was...and that it was someone she absolutely did NOT want coming into contact with the coyote-kid in the interview room.
Returning from a meeting with her mother and her sister Violet, Erin Hopps was on her way back to the girl's section of the city youth jail, escorted by her sister Judy. The visit had begun with Violet and Mom chastising her, and ended with the two of them forgiving her. They too had believed that the ZPD was dead wrong in arresting those other three kids.
Claire waved as Erin and Judy approached, and then went over to talk to them. She was actually more concerned about the older bunny; Judy hadn't looked good at all last night—although she seemed a lot better today.
As the three of them chatted, they were unaware of the face pressed into the glass behind them.
Not many folks are aware of it, but it's fairly easy to see through the reflective side of a two-way mirror; all you have to do is put your eye right up against it. That was what Craig Guilford was doing right now, his impatience having gotten the better of him.
The view was dim and slightly smoky, but he was able to pick out Judy Hopps almost immediately.
Judy...Hopps, the bunny who'd put him here. And yeah, she looked like she'd been in a fight all right; check out the bandage on her left eye. Even so, she hadn't been beaten up nearly as badly as the rumor mill claimed.
Still...if Conor Lewis had done that to her, maybe he wasn't such a jerk after all; but mmm-grrrrr, he'd have liked nothing more right now than to get out there and finish the job that fox-kid started.
Someone moved out from behind Judy and he recognized another member of the Hopps clan. A month ago, he'd have wanted to tear her ears off as well, but not anymore. His original quarrel with Erin had come second-paw, by way of his girlfriend, Amanda Hill...the quisling little vixen who'd sold him out to save her own pelt. With her out of the picture, he'd had no good reason to keep the young, white-furred bunny on his payback list. Providing she stayed out of his face, he'd have no further issues with her.
Just the same, it brought him no small measure of satisfaction to see her here in detention...although for a rather unexpected reason. According to the jailhouse telegraph, Erin Hopps was the animal who'd started yesterday's riot. And, thanks to that incident, he had started to make some new friends—among the kids booked into the youth jail for participating in that melee. Up until then, he'd been more or less the Lone Coyote—a country boy from out in the sticks, who didn't know anyone in Zootopia.
Not anymore; the newcomers to the city youth jail hadn't cared where you were from, only about your attitude. And Craig Guilford had more than fulfilled their requirements; he might not have been able to spell the word 'nihilism', but he practically embodied that philosophy; nothing makes sense, burn it all. And so for the first time since his arrival here, he'd found a crew to hang with—and it was all thanks to Erin Hopps; that was the other reason why he was willing to shine her on.
Besides, if what he'd heard was true there was ANOTHER bunny in here that he needed to see. And when he did...that dirty snitch, Max March, was going to be heading home to Bunnyburrow in six separate containers.
The door to the interview room slid open, rousing him from his musings.
"All right Mr. Guilford, let's go." Claire Swinton told him.
He got up without hesitation.
Right then, the object of the young coyote's sworn retribution was looking up from the magazine he'd been reading...just in time to catch a glimpse of his cousin Zack, hurrying past the open door to his cell. Wha...what now? Hadn't the smaller bunny seen him?
Max folded the mag away and went out to look for him.
When he stepped outside of his cell, there was no sign of his cousin anywhere. What the...? Where the heck had he gone? He couldn't have just disappeared.
Well, he'd been heading in the direction of the common area as he'd gone past; maybe that was where he was. The next few minutes were maddening for the muscular young rabbit; every step of the way he had to force himself not to run. Ah dangit, how was he ever supposed to find Zack if he couldn't even get a move on? But if a correctional officer caught him running in here, he'd be put back in his cell until tomorrow morning. And so, a brisk walk was the best he could manage. Working his way along the third-level tier of the detention center, it was hard to see anything—or even hear anything. The average jailhouse is a noisy place, and the Precinct-1 youth facility was no exception. Everywhere around him he could see kids talking, arguing, or engaging in furtive discussions. And one topic seemed to rule them all—the mass of young protesters, currently gathered out in front of the precinct's main entrance.
Max, for his part, fervently wished they were talking about something else...anything not related to yesterday's riot. If the part he'd played in that drama were to become known to the other kids in here...assuming it wasn't already...
He shuddered at the thought. While this might have been the young buck-rabbit's first time in jail, you didn't have to be a seasoned con to know what happened to informers behind bars.
As if that wasn't enough to worry about, look at the way the young mammals detained for taking part in that riot were being treated by the other kids, almost like royalty. It was especially true for the four young mammals who'd been arrested for helping the Lewis kid to make his escape—in other words, the ones HE'D given up to the ZPD. Every second he was in here was like trying to sneak through a den of crocodiles without awakening them.
And...lo and behold, here came one of the Conor Lewis Four now. Granted, she was the only one he hadn't actually fingered, but still...
She was a young, very pretty, white furred doe-bunny with jet-black paws and feet, and black tipped ears, moving under the escort of another, older rabbit, who he also recognized.
Their appearance caught Max completely by surprise and before he was able to check himself, he was turning away in shame. When he was finally able to look again, they were gone, vanished as if they'd never been there. Wha...had what he'd seen been nothing more than yet another manifestation of his guilt? Noooo, it had been real enough; look, there was the hallway leading to the girl's section. That was where Erin and her sister must have gone. And, with a little luck, maybe they hadn't noticed him.
He turned to go the other way—and found himself looking straight into the eyes of his cousin, Zack.
At the moment, the smaller bunny was leaning his elbows over the center railing of the third story balcony, surrounded by a small knot of other young mammals, and regarding him over a shoulder. Beside him was another member of the Conor Lewis cadre...some kind of desert cat; he wasn't sure which species.
Zack held his gaze for perhaps three seconds before turning to resume his conversation with the feline, but that was all he'd needed to read Max the riot act. Never before had the young buck-rabbit seen his cousin looking at him like this. The face that had once been a portrait in servility and deference had instead been etched in steel and onyx. And the message his expression had conveyed could not have been clearer if it had been broadcast over the youth jail's PA system.
"I won't tell anyone what you did Cuz...but you and I aren't friends anymore. This time, you went too far—SNITCH!"
For a second, Max felt his ears laying backwards. More than anything he wanted to grab Zack by the shoulders, and scream in his face, "I did it for you, Cousin...FOR YOU!"
But then the moment passed and he felt his ears wilting sideways. And then, with the slow, stuttering movement of a wind-up toy with a weakened spring, he turned and slunk away back to his cell.
Enveloped as he was in his cloak of shame, Max failed to notice something; from the pool of tables in the common area below, a pair of dark-mustard canine eyes were watching him go—with keen interest.
Craig Guilford had just taken his seat, when he happened to glance upwards and—Bingo!
"THERE you are, snitching little jerk."
His anger had nothing to do with the animals the athletic young rabbit had fingered the day before. Like everyone else in here Craig Guilford knew diddly of the part Max March had played in yesterday's insurrection. Noooo, the angry young 'yote was referring to when Max had called the Sheriff on him for burning down that produce stand. Even now, despite all the evidence to the contrary, he still believed that was how it had gone down.
It hardly mattered, though. After his latest encounter with that stinking bobcat deputy, he would have settled for ANY hostility toy.
"Helloooo...Earth to Craig...come in please." It was one of his newfound friends, a young deer-buck named Cary Vanderhoof. Cary usually preferred to be called by his street name, a truly weird handle that the young coyote couldn't recall just now. He was there, along with several of the other participants in the insurrection, huddling together and sharing their disdain for The System that had put them here. By relating a heavily skewed version of the events at the Carrot Days festival, Craig had earned himself a place at their table.
For a moment he considered the idea of pointing Max out to them. "See that bunny kid up there? He sold me out to the Sheriff last spring." The idea lasted for all of half a minute before he'd discarded it. As welcoming as his new mates had been, they didn't yet consider him one of their own; not after knowing him for less than a day.
And besides...he wanted that bunny for himself.
"By hook or by crook, or whatever, you stinking little squealer," the young coyote swore silently to himself, "I'm GOING to get you alone before you leave here."