Happily Ever Dafter

   “Tension and public-outcry have reached a boiling-point, leaving Acera’s law-enforcement in a frenzy trying to find the perpetrator behind the grisly murders plaguing its districts.” The woman, a goat in a buttoned-up baby-blue blazer and black-tie explained. Her voice carried the stoic, cold professionalism news-anchors always had. “Here, I stand alongside criminal-law expert and investigative journalist Logan Norms who has been outspoken about his theory regarding the series of murders, Logan?” Vulpecula watched on as the camera panned out from the news anchor sitting at her desk and the woman’s guest was brought into the shot. 

   “Thank you, Beth.” Logan Norms flashed a toothy smile, one that made him fit right in with the newswoman. Logan Norms was a kangaroo with an eccentric fashion sense, Norms sported a bright-orange two-piece suit, with a shine to it that suggested silk, along with white-gloves and orange, “snazzy” sunglasses that looked like they were brought back from the seventies. “Let’s talk some about serial-killers. Some of the audiences at home watching this broadcast might feel they have an understanding about what makes a serial killer, what behaviors they have, and how to spot them out of a line-up,” Norms stopped for a second, adjusting his head so that his sunglasses slid down to his nose, letting the camera see a shot of his eyes and their skepticism. “Well, if everyone could be called a criminal-law expert and investigative journalist, everyone would be. Everyone snaps their fingers ‘aha’ in hindsight, expecting serial-killers to be some hillbilly schmuck from Urgway, a canine, undoubtedly.” 

   “I don’t want us to suggest to viewers that canines have criminal-intent embedded to them, simply because of their species,” The woman, Beth responded, looking at the camera as though she was looking for guidance from producers on whether she’d made the right move. 

   “It may not be something you want to do, but it’s the world we’re living in, Beth. Let’s be honest and look at thing’s scientifically, if you take a dog’s skull, crack it open like an egg, spill out the yolk, do you know what you’ll find? I’ll tell you, Beth. The amygdala will flare up like hormones on a high-schooler, and the prefrontal cortex, the one involved in reasoning and decision-making will be asleep at the wheel. There are clear, undeniable signs linking canines and their brains as operating with a neurological need for aggression,” Logan Norms spat, his voice remained calm and steady, like a teacher reciting his lecture. “Never mind them though, just don’t come crying to me when Urgway’s mayor turns out to be a madman. Canines are only one type of bad person.” 

   “Who do you think is involved in the alleyway murders, we’ve heard you refer to the serial killer in your blogs, naming him Poison, does naming him also suggest you have a profile for who might be responsible?” Beth asked, clearly trying to steer the conversation back on-topic.  

   “Firstly, I don’t write blogs, Beth. I write editorials, and secondly, I was coming to the crux of my response. This is one of the things that plagues Maharris’ legal-system and the court of public-opinion. All of us want to skip to the last-page first. Let’s blame the mutt, or let’s blame the mopey squirrel whose father stomped his nuts with his boot.” 

   “As in, acorns, I hope,” Beth jested nervously. 
   Logan Norms snarled for a second and sighed. “No, I don’t. I also don’t think we’re in-search of a generic, run-of-the-mill psychology 101 serial-killer. I think we’re searching for someone who lives their life without fear, someone who helps old ladies cross the street and then later takes a knife ‘cross that lady’s throat. I think we’re looking for someone who has everything figured out. Someone who lives their life more competently than the lot of us, not someone who struggles, someone who flourishes. We’re searching for a ‘poison,’ that goes down smoothly, one that’s untraceable, but ruthless.” 

   “Do you have a response to the theories suggesting this ‘Poison’ murderer has specifically gone out of his way to target criminals who, in his opinion, deserve death.” 

   “About as much as I believe the speculation that he has a superhero-cape, carries a staff, and sports a black and yellow Kevlar suit. Sounds more like something out of a bad book of fiction than real-life, doesn’t it? Killers do not need vindication for their murders. They are not like us. And, besides, even if he did, it doesn’t fit the theme of his other murders, need I remind you about little boy Nathaniel and his tasteless tongue removal?” Logan countered. 

   “Oh, …,” Beth stopped mid-sentence, clearly caught off-guard by that particularly over-the-line comment. She did a chopping motion for a second, looking to the cameraman, until, finally, they went to commercial. 

   Vulpecula stood absentmindedly for a moment, staring at one of the many television screens playing just behind the store-window. The rain was coming down hard now, making him appreciative of the closed captioning. In truth, Vulpecula couldn’t have cared less about the eccentric journalist Logan Norms and the latest conspiracies he wanted to spout, but seeing the program on this night of all night’s was a coincidence that felt poetic.  

   “I think you’ll find it’s a lot drier inside the store than outside it,” a woman said, bright-blue eyes and a friendly-enough smile spread on her face.  

   “I don’t think the store owners will enjoy my company,” Vulpecula answered dryly, an ironic cadence given the dampness of his fur, weakly holding the woman’s stare. He waited for the woman to notice the brown paper-bag that concealed his bottle of malt whiskey. It was a taste he absolutely revolted, gagging him the way a teaspoon of cough medicine did to him as a kid. Like the cough medicine, however, what it did made him feel better.  

   The woman squinted her eyes and scrunched up her face before she relented and loosened her demeanor, turning her back to Vulpecula and walking toward the front entrance-doors. “As long as you don’t knock anything over, I’ll overlook your impairment, but you have to chuck away the booze. Now, get inside, you’ll catch your death out here.” 

   Vulpecula didn’t immediately respond to the woman, a gopher with lines of fur missing on her arms, jean shorts and a gray shirt so large it nearly swallowed her, marked with a motorcycle brand logo on the front. Suffice to say, The Fox Detective’s current intoxication had rendered his blank chalkboard into a used napkin inked with scribbles, but as he came to, he followed her inside. It took a second, his equilibrium challenged, along with trouble maneuvering with his walking stick. The woman held the door open for him, and, as she did, Vulpecula noticed she had a small white label tagged on her chest that read “Carrie”.  

   “Thank you,” Vulpecula said politely as he entered the small store. He stayed on the welcome mat for a few seconds, letting his drenched fur drip on the floor. 

   “No, thank you,” Carrie said, a reply V didn’t understand at first, until he saw her motion toward the brown paper-bag in his hands, putting her hand out for it.  

   Reluctantly, Vulpecula complied, letting her snatch the bottle out of his hands and walk it over to a nearby garbage dispenser.  

   “This brand is piss-water anyways,” Carrie assured. 

   “Piss-water’s cheap,” Vulpecula answered honestly. 

   Carrie didn’t answer him. Instead, she walked over, behind the store-counter and toyed with the cash-register. Meanwhile, Vulpecula took it as an opportunity to fully enjoy the store in all its splendor. He didn’t remember seeing a sign at the entrance with its name, and it couldn’t really be categorized as one thing in-particular. It wasn’t a grocery store, although, it did have a collection of teas spread around on counters in metal-tins. It didn’t specialize in any one thing, nor did it seem to have much in the way of organization; it was a good old Mom and Pop flea market. Vulpecula could remember seeing a lot of them as a child, but lately it felt like less and less of them were around. Urgway had some, but they were usually a cesspit storefront for shadier markets. The items included novelty sports cups sitting alongside religious talismans, and fabrics for crafting mixed in with old hand-me-down books with worn, beat-up jacket sleeves. 

   “Do you normally need that cane, or do you have it because it’s the only thing that’s keeping you from planting your muzzle in the floor?” Carrie asked, the remark itself might’ve read as snarky or judgmental, but the inflection was straightforward and serious. 

   Vulpecula supplied a half-baked smile for the cutesy comment, a façade that dropped faster than air leaving the balloons of a porcupine’s surprise party. “Hunting accident,” he jested. 

   “Ah, and what do you hunt?” She asked, not gullible enough to believe him, but not willing to allow him the peace of silence either. 

   “Nothing, apparently.” 

   “Looks like the world’s tried to make you its prey instead,” Carrie answered, closing the cash-register. “I can offer you coin. I won’t offer you a lot, but if you don’t spend it on booze, it’ll be enough for a night at the Amphibian Inn. It isn’t ritzy, but it’s far better than the park-bench I saw you snuggling up on last night. I’m already staffed over capacity, but I might be able to find you some work if you come by tomorrow.” 

   Vulpecula had a moment of genuine surprise that he couldn’t hide, “Oh, I’m not,” Vulpecula stopped, considering his words, “In need of any help.” 

   Carrie’s face didn’t change in a discernible way. “Sleeping on the park bench for the added lumbar support?” 

   “What can I say, it’s the latest trend,” Vulpecula replied dryly, starting to regret handing the woman his bottle, piss-water or not. 

   “If you’re troubled, I know of people who can help you,” Carrie said, then added, “I can help you.” 

   “You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t feel like sharing my troubles with a complete stranger,” Vulpecula barked, an edge to his voice that didn’t feel natural to him. 

   He couldn’t say for certain whether it was him or the alcohol talking, or a combination of both. Carrie’s face remained the same, unphased by his outburst, she merely looked down at her arms for a second. 

   “I know what it’s like to be hunted by life. I also know what it’s like to make myself easy prey,” She started, lifting her limbs for Vulpecula to see. “I know you’ve already noticed them; the scars on my arms.” 

   “You did it to yourself?” Vulpecula asked, any of his anger dissipating thereafter, making room for a tinge of discomfort. 

   “My parents didn’t want anything to do with me, I had no job and I had no way to pay my rent.” Carrie said. “It’s easy for people to judge you from the outside looking in, but when you truly don’t know when your next meal will be, it’s different. When you go to restaurants and loiter on the off chance someone might fill up early and leave half a cheeseburger, you start wondering if the life you’re trying so hard to preserve is worth holding onto.” 

   “I’m sorry that happened to you,” Vulpecula said honestly. “But whatever you went through, that isn’t what’s happening to me. The only reason I’ve been sleeping on that bench is because I am trying to solve a case.” 

   “Oh, and what case would that be?” Carrie asked, unable to hide her own skepticism. 

   “You can read about it in the Rescue Tribune if it pans out,” Vulpecula replied, turning his back away from Carrie and walking toward the exit. 

   It wasn’t a coincidence The Fox Detective found himself at this part of Acera, and while there was more to it than what he let on, he really was looking for someone. A television star, as it would seem, it was the man Logan Norms referred to as “Poison” and news outlets blamed for the tallying death-count. Vulpecula felt the rain, dripping from the fur on his chin. Law-enforcement had thrown everything they could at the man called Poison, but Vulpecula had his reservations about what was being reported.  

   There were two killers at work, at least. If not two, then more than that. There was only one distinct string of murders that shared a pattern, however. That was his working theory. 

   Vulpecula stepped off from the sidewalk and into the alleyway. This alleyway had become something of a small landmark in Acera. Dubbed often as “Death Alley,” it was where a small child was infamously murdered; a rarity in Acera.  

   In Urgway, a school-bus of children could have their lives ended, and that’d be the safe-side of town. An exaggeration, perhaps, but Acera and Urgway were as different as night and day, and it seemed Acera was being lured into the darkness. It was also where Alfonso Alvarez, a member of the Acerian gang Maher, was killed. Clearly, law-enforcement wasn’t seeing the same pattern as what Vulpecula did, perhaps because “Poison” was having his modus operandi muddled by assuming journalists. If Vulpecula was correct, then this was Poison’s first victim. It had been sloppy and imperfect, forensic evidence suggested a chase ensued, and that the killer used a knife or switchblade to end Alvarez’s life. 

   Vulpecula looked at the trashcans lining the side of one of the buildings and heard the splash of his boots stepping into the puddles of water. Alvarez wasn’t the only man Poison had killed in the general proximity of Death Alley. Unemployment had treated The Fox Detective with more spare time than what he knew what to do with, but it allowed him to scribble-down every detail about the murders he could. The web he weaved told him one thing important: this Poison killer was a creature of habit. He had a routine that saw him fluctuate between different parts of Acera. If the pattern held, tonight would bring Poison here.  

   Finding a way to contact him would be a challenge, however. Vulpecula felt the rain come down harder. It would have been easier if he wasn’t doing this alone. 

* * * 

   “Everything can’t always be about you and your problems!” Lacerta yelled, a vein pressing up against the front of his thick skin, trying its best to fight its way free from his head. 

   “I never claimed everything was about me,” Vulpecula answered, fidgeting with the fur on his chin. 

   “When you came back from Urgway, it was wonderful, that was the right thing to do!” Lacerta began, pacing around their Sidian Inn apartment. “Believe it or not, I actually thought things might go back to the way they were. When the Rescue Tribune wrote you were back in Acera, I was even able to find some cases for you to solve like you used to.” 

   “Forgive me if I don’t want to go back and solve whoever robbed the Malane Museum this week. It’s a complete waste of brain-cells,” Vulpecula responded, feeling a slight amount of irritation begin to trickle in. 

   “Waste of brain-cells? That alcohol you chug every minute is a waste of brain-cells! It was good enough before you left. Great, even! I thought you left Urgway to escape the murderers and bloodthirsty, corrupt politicians! You’re supposed to be in-recovery.” 

   “No,” Vulpecula uttered beneath his breath. “I can’t be expected to treat table-scraps as a full-course, not after what I’ve seen, what I’ve been through. It isn’t enough.” 

   “Well, I’m sorry it takes murder to nourish that mind of yours,” Lacerta replied. “Honestly, what happened to you in Urgway!?” 

   Vulpecula said nothing. He could tell nothing would be able to mend fences between them, not now, at least. Perhaps Vulpecula deserved the tongue-lashing in some respects, perhaps he deserved to be called out on his negligence and inaction. Regardless, Vulpecula had to fight the urge to beat Lacerta to death with his walking stick. What happened to him in Urgway, what happened to him in Urgway!? 

   “When I was held hostage by that man, I, … everyone always says in near-death experiences they see something meaningful. They say that they see their life flashing before their eyes, they see their loved-ones, or they see a white-light before the pearly gates ushered them into everlasting paradise. I wondered what I would see,” Vulpecula began. “Do you know what I saw?” 

   “I don’t care what you saw, all that needs to be seen is you not coming home at three in the morning every night drunk and blabbering, that’s what you should want to see!” Lacerta fired back at once, turning his back toward Vulpecula and heading toward the door. “And you,” Lacerta said, now acknowledging Apus, “all you do is sit there and enable whatever garbage he feels like spewing!”  

   Apus didn’t have a chance to reply, nor did he appear as though he was looking to make any attempt to, before Lacerta slammed the door shut behind him, leaving the apartment. 

* * *  

   “Do you want to know the truth?” Vulpecula asked. In his head, his words were directed at Lacerta, but, in the dark alleyway, his thoughts were all his own. The dark night loomed over him. The rain had mostly petered out, with only the occasional water droplet falling on his head.  

   Before he could finish his thought, he heard a ruckus from one of the nearby rooftops. Vulpecula scanned his surroundings, until finding a nearby fire-escape. He walked toward it, hoping higher ground would help him find his needle in the haystack. 

   “You’re not a police officer any more, fox,” a voice called out, it sounded firm and assertive, and before he even had a chance to turn himself toward the man who was speaking, he knew he was in the presence of the man called Poison. 

   “I’m not looking to make an arrest,” Vulpecula answered as he turned his body and faced the man. 

   “Then why exactly have you been trying so hard to put yourself in the line of fire?”  

   Poison was of an average-build, neither muscular nor lanky. His ensemble, comprised of a black outfit with flickers of bright yellow, including a ski-mask that shielded his face and a hood for good measure. Despite the skepticism of some journalists, he also, indeed, donned a cape that appeared to have a yellow interior and black on exterior. Vulpecula made no hasty decision, remaining still as his eyes looked over the man. His attire made it difficult to decipher his species. 

   “Maybe I have a death-wish,” Vulpecula answered dryly, dropping his walking stick to the ground, letting it splash into a puddle of water. “I doubt a little white fox poses any threat at all to you.” 

   “A death-wish,” Poison asked, and walked closer to Vulpecula, carrying a long wooden-staff in his hands, mostly black, but with bright yellow on both ends. Suddenly, Poison stopped, “Too bad. I don’t kill animals who don’t deserve it.”  

   “That isn’t what I’ve read about you in the papers,” Vulpecula countered. 

   “I’d recommend staying away from the tabloids.” 

   “What did Richard Jones do to deserve having his throat slit and then be thrown from a three-story window?” 

   “I didn’t kill Richard Jones,” Poison said, his voice maintained the same steady pitch, never letting an ounce of emotion escape him. Vulpecula couldn’t decipher for certain whether it was an intimidation tactic, or if there truly was no emotion.   “Eyewitnesses have gone on-record saying they saw a masked man fitting your description.” 

   “People go on-record to say a lot of things, but I didn’t kill Richard Jones.” 

   “Who did?” 

   “Shouldn’t I be asking you that, Mr. Detective?” 

   “You said you hunt bad people, unless Richard Jones had some serious skeletons in his closet, I believe Jones’ killer fits the bill.” 

   “I don’t need for you to believe me,” Poison said. 

   “I already believe you,” Vulpecula said. “If you didn’t have at least some type of moral compass, you’d have already ended my life.” 

   “I answered your question without even knowing it was being asked,” Poison remarked, a small tinge of amusement peeking through. “Although what if I wasn’t. What if I killed whoever I wanted, and that next person was you?” 

   “Then I wouldn’t live to answer that question.” 

   “Most people aren’t so eager to put their lives on the line for something they already pretty much know the answer to.” 

   “You’re saying you have no idea who might be responsible for the other murders?” Vulpecula asked, receiving no reply. 

   Vulpecula stared on in silence while Poison turned his back to him. In a single-bound, Poison leaped atop a nearby fire-escape, using it to return to the rooftops. As the ache in his ankle became too much to bear, at last, Vulpecula leaned down and snatched his walking stick out from the dirty rainwater.  

   Finding Poison might not have brought what he desired most, but, nonetheless, it answered a very important question – someone was using Poison’s methods to cover their own murders. This meant two serial-killers walked the streets of Acera. 

   Vulpecula squinted as though he thought it might help him see better with what little light was given to him by nearby streetlamps. Which deserved his attention more? It was a thought that Vulpecula hadn’t even really pondered until this moment. Poison might not have been responsible for the death of Richard Jones or some of the other deaths he had been blamed for, but he was responsible for the death of Alfonso Alvarez and Ivan Black, amongst others. Should Vulpecula have been dedicating his focus on finding Poison’s identity or was he the lesser of two evils. Did a murderer who targeted other murderers have the high ground over someone who killed without reason? If Vulpecula’s moral compass were a magic eight-ball, it’d say “Ask again later.”  

2.

   Vulpecula could feel the key shaking in his hand, struggling to unlock his apartment door. His mind had sobered, preoccupied with his case. It was when his mind was at its most comprehensive, able to look at every angle and do so incisively. 

   Poison’s wooden-staffs had to have been professionally made by someone, Vulpecula noticed, having jotted the thought down on his blank-chalkboard. The same could be said for his costume. If Poison was anxious and inexperienced, he might have bought it online from a traceable source. If he was a little smarter, he’d purchase his suit from someone shady, someone who’d specialize in Kevlar outfits, maybe even someone from the Maher gang could do it. He would no doubt conceal himself, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have left a breadcrumb trail to follow. If he was even smarter, he’d have purchased the item online with an encrypted connection, perhaps even using The Shock’s dark-web browser, and have it shipped to a P.O. box, in which case, it would be impossible to trace.  

   At last, Vulpecula turned the key and unlocked the door, he rested his head against the it for a second. All the cases in the world couldn’t alleviate the maddening hangover he had. Turning the doorknob, Vulpecula opened the door and went inside.  

   The wetness from his fur continued to drip down on the vinyl flooring as he walked inside. No one waited for him on the other side. Vulpecula removed the green-scarf from around his neck and draped it over the coat rack, along with his jacket. 

   Living in Urgway for six months had made him accustom to it, but it still felt strange to think that no one was waiting for him. Who he returned to Acera as was not the same person he had been when he left. Lacerta had come to learn that, Apus, too. Every argument festered in the back of Vulpecula’s mind. Every snide comment Lacerta made about his drinking or whatever else the lizard decided to be mad about on any given day. The lizard, Vulpecula thought to himself, contemplating his own usage of the phrase. His name is Lacerta, Vulpecula shortly corrected. 

   Vulpecula looked around the apartment. It was funny how he could change cities and yet, his apartment in Acera was still a spitting-image of his apartment in Urgway. All the items were assorted in the same fashion, or lack thereof, strewn about in such a way that lacked any form of practicality. Boxes stacked atop each-other, still not unpacked. By best guesses, they hadn’t been unpacked when he moved to Urgway either, merely brought from Acera to Urgway, back to Acera again. He was a creature of habit, not unlike Poison, he supposed. That, and a minimalist; he only needed one thing above all else. 

   Vulpecula stepped in the second bedroom. An empty room. A worn, old blanket strewn up over the window to keep the light from coming in. Vulpecula took in a breath and let it out. The only thing he heard was the pitter-patter of the rain hitting the roof, a sound soothing to some, but annoying to him. He tried to concentrate, tried to throw everything else away in his life; it didn’t matter. All that mattered to him at this moment was, in-fact, this moment.  

   A screeching sound of his nails scraping against his chalkboard followed suit, and once done, there was no sound at all. No sound could be allowed to enter this part of him; no outside interruptions. 

   If Alfonso Alvarez was, in-fact, Poison’s first kill, maybe that meant it occurred within a close-proximity of his living-space. If things went unexpectedly belly-up, he’d want somewhere to flee to. 

   A map began forming on the chalkboard, identifying landmarks and all the buildings Vulpecula knew.  

   Vulpecula’s eyes went to Death Alley and surveyed the neighboring houses, there were a couple apartment complexes and some hotels, all of them could have housed the masked vigilante at the time of Alvarez’s death. 

   Soon after, the map scribbled out with a large “X” made with red chalk.
Vulpecula shook his head. That train-of-thought could have easily suggested the exact opposite. He could have gone to anywhere throughout Acera, deliberately choosing a place off the beaten path.  

   The chalkboard erased, now drawing, instead, the man called Poison, placed at the scene in the alleyway. Poison leaped from the fire-escape to the roof-top, just as Vulpecula remembered.  

   It would take a special-type of animal in-order to accomplish such a feat, not to mention the way Poison could reportedly leap between buildings. Poison could be a frog or a toad. Maybe if Vulpecula searched nearby addresses and combed through the different amphibians, that would help provide a lead on his identity.  

   The drawing erased itself again. This time, it created several boxes, all comprised with nondescript illustrations of amphibians, any of which could have been Poison. A second later, they erased as well. 

   Or he could be a kangaroo, Vulpecula thought. 

3.

   “Alicia Camél is now the latest victim of the Poison murders, a growing list of names accounting for the most notorious serial-killer in Acerian history. Camél’s legacy lives on through her parents Marc and Ramona Felix, her husband Jerad Camél, and the men and women she worked with in Rescue. Mrs. Camél had been investigating a lead to the whereabouts of the man called Poison, when she reportedly came in-contact with the murderer. Details are scarce at this time but Rescue co-founder and current chairman Vivian Herms did have this to say.”  

   Vulpecula watched as the footage went from the interviewer, whose name on the marquee listed him as Tristian Mathers, to on the scene footage of another man with a microphone making a swift B-line for Vivian Herms. 

   Vivian Herms looked about as Vulpecula remembered her, except she might have been a little rougher around the edges. The death of Hensley Noel no doubt dropped a lot of responsibility on Herms’ shoulders and politicking aged a person, a sentiment proving especially true for Mrs. Herms. There was something else about her demeanor, something different. The very second the interviewer got her attention, the cameras were given a chance to focus and Vulpecula could see how emotionally distraught she appeared. Vulpecula couldn’t help but carry much disdain toward the Rescue organization, an organization that allowed its basis principles to corrode on the inside, so much so that a swift flick of a finger could cave in its walls like a house of cards. Maybe it was for that reason Vulpecula often forgot to see Vivian Herms the way she truly was, to see the actual animal she was. He’d met the eccentric Officer Alicia Camél on a couple of occasions, all of which were followed or preceded by an encounter with Vivian Herms. Could they have been friends? Regardless, Vulpecula imagined it was never a happy day when one of your officers was killed, especially in such a heinous fashion. 

   “The Poison serial-killer has reportedly taken the lives of thirteen victims and that total feels as though it’s tallying more and more each day,” The interviewer began, abruptly shoving the microphone in her face. 

   Vivian Herms held a stern stare and spoke, “Was there a question in there I must have let slip by me?” 

   “All of Acera’s taxpayers are wondering where all their hard-earned money is being thrown at, if not lining the pockets of bigwig corporations like Rescue?” 

   There it was, Vulpecula thought, holding a weak smile on his face. There were two tactics interviewers usually approached public figures with, this was the tactless approach.  

   “The Rescue organization is a non-government funded organization, our funding comes directly from consenting contributions, investors, and other revenue streams such as The Rescue Tribune, and so, I have no idea why you’d be asking me where taxpayer’s money is being thrown at, when your local law-enforcement and government are tasked with the responsibility of keeping its civilians safe. It’s easy to confuse the responsibilities of the Rescue organization with the government, if only because we’re oftentimes cleaning up their messes, but the responsibilities aren’t ours. Reporters, like yourself, should do a better job telling the whole truth, and not merely what’s convenient.” Vivian Herms replied, affording the interviewer a level of irritation that was uncommon for her to give the media. 

   “Does this mean you’ll be doing nothing to avenge the death of fallen officer Alicia Camél?” The interviewer prodded further. 

   “I didn’t say we’d be doing nothing,” Vivian Herms fired back. “Our intent is fully on bringing the person responsible for their act against our officer into custody.” 

   Vivian Herms walked away from the man before he had a chance to ask another assertive question. Vulpecula could tell she regained her disposition some by the last question, if only because of the lifeless and very political euphemisms she used in-place of “the murder of our officer.” Her heart no longer on her sleeve, slinking back inside her like a scared turtle inside its shell. 

  The scene ended on a hanging shot of the interviewer standing there awkwardly until the screen cutaway back to the anchorman Tristian Mathers. Vulpecula watched on for a few seconds before he heard someone knocking on his front-door. Could it have been the serial-killer coming by to reveal his identity to The Fox Detective, or could it be that one journalist Logan Norms stopping by to interview him for some sleazy tabloid? Vulpecula didn’t take very long to stew over the possibilities, turning off the television by hand, and answering the door. As fate would have it, the dejected Vivian Herms stared back at him. 

   Momentarily, Vulpecula felt mesmerized. He was in the presence of a television-star, after all, but shortly thereafter, his amusement died like that little boy Nicholas did in a fire; a cruel thought for a cruel world. Vulpecula snarled his teeth. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Mrs. Herms?”  

   “I imagine you’re aware of the killer that has been running roughshod throughout Acera?” She asked, clearly not in the mood for basic pleasantries. 

   “Roughshod, oh no, I think I read a limerick some time ago about a murderer caught rabblerousing, even last week, I could’ve sworn I saw a strangler out causing shenanigans, but never roughshod. Sounds serious,” Vulpecula replied. 

   Part of him felt bad about his response. Part of him even regretted it on some level. Vivian Herms had always been a remnant of a forgotten time for Vulpecula. The closest friend to his father Hensley Noel that hadn’t been offed because of it. If not for her, the Rescue foundation would’ve forgotten all about the white, little fox that lived in his father’s shadow. It would have been a welcome change, in some respects. However, his bottomless bank-account inherited from his father had paid off many of his expensive bar-tabs and bills over the years.  

   “Looks like I’ve come by during one of your moods, is your lizard-friend nearby or the owl, perhaps? Certainly, neither would be foolish enough to leave you alone without adult-supervision?” 

   “I did fine the last six months in Urgway by myself,” Vulpecula replied. It was a thinly veiled rebuttal, and one that could easily be debunked if she knew the reason that he came back to Acera. That was neither here nor there, however.  

   “It all depends on perspective, I think. Since you came back from Urgway, they’ve recently appointed a mutt as mayor in that city, a first for this side of the millennium. Acera has its first serial-killer since God knows when and, on a personal scale, you absolutely reek of alcohol. Fine is not a way I’d describe anything happening in Maharris right now,” Vivian Herms replied. Clearly, her cool and calm demeanor in-front of the cameras would not be maintained behind closed doors. 

   “That mutt will do more for Maharris than any of you halfwits at Rescue ever could,” Vulpecula barked. 

   “A dog buys you a walking stick and you’re ready to jump off a cliff and die with him. Such naivete. You clearly were too young to remember the last-time a dog had its paws on a position of power,” Herms replied. 

   “I think my father died, and I lost my mother, but that doesn’t mean all animals that bark are responsible.” Vulpecula reflected some over his choice of the words, the way his father only died, and his mother counted as an actual loss. 

   Vivian Herms’ scowl dropped. “You don’t see how this is a problem?” 

   “I believe he sees what came before him and doesn’t define himself by it. I can relate to not wanting to follow the footsteps left by the shadows of my ancestors.” 

   Vivian Herms didn’t dignify Vulpecula’s response with much more than an eye-roll before progressing to her next order of business, “One of my officers is dead because of the killer they call Poison. I need you to stop drowning your sorrows in whatever beer bottle you can get your paws on and start finding out who he is, if you want, you can return to digging yourself an early-grave right after. This should entice you. It isn’t an actress pretending to be kidnapped at the McKinley Hall Theater, so you can’t blame disinterest on a lack of challenge.” 

   The Fox Detective’s ears pricked at Vivian’s statement.“Oh, I can’t wait to tell Lacerta his blog has a fan.” 

   “I also know that you’ve no means to pay your bills absent Rescue’s generosities.” 

   “You believe that if you threaten to cut me off that I’ll bend to your every will?” 

   Vivian Herms shrugged. “I figure if you’re no longer willing to help for the sake of stopping a heinous murderer from taking more innocent lives, you’ll be willing to help for alcohol. It’s an upsetting revelation, the nosedive of what’s important to you has taken, but here we are.” 

   Vulpecula held the stare for a few seconds. It was difficult to know whether Vivian Herms’ condescension came from a place of tough-love or disdain. “I’ve already begun trying to catch our killer, Mrs. Herms. Unless your officer has skeletons in her closet, I feel confident that Poison isn’t the one who killed her.” 

   “A serial killer with manners then, and you expect me to take you at your inebriated word on that?” Vivian Herms shot back. 

   This time Vulpecula was able to infer for certain exactly what Vivian felt – grief. Alicia Camél had meant more to her than an employee of the Rescue organization. She was a friend. Vulpecula had tried his best not to be empathetic as of late. It seemed like fewer casualties came when he kept his muzzle out from affairs, but he couldn’t change who he was. It wouldn’t turn off like a switch, no matter how hard he tried to numb his senses. When Hensley and Nora Noel went away, Vulpecula had lost his parents, but Vivian Herms had lost her closest friends. For a split second, Vulpecula found himself able to visualize his mother’s wedding photo the way it rested above her dresser, it showed a younger, happier Vivian Herms. How many loved ones had Rescue cost her?  

   “You don’t have to take me at my word, take him at his. I asked him, he told me.” Vulpecula answered honestly, expecting the worst as the words escaped his lips.  

   “What the hell do you mean you asked him? Did he send you a post-card? Maybe your besties on a message-board!?”  

   “I’m a popular guy,” Vulpecula jested. 

   Vivian Herms carried a glare that made it clear she wasn’t in the mood for further friendly banter. 

   “I didn’t think he was responsible for several of the murders the media was tacking onto his rap-sheet. Once I took those out, it was easier to isolate his routine and figure out his pattern. I found his routine and the shot in the dark paid off.” 

   “You believe him? The man’s a murderer!” 

   “If he was lying than he’d have thought I was on his tail and ended my life, the fact he didn’t is proof he abides by a set of principles.” 

   Vivian Herms rubbed her temples. “So, there’s two different serial-killers stalking people in Acera?” 

   “Times are changing, Mrs. Herms. Maybe looking at the evidence with the new information will help us find out more about Alicia’s murderer, maybe we can stop him before he kills again.” 

   “No,” Vivian Herms said. “We can’t. Alicia isn’t his latest victim. There has been another, and it was bad enough to make me want to bring you in.” 

   “Oh,” Vulpecula commented, feeling a small twinge of angst slither up his spine. He walked over to his coat rack and snatched up his green-scarf. “Where is it?” 

   “The McKinley Hall Theater.” 

4.

   Vulpecula felt no nostalgia as he stepped out from Vivian Herms’ limousine and beheld the theater in all its splendor. It had been only a year since he solved the mysterious disappearance of Molly Louise, an actress who faked her kidnapping to procure a spot in the prestigious Magnet performance art troupe. So much had happened in such a short time. Yet, he felt no need to reminisce what once was.  

   Vivian Herms ran point in-front of him, walking up the long-stretch of stairs leading to the entrance. Soon, she even had a sizeable lead, Vulpecula having to use his walking stick to support his bad ankle. 

   As he walked in, Vulpecula immediately took in a whiff of popcorn coming from behind the concession stands, eying the red-carpeted floor beneath him while Vivian Herms led the way. The theater had been closed for the day, with good reason, but the faculty managers loomed on in the background. Vulpecula could sense their eyes on him, but ignored it, fidgeting with the fur on his chin. 

   “This doesn’t even remotely fit the modus operandi of the Poison killer. This is far too out-in-the-open and over-the-top, far too, …,” Vulpecula began, finding himself interrupted by Vivian Herms. 

   “Theatrical?” She said, her inflection carried such a withered tone that Vulpecula couldn’t be for certain if that was an attempt at humor or not. 

   “The Poison killer wouldn’t do something like this. He operates in dark alleyways. This would be too risky for him.”  

   Vivian Herms came to a standstill, allowing Vulpecula the much-needed chance to cut the distance between them. After all, she was the only one of the two that knew where they were headed. She shoved open the heavy-wood doors that led to McKinley Hall Theater’s largest stage and held them open while she waited for Vulpecula. 

   Vulpecula nodded his head as an act of appreciation, judging by her reaction, he wasn’t certain whether she’d noticed. She allowed him to walk past her, walking down steps that led him closer to the stage. 

   “What can you tell me about the victim?” Vulpecula asked, looking over to Vivian Herms. It felt sad or hollow, looking not to Detective Psitticus or either of his friends. 

   “His name is Asahi Tanaka. He was a cat with a tortoiseshell coat and aspired to become a member of Magnet’s traveling troupe,” Vivian Herms began. 

   Vulpecula shot her a look. “He’s not pretending to be dead, is he?” 

   “If he is, then he’s the best performance artist I’ve ever seen.” 

   Vulpecula smiled weakly, for a small second, he found he was enjoying himself, an accident his mind shortly rectified. “Did he have a criminal background?” 

   “By that, you mean, did he do anything to deserve to die?” Vivian shot back with a stinging sense of righteousness that Vulpecula found hard to stomach. 

   “I never said any of Poison’s victims deserved their fate, all I said is that he had a system he followed, now, tell me, does Mr. Tanaka fit that system?” 

   “No,” Vivian Herms answered. “Mr. Tanaka had no prior criminal history and was, for all intents and purposes, a model citizen of Acera.” 

   Vulpecula met the stage and had yet to see the victim, a fact that struck him as strange, that is, until he found who he was looking for. The reason he hadn’t seen Mr. Tanaka was simple: he hadn’t been meant to be seen. There had been a reason Vivian Herms thought to mention his tortoiseshell-colored fur, and it’s because Mr. Tanaka’s fur was not that color anymore. 

   As Vulpecula found himself on the stage, the black figure was now distinct, looking out toward the crowd from behind Mr. Tanaka, the victim was no longer hidden by the onyx sky backdrop.  

   “What was he trying to say,” Vulpecula asked, whispering the words beneath his breath to keep listening ears from eavesdropping. The figure was contorted, forced in a backwards crawl. As Vulpecula came closer, he could see that Mr. Tanaka’s eyes were not shut but painted over as with the rest of his body. 

   “Wax,” Vulpecula commented, saying it loud enough for Vivian Herms to overhear. 

   “We’ve interviewed employees and they said that Mr. Tanaka was a regular until a month ago, which leads us to believe that The Poison Killer might have used wax as a preservative measure to slow down the decomposition process,” Vivian explained. 

   “I can’t imagine how you can possibly blame this on Poison at this stage,” Vulpecula stopped for a second, realizing his accidental choice of words, then, continued, “this doesn’t fit his modus operandi on any level.” 

   “If you’re able to catch them both, I’ll acknowledge they both exist.” 

   Vulpecula shook his head, giving Vivian a weak smile for her troubles. “Sometimes the truth is better than newspapers that create the illusion of safety.” 

   “Tell that to every person who starts petitions every time they receive a speeding ticket, proclaiming to anyone that will listen that Maharris has reentered the dark ages.” 

   Vulpecula felt a sudden rush of euphoria, the room spun around and around again. What drove someone to take the life of another? What instilled in someone the urge to turn them black and pose them like a stage-prop? For that matter, what made them want to set a small child on fire in a cage like what had happened in Urgway? What made someone chop off their hand like Comet Fowley did to escape The Shock’s wrath or go out seeking their own form of justice like Poison did? The Fox Detective dropped to his knees. 

   The black figure’s head moved abruptly, making a vile cracking sound as it did. Its eyes turned bright red, and as though its mouth had become covered in tar, his jaw pried itself ajar, exposing the figure’s long, white teeth. The creature didn’t appear to be angry or driven by malicious intent. Quite the contrary, with a wink at Vulpecula, it turned its back to him and leaped off from the stage, flailing its arms around. 

   Vulpecula limped forward, looking on in awe of the spectacle. This black figure, the cat once known as Asahi Tanaka, was now nothing more than a prop in a grander play. The cat was only one line in a cruel limerick; a chapter in a tragic, black comedy. What was the purpose? Vulpecula fidgeted with the fur on his chin as he tried to carry the thought to its most logical end. Art could be open to so many different interpretations. As the black figure kept moving up the white steps, Vulpecula thought about how much more distinctive he came across behind white instead of behind black. Is that the message? Hiding in plain sight? Like it was waiting on a cue, the black figure melted away to the floor and dissipated before his eyes. 

    Vulpecula forced a grin as Vivian Herms looked on in confusion. He was happy to see he hadn’t completely lost his mind yet. Happy that, on some level, his clouded mind still tried relaying the messages on his mental chalkboard, even if they weren’t as clear as they once were. “I think our killer is winking at us, flexing his muscles to let us know that we can’t catch him.” 

   Vulpecula turned his back to Vivian Herms and faced the black backdrop. A flicker of light shined in the black. It was a light that hadn’t been there before. Vulpecula walked closer to it, the closer he got, the clearer the image became. The sound of a child screaming loudly, the noise would relent. The bright light burned on and on, and Vulpecula knew he could do nothing to extinguish it. Vulpecula turned back to Vivian Herms, but Vivian Herms was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a pure white backdrop stood in-front of him. It looked so vivid and real that he thought he might even be able to walk into it, but he felt a barrier between him and the white backdrop. On the other side, he saw Tony Rockwell, who suffered as a man stabbed him repeatedly with a knife. A gray-fox with a green-scarf stared back at Vulpecula, a knife dripping with blood. “You couldn’t save them.” 

   As fast as it took Vulpecula to comprehend what had happened, he felt a new presence behind him, the black figure resting his head on his shoulder. “So, how do you have a chance in hell of stopping me?” The voice reminded him of charcoal. It was cracklier and heavier than even the worst chain-smoker, and the voice petrified him with fear. Vulpecula could feel the scarf around his neck tighten like a noose. He struggled to breathe. 

   “Vulpecula,” a voice called out, a voice that seemed so distant and far away. “Vulpecula,” the voice felt closer this time around. “Vulpecula!” Vivian Herms yelled, snapping The Fox Detective out from his trance. 

   Vulpecula’s body jerked, flinching and flailing away from Vivian Herms as though she were a mugger trying to nick his wallet. As he regained his disposition, his body loosened, and his maddened eyes could rest. 

   “Hensley used to roll his eyes back in his head and drift off, you both have that in common,” Vivian Herms said, having since allowed her weary legs to rest, seating herself in one of the audience chairs. 

   The fact Vivian even allowed herself that pleasure meant something about how she thought of him, Vulpecula observed. She was all about appearances, about making it clear she was strong and formidable. She was strong and formidable too, however, she was also in her fifties and, with that, came the need to sit every now and again, despite her best efforts. 

   “My father and I have nothing in common,” Vulpecula answered, without taking a second to digest what Vivian Herms had even said to him. It was reflex to disregard any comparison someone made to him and his father, complimentary or otherwise. 

   “Why exactly do you hate him so much?” Vivian Herms asked, her voice sounding irritable and frustrated. “Nobody’s perfect, but at least he wasn’t an alcoholic who alienates himself from everyone, friends be damned!” 

   “You don’t know anything about me!” Vulpecula shouted, throwing his walking stick of the stage, a walking stick he hadn’t even realized was still in his possession. 

   The cane landed nowhere near Vivian Herms because he hadn’t been aiming for her, landing somewhere off into the stands. 

   The white rage caught both Vulpecula and Vivian Herms by surprise, and for a fleeting second, The Fox Detective realized he hadn’t fully been able to control it. Was this the gray-fox bursting out the seams? 

   “I’m sorry,” Vulpecula said beneath his breath, feeling defeated, feeling like a small child after a temper tantrum. 

   “You have his temper too,” Vivian Herms said in a matter of fact tone. “You think he and you are so different, but I bet you anything if you met him, you’d see how alike you both are. Your father was a lot of things. He was stubborn, and he was reckless, but, in his own way, he always tried to do what was right.” 

   “At the expense of everyone he ever came in contact with,” Vulpecula stared at Vivian Herms and didn’t waver, but he couldn’t help but think of all the victims he’d failed to save, no matter his good intent. 

   “If no one ever made mistakes trying to make the world a better place, we’d never know what not to do,” Vivian Herms said, presenting a fortune cookie phrase she must have found in the book of clichés. It was silent between them for a few seconds until Vivian said something more substantial. “Hensley Noel didn’t mean to cost your mother her life.” 

   The words stung like a violent wind. Vulpecula refused to make eye-contact, looking at the black-tar man at the front-of-the-stage. It was a new face that would now inevitably haunt his nightmares. Whether it be the boy burned alive or Comet Fowley’s severed hand crawling up the back of his neck like a spider, what a fun scrapbook they’d make in his best friend’s collage. Tony Rockwell, Vulpecula said the name in his head. A friend to both Vulpecula and Hensley; now, gutted and made a mockery of. Vulpecula took in a breath and let it leave him. He walked toward the edge of the stage and sat down, dangling his legs off and then, leaped down, letting his good ankle take the bulk of the impact. 

   “Now, what are you doing? I say something you don’t like and now you don’t want to be a detective anymore, that’s it!?” Vivian Herms mocked, sounding irritated and argumentative. 

   “I don’t know if I even want to be alive anymore,” Vulpecula replied plainly, and added: “I’m tired of carrying all these ghosts with me.” 

   Vivian Herms’ face changed. It was a subtle change, one that he might not even have noticed had he not been so close to her, but he was, and he did. Her tight frown loosened to something softer. “Then let some of them leave you.” 

   Vulpecula smiled. It wasn’t an expression he felt. There was no happiness and what Vivian Herms had said wasn’t particularly funny. Nevertheless, he smiled. Maybe it was an attempt at gratitude? A silent attempt at expressing thanks that Vivian Herms even cared, or maybe smiling in uncomfortable situations was just something people did? Vulpecula reached over and grabbed his walking stick, heading up the stairs. Before he left, however, he stopped. “I can’t help you find your killer, but I do hope you find him. I appreciate what you’ve done for me over the years, even if I don’t always show it. Please don’t funnel me any more of my father’s money, neither he nor I deserve it.” 

5.

   “I don’t know how to make myself better.” Vulpecula started, looking at Carrie, who listened in carefully. “I thought things would change when I left Urgway. I thought things could go back to the way they were. I thought it would be Lacerta, Apus, and I, solving nonsense mysteries and these nightmares, this anger and fear, … I thought all of it would come to pass.” 

   “Why didn’t it?” Carrie asked, walking over to the front-window of her store, changing the sign from open to closed. 

   “Because I am different. I can’t come back to Acera and smile and nod, not when I know there’s a city not even a day’s trip away where everything’s terrible and no one cares enough to make it better. There, everyone either adds fuel to the fire or shrugs their shoulders because they know it will never get better,” Vulpecula ranted. 

   “You came to Acera, and you thought that everything would change like you flipped a switch, but have you stopped to consider that maybe other vices followed you back?” Carrie asked, making an assertion that somehow kept from sounding aggressive in its intent. 

   Vulpecula pondered the thought for only a second. That is, only a second before he smelled the alcohol under his own breath. “Drinking was meant as a coping mechanism to be weened off of once I found my bearings in Acera again.” 

   “Rather difficult to find ones’ bearings when one can’t even walk in a straight-line,” Carrie jested. 

   “What do you suppose I should do then?” Vulpecula asked, looking at her with curious eyes. 

   “I think you came to me the way you did because you thought a stranger who didn’t know you would say what you wanted to hear – but I won’t. You need help, Vulpecula. It wasn’t Urgway that did it, it was you, and problems that aren’t being dealt with. Try an AA meeting, they’ve been helpful for individuals in your situation.” 

   Vulpecula smiled, and this time he did know why, “The Rescue Tribune would have a field-day with that. There is no anonymous, not for me.” 

   “And I suppose you think you’re too intelligent for a therapist to take a whack at you then?” 

   “It doesn’t matter what I think. I don’t have the money to pay for a therapist, not anymore.” 

   “Whatever decision you decide to make for yourself, all I know is the right step is to find a support-system, surround yourself with people who care and value you. Ones that can keep an eye on you, keep you out of your own head.” Carrie suggested, then, Vulpecula heard rattling keys. “I have to head home for the night, will you be alright by yourself?” 

   Vulpecula nodded, feeling in his front-pocket for his phone. Carrie smiled weakly, “You’re going to be okay, Vulpecula. Hang in there.”  

* * * 

   Vulpecula keyed in the buttons on his cellphone, sitting down at a bench, feeling the night-air touch his fur. The phone rang for a few seconds until, “… Hey, Lacerta, it’s,” but Vulpecula was shortly interrupted by Lacerta’s voice-mail. Vulpecula canceled the phone-call and only sat there for a couple of seconds. They were the only family he’d ever known, and they abandoned him in Urgway. They didn’t abandon you, Vulpecula’s second inner, more rational, voice countered.  

   This wasn’t the same as when Hensley Noel went running on his merrily day and had himself a bad case of the deaths. This was different. They had their own lives to live and he couldn’t expect them to uproot. He couldn’t drop his problems on them like a puzzle to solve. It was a vicious cycle; he was starting to realize. Every time he thought he was making a step in the right direction, like one of those endless staircase illusions, he found himself right back where he started. All he knew was that Urgway called to him, but he didn’t trust himself to answer. Carrie was right. He needed help. 

   Vulpecula felt his phone vibrating on his lap, seeing Lacerta’s picture on the screen. This time, however, it was V who didn’t answer. Instead, Vulpecula looked down at his walking stick, which rested against the bench. A carving of a canine’s head looked back at him. There was another person who still cared about making Urgway a better place and Vulpecula had his number.