The Lupus Howler

   As Logan Norms left the precinct, so did Vulpecula. When Logan Norms entered his vehicle, Vulpecula entered his own. And, as Logan Norms took a left on Broadway Rd. and drove by Mezloom Park, so did Vulpecula. What logic did Vulpecula have to make sense out of how he was feeling? Just that, a feeling, no facts or real evidence whatsoever. But it was a strong feeling. Vulpecula heard his cellphone’s ringtone sound off in his back-pocket. It was Mayor Barker, who called an hour before every breathalyzer test as either a courtesy or a power-play. Either way, for now, he’d have to settle for voice-mail. 

   Vulpecula was careful in his pursuit, not wanting to set off any of Logan’s suspicions. His boot let up on the gas, letting some distance be created in-between them. 

   “Why are you following him? What do you think you’ll be able to do?” A voice called out to Vulpecula from the passenger-side of his car.  

   Vulpecula looked in the rear-view mirror and made eye-contact with the black-tarred man before he shook his head, trying to snap the abomination out of his mind. 

   “Abomination? Is that really the right way to describe me? After all, I was an innocent victim of a terrible serial-killer’s wrath, once upon a time.” 

   “You’re not him!” Vulpecula yelled out, nearly missing the turn to follow Logan. 

   “You don’t have a gun with you. Sanec Barker knew better than to let you carry one of those.” 

   “All I want to know is where he’s headed, not to make a scene, not to do anything, all I want to see is him return to his hotel or wherever he’s staying. I can work from there,” Vulpecula said. He could feel his hands shaking as he drove. 

   The serial-killer wreaking havoc in Maharris was in his line of vision, he felt so sure of it. “And, what if he leads you to something you don’t want to see, then? What if he leads you to another one of me? Can you really afford the extra company? Your car’s only a four-seater after all, you’re about out of room.” 

   “If I catch him in the act, then I’ll scare him off, I’ll save whoever he’s trying to hurt,” Vulpecula fired back, unsure of why he was arguing with himself and even more unsure why he was losing said fight. 

   “Will you? Will you, really? How many times has that worked out? Saving people…,” The voice was not that of anyone Vulpecula could remember. It certainly wasn’t the serial-killer’s victim who Vulpecula had never spoken to. The voice was unpredictable, with highs and lows at sporadic intervals. For moments, Vulpecula could have sworn he heard the deep inflection of Sanec Barker’s voice, at others, he could’ve sworn he heard the cool cadence of Akil and Ajou, but, mostly, it had the slither and effortlessness of a snake’s whisper. 

   “This time will be different,” Vulpecula said, once more hearing the sound of his cellphone going off. 

   “What if it isn’t? What if another dies, same as the rest, same as how you couldn’t save me!” 

   “You are no one. You’re nothing except a figment of my imagination.” 

   “Oh,” The black-tarred man appeared offended. “Could a figment do this?” The black-tarred man snatched the wheel, steering them off the road. The car flipped over onto its hood. 

2. 

   Vulpecula’s head throbbed, but he had kept from sustaining a concussion, according to the doctors at the Lily Hearts hospital. His vehicle hadn’t been as fortunate in the crash, however. Vulpecula sat in the backseat of Mayor Barker’s car. It was a nice looking vehicle with a jet-black paint-job, owned by Urgway’s mayor, but not driven. Vulpecula supposed the position of Mayor had its perks, but, then again, Vulpecula couldn’t remember ever seeing Barker drive. Duke sat in the driver’s seat with his paws at ten-and-two while Mayor Barker sat in the passenger’s side. 

   Like a small child, Vulpecula sat in the backseat waiting for Sanec to dole out the lecture that’d no doubt been rolling around in his head. 

   “You’re lucky to be alive,” Sanec began. “I’ve had friends in law enforcement who’ve died the same way.” 

   “I understand you’re upset, that you likely feel I’m squandering the opportunity you went out a limb to give me, but you have to listen – I know who the serial-killer is in Acera, and he’s here with us in Urgway,” Vulpecula began, feeling the jittery feeling overcome him again as the realization was once more realized. 

   The statement seemed to pique Sanec Barker’s interest, but his subdued demeanor made it difficult to infer the extent. 

   “Duke, I need you to pull over the vehicle,” the Mayor of Urgway instructed. 

   Duke complied. The traffic wasn’t bad as they had yet to reach the inner-city; long stretches of road and huge gaps between ongoing vehicles. As the car came to a stop, Mayor Barker looked at the creek partly hidden beneath the overpass and the forest of bare, dying trees. Sanec looked over to Duke, whose eyes were covered-up by a pair of black sunglasses. “Go have a smoke, Duke.” 

   Duke’s mouth opened as though he were about to speak, and it almost even seemed like he had uttered a few syllables before he was silenced, realizing that Sanec didn’t care in the slightest whether he smoked or not. Duke stepped out of the vehicle. Vulpecula watched as Sanec Barker’s eyes went over to him. Not in a direct way, but, instead, their eyes made contact through the rear-view mirror. 

   “I’m grateful that you’re alive and well, and I’m grateful that you didn’t fail the breathalyzer test I ordered they give you after the crash,” Sanec began. “What makes you think that you’ve found Acera’s serial-killer?” 

   “Plural. I’ve met both Poison and the serial-killer who covers his victims in tar, the latter of which is a journalist named Logan Norms.” Vulpecula focused on Sanec’s eyes, expecting a flicker of surprise or change, but, instead, was met with a calm, understated return. 

    “And what proof do you have to back up your lofty claims?” 

   “I have to believe there’s a reason you brought me back from the dirt and I believe it’s more than friendship or charity. I’ve heard before that I can look into the unknown and makes sense out of it, and I believe you saw that in me. I looked into Logan Norms’ cold, black eyes and I saw a cruelty in its purest form. I believe if we don’t stop him right now, it’ll be only a matter of time until he kills again.” 

   Sanec Barker remained quiet, as if chewing on what Vulpecula had said to him. Vulpecula feared he didn’t believe him, “Look, I know I have a history that warrants you take everything I say with a grain of salt, but I know it’s him and I know you don’t want a serial-killer making figurines outta civilians.” 

   “There’s already been another murder.” 

    For a moment, it felt as though Vulpecula’s heart had come to a halt, but he fought off his hesitation and trudged forward, “You have to let me see the body. I looked into Logan Norms’ eyes and I could tell he was the killer, if I can look at the body then I can,” Sanec Barker waved him off, shaking his head. 

   “The latest victim hasn’t even been revealed to the press yet, that’s how well we’ve kept it contained. I can promise you I’ll follow up on your suspicions against Logan Norms, but, I can’t let you within a hundred mile radius of this case. The way I see it, you had a psychic prediction of a murder that just so happened to be right in your proximity. And, I’m willing to believe that, for now. I’ll follow up on Logan Norms’ alibi, but I’ll also being following up on your alibi. The Lauren Dahl case was meant to take a day or two, at most, and instead, the spent nearly a week unsupervised and come back with this information. I’m the mayor of Urgway and I have an obligation to do what’s best for every civilian, friendships be damned.” 

   Vulpecula felt offended, but he fought it down. The assertion that he could be responsible for anyone’s death felt absurd to him, but he had to see it from Sanec Barker’s perspective. That’s where Vulpecula’s faith in his lied, after all. He could make the strong decisions and think to a final solution, where Vulpecula hesitated. The heroics wouldn’t be framed such a way in a children’s story, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t save lives in the grander scheme. Vulpecula nodded his head, swallowing his pride and letting his faith fall to Mayor Barker. 

   “If I’m not helping with Logan Norms, then, what will you have me do instead?” Vulpecula asked. 

3. 

   Vulpecula Noel arrived in the Marybeth district before nightfall that afternoon. It was the old stomping grounds, so to speak, and yet, it was difficult to say he felt nostalgic as the dreary sky loomed overhead. This was where he’d spent a year employed as an officer, and where he’d once again be investigating a murderer’s heinous crimes. Although, Sanec Barker wouldn’t allow him to help in catching one serial-killer, he had enough faith in him to let him try and prevent another. 

   Gangs weren’t an out of the ordinary occurrence in Urgway. They often fail into two distinct categories: post-Canes affiliations and ones that spun off once The Canes Vinatici collapsed. Distinguishing one from the other was vital in understanding the crimes being committed. Was it a hate crime? What message was trying to be sent? Certain gangs followed certain motifs, as well. Furthermore, the death in the Marybeth district of Michael Combs distinctly mirrored the “Lupus Howler” method of facial mutilation by the Canis Majors. The Canis Majors arose shortly after The Canes’ head-honchos were arrested and discarded with, claiming themselves the last survivors and final among the elite. 

   Most Maharris history books didn’t talk about The Canis Majors. It didn’t make any sense to publicize their atrocities and doing so would’ve went against Hensley Noel and Rescue’s agenda of deescalating conflict between The Canes and general society. Since they weren’t publicized at the height of their heinous crimes, their notoriety was mostly left up to true-crime novelists and seasoned men and women of law enforcement. And Vulpecula, who could remember walking into his father’s office where a large bulletin board had various photographs tacked onto it. 

   The scene of the crime wasn’t chosen for its spectacle or audacity. It wasn’t a severed hand at the Supreme Stadium or a famous sword stolen from a museum, and it wasn’t a dead-body dolled up for its theater debut. The Fox Detective stepped out of the vehicle that Sanec Barker had been kind enough to commission for him and beheld the Highlight Springs Village; a trailer-park with a road that ended in a bowl-shaped cul de sac. His first instinct told him it was a quiet and quaint neighborhood. It his year in Marybeth, he couldn’t recall investigating a single crime in the lot. Then again, looks could be deceiving, and he had been called to investigate a grisly and violent murder, so, who was to say? 

   Vulpecula held a stern demeanor as he walked toward the bright yellow crime-scene security tape and was offered a head shake by one of the police officers. “No press, buddy,” the officer replied. 

   Vulpecula reached into the inside pocket of his black jacket, looking to unveil his trusty Maharris Selective badge, bestowed to him by Mayor Barker. Each of the five major city mayors were allowed to appoint Maharris Selectives’, special members of law-enforcement that could claim jurisdiction either by their appointed credentials or by mayor approval. Considering that Vulpecula had no credentials to speak of, he depended solely on the latter. 

   “Let him through,” a voice called out from afar, one that Vulpecula recognized. 

   The officer complied, doing the honors of lifting the yellow tape for the small fox to walk under. Vulpecula nodded as a form of gratitude and began his way toward the trailer. Behind him, he hadn’t noticed before, but there stood a handful of onlookers. They weren’t the press, digging into every murder victim like ants on cane sugar, but concerned neighbors. 

   “How have you been, Psitticus?” Vulpecula asked, offering a weak smile to the Marybeth Police Department’s head detective. 

   “Merrier than ever,” the parrot deadpanned. “So, I see Sanec has you running errands for him. Come take a look then.” 

   Vulpecula obliged, following his former superior up the double-wide trailer’s carpeted porch. The home had seen better days. The outside walls were stained green with moss and the carpeted porch was caked by dry mud. Whoever had been killed, they had been kills days ago, Vulpecula learned as Psitticus fought open the screen-door. The smell met the fox’s nose long before he was anywhere near the dead body. He’d seen dead bodies before, far more now than he’d ever expected, but the stench of death struck him like a rush of wind. Vulpecula tried to fight off a cough, but lost the battle, actually gagging at the smell until he mustered the strength to mask his nose with his scarf. 

   He looked up at Detective Psittacus who merely looked on in a nonchalant fashion: “Oh, and brace yourself. The smell is a real doozy.” 

   “Exactly who am I about to look at?” Vulpecula asked, closing the screen-door behind him. 

   The inside of the house was a simple, modest household. The living room had a small couch and recycling chair facing an entertainment center that carried a large, fifty-something inch television. It was an older television; the cathode ray types that had the heavier, bulkier tail-end. The carpets were a tan-color and the walls were wood panels. Vulpecula was certain to make note of the dirty shoe-prints on the, other-wise clean, carpet, jotting it down on his black chalkboard for later use. 

   “The man’s name is Dave Arnold. Encase you’re curious, I ran a background check before I left the station: the guy’s clean. Dave has a couple speeding tickets and that’s about the sum of it, no other priors. He has no known criminal affiliation, neither does his father or his brother or his half-cousin Rick. The man has no reason to be smiling like a jack o’lantern that our database can specify.” Detective Psitticus might have been trying to downplay Dave Arnold, and perhaps, maybe he was a schmuck in the wrong place at the wrong time, but there would be no downplaying the crime’s significance. 

   Detective Psitticus was high enough on the payroll that he didn’t have to leave the precinct unless he decided to, especially now that he was in the running to become a district captain; an important sounding name for an important job. District Captains were like team-managers across all the districts, they did the interviews and made the political decisions. In other-words, if Psitticus’ nomination led to a promotion, he’d once again be one of Vulpecula’s bosses. As experienced as his parrot friend was, Vulpecula couldn’t imagine him in such a suit-and-tie role as that. 

   “Do you believe this is the Canis Majors?” Vulpecula asked, following him down the hallway into the bedroom where Dave Arnold’s remains lied. 

   “I imagine we’re meant to believe that,” Psitticus answered. 

  Vulpecula chewed on his statement for a moment. They were “meant to believe that” was a challenge from the bird. It was his clue to make Vulpecula find what he’d already discovered. Vulpecula’s eyes met Dave Arnold’s. Moviegoers who’d seen a crime-drama on the big-screen might have thought they knew what a dead body looked like. Something films always lied about was the end. The victim’s eyes always shut as they breathed their last breath, and before that, they were so often able to say their last words. Dave Arnold’s eyes were not shut. His eyes stared back at Vulpecula with nothing behind them. And, if Dave Arnold was conscious to see his death, he wouldn’t have had any last words; only final screams. 

   “The Lupus Howler” was the trademark for Canis Majors which saw the victim’s cheeks pierced with a blade from mouth to as close to the ear as they could feasibly reach. The jaw was then broken, creating the illusion that the victim was “howling”. The crime had certain variations. The aesthetic wasn’t as accomplished when committed to an animal with a muzzle, offering a partial beheading as a suitably crude substitute. What was on display now it in tried and true form, Vulpecula observed. 

   “It’s messy,” Vulpecula observed. The comment in itself might have seemed like stating the obvious, but Psitticus nodded his head, understanding what he’d meant. 

   The Canis Majors were a hate-group meant to create fear and subdue Rescue’s movement for progression, but the Canes members knew they weren’t impervious from law-enforcement and were meticulous when it came to not leaving any evidence behind. Their orderliness is what would have made them so difficult to catch, had one of their victims not managed to escape and identify them. The agenda for this murder wasn’t so sophisticated. This was, for lack of a better phrase, a call to arms for law enforcement. The man’s shoe-prints would tell forensics information about where he’d been and if he overlooked something so obvious, perhaps he would overlook hair follicles and potential witness. The aggressive manner of which he carried out the crime suggested he wasn’t concerned with carrying his murders out the long haul. 

   “This is a sprint not a marathon,” Vulpecula commented, staring at the victim. “He’s telling us more murders will come if we’re not fast to catch him.” 

   “Looks like the chase is on then, what more can you tell me?” Detective Psitticus asked, likely wondering if it was worth having a known drunkard among the upper-tier of Urgway’s law-enforcement. 

   Whoever Dave Arnold was, it seemed certain he didn’t deserve the fate he received. His head pried open like one of those toy candy dispensers. It was a nasty image, ugly and cruel, but what else did it say about the man responsible? Vulpecula took a breath and let it leave him. He stopped fidgeting with the fur on his chin; something he hadn’t even realized he’d been doing. He looked down at the carpeted floor, until, at last, he looked up. Vulpecula looked around. The parrot had left and so had door out. It was now only him and the remains of Dave Arnold. 

   His body sat in a chair, behind him was the blank chalkboard, waiting for information to fill it. This had to have been a premeditated murder, and yet, it felt so … impulsive. When the Canis Major targeted animals, all of the non-canine persuasion, they were fueled by hatred, but they savored their cruelties and made their victim suffer. 

   Dave Arnold no doubt suffered. And yet, that didn’t seem like what this was about. This was fast. This wasn’t the average serial-killer’s method. Vulpecula turned his back to Dave Arnold and looked back in his head at the screaming child murdered in the greenhouse, then, felt the long, black-fingers of Logan Norms’ victim curl over his shoulder like strands of thick hair. Everyone had a reason for what they did. Nicholas’ murderers had cruelty, naivete, and a disregard for another ones’ life, and Poison motivated himself by a sense of righteousness. Why did Logan Norms do what he did? Was it the thrill of it? Was it the taboo of being able to write about his murders in the tabloids, … was every article he published a trophy in itself? 

   Vulpecula shook it off. The answer to that question wouldn’t help him understand Dave Arnold’s murder any better. Why did his killer need him to die? 

   Vulpecula took in a breath and let it leave him, turning to Detective Psitticus. “Dave Arnold meant nothing to the killer. Dave was a means to an end, nothing more and nothing less.” 

   “What then? The killer mutilated some guy for the fun of it all? That’s a morbid thought, even in these times.” 

   “It wasn’t for fun. The killer felt someone, be it Dave Arnold or whoever answered the door, had to die, but he didn’t savor it nor did he enjoy it. In this instance, the message was more important than the death,” Vulpecula explained, trying to make sense of something he couldn’t understand his own comprehension of. 

   “Okay, so, then, who’s the message for?” 

   “Us. You and I, the Rescue Tribune, and everyone that’s standing outside right now, terrified.” 

   “And, what’s the message?” 

   Vulpecula used his walking stick to point at Dave Arnold’s mangled remains, “The Lupus Howler is the message.” 

   “So, it’s a hate-crime, no different than the original Canis Majors?” 

   “Not a hate crime,” Vulpecula said, shaking his head in disagreement, “This wasn’t done because he hated Dave Arnold. This was something different.” 

   “How do we catch him?” Detective Psitticus asked, clearly feeling as though he’d been given the run-around. 

   “I have no doubt he left something behind. Not on purpose, mind you. He’d have thought of the basics. He’d have warn gloves and might even have concealed his face during the attack. But, other than that, he’d have left something that leads back to him. Unfortunately, however, that will take tests and depend on if he’s in any medical database. We’ll catch him eventually. What I fear is how many stops he’ll have a chance to make.” 

4. 

   After forensics arrived, swabbing at everything in their sight, in-search of something as large as a paw-print and as small as shirt lint, anything at all that might have once belonged to our murderer of the week. The Fox Detective bid them farewell, knowing there would be no way for him to assist on his end. His job would be to come up with a profile on the murderer, find some type of insight that the rest of the detectives might overlook. 

   Vulpecula pawed through his cellphone, browsing the Marybeth Police Department’s case files, yearning to find an old, forgotten murder that might connect to this new murder. He found nothing to speak of. The trailer park had retained a squeaky clean reputation by Urgway’s standards with low-stake disorderly conduct at the helm. It’d be far-fetched to try and link public urination at a local grocery store with such a diabolical murder. As he did so, he scrolled through his unread text messages and saw one had been sent from Apus. 

   I know you and Lacerta haven’t seen eye-to-eye with one another in recent months, or even years, for that matter, but I do hope you’ll consider coming back to Acera for the holidays. I can’t remember the last time all of us were together as a family for The Giving. I’ve come to accept that things will never be like they were, but it’d be nice if we could find a middle-ground. Let me know. – Apus 

   Vulpecula stared at the message for a moment. Last year, he had celebrated The Giving at a bar with a lizard named Red. Alcohol was now behind him, however. He would fight til his last breath to see to that, and maybe part of the healing process was piecing together all the relationships that had fallen to shambles. Maybe things couldn’t be like they were, back when they solved mysteries together like they were private eyes from a pulp fiction novel. But, maybe they could be salvaged. They were misfits, after all, with no strong ties to anyone else, no one else to call to as family. Vulpecula replied to Apus, thanking him and agreeing to attend. 

   His cellphone vibrating in his hand, this time, it was a phone-call from Detective Psitticus. Vulpecula doubted he was calling to invite him over for The Giving, but he answered it, nevertheless. 

    “Hello?” 

   “8173 Redwood Avenue,” The Marybeth Police Department’s Head Detective said. 

   “Got it.” 

   Click. 

   The line went dead on the other end. 

5.

   “What can you tell me about what happened to Elizabeth Marlin?” Vulpecula asked, trying to approach the killer’s latest murder in a new way. 

   The body was as brutal and harsh as the last, committing The Canis Majors’ trademark “Lupus Howler” once again. Redwood Avenue was a long ways away from the trailer-park the murderer had offed Dave Arnold, but the message appeared the same. 

   Their lead forensics’ man Mickey circled around Elizabeth Marlin as though he was squaring up a foe; a very easy foe to defeat, Vulpecula imagined. 

   “If we’re assuming she was treated the way of Dave Arnold, then, she should have a needle-mark right,” Mickey used his gloved-hand to spread apart some of Elizabeth’s fur. “Here,” he said, finding a small bug bite sized entry wound at the nape of her neck. 

   “What does he inject them with?” Vulpecula’s interest was drawn. As far as he could tell, except for the killer’s general sloppiness, he mostly followed The Canis Majors’ ritual in-full. 

   “Zepoleen,” Mickey responded. “It’s a pain medication, and a powerful one, especially when it’s injected straight into the bloodstream. It could knock out a bear. It’s that effective.” 

   “And, a normal, everyday animal wouldn’t be able to have access to something like that, would they?” 

   “Not unless they had a prescription,” Mickey answered. 

   That opened up one possibility – could the killer have had a medical background? As Vulpecula looked over at Elizabeth Marlin’s remains, he didn’t see the neat and tidiness he so often associated with the medical field. Either way, it wouldn’t help them in a very swift fashion, which would be what they needed to stop him from killing a third victim. What else could it have meant? Why was he administering pain medication? It supported Vulpecula’s working theory; it was more about the message it sent than the killing itself. It wasn’t necessary his victims suffered. It was only pertinent to him that they were displayed in his special way. If only he could have taken a page from Akil and Ajou and chose to use bodies that were already dead. 

   “Within the cruelty, our killer has compassion for his victims, that compassion’s merely overcome by what he feels is his obligation.” Vulpecula commented, drawing a look from Mickey that revealed to him his thoughts had been said aloud. “Is there anything else?” 

   “The victim is female, that’s new,” Mickey began, grasping at things, or, in this case, those with the lack thereof. “I’ll have to send everything we’ve taken back to the lab before I can comment on any residual evidence, although, we did find this underneath Elizabeth’s claws.” 

   Mickey walked over to a small cardboard box and rifled through it before coming back with a small zip-locked baggie which held what appeared to be a piece of clothe. Vulpecula stared at it. It could have been anything, but, most likely, it would be something Elizabeth pried off of the killer before she lost consciousness. If it was anything at all, then, that hopefully meant it’d lead to identifying her murderer. 

   Vulpecula looked at Elizabeth Marlin. She was one more ghost Vulpecula couldn’t save and one more dead body the killer had added to his heap. And, unless Vulpecula could find some inspiration and fast, it wouldn’t be the last either. What was the pattern? Vulpecula considered that thought. Once more, the household had no clear significance he could dignify. What about the victim? There was a shift from male to female, but what significance did that hold? Around Elizabeth’s home were photographs of friends and family. She seemed like a nice enough person with a whole life ahead of her. Knowing more about the victim always made it more difficult and more personal, but it was about the only place he could think to look. Maybe he’d find a pattern buried in the details if he looked hard enough. 

   Vulpecula heard a cellphone’s default ringtone sound and looked over to Mickey. 

   “Not me.” 

   Vulpecula retrieved his cellphone from his pocket and answered, it was Detective Psitticus. 

   “You will want to come down to the precinct. Our Canis Majors fellow has been busy,” Psitticus said, a mirthless, cold cadence in his voice. 

   “Another murder?” 

   “Not this time,” Detective Psitticus said. “The man actually escaped.” 

   “No, he didn’t,” Vulpecula said, looking through his blank chalkboard at the original murders The Canis Majors had committed, “He let him escape.” 

6. 

   It took three days for Cedric San to both come out of his coma and to fight beyond his hysterics; they were among the three longest days of Vulpecula’s life. As The Fox Detective waited, not knowing if Cedric would ever be able to speak to him, he dug further into the history of The Canis Majors’ heinous murders. This meant even the most obscure of information, things only archived by footnotes on the Maharris’ Criminal Database, a website he could only access on a restricted basis with Mayor Sanec Barker’s permission. It wasn’t so much that it carried mind-blowing revelations, rather, the information was more extensive, with all the trimmings kept for reference. 

   It wasn’t known to the public whether it was the third, fourth, or fifth murder, when it was that a man named Farley Henan managed to escape from one of The Canis Majors’ attacks, but the M.C.D. officially labeled it as happening after their fifth murder. This meant the murderer assumed which victim had escaped in developing his pattern, which meant he didn’t know for certain. Whoever was murdering throughout Urgway, they weren’t former members of The Canis Majors, or, at the very least, they weren’t ones who’d be privy to such information. 

   Although the doctors fought against law enforcement asking Cedric San to revisit the trauma, for fear of an emotional relapse, Cedric fought hard to have his story heard, and law enforcement wouldn’t silence him. Truth is, even if he didn’t feel it necessary, a killer was on the loose and so, they would have done anything they could to make him do it anyways. The world was cruel and it’d be the world’s victims tasked with setting it right, fair or not. 

   Cedric shook as he brought the coffee mug filled with cold water up to his lips. Vulpecula could see some of the water dribble out under his chin and into his fur. He was a survivor and, in that sense, he was fortunate. However, the scars on each side of his face told a different, more violent truth. He was carved into like someone scratching their initials into a tree, for no reason other than to send a message. Vulpecula would let him go on believing he overcame his adversary, that he survived on his own merit, and not because he was a letter that sent itself. 

   Vulpecula offered a polite smile, but said nothing yet, neither did Detective Psitticus, who sat in the chair to Vulpecula’s left. His eyes searched over Cedric, as if he was trying to possess his mind, to crack him open and see a better view of what he’d went through. Vulpecula tried to keep it from seeming obvious, but wasn’t certain if he succeeded. The last thing he wanted was for Cedric to feel like a lab experiment, that his life would now be perceived as only an ornament in the killer’s shrine. 

   “I don’t remember the actual, …,” Cedric began, then stopped. His voice was garbled and difficult to understand. 

   “No,” Vulpecula said. “You wouldn’t remember it. The animal has been known to use sedatives in-order to keep his victims incapacitated.” He also kills them while they’re unconscious, which is glaring evidence of how he let you live, especially with how he wrapped up your wounds for safekeeping. Vulpecula kept the last part to himself, but had already told his suspicions to Psitticus. “What we’re wondering is what you saw before you woke up, what can you tell us about your … attacker,” Vulpecula hesitated. 

   For only a moment, he nearly referred to his attacker as his “killer,” which would have been clearly incorrect. Then again, with how broken and weary he came across, it seemed like part of him had been killed. 

   “I, …,” Cedric started, then, stopped. His mother rested her shoulder on his back. His body nearly jerked him out of his seat before he found it in him to relent. 

   “Take your time,” Vulpecula reassured, resisting his own urges to fidget with the fur on his chin. If Cedric could fight through his anxieties, there was no reason he couldn’t. 

   “It was night,” Cedric began again. “I work the night-shift and so, I’m always forgetting to take my trash cans out to the road on Tuesday before the garbageman comes by. I turned on my porch light and I went outside.” Cedric shivered for a moment. The pitch of his voice became more unhinged the further he had to recount the memory. “I felt something hit me in the back of my head. I can still remember the way my ears ringed afterwards, how quiet everything felt, the way all the light started to fade away. I turned my head and I saw my attacker for all of a few seconds before I lost consciousness.” 

   “Do you remember anything about what you saw? What he looked like or what species he was?” Psitticus asked. 

   Cedric shook his head. “Whoever it was, he wore a mask.” 

   “Hmm, …,” Vulpecula said, choosing not to elaborate beyond that. 

   “Do you guys think you’ll be able to catch him?” 

   “I swear to you that we will stop the man who did this to you. Neither he nor I will stop until the man’s behind bars,” Detective Psitticus answered. His voice seemed cagey and even rattled, it was something Vulpecula had rarely seen from the seasoned veteran. 

* * * 

   Shortly after Vulpecula and Psitticus both thanked Cedric Sans for his assistance, Vulpecula entered the parrot’s office, throwing a small folder atop his desk. 

   “Page 13, third paragraph, I’ve highlighted it for you,” Vulpecula said. 

   Detective Psitticus said nothing in-response, instead, he merely complied, opening the folder and searching until he found the aforementioned paragraph. “This is from the Maharris Criminal Database. I see that being best pals with Sanec Barker has its advantages.” 

   “Did you see it?” 

   “The mask?” 

   “I had to search through fourteen pages of information before I found any mention of a mask. When the Canis Majors were all arrested, no masks were found. No one knew anything for sure about what they looked like.” 

   “They probably burned the masks to destroy all traces of their involvement.” 

   “The general public didn’t even know they existed and no one at all who wasn’t involved with them knew what they looked like,” Vulpecula said. 

   “Then, who we’re looking for is the real deal, an actual Canis Major, honest and surely?” 

   “If you want to keep the big secrets, you have to be willing to sacrifice the small ones. Make it look like you have nothing to hide from anyone because they already think they know,” Vulpecula said. “Every member of the Canis Majors was tortured. None of them were left alive to do the deed.” 

   “Unless they missed one.” 

   “Their leader squealed after some particularly brutal interrogation tactics. None of them survived. But, there is one person that may know something about it.” 

7. 

   Farley Henan was the only surviving victim of The Canis Majors’ havoc and also, the man responsible for helping bring the hate-group to justice. Or, as much justice as anyone could ever hope to receive for such travesties. Vulpecula had no doubt Farley would agree that burning them alive was a good start. 

   Detective Psitticus drove the vehicle, leaving The Fox Detective to look out the window on the passenger’s side. Farley Henan did about as well with his life as anyone could have expected him to. His unhinged social behaviors and erratic compulsions made it impossible for him to hold-down a real job, but Rescue helped him financially, likely asking for him to remain hush-hush about the murders in-return. Vulpecula stepped out of the vehicle and walked over to the small, wooden porch that wobbled while it supported his weight. He knocked on the front-door. 

   “Vulpecula,” Detective Psitticus said, following him out from the house. He didn’t even bother with trying to accompany him on the detached porch. “You’re walking into a potential murder suspects’ house unarmed.” 

   Detective Psitticus held out a handgun. Vulpecula smirked, feeling sentimental, “That wouldn’t be the same handgun I returned to you, would it?” 

   Detective Psitticus offered him a confused look, “What? No, it’s just a handgun I brought from the weapon’s locker, just take it, you dingus.” 

   Vulpecula obliged, hiding the handgun under his jeans, behind his back. He knocked on the door again, but received no response. Vulpecula looked over to Psitticus, who was peering into one of the bedroom windows. A woman screamed shortly after Vulpecula’s third knock. 

   “Go,” Detective Psitticus instructed. 

   Vulpecula opened the front-door, which, to his surprise and fortune, was not locked. Unlike his bird-friend, The Fox Detective was not able to use his petite body as a battering ram. Vulpecula readied his handgun, searching around the kitchen for whoever had screamed. Perhaps they’d come by when the killer had left? Running errands, perhaps? Even killers had to stock the fridge! Maybe they’d be able to save the woman. Vulpecula eyes surveyed his surroundings some more; the kitchen sink was tattered with dirty, maggot-infested dishes. The floor was stained with dirt and grime and it took only a moment before the smell caught The Fox’s senses. It was the odorous array of months old garbage with a hint of something somehow fouler. 

   Vulpecula held the handgun steady in his hands as he began to advance through the hallway. The woman’s screams continued, but he couldn’t pinpoint exactly where it was coming from. Detective Psitticus walked onward behind him, carrying a weapon of his own. Soon, they came to what must have once been the man’s living room. The story of his downfall was easy to pick up on. For every inch of garbage or crude drawings stapled to the wall of nonsense symbols, Vulpecula was also able to see what once had been. The small coffee table, now having been carved into with a knife, likely was once no different than the average person’s furniture. It was the television set bolted into the wall that caught Vulpecula’s eyes next. 

   On the screen, video-footage of a victim restrained to a chair was shown. The woman screamed as she was sliced into. The footage had a timestamp from several years ago. 

   Vulpecula flinched as a loud noise came from behind him, and turned in time to see the masked man grab Detective Psitticus, wielding a large butcher knife in his hands. Vulpecula readied his weapon; his hands shook. The mask of the Canis Majors consisted of a hood about the shade of a Golden Retriever with webbing covering the eyes. It was the same shade of fabric as what Mickey had found at the scene of the earlier crime. 

   “You don’t have to do this, Farley,” Vulpecula said, feeling the warmth in his chest rise up again. “We can find you the help you need. All you have to do is drop the knife.” 

   “No,” Farley responded, shaking his head, “I won’t. They’ll do it again. This, all of this, it’s all about to happen again, but I won’t be able to stop it this time.” 

   “All you have to do is drop the knife and all of this will stop,” Vulpecula said. 

   “Don’t tell me what to do!” 

   “If you don’t shoot this psycho, I swear to God!” Detective Psitticus shouted. 

   “I’m not telling you what to do, Farley. I know what you’ve been through. Those men, The Canis Majors, they’re all dead. They’re never coming back,” Vulpecula pleaded. 

   “You elected one!” Farley yelled out in anger. Soon, his breathing slowed as he looked Vulpecula in the eyes. “You don’t have the stomach to do what needs to be done.” 

   Farley brought the knife from across the parrot’s throat, slicing into his neck and making the blood pour out. 

   “No!” Vulpecula shouted, dropping his gun and running toward Psitticus. 

   Farley Henan fled out from the house while Vulpecula held his paw over the wound of the bleeding bird, doing his best to keep him from bleeding out. 

   “You should have shot him, you…,” Detective Psitticus stopped, his breathing lessened as Vulpecula watched the blood bleed through the creases in his fingers.