The Fine Line

Alcohol plagued Urgway a special amount in-comparison to the other four major cities in Maharris. It was a characteristic that had become as synonymous with Urgway as the Sanchi Tower was with Italina. Stereotyped so often, Urgway’s reputation was more-or-less soiled as a city of either alcoholics or criminals. Vulpecula couldn’t even pretend to be surprised that his first case working for the Marybeth Police Department was investigating a bar fight that went down.

The details were in scarce amount. Detective Psittacus prepared The Fox Detective for it about as much as anyone could have expected him to, given the circumstance. After all, the bird was a busy one, oftentimes too preoccupied by paperwork to take on any cases of his own. Sanec Barker being promoted, and the untimely death of Detective Lucky only worsened an already understaffed department. Psittacus had mentioned being in talks to find some new blood, but nothing yet had substantiated itself out of those claims, at least, as far as new recruits were concerned.

The Fox Detective moved forward through the streets of Urgway with a haphazard leeriness, not unlike an infant child, unfamiliar with what was around him. It seemed more readily apparent than ever that so many of the nooks and crannies of Urgway had still went unexplored by him. The wind blew harsh, making it difficult to decide which he felt more: the wind of the weather itself or what was caused by the blurring traffic that zoomed across the roads only a few short feet from the sidewalk. Vulpecula better fastened the screen scarf around his neck and carried on, looking up at a street sign that read Hickly Avenue, a name that was likely an homage to the swamp of the same name that separated Urgway and Jalint from each other.

A strip of buildings was visible to his right, from closed-down buildings, to storage space, from an old antique shop, to a comic-book store that had a giant sticker on the front-window depicting a woman in an astronaut helmet and an exaggerated grin. At last, Vulpecula found the building he had been searching for: The Slug.

Before heading inside, Vulpecula took a final look at the sky above him. Dark clouds were starting to form. It was starting to become gloomy. It looked like a storm was about to arrive.

 

2.

 

Vulpecula entered the building and felt an immediate change in temperature and sound. His ears popped in a way he really couldn’t pinpoint or describe, as if everything went silent for a moment. When it stopped being silent, however, he, then, realized that the acoustics of the room were off as well, carrying an echoing sound when people spoke.

It felt strange being in a bar, it’d been at least a couple weeks since he’d taken a drink, a small feat that likely meant nothing at all to anyone else, it was something he took a small amount of pride in.

The bar was much different than One Step Back, the bar V frequented, not nearly as desirable, most definitely not the Fox’s cup of tea (beer?).

The Slug carried a vague sense of uncleanliness as well, it didn’t feel like it should have been legally allowed to provide consumables. Plainly put, things about it simply didn’t look right. The floor was made of smooth concrete, hard enough to be mistaken as a sidewalk, with each footstep, Vulpecula thanked his blessings that he didn’t fall and shattered any bones. Not only that, but dark blotches of wetness were also abundant. It looked like spills had happened but had never been tended to.

Vulpecula walked throughout the bar, which had been emptied as protocol dictated for crime scenes. It was likely someone would debrief him on the situation, but, in the meantime, he wanted to try his best to empathize and feel what must have went through the head of anyone who frequented The Slug on a regular basis.

Imagining the aura of cigarette smoke came natural to him, before he even saw the astray on one of the tables. This bar was one of the few places where smoking was still allowed in-doors in a public area. 

For a second, Vulpecula fixated himself on an emblem resembling a thunder-bolt that had been crudely plastered on the wall. It wasn’t significant to him, only something to stare at. Focused in a mindset of heavy concentration, Vulpecula did his best to try and imagine what The Slug would have looked like if it were full. Just walking in, the bar where the alcohol was stood clearly visible as the main focal point. The Fox wondered if The Slug was routinely crowded or usually isolated. To his left and to his right, tables were assorted in one row after another, some seated four and others, only two. No booths, only tables.

The tables were engraved with different carvings, some were simple depictions like stars or stick-figured illustrations, but others were more elaborate, like full body figures. Of these, all of them had extravagant tattoos of a vast array of designs.

Tattoos had become a bit of a controversy over the years in Maharris, but they were deemed more acceptable as a form of expression in Urgway. It being one of the few credits Vulpecula gave Urgway as far as progression was concerned.

Tattoos originally referred to the branding humans received when they were kept as either pets or cattle. This all eventually changed when it was realized that humans served no practical purpose other than wrecking things and they were left alone to their own habitat. Now, however, it mostly referred to animals that had shaved off part of their fur to apply ink illustrations as a form of self-expression.

Some of the art that had been scribed onto the tables could best be described as scribbles, whereas other drawings had a lot more detail and work put into them.

Vulpecula observed these facts, mostly, to help himself get a clearer perspective on the setting that The Slug had. The type of company that it invited. The general mainstream public saw tattoos as a symbol of rebellion, carrying an inherently negative stigma because of it.

Of course, it was nothing more than stereotypes and profiling, the sort of stuff that could not be presented as credible evidence. It could, however, not be ignored as substantial.

The Slug had a rugged and smash-mouth appearance, even for somewhere as rugged and rough around the edges as Urgway’s usual establishments, and it was an aesthetic that seemed very deliberate. Whether it be because the bar logo outside, the hard concrete-floor, or the black markers that were clearly visible, The Slug was a fully embraced bar of group expression. The beer bottles in the back behind the counter even had bottle openers specially made to look like knives were stabbed into the corks.

If an establishment builds itself around a certain lifestyle, it’s bound to be reflected in the crowd. This was an area where individuals could shoot the breeze or, in this situation, engage in a bar fight without it being stopped before things take a serious turn.

Suddenly, in Vulpecula’s head, the bar itself didn’t look so empty, groups of men and women indulging in the delectable, intoxicating nectar of alcohol. The Fox Detective looked over to the jukebox in the corner of the room, music began to play in his head as a result. Individuals now danced and frolicked. He walked fourth, tapping his walking stick down against the concrete ground like a blind man trying to paint himself a picture of the world. It wasn’t long until he stopped tapping and admiring the echoing acoustics of The Slug though, and that was when he took notice of the corpse lying dormant by a fallen stool. The way the gentleman lied told V that the fallen stool was a casualty and that he wasn’t sitting when he was killed.

Vulpecula took his eyes off from the body, unable to withstand the grisly visual, and, seconds later, heard someone walking through a swinging door. A bartender, perhaps, although, it would be difficult to know for certain until the man started cleaning an empty bottle with a wash-rag, came into the scene. It was a burly fellow, a bear, or, to be more specific, a koala. The gentleman’s size itself was something of note, but it wasn’t the only part that struck Vulpecula as intimidating, because the koala also had a large scar on his face that, for some reason, made him come off as threatening. An odd prospect, in-retrospect, that someone could appeal more threatening by having been given a scar. After all, it wasn’t like the koala got bored one evening and gave himself the scar. Or was it?

Vulpecula shoved the thought down and tried his best to focus on the matter at hand.

“It was a nasty one, just look at it!” The koala exclaimed with a sense of enthusiasm that struck Vulpecula as both being rather overt and rather alarming. He pointed at the ground with a giddiness that reminded The Fox of a child showing his mother a macaroni picture he’d made. This, however, was not something to be hung on a fridge.

V had no desires of looking, the little bit he had scene, the mere glimpse before he looked away from it, had been far more than enough.

“What can you tell me about what happened here?” Vulpecula asked, his eyes focused intently on the koala while he fidgeted with the hair on his chin, a bit shaken up with demeanor after having seen the body off-guard.

“Not a whole lot, this was kind-of like the perfect storm I’d say, actually, with how everything went down.” The koala said fondly, staring with a mesmerized look on his face that made it seem like he was recalling the memory in his head.

“Is that right?” V asked, absentmindedly. In his head, The Fox tried to illustrate the man’s death with the blank chalkboard, preferring its less gruesome depictions to the one that stood only a few feet away from him. “Do you know the identity of the victim?”

“Help yourself,” The koala stated, motioning to the dead body that rested between them. “The man had more than his fair share of beers, no doubt the man has a wallet with him.”

Vulpecula obliged, albeit, reluctantly, by bending his knees and slowly crouching, using his walking stick as a support. Maintaining eye-contact with the koala, V reached vaguely around for the man’s back pocket. In seconds, amidst the very confused stares his actions provoked from the koala in-front of him, V found the wallet. Coming back to a vertical position, he, then, began looking through the fallen man’s billfold.

The wallet helped identify the man as Abe Russell, an orangutan and a well-built one, at that. It didn’t have much else, not as far as helpful information went, a photograph of himself with some woman. Abe himself looked to be in his mid-to-late forties. If nothing else, it was a start.

“Who are they?” The koala asked, acknowledging the sound of his entrance door coming open again. “This isn’t going to be a long operation, now, is it? How much time does it really take to look at one body?”

“They’re here to receive blood samples and to look for any DNA evidence that might advance the investigation,” Vulpecula answered plainly.

For occurrences that result in death or vandalism exceeding a certain threshold, the Marybeth Police Department would be aided on an interim level. With Urgway lacking in most fields, this usually meant exhausting resources and stretching them thin. The individuals behind Vulpecula that were just entering the building were on-call forensic specialists that worked on a case-by-case basis throughout the state.

“All I’m trying to get across is, I don’t want to, nor do I think it makes any sense I should have to close up shop for the whole day because something like this.” The koala pleaded, and, in that moment, Vulpecula realized how high pitched the bear’s voice really was. The sheer audacity of it almost made him look no longer intimidating. Almost.

“Do you have to close up shop often because situations like this?” Vulpecula asked, still trying to get a feel for exactly what The Slug was about. Thus far, all his imagination projected for him was a few faceless tattooed figures drinking beers at tables amid their conversations. Should he discover, for instance, that they all took turns throwing down against each other, that would have helped his depiction. Then again, if it were a club that encouraged fighting, it’d be fair to assume that rule number one for the members would be not to talk about it.

“Absolutely not, this is an upstanding establishment, may not be fancy, but that doesn’t make it bad.” The koala said, showing how offended he was by the proposed assertion.

“It certainly doesn’t,” Vulpecula concurred honestly. Although, if this bear lied and he really was the leader of a “fight group,” then, it’d explain why he might have given himself such a scar. Leaders of such clubs were of questionable mental wherewithal.

“There has been one bar fight that has resulted in death, more than five different altercations that police were required to step in. Don’t try and bull feed the newbie, Cole.” A frail looking baboon with a name-tag that read Mickey replied, his name also said he was a blood analyst.

The koala, whose name was apparently Cole, tried to feign being offended by the accusation, but shortly lost interest in the whole charade. “Just try to make it quick, you guys are burning money that would be mine.”

Right as the words escaped Cole’s mouth, it was discovered how much he’d regret it. Because, in the moment after, Mickey took it upon himself to show everyone his impression of someone moving in slow-motion. Holding the blood vial in his hands and slowly dripped drop by drop into it, staring at Cole with a grin that told just how proud he was of himself. To his credit, the impression was a good one.

The koala scoffed, but Vulpecula made sure to engage him before the banter could continue. “What exactly happened to this man, did he do anything to start an altercation with someone, do you have any idea who that someone might have been?”

The koala shrugged his shoulders, “Everything was about like it always was, Friday nights are always our busiest of the week, since we open the place up to the whole public.”

“To the whole public, what exactly does that mean?” Vulpecula soon inquired next.

“The Slug is a membership-based bar, has cult-y vibes if you ask me.” Mickey interrupted against, Vulpecula almost caught himself trying to look at the baboon but jerked his eyes away from the blood analyst when he realized his hands were poking and prying at the face of the dead Abe Russell.

“It isn’t anything like a cult,” Cole said, then, sighed, wondering what the use was, “It only has it where members have to chip-in for a cheaply priced subscription for the other days of the week. After all, we play games and really roll out the red carpet for our members, like buying pay-per-views for sporting events, that sort-of stuff.”

Mickey couldn’t contain a small chuckle about a second after the koala claimed the prices were reasonable.

“And, before you say, no, none of the activities we partake in are of a nefarious or illegal nature.”

“I believe you,” Vulpecula said. “Please continue with your story.”

“And Russel was over there,” Cole said, motioning to where the fallen stool was. “As he is every other day, a highly valued member after all.”

“You knew who he was, why couldn’t you identify him earlier?”
“I could, but watching you squirm around like a squid belly trying not to look at that dead body was just too entertaining for me,” Cole replied, letting out a small laugh.

Vulpecula stared blankly at the koala for a moment, then, regained his composure. “Abe Russel was drinking heavy as he always did.” The Fox Detective visualized Abe from the photograph he’d seen inside of his wallet. In his head, Vulpecula now saw Russell sitting in his stool drinking alcohol. “It being a Friday, I imagine it was very crowded and loud.” He now imagined the bar as being filled with a crowd of people. “Do you have a lot of staff members? Waiters, perhaps?”

“Several, however, they, and the people, went home when it happened. I am certain that my employees are only a phone-call away and would be willing to help you with anything you need for your investigation.”

Vulpecula watched his imagination project the faceless waiters and waitresses, tending to any customer that was in need. “The area’s busy and your employees are helping out the customers, Abe Russell is sitting here right in-front of the counter. At what point does the altercation start?”

“Beats me, like I said, this was a unique circumstance. All my employees were doing what they do, my back is turned, and, all of a sudden, I hear a glass bottle being struck over poor Abe Russell’s head!”

“There are pieces of shattered glass lodged into his forehead,” Mickey added, giving merit to Cole’s claims.

By now, a woman had since joined Mickey with investigating the scene, her back was turned to Vulpecula, which kept V from finding a name-tag, but he could tell she was of the feline variety.

“And, then, did you not turn to look and catch the perpetrator in the act?” Vulpecula asked next, himself imagining the scene to himself.

“I turned my back and I saw a man with a hooded sweatshirt on, him and I didn’t make eye-contact. The man attacks Abe, who is less than attentive at this point. It was like a blur, once Abe figured out he was in-danger, he put up a fight and they roughed each other up, but, in the end, the guy in the hoodie brought out a switch blade, and, well, the aftermath speaks for itself, I believe.”

“Knife wounds on the body, very forceful, very deliberate. This resembles a crime of anger and passion more than a random drunken bar fight affair. Also, on another note, it looks like the guy might have given himself a concussion on the way down, thanks to your guys’ stupid concrete floor bonking him on the head.” Mickey noted, his voice spouting off in such a way that it seemed he had no care in the world about any feathers he might rustle.

Vulpecula took this as an opportunity to imagine the situation. The ecstatic crowd of drinkers, he watched Abe Russell be hit over the head with a glass bottle. The sheer size of Abe meant the attack wouldn’t be enough to take him off his feet, but would, at least, be enough to send him into a daze. If the offensive acts resembled a crime of passion, then, the act itself could have been premeditated, a smaller man, for instance, would benefit from the cheap attack giving them the extra edge.

“Do you have anyone you know of that might have wanted to hurt Abe, someone with a deep and passionate dislike of him?”

Cole shrugged his shoulders. “Abe mostly kept to himself, not a man who wasted a lot of words. Guy had a man’s man vibe, worked at a lumber yard, didn’t even know those things still existed in Urgway til I met him, guess his daddy owned it. Had two boys and a wife, that’s about all I ever got out of him over the years.”

“Do you happen to know of any witnesses? In such a crowded area, at least someone must have gotten a closer look at the … killer?” Vulpecula’s voice cracked some with that final word, saying that word made it seem real, the fact he was dealing with an actual murder case, let alone the fact that a dead body was right below him.

“Like I said, my back was turned most the time, but I’m sure at least someone saw something extra out of the scrap.”

Mickey rose up to his feet, removing and throwing the gloves away into a plastic bag, and the woman, who Vulpecula could now identify as being named Alyssa Fount, did the same. “I have a lot of tests I’ll have to run here, the grass shard fragments, there was some blood on Abe Russell’s collar that may or may not have been his own. I’ll be in contact with your department in a few days to report my findings,” Mickey said, looking over toward Vulpecula with a serious look.

The look almost caught The Fox Detective off-guard will how professional he suddenly behaved. Vulpecula nodded back at him. Sticking out his hand, Mickey offered a handshake that Vulpecula accepted. “Pleasure meeting you, Detective Noel, don’t trip in the blood you’re stepping in.”

Vulpecula flinched, in a knee-jerk reaction, he looked down at his feet, seeing a clear shot of the beaten and battered Abe Russell, whose face was bruised and contorted like one of those classic paintings, the ones where the noses looked like they’d been realigned to the cheek bone. The blood was abundant, and, as Mickey described, it did, indeed, appear to be a crime of passion. Vulpecula looked away at once, rubbing his temples, feeling a shaky feeling of anxiety overcome him, he heard his Kenai stick echo as it fell against the concrete ground.

The koala Cole had an outburst laugh over Vulpecula’s misfortune, meanwhile, a chuckling Mickey bent over and picked up The Fox’s walking stick. Handing it back to Vulpecula, Mickey winked, “Only kidding.”

 

3.

 

Although, Cole could not initially recall the customers who frequented The Slug late into the night prior to Abe Russell’s murder, however, when Vulpecula mentioned the idea of him sharing a database of everyone with a subscription to his bar, it helped jog the koala’s memory. Vulpecula also made for certain to get the contact information for all the employees that had a shift that night.

Unfortunately, the next order of business wasn’t focused on procuring information on who might have knifed Abe less than a day ago. The next order of business was telling Abe’s wife about her husband’s death. It was a task that didn’t amount to very much of a highlight in The Fox Detective’s day plan, but it was a task of the utmost importance, and something V would have to become used to.

Arriving at the Russell family’s humble abode, a homely feel overtook and swept over, bringing a quaint and lovely feel to it. It was a smaller house, in the middle of a quieter area, a cul-de-sac that brought about a dead-end. A small garden was at the front of the house filled with a decorate patch of flowers along with a decoratively embroidered set of stone rock slabs that created a pathway that led up to the small front-porch.

It really was a lovely home, and one that was about to have a dark cloud brought over it. The storm was, indeed, about to come. Vulpecula walked down the pathway, sighing to himself, admiring the aesthetics in a stalling manner, at last, he made it up to front-door. The light crescendo of his paw knocking against the door soon came to an end when he heard someone’s footsteps, although, there was an odd pattern to them that couldn’t clearly be explained. The moment after, explanation came, as a woman opened the door and stared back at him with curious eyes. It was easy to recognize this woman from the photograph in Abe Russell’s wallet, this was his wife. The difference from the photograph, however, is that the woman staring back at Vulpecula was supported by crutches. A smaller framed dog, perhaps even the same breed as Detective Barker’s secretary, the woman also had bandages on her arm.

“What can I do for you, officer?” The woman asked, a disinterested tone in her voice that showed the aggravation it must have been to come to the door.

“Hello, my name is Vulpecula Noel, I am a Detective for the Marybeth Police Department, and I am here on-account of your husband, Abe Russell.” Vulpecula said, reciting it just as he rehearsed it in his head.

“Did Abe get arrested again, Detective Noel?” The woman asked.

Vulpecula shook his head. “Can I come inside, Mrs. Russell? Information like this, I imagine you’ll have a lot of questions and I would also like for you to be as comfortable as possible as I give them to you.”

“Right this way,” The woman replied, slowly turning her body and beginning to head back inside.

The way the woman struggled using the crutches told Vulpecula that she hadn’t yet become used to them, which likely meant that her current situation had likely been recent.

The woman seemed to have sensed him staring at her from behind, because she was quick to explain herself, “Fell off the porch a couple of weeks ago, broke my ankle like a twig, worse still, I tried to catch myself and scratched my arms up real good on those rocks.”

“I can’t imagine,” Vulpecula responded, for no other reason than because he could think of nothing else to say as a response.

Mrs. Russell led him to a small couch that faced a small stand and television set, in-front of it was a coffee table with fake wax fruit sitting in a basket as the centerpiece, a family portrait that showed Mr. and Mrs. Russell with two younger men, both sharing a resemblance that made it likely for them to be their children, and a piece of paper that had been set aside for a grocery list, many of the items were crossed out. Vulpecula had a seat, as he was instructed to, and about one cushion’s distance away from him, Mrs. Russell had a seat as well, letting out a groan of discomfort as she leaned back in the chair. Vulpecula took this as an opportunity to try and prepare himself for what he knew he had to say next. Eventually, the woman looked at him again, her eyes wide while her hand twirled in a circle, wondering why he hadn’t started yet.

Vulpecula sighed, and began: “Your husband, Abe Russell, was at a bar called The Slug, a place of which I understand he is quite privy to. He stayed in late yesterday, hours past midnight, and, while there, had an altercation with a man in a hooded sweatshirt. The attacker seemed familiar with your husband and acted aggressively toward him. A switch blade was brought into it,” Vulpecula stopped amid his explanation to make eye contact with Mrs. Russell.

Mrs. Russell’s reaction was what he feared having to see the most out of all of this. The emotion one felt finding out that their significant other was no longer with them. Simply put, seeing her reaction was one The Fox wasn’t for certain he had the strength or emotional stability to face. In his head, he’d already begun projecting his own speculations for what their home like must have been like, he’d already begun trying to empathize with what the woman would feel.

He imagined them young, as high school sweet hearts, their dates, the thought of Abe on one knee as he proposed. Their marriage and them raising two children with each other, the credits rolling in such a tragic manner was an utterly unfair fate. Vulpecula didn’t want to see Mrs. Russell’s heart-break before his eyes.

“Your husband was killed, Mrs. Russell, I am terribly sorry.”

Vulpecula sat with his palms on his lap, his head looking down at the carpeting beneath his feet. No immediate sound or whimper came from Mrs. Russell, however, no gasping sound or wailing cries. V peeked his head up, half-expecting to see her on the verge of a heart attack. But, instead, Mrs. Russell merely stared off with a bewildered look on her eyes. The woman was in an absolute state of shock, unable to process what she’d heard. Vulpecula stared back at her, trying to his best to hold a gaze, waiting quietly for a response of some kind.

“As you can imagine, this is not the highlight of my week,” The woman replied, her back to Vulpecula as she still seemed taken aback by the whole ordeal.

Vulpecula nodded his head in response to her, which was a strange move when you considered the fact that Mrs. Russell was not looking in his direction.

“The Bellville Police Department wont rest until we find out the person responsible for this.” Vulpecula tried his best to assert a reassuring tone but was too uncomfortable to really accomplish such an inflection.

Mrs. Russell seemed not to notice this, however.

“My husband had life insurance,” Mrs. Russell mumbled underneath her breath.

Vulpecula was not for certain whether he was meant to hear that or not.

“Does, uh, … Do you have any idea why someone might have wanted to attack your husband, or who might have had something against him?” Vulpecula asked, trying not to think too much into what she had mumbled.

“Abe was never a popular man, Detective. Standoffish, and with a very bad temper, he’d get in fights, instigating them for the sake of proving his manhood. In the lumber yard, where he worked, I’d always have to take him to the hospital for incidents. They never seemed vicious, however, just boys being boys, not ever anyone that would actually want to kill him, I don’t think.” Her voice cracked at times and her words often ran together, sometimes too fast to be plainly comprehended.

“Where is this lumber yard? I can’t say that I’ve heard of it, and it’d seem like somewhere like this would stick out like a sore thumb in Urgway, especially around these parts.”

“The bar, Slug, it’s only across the street from that. It isn’t somewhere you can go and pick out logs, so it isn’t actually meant to be flashy. Big stone wall around it. My husband would drive down to the forests, like the ones between Urgway and Acera, cut down the trees and bring them back with his truck with the other men. After that, they’d bring it back, trim it up and get it ready to be sent to actual stores.”

Vulpecula nodded his head. The ins and outs of the lumber yard weren’t really of his immediate concern, but the location mattered to him. The Slug and Abe’s lumberyard being in such proximity meant that individuals from his work-place that were at the bar that night were the closest he had to actual suspects.

“Mrs. Russell, in this difficult time, it might be found that you need space and peace to heal. For that reason, I, myself, express my deepest condolences to you and your family in this difficult time. In our ongoing investigation, we will do our best to respect your right to privacy. However, I need you to know that if you have any information you believe could help us, we’d no doubt be thankful and appreciative of it.”

 

4.

 

“And, that was that. Mrs. Russell thanked me, and I left her a card with the Department’s phone number on it, told her to contact us if she had any questions or if she had any information that might be relevant to her husband’s death.” Vulpecula said, taking a sip of coffee while he stared at the case file in-front of him.

On the other end of the phone line, Lacerta listened until it was his chance to speak, “You don’t think she might have been responsible for this, do you? Isn’t it a little weird that the very second she found out about her husband’s death, her first concern is about his life insurance policy?”

Vulpecula hadn’t forgotten about what Mrs. Russell said, he’d even made a note of it in his blank chalkboard, but it was not something he underlined or highlighted as important. “I don’t want to over-analyze what she said, not when I have nothing else to add to it. Most times, the explanation to such things is much simpler than what theorizing would suggest. Individuals take grief differently than others, Mrs. Russell’s mind went first to how she’d stay financially secure and provide for her family. Her part of Urgway is a less fortunate part, a part where significant hardship and poverty is common, therefore, it makes sense that might be what her mind goes to first. Either that, or she was in shock and it was her way of distancing herself from the tragedy.”

“How exactly are you doing with all of this, V? I know how this stuff tends to dig at you and take its toll,” Lacerta asked, showing the concern in his voice.

It was a loaded question, and it wasn’t one that Vulpecula had a real question to. Aside from the subconscious decision to try and empathize with Mrs. Russell and the knee-jerk trauma he had at the sight of Abe Russell’s death, his wheels weren’t in-motion the way they normally were. “I, uh, I’ve been keeping myself busy. I just figure if I don’t stop to think about everything, maybe it won’t get to me.”

Vulpecula looked around the diner while he spoke, feeling apprehensive for a reason he couldn’t really explain. As if he thought everyone in the diner didn’t believe he was on his phone talking to someone and that he was just pretending to create the illusion of having friends. Still, it was a self-inflicted paranoia, as he had made it a point to eat at the diner when he spoke to Lacerta or Apus. It created a sense of normalcy, as if his only support system wasn’t, in-fact, an entire state away from him.

“That sounds like a very healthy way of handling situations, nine out of ten doctors say that turning a blind eye to what your feeling and stuffing it down is the best way of dealing with obstacles.” Lacerta remarked.

“I thought it made a lot of sense as well. I wonder what the hold-up is with the tenth doctor,” Vulpecula replied, catching onto his lizard friend’s sarcasm and simply ignoring it.

“You know that tenth doctor’s right, V.”

“The way I see it, I am only one person. Maharris, Zeal, the world is filled with people, and many and most are more valuable than I am in the grand scheme of things. But I can help people. The more I help, the better my return on investment will be.”

“But what you’re wagering is yourself, that’s something you can’t stand to lose.”

“The gains exceed myself.”

“You don’t have to make yourself a martyr to do the right thing. All I’m saying is that I know how bad Comet Fowley got to you, and that was a severed hand. If you need to talk to anybody about this, you need to know that it’s only a phone call away.”

“Thanks, Lacerta.”

“And, if Apus doesn’t answer the phone, you can call me too, I guess. And I’ll hand him my phone.”

Vulpecula laughed, taking another sip of his coffee before he prepared to leave the diner.

The next stop would be to the lumber yard. With the list of names provided from The Slug, he’d compare it to the yard’s employees and work from there. If he could find someone that knew Abe Russell from both those worlds, he might also be able to find pertinent information regarding what happened to him.

 

5.

 

It might have been a surprise that The Fox Detective had been oblivious to the lumber yard when he first entered The Slug, however, Vulpecula had made such recent strides in obliviousness that it wasn’t too ridiculous a finding to discover. The giant concrete fortress stared back from The Slug like a prison, with a large wooden gate in the middle that looked like barnyard doors. It had neither a sign nor any description toward what it might have been, such an ominous and eerie presence made Vulpecula almost feel leery walking toward it.

Vulpecula was let into the yard by an older fellow in a white tank top that had visible dirt stains on it, a ferret whose forehead had more folds than the curtains of a school play, his wrinkles so scrunched up beyond the point of return that he couldn’t smile even if he wanted to.

The inside of the area looked like a small society or village of its own, with plain white buildings and a small area with picnic tables in-front of a food truck that sold employees their lunches. The grass was a lively green, but it was littered with trash and dirt patches.

The most abundant thing was the logs stacked in an array of piles, each pile distinguishable by the type of tree. Forgetting the stereotypes and assumptions made about Vulpecula, The Fox Detective pretended to be surprised by all the people in flannel, worn jeans and hard hats.

A lot of them were on the move, and all of them paid no attention to the little fox that stood amongst them. Some were busy throwing tarps over the piles of logs, having to use ladders to assist them, which made since considering the downpour that was all but expected.

“The guy’s sitting over there at the table,” The ferret hollered, though, it was more of a grunt than it was any words that Vulpecula had ever heard.

A man sat at a table, exactly as the ferret “said,” though, it wasn’t as much “the” table as it was one of many, but only one person made eye-contact with Vulpecula, so, he assumed he’d found his guy. It was the table furthest away from the food truck, and the man, a cow with a hat sporting an alcohol logo on it, looked on at him with no excitement at all. As a matter of fact, his “Hate the world/Shoot me now” eyes were the antithesis of the phrase.

Of the individuals that worked at the lumber yard, aside from Abe Russell, of course, this was the only one who was at The Slug the night of the murder.

“Thank you for seeing me, Michael Hannagy,” Vulpecula said, offering his hand out to the man.

“The man reciprocated and spoke with a surprising warmth to his voice. “Always happy to help the boys in blue, or …,” Michael stared at The Fox’s ugly tan-colored uniform in disarray.

“I will try my best not to take up too much of your time,” V stated.

“Take as much time as you like, my boss wants this stuff taken care of and I am on the clock for it. You want to ask about Abe, whether I know anything about who offed him last night? Ask away.”

Strangely enough, his bluntness didn’t come off as mean spirited or hateful, Hannagy simply came off as someone who didn’t like to beat around the bush with things.

“Do you know anything about it?” V asked, following his lead.

“Abe wasn’t a cuddly man, detective. Didn’t shoot the breeze, didn’t make friends or make nice. The man held grudges and had fits when he didn’t get his way. On an average day though, the guy was a loner. At The Slug, there was everyone at the lumber yard at a table after work, then, Abe over by the counter by himself spouting off about how mad we made him with not a single care in the world.”

“So, you’re saying Abe Russell had a lot of people who didn’t like him then?”

“I’m saying if you take that route, the route that someone from work got angry at him and took out their anger at The Slug, you’ll find a lot to work with. I’ll also say that I know all the boys here though, never a lot of fresh faces here. Maybe we all had beefs with Abe at some time or another, but that was all years ago, and all of us dealt with our frustrations and sucked it up. Abe was Abe, and we all got over that, not many thought he was worth the time of day, let alone such risks.” Abe bit down on his cheeseburger, then, dropped it back in his Styrofoam tray. “The people who don’t know how to take Abe are the ones unacquainted with him. I didn’t see what went down, but it’s my guess that the man said something stupid and it got him killed.”

“The only accounts we’ve gotten say the man in the hooded sweatshirt threw a glass bottle to start the fight.”

“Knowing Abe, I’d sooner believe he offended a glass bottle and it flew into him like a suicide bomber,” The man said dryly.

 

6.

 

Abe Russell spouted his latest loud diatribe, a provocative exclamation that made the hardest Slug attendees uneasy. Most of them were too unambitious to say anything about it. Most of them, that is. One gentleman who had alcohol fueling his courage, however, took it upon himself to do something about it. Throwing a glass directly at the back of Abe’s head, his statement clearly stating this would be more than a simple fist fight to settle some differences.

And, Abe Russell, a big man, didn’t go down that easy, they fought with one another. The crowd, much too inebriated by such late hours to break them up, cheered them on. Abe held his own, and perhaps, even did more than that. Leaving the attacker with no other choice than to bring out a switch blade, stabbing, and then, killing Abe Russell.

That would be the story, going by what Michael Hannagy speculated. And that would make it much harder to find Abe’s killer.

Vulpecula looked around the bar, sitting at an empty table by himself. The Slug’s bartender wasted little time before opening the bar again. He was kind enough to let Vulpecula stay and survey the area, even without a membership. The temptation to indulge wasn’t lost on him, simply repressed.

As he imagined the story over and over as it was positioned, the less and less it made sense.

This attack was precise. Although, not perfect, the attacker was still able to throw a glass bottle at Abe’s head and the wherewithal to run away once his victim was dead. Someone who was drunk and reckless couldn’t touch their nose, let alone wrap their heads around something so complex. This was a crime of passion and a premeditated one.

“Been cheating on me, have you?” A voice asked from a distance, Vulpecula turned his head to find that the voice was coming from his favorite alcoholic enabling lizard.

“Bartender Red,” Vulpecula said with a smile.

“Please call me Red, Bartender is my father.” Red jested, taking a seat beside Vulpecula at the table, a glass of alcohol in his hands.

“Little strange to drink with the competition, isn’t it?” V asked, in reference to Red’s employment at Twelve Steps Back.

“Just a job, brother.” Red assured. “And, besides, it sure beats drinking at work and having my boss hound me to work another shift.”

“Fair enough,” Vulpecula replied, his mind was still mostly out there, trying to make sense out of Abe’s death.

“And what brings you and your fancy police outfit to The Slug, and without a beer, no less?”

“I’m trying to find information about the bar fight that went down last night.”

Red nodded his head, “The one with Mr. Russell getting knifed?”

“You knew him?” Vulpecula asked, his ears pricked with interest, willing to accept about any lead available to him.

“Nah,” Red waved him off. “But I knew his oldest son.” Red laughed, shaking his head. “There used to be a guy in my neighborhood, he’d sell us fake I.D.’s, so we could get past the bouncer in a place like this, he probably still does. I always heard how much of a jerk his father was, heard some terrible things. The first chance that Peter got, he moved out of state and never looked back.”

“That’s about what everyone has had to say about Abe,” Vulpecula concurred grimly, wondering if it was worse his time to try and bring justice for such a bad person. It didn’t take very long before he assured himself of the answer though.

“I used to read stories to his little brother back when he was in first grade. And, … let’s see, bet that would put him at about sixteen right now.”

Vulpecula sighed. “How is it that nobody in this bar saw anything at all? It’s a big enough place with enough people, someone must have gotten a look at the killer’s face.”

“Not a lot of casual drinkers at The Slug, even on a Friday when it’s open to the public, everyone knows what they’re getting into, before they open those doors.”

“Then, exactly why are you here then? If you believe everyone has such bad intent?”

“Not everyone here has bad intent, there are great folk here, some of the nicest you’ll ever meet. Cole, the koala who runs this joint,” Red pointed at the koala behind the counter, “Has spent more money than I can count on some of his members when they’re caught in a jam. But the water hole is poisoned, like, here, this is like a peace place, but you don’t want to leave it after making enemies out there,” Red finished, pointing at the door that led to the exit.

“It isn’t much of a peace place if you can get killed by someone though, is it?”

“I grew up in Urgway, and I don’t know what it was like for you in Acera, but, when I was little, the dogs were better than us, and we were brought up to think we were garbage. I didn’t tell you the whole part of that story. I didn’t tell you about how Abe told Peter I wasn’t allowed to be his friend, or how he went to the schools and complained about me reading to his youngest kid. And, I was poor, exceptionally so, even poorer than the average not-dog species back then. When the Canes went down, it helped even the playing fields a bit, but a lot of damage was already done. Individuals being repressed didn’t suddenly escape from poverty like it was no big deal. People survive, and for some, that’s about all they can do. Now, I want you to imagine seeing someone like Abe Russell, a dog, knocked down a few notches, coming out here and running his mouth like he does. Abe probably raised his mouth to the wrong person, or mad enemies with the wrong gang, and they just shut him up for it.”

“I only need one person to come fourth and provide a description of the attacker, I can do the rest. I can’t imagine everyone’s so afraid about some guy in a hooded sweatshirt, especially when he’ll end up in prison for murder.”

“Detective Sanec Barker, I think that’s his name. That guy has been in the new a lot lately on account of that promotion he got. That guy knows a thing or two about gangs and secret organizations.”

“I don’t follow,” Vulpecula admitted.

“The guy brought down The Shock, right?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, he did,” Vulpecula said, thinking about how that group literally cost Comet Fowley his hand.

“That group, that’s one most people didn’t even know existed until just recently. I’m not saying there’s big groups out there like the Canes anymore, but there are still gangs and cliques, ones that wear red and ones that wear blue. In the end, you don’t want to make either colors mad, ‘specially if they are willing to off someone like that.”

“That doesn’t add up to me though, a gang deciding to make an example out of Abe Russell because his species, a guy getting mad at him from work, or just a drunken fit, none of it plays right in my head.”

It was the times when he was really stumped, the times when he’d exhausted all his available resources that he found it harder to think. The times when nothing on the blank chalkboard connected. The Fox Detective stuffed his emotions in favor of saving lives, but it brought no real results.

“Try not to give yourself an aneurysm, you already had a few close-calls by the looks of it,” Red said, a warm smile on his face.

“I’m trying to stay strong, if Lacerta or Apus had it their way, I’d be back on a plane to Acera. At least there, I had a support system, a family to fall back on when things became too heavy.”

“You’ve got me! More importantly, you’ve got One Step Back, which brings you all the liquid therapy you could ask for,” Red said, a small smirk on his face.

The sound of a man beckoning his presence caught his attention, at the same time as that, Vulpecula heard his phone vibrating in his pocket. When he went to check his phone, he saw it listed as an unknown number. “Could be important,” Vulpecula said, looking over to Red.

“Yeah, it’s fine. I’m actually on a little bit of a date here anyways,” the lizard said, tugging on the collar of his jacket with a nervous chuckle, nodding his hand and walking to the table with the other gentleman.

Vulpecula waved him off, climbing from his chair to his feet while he answered his cellphone.

“Detective Vulpecula Noel of the Marybeth Police Department, what can I do for you?”

“… That’s how you answer your phone? What does your Mom say when you answer your phone like that, seems like a good way to suck all the air out of a conversation right from the start.”

“Pretty sure my Mom’s dead,” Vulpecula replied.

“… Anyways, it’s Mickey, the forensics’ guy, I ran some tests over a couple bits of evidence I found. Get this, some of the blood on Abe’s shirt, didn’t belong to him! I ran it through the criminal database, came out with diddly squat. And, get this, the glass bottle that the attacker threw at Abe, it had finger-prints on it! I ran those through the database and found that they belong to a woman named Fiona Holt, woman used to work over at the lumber yard in a managerial position but was fired for pocketing some of the profits. Woman’s got a rap sheet like no one’s business.”

“The blood on Abe’s shirt didn’t match her?”

“No, it didn’t. But all that ruckus, glass bottles flying, that blood could’ve been someone caught in the cross-hairs.”

“Where is she now, exactly?”

“She has already been contacted, brimmed to be brought in for questioning later today. Probably gonna wanna lawyer up too when she finds out she has her crotch caught in a vice-grip.”

“Thank you, Mickey.” Vulpecula said.

 

7.

 

“As you have been made aware of, your finger-prints have been found on the shards of glass that were used to attack Abe Russell.” Vulpecula said calmly, intertwining his fingers with his hands resting on the interrogation table.

Fiona Holt stared back at him, it was late at night, and from the glazed over look in her eyes, it was obvious that she was going out of her way to settle the matter at hand, as opposed to settling it the morning after. Vulpecula appreciated that, after all, he badly wanted answers about what happened to Abe Russell.

“I am waving my right to a lawyer at this juncture, Detective Noel, I think this matter will be resolved briskly.” The woman said, a matter-of-fact to her inflection that seemed natural.

Vulpecula nodded his head, “Whatever you can tell me about Abe Russell’s death will be beneficial in both clearing your name and helping us find the real culprit.” The Fox Detective’s choice of words was very deliberate. Taking what Red had said to heart, Vulpecula wanted to add an extra incentive for individuals to want to speak out on who the attacker was. Suggesting that they might face criminal charges, even though they certainly wouldn’t, was the only card in his hand.

“I was drinking last night with a couple of friends, it was a Friday night and we all needed to unwind. A gentleman walked into the building, he wore a hooded sweatshirt and was let in by the bouncers after being carded. My table was facing toward the exit, so it was easy for me to see him being let it. The man made a b-line for Abe, singling him out over everyone else, he went past my table and snapped up my drink, tossing it at Abe, starting up a fight.”

“The hooded man didn’t appear drunk and specifically targeted Abe?”

“That’s correct, and it would explain why my finger-prints were found on the glass bottle.”

“You said you were able to see him carded, do you have a description of the attacker? Especially when he started coming toward you, it’d have been easy to get a look at him.”

“It was a white dog with a brown stripe between his eyes, down to his nose. He looked very young, was small, would never have been able to take on the big-man without a weapon.”

Vulpecula looked away from her for a second, fidgeting with the fur on his chin. The blank chalkboard now had a name that was underlined. It was the only person he could think of that could fit into the actual narrative, and he didn’t like it. In-fact, it bothered him greatly.

“Leave,” Vulpecula said, a more forceful, perhaps even, rude, tone to his voice. Fiona did as she was instructed.

 

8.

 

It was you, all along, it was you.

Abe Russell was not a kind man. Red, Michael Hannagy, and almost everyone who gave an account of him could vouch for that. But, everything they had said about him had been an understatement for how bad he was.

Vulpecula called Red on the telephone and asked him to go into detail on a few choice topics. It was quickly discovered that Abe Russell’s wife had been known to have bruises and that Abe Russell was believed to be the cause of them. Why didn’t Mrs. Russell divorce her husband? She married young, and with two boys, and a lack of practical skills, it was always about financial security.

He, then, although, it took some prying, discovered the name of person that used to sell Red and Peter fake I.D.’s in their hometown of Urgway. The man was leery about providing any information on those he’d sold them to, but when he discovered the situation involved a murder case, his jaw became a lot looser. That’s when Vulpecula was given the last few people he’d made them for. Everything was easier when The Fox Detective knew for certain he was on the right track.

Whoever killed Abe Russell wasn’t drunk, it wasn’t a spontaneous attack. The blood report and the proposed accounts all suggested it was a crime of passion, the man entered the bar solely to kill Abe Russell. And, for all the enemies that Abe had made, none of them from work hated him enough. As far as someone from a gang wanting to make an example out of him, very few would take such a risk for a crime of such little significance to them. The Fox had a different narrative in mind.

Abe Russell’s youngest son, Stevie Russell was sixteen years old and was a spitting image of his father, a man he hated. Stevie was on the right path, so it seemed. The boy worked a part-time job at a pizza restaurant and did well academically, everything suggested he’d be able to escape the abusive household intact. But a black cloud was always over his head in the form of Abe Russell.

It’s later that Stevie comes home late from work, finding his mother badly beaten and forced to use crutches to bring stability for herself. He’s upset. His father had roughed her up times before that, but never like this. Never to where she could no longer walk.

Stevie leaves the house and goes to The Slug, using his fake I.D. to be let in by the bouncer, and finds exactly where Abe sat. Anger had gotten the better of him, it was what gave him the courage to throw a glass bottle at his father and pick a fight in such a public space. Abe recognized him when he turned to look, and a fight ensued. The fight turned especially ugly, when Stevie brought a switch-blade out and killed his father.

The frustration dissipated in some respects after the kill, Stevie was able to think clearer about his actions, and so, he had done the only thing he could do, and run away. Coasting off the hope that everyone was either too drunk or too scared to identify him.

That’s the narrative – that’s what happened to Abe Russell. A man who was hated by everyone and nearly crippled his wife, was killed by his sixteen-year-old son. His son who was trying to escape the life he was forced into, a son trying to better himself and protect his mother, would be sent to prison for most of his life as a result.

Vulpecula walked over to Detective Psittacus’ desk, the parrot looked back at him with eager eyes, “All the information I’ve been given, the statement accounting for the events from Fiona Holt, the interviews I conducted with Abe Russell’s wife, the character witness from Michael Hannagy, all of it suggests that Abe Russell was attacked due to gang-related activities. Unless more information comes fourth that can identify the perpetrator, I don’t think this is a case that will be able to be solved.”

 

9.

 

Justice is a tricky subject, and one that doesn’t matter very much on a personal level. Morality is a construct that was created. It’s all about balancing the books against good and evil, but, in the end, all that really matters is you don’t do anything so wrong that it keeps you from being able to sleep at night. Stevie Russell was given a bad hand and tried to make the most of what he was dealt. He did what he did because he wanted to protect his family and end their suffering, that doesn’t mean he deserves to be locked away for doing what he needed to do to survive.

Vulpecula truly believed that. But he couldn’t sleep.