Chapter 23

"One man," Lieutenant Blanchard roared, shaking a finger for emphasis. "One fucking lowlife and his pussy cat were all it took to bring this department to ruin!"

Outfitted in his dress blues, the lieutenant threw a pair of white gloves across the table. They knocked over a collection of used paper coffee cups near the center. Sweating through two funerals in one week had stained the white fabric a diluted brown. The color matched the backwash at the bottom of the cups as much as the graves they once presided over.

"It's been four weeks. Four fucking weeks and what do you idiots have to show for it?" Lieutenant Blanchard glanced around the assembly of loose ties and unshaven faces seated at the table. "A cold pot of cheap coffee and a couple of shitty excuses?"

Flipping the table was out of the question. Blanchard didn't have the strength. So instead, he flipped the bird at every member of the task force gathered at the meeting.

"I've got two federal agencies and the Birkdale Regional Sheriff's Office breathing down my neck because you asshats can't do your fucking jobs."

Several eyes shifted between one another. No doubt settling blame on those they deemed responsible.

"There are eight bodies down in the morgue waiting for your sorry explanations. So who wants to go first? Jacobs? McCloud?"

The room wisely remained silent. It wasn't safe to speak until the tirade was over.

"How many more bodies is it going to take for you tin badges to realize this isn't a game anymore?"

Blanchard pulled back from the table, disgusted to be so close to failure. "Handpicked professionals my ass. I've never seen such a sorry lot of souls in all my life. The only thing this task force is good for is the punch line of a bad joke. Anyone care for a laugh? I've got a good one: Three checkered hats walk into an alley, how many come out screaming? How about: Why did the MPD officer cross the road? To get himself killed of course!"

A heavy handed slap rattled the pens and paperclips scattered across the open case files on the table.

"Don't mock my men" Sergeant William Baker of the 336th Precinct's Second Division growled. "Michael Guerra was my friend and he didn't deserve to get slaughtered in his hospital bed like a poultry pokemon while you kissed ass with the brass!"

Blanchard sidestepped the accusation with the ease of a career politician. "If you would've done what I told you, Guerra wouldn't have been a sitting psyduck," he explained. "Every newscaster and wannabe blogger in the city knew his location and involvement with this case because he couldn't keep his damn mouth shut."

"Don't blame us for your incompetence," Detective Harold McCloud added as he leaned against the wrinkled papers beneath him. "Detective Morris was the lead on this case, god rest his soul, and he ended up in the cooler with the rest of them."

Sergeant Baker scoffed. "They probably put him on the floor between the IA agents and the commissioner's bodyguard because we all know they're the ones you really care about."

Blanchard swelled with a fresh burst of steam.

"We've all lost people," Special Detective Joe Lupo cut in. If he waited any longer to intervene, the lieutenant might just decide to burn their careers along with his face. "The point is: these killings aren't just about badges and ballers anymore."

He pointed to a series of photographs laid out in front of him. They were the only haphazardly organized material on the table. "First, it was the landlady at the South City Brownstones. Then, two of her tenants."

"From the same floor," someone worth their title added.

"Step outside the box and there are the two hookers found outside of Paras Park," Lupo continued. "Not to mention the dozens of local homeless spread out all over Midtown. Some dead for weeks. And god knows how many more we haven't found yet. It's killing for killing's sake. The guy's a psychopath through and through, and let's face it, we've never dealt with anything like it before. No one has because there's something going on that we can't quite get a handle on."

"Don't get started on all that voodoo hoodoo bullshit that's been going around," Lieutenant Blanchard spat. "I don't want to hear it."

"But you still believe it," Sergeant Baker pointed out, "and that's why you won't let anyone talk about it."

"Of course I don't believe it," Blanchard defensively squeaked.

"But your men do," Baker continued, "and the longer this goes on, the more powerful their fears will become."

"Do you really expect me to believe that a dirty old hobo is capable of invisibility and spitting embers?"

"Lightning. He shoots lightning from his hands," McCloud corrected. "Not fire."

"I heard he mind controls pokemon," a second pitched in. "The officers too."

"He doesn't go invisible. He teleports."

"That's because he's actually a pokemon."

"Like a walking talking ditto?"

"Ditto."

"Would you idiots cut it out already?!"

The chuckling around the room quieted to a modest giggle.

"All gossip starts somewhere, Lieutenant," Special Detective Lupo explained. "And the fact that the guy still hasn't been caught yet proves he's one step ahead of us."

"Or just so insane that we can't predict his next move," Baker added.

The can of worms started wriggling again.

"It's like he's got eyes and ears on every rooftop, under every street light, in every trash can and sewer Midtown has to offer."

"He's got to be using something."

"What about a psychic pokemon?"

"Nobody's ever seen him with anything other than that cat."

"Then what about a device?"

"I've never heard of any mind controlling device."

"I bet you've never heard of a diet either."

A quick jab to the gut stuffed the joke back where it came from.

"What about anti-pokemon devices?"
"It's possible. Our partners haven't been on their game lately. Any pokemon we use to track him down almost always loses the trail or starts acting weird and out of control like their fresh from the wild."

"Most have to be returned before they can actually do anything. Others just run away."

"Don't forget about that mightyena that attacked its trainer."

Blanchard beheaded the superstitious up rise with a sideways glare at the offender. "I want facts men. Not gossip," he grunted.

"Fine," McCloud appeased. "If it's not a device and it's not a pokemon, then it has to be a man on the inside."

"Or woman, but he already took care of that problem," Baker muttered less than quietly under his breath.

All eyes suddenly shifted to the far side of the room, and those that didn't, darted back and forth between each other. She-who-would-not-be-named had been spoken of, and in the presence of not one, but two founders of that taboo. Lieutenant Blanchard clenched his teeth at the comment, but had no need to reprimand the Sergeant because the tip of that arrow wasn't aimed at him.

On the far side of the room, Sergeant John Lipton stared at the puzzle-work of city maps, crime scene photos and sticky notes tacked to the wall in front of him. Multicolored string connected the haphazardly placed pieces in a web of theories and possibilities that ended nowhere but an extra-long office supply bill. The wall represented all known facts and details about the Midtown Murderer case.

Tacks marked the location of each body found with their throats sliced and diced into pieces big enough to choke on. The coloration of the markers represented the victim's general profession: law enforcement, civilian, and low life. Unafraid of the tightening silence in the room, Baker leaned back in his chair to pull the bowstring taunt. He narrowed his sights on the back of that big red arcanine sized target.

"Looking for a good place to settle down there Lipton?" Baker grinned.

Lipton continued to stare at the tacks. They were organized by size according to significance with string meticulously wound around the pin. Reynolds Power Plant and the police station had library sized "X"s stamped on top of them. There wasn't enough space to accommodate all of the pins. Someone must have thought all of this time and effort would've helped them find a pattern. Lipton only got sick when he looked at the neon rainbow of cheap glue and printed paper.

These task force idiots couldn't see what was right in front of them. Probably because the polka dot paperclips and perfectly drawn question marks got in the way.

"Care to share, Sergeant?" Lieutenant Blanchard prodded.

Lipton turned around to face the others. His frown was so sharp that it came to a point and stabbed a few eyeballs back into their sockets. Only Blanchard and Baker were brave enough to stare back. Lipton disappointed them with a crisp flat "No".

The pressure in the room dropped with a unanimous sigh. One or two people started breathing again. Others gained more wind.

"Good to know your insight is as valuable as ever," Blanchard sneered. "I'd hate to tack you on that board with the rest of them."

It was good to know that the grudge between them was still alive and kicking amidst so much death and destruction. Sensing a rallying point and a distraction from their failures, McCloud joined the taunting.

"You're an important member of this team after all," he said. "Almost as important as your prize winning partner pokemon over there." He glanced between seats to the corner of the room where a pokemon pillow bed was set out on the floor. A poochyena lay tightly curled on the floor beside it with his back to the group. It was hard to tell if the pokemon was asleep or dead.

"A right champion that one," Baker picked up. "What's his number again? I'll have to remember to avoid it so I don't catch his curse. Wouldn't want to end up like his last partner."

The detective unlucky enough to find himself between Baker and Lipton braced himself for the fists that would inevitably start flying.

"Aww, give him a break," Special Detective Lupo interceded. His talents as a negotiator were starting to show. He picked up a piece of raspberry pastry from the paper plate near the center of the table. "The little guy's been through a lot."

"Here boy," he whistled, tossing the stale delight at the bite pokemon.

It bounced off of the canine's back, dropping crumbs on the floor and sugar crystals in his hair. The morsel laid there untouched for several seconds. Then, several more. Lupo cleared his throat and broke the awkward moment with a few choice comments about Midtown's quality of consumables. At least he had the decency to feel guilty about it.

With the mention of food and the hands on the clock being where they were, the conversation immediately shifted into more pressing matters, like the lunch menu. No longer the center of attention, Lipton looked from the uneaten crumb to the two bowls set out near the pokemon bed for an explanation to the canine's behavior. A cloudy film rimmed the water dish. Next to it, the mound of kibble was still high, discolored, and dry.

The bite pokemon hadn't eaten for days. All he ever did was sleep, but even that wasn't restful. Whenever he fell asleep, cries and twitching followed. At first, Lipton blamed the behavior on the poochyena's injuries. Three rounds in the healing machine over a week's rest should have helped, but it only got worse. As the hair on the canine's belly grew longer, his stomach grew smaller. His muscles mended, but he couldn't walk ten feet without collapsing in exhaustion.

Crinkling wrappers didn't perk his ears. Unfamiliar voices were unacknowledged. The poochyena's head never lifted far from the ground and his tail dragged across the floor so much that the fur was starting to dull. Lipton didn't want to subject the canine to such misery, but the longer he kept him in his pokeball, the worse it got. After every release, the poochyena did nothing but stare at the door without blinking. The longer he was confined, the longer he stared.

The pokemon researchers said the behavior was a result of trauma. Whatever the little pokemon saw that night at the oasis condos had been so horrifying that it gave him a permanent case of PTSD. Lipton disagreed. Nobody told that poochyena anything, not that he would understand anyway, but somehow, he knew. His first trainer was dead and the world was darker for it.

The canine's days as a working dog were over. One more signature and the paperwork would be finalized. The poochyena would be retired less than a year into his career, sent to a shelter, and probably euthanized for his behavior. Lipton stared at the pitiful stain on the floor. Ending the canine's pain might have been an act of mercy, but Lipton couldn't find it in him to sign the dotted line. It was the same as pulling the trigger and he was having a hard enough time with that as it was.

A small knock at the door signaled the appearance of a new arrival to the meeting, but the fact that he knocked at all indicated he wasn't important enough to be acknowledged. The standard checkered blue uniform without bars, badges, or stripes only added to the visitor's invisibility. With a quick glance, the task force ignored the interruption. Midtown Police Officer Henry Rockwell cracked open the door to the conference room and quickly scanned its occupants.

He clutched the door handle the entire time. It was his only lifeboat in these sharpedo infested waters. With no hostile reaction, the officer chanced opening the door a little further to widen his peripheral vision. He spotted the sergeant standing near the maps and immediately relaxed. This was the right room and there would be no reprimand later. Officer Rockwell casually leaned to one side of the frame to make space for a second person. Catching the hint, Lipton headed for the door. His intended exit renewed the insults of his peers, but despite the cat calls, nobody tried to stop him.

Sergeant John Lipton's presence at these meetings was a formality. Procedure. One as appreciated as shining boots in the morning. It didn't matter that he was involved with the case since the beginning and knew more details than anyone else. The fact that it hadn't been closed yet was all that mattered. Blanchard would have had the sergeant removed from the task force entirely if it wasn't for the commissioner's personal recommendation.

Skirting the table and its inhabitants brought Lipton close to the pokemon pillow bed. The poochyena beside it lifted his head, but the sergeant didn't look down. The canine's eyes were far too watery and skin too heavy to be from a hatchling and it deepened the guilt already drilling a hole in his gut. When it was clear that the sergeant was headed for the door, the bite pokemon began the slow stiff process of getting up.

On the other side of the room, Officer Rockwell stepped back to offer the sergeant a spot behind the door to hide in. It was cute the way paper pushers treated door's like capes. Rocky's concern was admirable, but unnecessary. Lipton knew how to dodge the rotten tomatoes thrown by this crowd. Sometimes, even throw a few himself. He paused just before the door and glanced beyond it to Blanchard. The lieutenant's eyes lingered just long enough to carry suspicion, but his grudge outweighed his police instinct and he wrote off the departure as another undercut to his authority. Better to rid himself of the sergeant now while he still had the numbers to back him up in case things got snappy.

"Sir," Officer Rockwell respectfully, but quietly, greeted as they met at the door. The slyest of smirks winked in his eye. Lipton translated the rest. Rocky had a lead on the case.

Lipton nodded for them to shift out of the entrance and into the hallway away from prying eyes. Blanchard might have been an idiot, but Special Detective Lupo didn't miss the fact that Lipton and the officer shared an exchange important enough for silence and privacy.

Down below, the slow click of claws on the floor alerted the pair that they were being followed. The bite pokemon didn't bother to lift his eyes as he approached. Then, the smell of copy paper and coffee beans tickled his nose. He looked up, Officer Rockwell looked down and the canine's tail slowly slid back and forth across the floor. That dusty black rag swept the officer right off of his feet. Rocky bent down as the canine wadded in around his boots.

"Hiya Duke," he greeted, picking up the poochyena without a second thought.

Lipton pressed the distracted officer backward and closed the door to the conference room behind them. They then shuffled into the hallway and started walking through the station. No words were spoken because none needed to be said. The hallway wasn't secure and they would have to go somewhere that was before continuing.

Lipton and Rockwell made their way through the station toward a set of desks set up much like the bull pen, only it was filled with ponyta instead of tauros. The officers who worked inside liked to call it the corral. Various men and women in unwrinkled, unstained uniforms stapled papers, typed at their keyboards, and rummaged through file cabinets to earn their paychecks.

None of them had been in the field since their training days. Reports and evidence bags had to be processed somewhere and some people weren't cut out for the gore and grime that was Midtown's finest. The corral was a well-oiled, unappreciated mainstay of the policing process. There were no ruffians being manhandled, grieving widows to console, or estranged can collectors to keep one entertained. No war stories around the cooler except who fixed the latest jam in the printer. Compared to the noisy heated arguments and confrontations of the bull pen, it was boring work. Most members of the precinct avoided the corral if they could.

Nobody liked policy and procedure snobs. Not that those snobs followed the rules any more than the rest. They were just sneakier about it. Having already met around the water troughs before, Officer Rockwell led the way to the coffee bar he supplied and maintained himself. Stocked with a variety of creamers, sweeteners, and syrups, it was the best caffeine keg in all of the breakrooms. Any superior officer with a sense of taste and no fear of damaging their reputation could be glimpsed dipping into the miniature oasis. Sergeant Lipton was known for the latter.

"Duke doing any better?" Rocky asked as he held the canine up against his chest and scratched him behind the ears.

"The same," Lipton answered, playing along with the small talk.

Getting straight to business would be too suspicious. If there was anything the depressed pokemon was good for, it was maintaining a solid cover. With so much misery in tow, no one questioned why Lipton left a meeting early, arrived late, or didn't show up at all. Nobody cared if he was seen somewhere unusual for his rank or conversing with someone he normally wouldn't. The canine's misery allowed the sergeant to move freely during his private investigation into the Midtown Murderer and Lipton couldn't have been more grateful.

It was the most anyone had done for him in this case aside from Officer Cofield herself. Like trainer like pokemon. Maybe that's why Duke felt so easy around Rockwell. The officer was made of the same metal as the Cofields only he was a 22 instead of a 45 who aimed at stationary soda bottles instead of beating hearts. He also remembered the poochyena's name when Lipton couldn't.

Rocky offered to watch Duke in the corral when he first heard that the canine's pokeball confinement had hampered his recovery. At first, it was strictly bed rest and monitoring. One day of supervision became two, then three, and finally an automatic routine whenever Lipton left the station. It was no secret that the corral expected and looked forward to the poochyena's appearance.

Someone bought a pokemon pillow bed that was much more plush and clean than the flat mat in the conference room. It was currently tucked away to avoid upsetting management, but Lipton was pretty sure the floor supervisor helped pick out the pattern. Two different boxes of poketreats were available next to the sugar dispenser and Rocky still thought nobody knew about the squeaky toy in his desk drawer. The MPD officer stroked a long hand down the canine's back.

"That's OK," he whispered to the bite pokemon. "You can take a nap under my desk."

The way Duke stuffed his face into the crook of the officer's uniform indicated he was already in the process of falling asleep. Rocky felt the shift in the pokemon's breathing and stilled his hand to lay on the canine with the comforting pressure of a heated weighted blanket. He then looked up at Lipton with a small proud smile as if setting the pokemon to sleep had been his goal for the day.

It was so easy for him to care, to pick up where Annie left off. Maybe Rocky would consider a custody transfer? Every police station needed a mascot partner pokemon, especially one with a sob story like Duke's. Community relations would love the publicity and Blanchard would be pissed he didn't think of it himself. Lipton looked at the poochyena again. Then, around the corral and the officers who kept glancing in their direction because they knew what it meant for the canine to be in Officer Rockwell's arms.

Lipton nodded to himself. A duty transfer was exactly what Duke needed and what the corral was secretly hoping for. Annie would have approved. If only her grandfather was so easily pleased. The weight of the cold steel holstered at the sergeant's sides grew heavier every day. Sometimes, he couldn't even walk straight. The damn things would earn him a crutch.

Hoping to alleviate some of that burden, Officer Rockwell glanced just far enough over Lipton's shoulder to indicate the coast was clear. They'd have approximately 45 seconds until their meet up drew the doting affection of a pokemon enthusiast or a bored eavesdropper.

"We've got a new tip," Rocky informed with so much casual flare that Lipton almost missed the words that were spoken.

There was no one more adept at discretion and office politics than Rocky the diamond paperweight. Lipton was glad the officer turned out to be one of the good ones because without his confidence and insider knowledge, Lipton would have never been able to filter out the honest to god leads on the midtown murderer from the paranoid spam clogging the hotline. So many sightings of the hell cat and its trainer came in every day that they had to register a new phone number to process them all.

"A man named Kenny Miles called it in," Officer Rockwell continued. "He's a barber on Jackson Avenue." Rocky pulled out a scrap of paper from his front chest pocket and passed it off as if it were another stroke of the poochyena's fur. "Says he knew Annie and the guy that killed her."

Lipton's face tightened at the mentioned of Officer Cofield's first name out loud. Rocky wouldn't have said it if he didn't believe it.

"I think it's him."

Lipton stashed the note in his pocket and glanced down at Duke. "Watch him for me?"

"Of course," Rocky answered, holding the canine a little closer.

Again, more formalities. The officer never intended to put the canine down. With that, the transaction was complete. Rocky turned and walked away as easily as if conversing about the weather instead of a collaborated murder. Two nearby heads immediately lifted from their desks as he walked into the corral carrying the poochyena. Others quickly followed. Chairs rolled away from their ruts in the floor. Pens dropped onto the notepads and someone started the coffee machine.

Not a single person saw the mean old sergeant who didn't know how to spoil a very precious poochyena leave the room. All the better. Lipton stepped out into the hallway and paused just long enough outside of the corral to see a well-placed pat on the poochyena's head stir him awake. With a sleepy wink of his eyes, Duke waged his tail lightly and moved his head towards the many gentle hands patiently waiting their turn in line. Lipton made a mental note to draw up the transfer paperwork first thing tomorrow morning.

The 336th precinct was about to get its first mascot. A single person might not fill the hole in the poochyena's heart, but a roomful of doting fans in checkered blue uniforms wishing him nothing but goodwill might. Sergeant Lipton left the corral, walked down the hallway, and pulled the scrap of paper from his pocket. An address was scribbled across the front. One he knew by heart. Lipton crumbled the paper and tossed it in the nearest shred bin.

One promise down. One more to go.