I do not own Zootopia, that belongs to Disney. This a fan work made solely for the sake of amusement.
"Let It Go, It's Happytown"
Chapter Seventeen: Eye of Providence
By: Gabriel LaVedier
Patience was more than a virtue in Sherlock's sphere, it was an integral part of both his prior training and his present profession. Methodical searching through mounds of raw material to get at the kernels of truth within was his bread and jam. Being careful when matched with a skillful and discerning eye was the key to success. It did no good to pore over each line only to find ages past and dust where a client once stood.
Sherlock was in a place that reminded him of the lamasery in some sense. As they had a hall of ancient scrolls, the accumulated wisdom of ages, the nearest equivalent was the library. He had been there often in younger years but had never had much occasion to visit in later years. Happytown had one, but it was a sadly underfunded and rather small thing, used largely as a place to get in out of inclement weather.
His needs were more than the small space could muster. He needed newspaper archives and open freedom to look through them, which was accomplished by a call from Cecil Seedsworth. The look of him, with his Happytown aura, had closed the door to him, even as inoffensive prey. But even if they weren't original papers, there was value to them, value to which he did not rise, so far as the library was concerned, not without endorsement from someone important.
After a basic training in the use of the huge and unusual microfiche machine he had to sift his way through the business and local affairs sections to catch notice of anything relating to CloverCorp in general and specifically about Gregory Gnuston. His search was aided by the presence of a computer in the room that allowed him to look for significant dates in a general sense that looking through the archives could expand upon.
Gregory was quite the social butterfly if the social section was to be believed. He attended functions often, made large donations to prey-promoting causes and was quite generous when it came to donating to law enforcement causes that involved the prosecution of predators specifically. There were several, vague allusions to things involving Happytown in relation to him, but it amounted to little. His speech was quite common from wealthy mammals. Everyone had an opinion of Happytown. He couldn't let his focus overly color his perception of significance.
CloverCorp was always successful, or at least, made very robust, steady profits. Gregory Gnuston was a genius, according to the breathless writers. He oversaw the important mergers and the purchases of smaller companies, several of them near Happytown, some of them very old and oddly random. There was no pattern in the chaos yet, but there must have been something there. Evil may have been petty, but to last so long it could not be stupid.
He cross-referenced information on the internet with the archived newspapers. It was so much like the old days, making the wisdom of the ancient sages link together, scroll upon scroll, to form a true understanding. He could take the glowing praises that rang form every single article and made the reality shine by checking how things actually were based on the statistical facts.
Familiar as it was it was certainly a new version of his job. Hermione would surely laugh at him. For all he praised brains and a black notebook, and for all he looked askance at her technological inclinations, here he was using old newspapers together with what a computer could give him. He bridged a gap in technique, an appropriate thing. Once the flurry of activity and praise was over he would need to grind out his daily bread once more, and being better at doing so would mean he could keep food in his mouth as well as Hermione's.
He took copious notes as he went, still relying on that little black notebook and his mind. Things changed but not everything needed replacing. His notes looked a little bit too much like the cliché image of a conspiracy chart. But in a very real sense, it was a conspiracy. He had arrested two conspirators who had been taking orders from someone placed higher and leading the whole thing. It was somewhat important that he keep that in mind. Sometimes, the powerful did conspire to remain that way, as a bloc or as a single mammal angling to maintain a top spot through underhanded means. History was rife with examples.
The sources were very useful, but seeing it through the lens of the computerized backgrounds was much better. It was good to have all the original newspaper stories, getting an insight into things. They also suggested new avenues to see how high and how far back the issue went. Maybe there was a thread that passed along, a corrupted family business.
The father of Mr. Gnuston was quite the enigma. References to dates and major happenings seemed to have been hushed in the newspapers. And family before that as well. It was possible to do that in all times, especially in the bad old days. The rich and potent could make things look they way they wanted them to look. Perhaps that was why there were such fleeting references to a Gnuston older than Gregory's father. Just notices of business transactions and, of all things, advertisements for old patent medicine products the internet was sure were put out by the old bull in that time.
Money. Money. Money. Everything was all about money. That was what the Gnuston family cared about. Earning money. Splashing money around. Even the donations were trumpeted overly proudly. Always for prey causes. Money and prey, the promotion of prey species that had needed only slight help. Excessive amounts of care for the prey population who had many starting advantages.
His business with the library was concluded in the course of a long morning and most of the afternoon, with a very brief break for a cart meal that lacked the charming gruffness of Boo's usual manner. Mammals were the same all over, but he had been molded to the very specific way Happytown shaped its citizens. Everyone reacted to the slum differently, from grumpy cynicism, to hidden hopefulness inside of Fatalism, to the complete surrender to cliches that plagued gangsters and some hustlers, though they could at least redeem themselves in the end, and did.
"Monsieur, was there anything of substance there?" Hermione asked him as he got into the office.
"All is shadow where there are only whispers to start," Sherlock replied, looking over his notes and firing up his dated computer. "Much of the information was hidden by the thick padding that comes of being written about by mammals that can be bought. But there was also much that arose from speculations and implications. A rich vein to mine, especially about his father and further kin. Many curious things regarding where the money came from."
"The conspiracies again, monsieur?" Hermione questioned with a hint of humor in her voice.
"Mammals conspire, Mlle. LaBelle. The cleaner and the pipeline fox both conspired with, allegedly, Gregory Gnuston, to do all these acts of evil. This is a conspiracy, and you must learn that sometimes, such things are real. Absolute belief and absolute disbelief serve no one. It will not always be an elaborate web of shadows, but it becomes dangerous once it is found true that it is," Sherlock sternly said.
"I suppose there are many stresses upon you, M. Gyag. Désolé," Hermione said. "Who would have known solving the crime would create worse problems?"
"Given the scope and evil of the crimes, I should have known," Sherlock sighed, opening up the internet and starting his search. "Excuse me if I become silent. More exploration is required."
Hermione nodded and went back to her typical activity, slowly and meticulously sliding her emery board along her claws. "Bien sûr, monsieur. Bonne chance!"
Sherlock sank into a comfortable routine, as he had before on the case. Seeking the small corners of the internet, the whispering corners mostly populated by the folk from his little part of the city. Happytowners didn't have universal access, but those that did were very regular about being on, and were very vocal about their opinions. As before he found not only his neighbors but also agitators pretending to be locals. They almost seemed to be making a game of interrupting an important local resource to waste time and lead away from important things. Perhaps agents of Gnuston or other such persons destroying the potential for change.
No. No... He had just admonished Hermione for thinking in a similar manner. Not every malevolent monster was paid to interrupt the course of proper things. Malice was not needed to explain things when ignorance was sufficient to explain it. Or the boredom he knew was the lot of those who lived fat and happy, roofs over their heads and secure in their assurance they will live day to day. With no worries, they had only an empty vacuity inside them, a cup with no bottom that they could only pour malice into.
Every problem in Happytown was, to some, the fault of malicious prey. Having noted Gnuston and others, some measure of that statement was to a degree true. Bad intentions to curry favor or misplaced good intentions to overcompensate in fixing some ill, both measured out the same. Laws piled upon laws, never fixed and never softened, designed to hurt the poorest because they were the inferiors. Happytown soon became a self-fulfilling prophecy. Hurt mammals hurt mammals, and desperate scrabblers clutched at any floating debris to survive or make the pain of living go away. Twenty-four could be a very big number if it wasn't spent on a bed of silk in a house of gold. Even twenty-four seconds could be torment with the touch of a hot coal.
Conspiracy linked to conspiracy, and while his training was enough to maintain control and focus, his need to prepare himself for future needs made him at least explore the ideas presented. He saw little sense in any of it until he found writings concerning the rather shocking amount of control exercised by one Vesper Bellwether, and the way his choices for positions had been well-accepted in the wider urban area, outside of his parochial power base in Meadowlands. The writing would be banal in a post-Dawn world, but were prophetic based on the dates attached to them.
The names were somewhat scattershot, but much attention was paid to enough significant figures that there was a genuine investigative skill to the examination. Shetland Shearly, formerly the police commissioner. Cheviot McLiff, former chief of the Meadowlands police department. Even a thowaway list of possible assistants that mentioned the sociopathic Doug Ramses. It was all highly suggestive and showed a clearly considered, rational mind. The most significant thing about it, was that it wasn't the only writing from the author.
Vindicated in some capacity, the writer had been following matters in Happytown, still on a thread about prey being a problem when they exerted power and looked down on predators, the very definition of Happytown's state. Someone was messing with Happytown for a purpose, to make money and to make the predators and immigrants look bad, and keep them an effigy of fear. All stated before the arrests that had been made, proving it was true to some degree. The writer was surely very intelligent.
While he was not what could be described as technologically conversant, some things were fairly basic. Though written under a pseudonym, there was an opportunity to contact the writer. Obviously he would get a pseudonymous reply but hopefully one that would benefit him. If you noted the news recently you would know your vindication. I am the same Sherlock Gyag noted in the reports who caught both the fox and the cleaner. Your insights and skill with deduction are prodigious and you seem to have some thought on this latest matter. I would like to converse with you about these matters, as the job is not yet done. The mastermind yet remains and perhaps with your help I can gain an approach, a breach in his defense. Any manner of communication on this matter would be well appreciated.
Some time later, the curt reply came to him. ZU Public Cafe, tomorrow, noon. I think we do have a great deal to discuss, Mr. Gyag.
o o o
Travel did not come naturally to Sherlock, even as an immigrant from a distant land. When he found a home he loved that home. He had loved the Sacred Mother, he had loved the lamasery, and more than anything else, he loved Happytown. Yet of late his whole nature had been that of a vagabond, wandering around to this and that place within the city-state. He was working for his home, working to solve the crimes that afflicted his neighbors, but ever more he was pulled form home, drawn as an iron shaving to a magnet out of that home into the large-looming realm of that malevolent force that had made a victim of his land.
Being a very popular destination tram and bus lines were generously provided and very swift to take mammals to the area around Zootopia University. The campus itself was practically a miniature district, an open-air but walled collection of high and imposing stone buildings. Surrounded it were apartment blocks that served as dorms and some university-run businesses that supplemented the budget, which were open to the public.
A public cafe. Very open, very visible, a safely neutral meeting ground for unknown elements. It protected him and it protected the mysterious writer. Like the peaceground watering hole the PUCA tenders spoke of, a ground where all sides could come and be assured of safety. He could have asked for a description, but they would surely find him. He very much looked the part of someone that didn't belong.
"Based on your name and your attire I presume you are Mr. Gyag," said a cultured voice to Sherlock's side. He turned to see the tall, elegant form of a male gerenuk. He was dressed relatively casually, in slacks and a white button-up shirt, with a school ID badge naming him as Dr. Garanuug.
"And would you be the investigator I came to see?" Sherlock asked.
"No, but I was wandering to try and locate you. Please, follow me," Dr. Garanuug said, motioning to a table far from where they were standing. On the way he held out a hoof. "Dr. Ian Garanuug, botanist."
Sherlock accepted the hoof and nodded. "Shalva Gyag, private investigator. Call me Sherlock, it has been a name I am comfortable with."
"An immigrant," Ian said without judgment. "Changing to a more palatable name to appease the crowd. Ah, what won't Zootopia force on others?"
"Hardly force. It was done to ease things along... soft coercion, yes. You are quite correct," Sherlock said as they arrived at the table. Sitting there was a heavy, squat honey badger. She was dressed in green scrubs, looking down, with eyes darting side-to-side rapidly. The reason could be seen around one ankle, an ugly black box that occasionally flashed a malevolent red light.
She fairly started as the two approached, but looked to calm quickly. She took Sherlock's hoof and gave it a powerful shake. Seemingly not all the heft was mere pudge. "Dr. Madge Honeybadger. No matter how much they want, they can't revoke your doctorate if you didn't do something against the science you worked your whole life for. They can take your teaching position, but if you're good enough they'll use you like a machine to keep producing discoveries for them quietly and obliquely."
Sherlock slowly sat down, noting the monitor on her ankle and nodding slowly. "Yes... I recall some details of the Nighthowler incident. One of the innocent caught in the snare, like Councilor Seedsworth's wife."
"Hardly as innocent, but more than Lionheart," Madge grumbled. "But at least I have some support. I... I can't say thank you enough to Ian..."
"I had seen you before my doctorate. I wish I had spoken before this happened. But I'm so glad you were released... conditionally," Ian said, placing his hoof on Madge's hand.
"At least it's not house arrest. But they always need to know where I am. Tracked like a bird or lizard on a farm," Madge sighed. "I can see Ian freely. And keep track of the state of the city. It's not so great."
"So I read. Your insights are intriguing, and very accurate, even before the fact. It would seem that you can provide something on the matter in Happytown," Sherlock said.
"Happytown is always a target. It's always being pushed down by by prey that need a place to blame for the problems that are caused by complicated, interlocking issues," Madge said.
"I have a name, a name gained through trading word and taking liberties with ethical concerns. I have only the name, and think I have chosen a name of immense significance to the whole rotted matter," Sherlock said. "Gregory..."
"Gnuston," Ian finished, looking to Madge who had a wide-eyed expression. "Exactly as you thought."
"There are so many horrid antlerheads out there, I'd be better counting off the ones that aren't at least coldly bigoted. It wasn't hard to see the ones at Clover were doing something. The property buying on the books had to have some kind of off the books counterparts. The donations to all those prey causes. But I didn't know it was him. That was you, all you," Madge said.
"It was the work of a moment once you narrowed down Clover Corp. And then seeing that cold-eyed killer from the limo, he had to be one of their lesser underlings. It had to be Gregory," Ian snorted.
"Fascinating synergy," Sherlock muttered, looking at the two holding hands. A hoofed mammal. A mustelid. They were so casual, and even so the connection was palpable, radiating from even a few small words. "How did you arrive so simply at a conclusion that took so much effort to reach?"
"The Bulwark speech," Ian said, looking sour. "Oh how he tried to hide it. It was after Madge was arrested... and other things happened, when Bellwether was installed as mayor, and pacified the City Council. That was when he spoke. That was when he trod on the back of that poor rabbit to take her mistaken words higher and more horribly than she possibly could have conceived."
"Bulwark speech... I know nothing of it but I can feel the depth of your hatred for it. He hid a speech he made to the City Council. The rich are good at such. Tell me of the contents," Sherlock said, extracting his notebook and getting ready.
"I could recite most of it. It's burned into my mind," Ian grunted, an odd sound for the reedy gerenuk. "I was there, one of very few. Closed-door session. No cameras, no cell phones. I had been sent to ask after Madge on behalf of the University. I... I volunteered to see if she could be allowed to research while incarcerated. They needed someone to ask and I wanted to. But, Gregory was first. I can still see his excessively preened form, his severe suit, black as his rotted heart. That smug smile I wish I could smash the teeth from. He opened his mouth and let out poison. Some biological matter. An inferior breed that produced nowt but savages and mental cripples. Happytown was the problem. Immigrants. But especially predators. Natural savages. Naturally lowborn, especially in that slum. The bulwark was no metaphor. He meant it. Confine the savages. Wall up Happytown. To save the city from them all going savage and killing everyone. Lay down bricks and steel. Set guards with only lethal tranquilizer doses. Let them deal with and destroy themselves.
"The council was... unimpressed to say the least. Oh Bellwether was as receptive as could be to a vote on the matter. But I've never seen such hate from mammals as I did in the eyes of the others. Everyone confronted many things in that dark time. All of the councilors overrode Mayor Bellwether's call for an investigation into the possibility. I really think their united deadlock stopped anything worse from happening under her,"Ian sighed, slumping in his chair lightly. "If anyone wants to hurt Happytown, it's him. He's the one with all the hate. When Madge narrowed down the possible players, it had to be him."
"This is no game, this is my home,"Sherlock said. "My neighbors are not pieces to be pushed around, collected for points, or thrown away when they cease to be amusing or useful."
"They are, Mr. Gyag, to the ones smashing their trotters on the backs of their heads," Ian said.
"Ian..." Madge said, rubbing the back of his hoof. "I'm the ratel around here. I'm the one who's needlessly angry and spiteful."
Ian snorted again and shook his head. "Needlessly is hardly how it should be said. Wealth is a curse to the wealthy who are unable to bear the enormous weight of the responsibility they hold to others. Those that fail in holding it are worse than anyone who ever desperately desired it. Dissolute sots with fragile egos and darkness where a soul ought to be. Their pique and entitlement makes them spend money on pathetic excess to crush those that insult them or show up those that challenge them."
Sherlock had continued to write, even if he was only jotting down social observations. "Mm, the curse of wealth. I am certain we have sharply different perspectives given the mean manner in which I live. But even I have a perspective different from my Mlle. LaBelle. I was raised in the lamasery and was used to asceticism. Making do with less. But I know how wealth works. How can it hurt so?"
"What a fascinating tale you weave in a hoofful of words," Ian said with a chuckle. "The truth is, money and hooves go together far too often. As herd folk who once cared much for hierarchy we can be easily influenced by the tastes and trends of those richer or more masterful. Wealth and power... they disconnect you from the world. We run only in our own circles. The older your money and name, the tighter the circle draws, like a noose."
"Ian rarely goes home," Madge said with a chuckle. "He prefers scientific pursuits and gainful employment. And if he's not at his family home, well... he needs to sleep somewhere. Occasionally."
"The irrepressible ratel," Ian laughed, bringing Madge's hand up for a kiss.
"You say you climbed a long way? Get out your ice-ax, pitons, and attached ankle spikes. You're sheer face climbing from here," Madge warned, suddenly serious. "Most of the board at Clover were bland, and open. Nothing interesting or even slightly surprising. A few of them, though, very tough. Old money does that. Gregory's one of them. I don't have access to anything special, not anymore. Public inquiries that didn't get me targeted by that limo guy ran into stone walls over and over again. For all of them, of course. But when Ian told me about Gnuston, I tried to focus. Nothing. Wasted efforts, long nights and back massages. You can focus on him, and being a detective I'm guessing you're used to a lot of legwork. I wish you luck. Hope it turns out better than what I could do with the limitations. ZPD would notice a tracked felon skulking near one of their squeaky-clean upright citizens."
"I lived the formative years of my life at the top of the world. I fear no height, no summit could crown the Sacred Mother. I will reach his height, and conquer him," Sherlock asserted. "I also wish to say... thank you, for reaching out to me. Assisting me like this."
"I did the conspiracy thing. Sometimes they're real," Madge said. "It was thankless work, and didn't prepare me for being blindsided by Lionheart. I became part of a conspiracy because I forgot they're so... ordinary when you're too close to see it all. Seeing my work taken seriously, and by someone involved in the real case, down in the dirt digging the grubs of truth. I had to. I'm just glad Ian came with me. I knew about Gnuston, but he has a way with words."
"As if I would leave you to a mysterious meeting. I'm only a willowy gerenuk, but I have a body that can soak up a taser or a dart or a knife or a headbutt," Ian noted with a smile.
"In an odd way, I also thank you for your openness. In happier times, in peaceful times, I need to think that happiness will be available even with an odd match," Sherlock said.
"She has a spring for a spine," Madge said matter-of-factly. "No one would be that sappy about us unless she can touch the ground bending backwards and walk a circle all around. It's always possible, Mr. Gyag."
"Mademoiselle..." Ian said thoughtfully. "An immigrant. Convey my best wishes, and good luck to you. Gregory will have bodyguards and hired cars. He will not be so easy to trace. He is no fool."
"I will make a fool of him, in the end," Sherlock said, rising from the table and nodding to the two before making his way back to the bus stop.
His target was set and confirmed. Duke had been right. There was more to him than just someone overdressed at failed projects. Buy out, evict, and lose money. But hurt everyone evicted. He had so much money he could lose it. Play with it like it was nothing but a different kind of toy. Like a false god he stood, his will done, evil and cruel. Dedicated to hurting that place. His hate was hot and strong. But as he had promised, he would not bend to him. He would not bow to the false god. He would unseat him.