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 Nineteen: Bringing Out The Dead
By: Gabriel LaVedier
"Officer Wulfberg, I've been hearing some very great things," Chief Bogo said. He was sitting behind his desk at precinct one, spectacles perched on his snout to help him see the small collection of folders he flipped through. "You're very dedicated. Working in Happytown, being a liaison with Mr. Gyag, gathering important information... you have skills, and you have the proper temperament."
"Thank you, sir. I've tried my best to stick it out," Louis said, standing straight and still. Being called before the big bull was never a casual thing. He was always intimidating, even when giving out awards. This didn't feel like an award. There was a condition coming up, something to watch out for.
"I have heard, from the fox and from others, that when Happytown is concerned there must be a certain amount of... flexibility. You're being judged on numbers. There are a lot of prostitutes that work there. And none are in jail," Bogo said, accusingly. "Flexible, are we?"
"I have seen no direct evidence, sir," Louis said. He was a dead wolf. Even Nick just barely got away with that level of insolence, and only because of years of training. "And to be truthful, they earned it. My grandfather freed them. The Stainless Badges planted the bones of old vice cops in Sahara Square and the Old Girls threw the pimps into our hands, some of them alive. They're free and deserve it. The bloodline stands with them. I presume I'll need an orange vest and the cart keys, sir?"
"You presume too much, officer," Bogo rumbled. "I needed assurances. To know you don't hold the law as a monolith. It can do wrong, and need fixing. Some flexibility. Life needs some exceptions or we're all living in an open-air jail."
"I've seen too much to think that. My position changed quite a bit, sir," Louis said, shoulders slumping a little as the tension ebbed slowly out of his body. The chief's mysterious ways really kept everyone on their toes and could really spike the blood pressure when he tried to. "Will there be something that needs me to be a bit more flexible with the law?"
"You've become very familiar with Sherlock Gyag, assisted him in some capacity, given support to the investigations that seem to be closed, correct?" Bogo asked.
"Yes, sir, and it has been... more than fascinating," Louis said with a soft chuckle.
"Seem to be closed, officer... there's more to all this than just some mysterious mass-killer and some drug pipelines," Bogo grunted. "I spoke to Mr. Gyag the other day, after officer Wilde-Hopps got him access to police records. If briefly. He had a supposition. A fantastic, insane supposition. One that is most likely true. But I never, ever said it. From this moment, nothing leaves this office, or else you'll spend the rest of what career you can bear wishing you were on that cart."
"I read you, sir," Louis said, stepping forward and leaning in toward the desk. "Sherlock always suspected there was something bigger, something more grand. I think he used Mr. Limo as a kind of avatar for who the cleaner represented. The whole limo was just his will, made into an object. He was only a puppet. That much is clear."
"A puppet, yes, apt. Someone who wants to make puppets of everyone below him," Bogo said. "Sherlock, after doing some things that we will not be discussing, has arrived at a perpetrator for it all. Gregory Gnuston."
"The one who constantly runs for mayor and city council?" Louis asked.
"That very bastard," Bogo snorted. "A fixture of every fancy gala and important city function. If he can't run into political power he seems intent on manipulating his way to it. Maybe buying it, though he seems to know better than to try too hard. He knows my eyes are on him. And I know he hates me for being an Outsider. Raw contempt when he looks at Rachel trying to be pleasant to him, the disgust behind his eyes when she shows pictures of Winnie. If I wasn't required to show a good face for the city I'd have rammed him through ages ago and thrown him off the Palm casino."
"Mother warned me about certain prey in the money world that hid their teeth and killed with their eyes. That was one," Louis said. "I take it this is strong speculation and good supposition made with his mysterious detective powers."
"I'd laugh if he hadn't handed me a plum arrest that makes the department look amazing. Among Mr. Limo's effects was a necklace, a cloverleaf. The same cloverleaf as found on the CloverCorp logo. They own allegedly independent markets encroaching on Happytown, and their employees, and those of legal card clubs, are often seen in Happytown when the businesses are closed. Gregory was also known to engage in real estate speculation that bought out and evicted mammals but which never led anywhere. The cleaner took care of PIs that got too close to the drugs, meaning he lost more money getting drugs into Happytown. Hurting. Always hurting mammals. Always him in the shadows, or so the speculation goes."
Louis nodded slowly. "As much as I would be willing to... accidentally do something involving him, I have just enough moral fiber to say that while deserved it wouldn't be right. Sir."
"That's not what we need right now. Right now..." Bogo said with a falling tone. "No, Sherlock discovered a cover-up, that makes no sense. Gregory's mother, Rose, was supposedly robbed and killed by Happytown thugs. But according to the newspapers, no obituary was ever made, and his father seems to have quashed any mention of it. For a bull who hates Happytown you'd think he would have used that, he has to have known the truth. His father hid it, but he never bothered to reveal it. There must be reasons. And this is where you come in."
"Some new assignment to shadow him, sir?" Louis asked.
"No... that privileged bastard, and I must emphasize how much I despise that condescending bull, still has certain protection under the law. He's in a special category, even. One I don't agree with but need to keep up. Sociopolitical realities, the machinery of society. Blah, garbage. We all need to keep those ignorant and rich prey fat and happy and protected from too much scrutiny," Bogo snorted.
"Non-ignorant prey get the opposite," Louis mumbled. "Mother, even being the daughter of Eliot Wulfberg, got every single pred-hating cop there was when someone threw garbage at our house, or threatened to arrest father when he put his hoof through some prey's teeth for threatening mother."
"Your parents have given you, I think, just the right perspective. You know not all prey are like Gregory, you know what it means to be disadvantaged by his kind," Bogo said.
"How can I assist Sherlock with his investigation, sir?" Louis asked.
"My brother is a very sweet mammal, skilled and agreeable, but he hews very closely to the law. A trait I can certainly admire. He got his job for a reason and keeps it for a reason. But he was very strict when Sherlock was looking in our archives. This next matter will involve the central city archives. And a little... flexibility," Bogo explained.
"Tell me what I need to do, and I'm sure I'll be up to it, sir," Louis said.
"You'll need to get Sherlock into the city archives, into the section concerning these particular individuals. Oh yes, they have that. You'll need to do it at a very particular time. The one watching the security cameras at that time has... Outside inclinations. They have no love for Gnuston. The cameras are, I'm certain, bound to have a malfunction it will take them a while to recover from," Bogo chuckled. "As to the rest, keep in mind you have to supervise him and make sure he doesn't look at things he shouldn't or make copies. He really can't look at much of anything. It's more of a kind of tour. But..."
o o o
"You may find this place very interesting," Louis said, leading Sherlock along inside the large and opulent city records building. Everything in the proper part of Zootopia was made to be architectural marvels, to put forth a beautiful visage to make the city-state proud. "The city archives have all the important pieces of data. Compartmentalized, organized, put together to keep it forever. Sometimes with... special categories."
"As in... prominent citizens who need their records kept but away from normal scrutiny?" Sherlock asked.
"I said nothing of the sort. But note that I am not actively disagreeing with you," Louis said. He led Sherlock along into the depths of the building, to unremarkable places and eventually to an area marked as being the security office. Within was a single male fisher in a khaki security guard uniform. "Morning, Nathaniel. How's the missus?"
"All teeth and tail, and after three kits I still can't get enough," Nathaniel said, chuckling softly. "This that, ah, special tour I was hearing about?"
"The very one. I hope that won't be an inconvenience," Louis said.
"Not at all. Just mind what you do. I'm fiddling with some problem systems I noticed and if the cameras go out I'll expect you and your guest to be on your best behavior," Nathaniel said with a subtle nod and smile.
"Believe me, Bogo approved him, this is all on the level. He's a police consultant and I wanted to show him our record keeping and archive procedures. We'll be on our way down right now," Louis said.
"Sure, sure. Hope it's very enlightening," Nathaniel said, tapping on his keyboard and fiddling with some wires inside a box he had open beside the main console.
"Beaver," Louis said, apropos of nothing, as he led Sherlock along to the elevator. "She's a producer at ZNN, works mostly with Fabienne Growley on her show with Moosebridge and Tanuyama. He understands these kinds of matters."
"While so many consider my kind mysterious and inscrutable your own folk are very labyrinthine in your dealings as well," Sherlock blandly noted as they started down in the elevator.
"Different reasons," Louis said. "Seems like you do it to be deep. We started doing it when laws got complicated enough to give us breathing room if we were willing to dance around. I hear similar things about other folks. Your Miss LaBelle is like Scarlet, her own folk speak just outside of what they mean, so extra meaning can flow in and folks are forced to think a bit more. It also means they can step back if need be. Just like what we discussed in the office up there."
The elevator opened up into a very dull room lit by overhead florescent lights. It was small, gray walls and a beige carpet, with locked doors leading off with signs announcing what was through each. Security cameras were on the ceiling but all the lights on them were out.
"So that was arranged?" Sherlock asked, looking at the deactivated cameras.
"Bogo feels a certain way about a certain mammal, for good reason," Louis said, unlocking the door designated as Special Police Archives and Records of Mammals of Notability. "Nathaniel would go along with it because he's in a similar situation. The system is old and the city council always pumps money into other places. The cameras go out all the time. It's entirely normal, if annoying and occasionally yelled about for a little bit."
"Using the failing of bureaucracy against itself. How appropriate. As it fails, it is hurt and yet never changes. How much time will this entirely expected failure last?" Sherlock asked.
"As long as we need. I've seen the system go out for an entire day. But try to be reasonable,"Louis said with a smile. For all the cloak and dagger intrigue of the moment, he led Sherlock into a painfully ordinary room of filing cabinets and cardboard boxes. "I really can't let you remove anything from here. But that's the only restriction. It would also be great if you only dug into Gregory Gnuston."
"I have my integrity, the most important thing of all to me," Sherlock said, heading toward a section with boxes loaded with G names.
"Wait!" Louis said, clearing his throat and turning toward the door. "If I were to directly see you rifling through anything that would be worth me arresting you. Now... I have the sudden need to go mark the porcelain. There are no cameras on, so I really expect you not to touch anything while I'm out." With a nod, he left Sherlock alone in the room.
Sherlock made all due haste to the boxes. He was mostly disinterested in his main point of contention. Beloved wife and mother was two categories. The son could wait, as the father loomed large. Gatsby Gnuston. Society giant and business wizard, a bull of enormous will, and of mysterious background. Like so many, he was a native of the city, but older records could grow spotty about things, and old money families that did not keep careful track of where it all emerged from could not openly say from when they had sprung. They could appear like sudden weeds and take over before anyone could ask questions. Past a certain point, they would be too big to stop and too powerful to question.
A powerhouse, a titan, but in the end, mortal. Dead and gone, reduced to nothing more than brittle pages and faded ink in a cardboard box. They kept their records. But never did anything about them. How it must have galled him, having to tell them to seal it all away. How some good police officer laughed, perhaps, how a cynical, or malevolent partner gently or violently told him how it went. A shadow show. A pantomime as Mlle. LaBelle would say. Written, sealed, stuffed in a box. No action taken. No punishment given. Maybe forgotten. But never destroyed, an immortal record that could not be deflected. He could stamp and butt and bellow, he could insist he was too powerful to be denied. He could hide his crimes but all the money in the world couldn't destroy them. Figuratively or literally.
Report after report. Domestic violence. They didn't need to sugarcoat it. In their estimations the records would be sealed away. They could say all the evil things that occurred. Certainly in public there would be talk of accidents. Walking into doors or tripping down stairs. Gatsby Gnuston certainly did beat his wife with some regularity. Certain cynical elements said that was the norm of the older age. They were not entirely wrong in their grim lookback to an unenlightened past. Most men and some women depending on culture, had carte blanche to beat their partners. The records indicated at least Gatsby took full advantage of his allowance.
Sherlock looked at the cameras, to make sure the system was still being serviced by the fisher in the security room. He pulled out a small camera given to him by Chief Bogo, who claimed it had gone missing during an inventory cataloging. He snapped photos of each page. Names, dates, locations, the specifics of injury. An entire, sordid history.
At last there came the important one. The death. The death that had been silenced. No obituary. No wild calls for Happytown to burn. Silence. A tower of silence that Sherlock would have found more seemly than making it all mysteriously go away.
The details were brutal and unflinching, dispassionately reported by the city doctor in the full autopsy, with notes about oversight written in very significant terms. It was as though the report was written under duress. Sherlock could imagine some version of the Cleaner there, hooves ready to choke the noncompliance out of the mammal and usher in a better stooge. It was always the same, a bad blood passing from father to son.
Something struck Sherlock as he regarded the report. Her age. And Gatsby's age. Rose had died very young, even for someone killed by violence. But Gatsby...
The filing cabinets were next, filled with mimeographed copies of important documents, an eternal record barred from most scrutiny. A marriage certificate came up in the Gnuston file. Rose Hornsby, age sixteen, married to Gatsby Gnuston, age thirty-seven. Legal but upsetting, even in earlier times. No one could legally object but that made it not one whit less upsetting.
Hornsby. Rose Hornsby. A little waif with a mysterious backstory. She did, indeed, have a file. A pointedly mysterious file. Hidden away, to keep her life from notice. Sherlock's camera captured every detail. Her mother was Matilda Hornsby, an ordinary teen of very low class, as was the case for many in those days. Prey privilege didn't save equally, it only helped the highs reach higher and the lows stay out of desperate places. Matilda took after her daughter, or vice versa. The high school student died of violence as well, blamed on the mean condition of her existence. But... But...
Rose was not made a ward of the state. A benefactor took her in. Not family. Not an individual with a good heart. Some trust with a banal name, nondescript and likely wholly dissolved and consigned to the void. A temporary solution and an expedient one. A quiet way to ensure the heifer grew into a woman with opportunities. And she got her opportunity. She becomes something important. As well as became a punching bag for her untouchable and vastly older husband.
It made little sense. Mlle. LaBelle had related stories of how things were in the old country, the old stories that informed their unique culture. All men were predators, the flat-teeth with money were ravenous beasts that gobbled down women and spit them out when they were not fresh, and thus useless to their fellow monsters. They became like the women on the street, damaged by men who would never pay a price. Some famous old story concerned the daughter of a woman thrown away by a rich mammal that had wanted to use up a poor woman. He would need to track down that book, it seemed informative yet contrary to what he saw.
He did expect an older lech and beast like Gatsby to take some poor, innocent child and drain her dry like a parasite. But he married her. True, he then brutalized her, and did make her have his heir in the form of Gregory. He trapped her in a gilded cage. For better or worse, she was not forced to live there very long. Allowed to develop the full flower of adulthood before she became a mother. And then...
That was when the bulk of the abuse happened. More calls after Gregory was born. Having a child made Gatsby angry. Or made Rose... willful, perhaps? If sire was like son, he was a petulant, mean little creature that demanded everything his way and would not tolerate obstacles or affronts. The kind who would not tolerate a willful wife.
The kind that would claim she had been beaten by Happytown thugs, but never make a police matter of it.
Everyone would believe the story but to make a case of it would invite scrutiny, invite it to unravel. Taken on face value it played to every common prejudice. Several innocent mammals matching the vague and false descriptions likely experienced extrajudicial brutality, if not illegal summary execution at the hands or hooves of those too invested in their moneyed controllers to realize they acted for nothing.
Records. Records. Everything was recorded somewhere. The Acacia Trust. The names were not publicly known, but even in the bad old days, there was a certain minimal expectation of what could be done. More photos. Sherlock never stopped. Who owned the trust? Somehow, it was a shock and entirely expected to see the name of the sole owner, operator and financier, after following a cursory trail, was William Gnuston, Gregory's grandfather. He made a ward of a random calf, all so his son could have a bride. All so his son could have a bride?
The class divide alone made that preposterous. In those days the rich believed even more strongly that money was genetic, that class was immutable. That it was fine to suck the life out of a poor woman so long as she was thrown away, just like that book. It made no sense. She was nobody, in a city filled with the poor. Even if she was the right species, that meant nothing. There must have been rich women of the right species.
Death and more death made the loamy soil from which grew a garden of tangled atrocity. Every record had to be purged and exiled to this one place, a singular locus of the malevolence of the Gnuston family. Sherlock could hardly read it all, hardly work fast enough to search through it all. He had to take photos of the records of what happened to Matilda Hornsby. A death certificate. And Rose's birth certificate, with no listed indication of a father. Death... just after birth. No notice of that either. Just the report of being hit by a car. No detail. No hospital records. Hit, and expiration, quickly signed off on to let Rose be swallowed up by Acacia and William Gnuston. To be groomed as a wife for his son.
Taught to be upper class. Taught to be a society woman. Taught to become the quiet, obedient, submissive pet wife that a man like Gatsby would demand. Even if it worked, it didn't stop him from harming her. Even utter obedience would likely earn ire. A bull with no control and no restraint would have a battered wife and a battered son, who would grow into the very image of the father that demanded obedience. Just so the son could abuse others in revenge.
The web of lies and insanity was drawing in, and he had to make something out of it. He packed the files and boxes back and started rapidly jotting down his thoughts when a loud knock sounded at the door.
"The handle's a little sticky, hope all the files are back in place when it finally works," Louis said, giving a generous lead time before opening the door and finding Sherlock standing there, almost exactly in the same place. "Hope you weren't too bored."
"Not at all, Officer Wulfberg. Sometimes being around things can be most enlightening," Sherlock said.
"Glad you enjoyed the tour. Let's go tell Nathaniel we'll be going. Maybe he can fix the cameras then," Louis chuckled.
As the two walked off, Sherlock was aware of what he had signed up for. Once the police had processed all the images he was in for long nights of correlating data, getting more outside information, making it all fit together. The less exciting parts of detective work. The legwork and dangerous fighting portions were over. He had to take what he knew, put it together, and finally use it to bring the false god down from his throne and into the dirt he was allegedly above, to face the justice of the common mammals.