Mourning

Paris, France; Thursday, June 9, 8:32 A.M.…

"…but Inspector Fox was much more than an officer…"

"…I remember when I first called that fine officer into my office to tell her about her promotion…"

"…has always been eternally devoted to…"

All through Barkley's boring, typical, and obviously fill-in-the-blanks speech, the many civilians in black outfits stood on either side of the street, and police officers with their shields covered stood in the middle of the massive street in neat formations and standing rigidly at attention. There was a low, heavy feeling hanging in the air as the sun beat down on the spectators. The humid air made the situation feel even worse. Many of the rookie officers were constantly fidgeting, unable to bear the heat. Many of the civilians bore umbrellas to protect them from the sun. Many of the senior officers had the faintest hint of sorrow in their eyes at the memory of the late officer they were remembering now.

But one officer among all of the others was, by far, the most distressed. But not on the outside. This officer stood perfectly still; unmoving, no slight shuffling of fingers, no adjusting, not even the twitch of an eye or the slightest of sniffs. He was able to suppress the sickness he had felt not too long ago, the disease practically driven out by the shock of it all. He stood, eyes blankly looking ahead, facing the podium where the Chief Inspector stood, along with the small makeshift memorial: A portrait of the late Carmelita Fox, surrounded by single flowers and wreaths. The casket lay before it, flowers covering it as well. A second casket, containing Winthorp's corpse, was alongside it, and Barkley had already given his equally monotone speech about the less-than-popular weasel before moving on to Carmelita.

Had it really been less than 72 hours since the tragedy? The motionless officer remembered how it had all come down: First hearing the sirens in the middle of the night, not too far off, assuming that it was nothing big. Then, early in the morning after, he received the call from Barkley. Beyond that, it all seemed to move by so fast. The briefing, the autopsy, the discussions about how it could've happened or who could've been responsible. He would never forget that moment when the white sheet was pulled back, and there she lay. Carmelita, his wife. Carmelita, the woman he had loved and lived with for eight years. Lying on that metal gurney; cold, motionless, lifeless. The wound in her chest had been cleaned, but it still left the ragged, gaping hole where the blade had perfectly pierced her heart with such precision and accuracy. The blood-stained clothes, the pale, lifeless eyes, still wide-eyed in shock as she witnessed her own final moments unfolding right before her. Now, the only witness to her murder – herself – was dead.

Then, before he knew it, a powerful blast rang through the street and shattered his thoughts. Barkley's speech had ended, and the second twenty-one gun salute had started. At the second firing, his vision finally started to grow blurred. By the end of the third round, and when the seven officers had returned their weapons to the order arms position, the tears were streaming freely down Sly Cooper's face.

After the end of the ceremony, many of his fellow officers and friends came up to him, offering their condolences. The repeated thanks' had been rolling off his tongue again and again with each person, not wanting to be rude, but at the same time, not wanting to bother listening to any of them. Especially not the dirt-bag Barkley.

Eventually, mercifully, he managed to slip away from the crowd and the heat. The entire trip back to his apartment was a blur, his movements like that of a machine. He dragged himself up the steps, through the apartment, responding with a dull thanks to James's condolence, just like all the others. He sunk back against the wall of the elevator, the low hum being the only sound in the elevator, even more so than his own, silent breathing. He trudged through the corridor on his floor, turned the key, and slid into the apartment, the door thudding behind him. He discarded the heavy, hot uniform; jacket, shirt, hat, pants. He stood in his sweaty white undershirt and boxers. He fell back into the couch; the couch he had been sitting on when she left him, never to return again.

As he stared dully, everything started to come together, after floating around dully like a loose dream. Dreadfully, painfully, the events of the last few days came slamming back with the impact of a locomotive. The awful realization finally dawned on him, and he knew at last what it meant.

The love of his life was truly dead. Never to return again. Never to hold him or kiss him again. She was gone. Their short marriage had come to an end, and he would never be the same again.

With all of this compacted into his mind at once, it finally overwhelmed him. He broke down, head dropping down into his hands, and the few tears from earlier now became fountains, pouring a nonstop, steady stream of wetness down his cheeks, matting down his fur, into his hands, and onto the floor. He groaned and sobbed loudly, unable to contain himself. He cried harder than he ever had in his whole life. Maybe, just maybe, even more so than when his father died.

Hours later…

Only after the sun set, when darkness started to settle over Paris and the lights came winking on all across the city, did the floodgates finally started to close. The tears stopped streaming, but his face and hands, as well as part of the carpeted floor below him, between his feet, were soaked. His eyes were so bloodshot that there wasn't a hint of white among the pale, strained red. He sniffled hard and slowly, trying to contain himself.

Then a voice. A familiar, nasally voice. The one voice he least expected to hear. He never expected to hear. He thought he'd never hear again.

"Hello, Sly."

Sly lifted his head up, glancing in the direction of the open balcony, where the window sat open, the red curtains blowing lightly in the wind. There, among the curtains, stood – or rather, sat – his old, life-long friend Bentley.

The look of shock on the raccoon's face was one that Bentley knew wasn't out of the simple fact that someone was suddenly in his apartment after the greatest loss in his life.

"I know that you know who I am, Sly."

"Of course I do." Sly said between sniffles. He slowly got to his feet and slowly walked over to Bentley.

"It was all over the news. Two officers suddenly dead, mutila-, er, never mind. But, you get the idea. When they said who one of the officers was, I couldn't begin to imagine what you were feeling. Penelope told me that I should wait a bit before coming to see you aga-."

The turtle's words were suddenly cut off when his old friend instantly grabbed him in an embrace, the wheelchair creaking back. For the first time, Bentley was seeing his old friend, who always stayed cool, calm, and collected, break down right in front of him.

"I just…it's so…I never…it's…" Sly just couldn't collect a full sentence.

"Sly, I understand. Penelope and I saw it on the news back home. The whole story has been all over, but when I saw the name of Inspector Fox, I couldn't begin to imagine how you were feeling."

Sly slowly pulled away, tears forming up again.

"You're probably the one person I actually want to see right now, you know that?"

"Yeah. I know."

Sly stumbled back to the couch and sat down again. His head was in his hands, but his face remained just above them. "It all seemed so…so…sudden. Unreal. It was like a dream. A nightmare."

"Sly, I get it. It was the exact same when…"

"I want blood."

Bentley was suddenly taken aback by the sudden ferocity coming from his friend.

"What?"

"I want the head of whoever did this to Carmelita. That person has crossed the line. All others who tried to do the same thing paid hard for it. Clockwerk tried it, and he paid for it. Neyla tried it, and she paid for it. Dr. M tried it, and he paid for it. This person should be no exception."

"But Sly…you have no leads. No proof. No way of tracking…"

"The only piece of evidence is easily the most crucial: The knife. There has to be something on it."

"Haven't you already examined it, along with all other possible evidence?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"Nothing. No fingerprints, no hair, nothing. The monster must've been wearing gloves, and been very careful of everything he touched. Even beyond that; Carmelita's helicopter has been missing ever since then."

"Well, then I guess…"

"No. No guessing. I know that there must be some kind of a clue. A trace. A single hint of who this murderer is, or where they're coming from."

"But if the police couldn't find…"

"That's where you come in."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. I want you to inspect it. Examine it. Study it. Find anything that you can find. You're easily much more capable than those duds over in Forensics."

"I don't know, Sly. If you were caught trying to take it…"

"I won't get caught. That Evidence Locker has very little surveillance. I can easily get it. But I need to know that you're willing to do this for me, pal."

"I'm not willing to risk you getting caught and losing your job and reputation. But I do have an alternative."

"Anything that will get that knife thoroughly examined. And even if the knife doesn't yield results, then I'm sure that we can find something else. We just need to keep trying. Because mark my words, I will personally find this person – hunt them down to the end of the earth – and murder them, as soon as we find out who they are."

Bentley shuddered.

"But for now, we start with the basics. So, you're in?"

"I guess so."

"Good. We'll start tomorrow."

…

The visitor returned to the balcony. He watched closely as, unbelievably, two bursts of orange appeared on each side of the wheelchair and propelled him up off the balcony, sending him gliding over the 80-foot gap between it and the next building, landing safely on the adjoining rooftop and wheeling away.

The jittery mole turned and dashed around the corner, racing back down the alley, hanging a right into another alley. He continued down this one, which seemed to stretch on endlessly, until he arrived at a figure in a dark black trench coat, with a matching black panama hat.

"Alright, I saw him."

"Who?"

"A visitor. He jumped down onto the guy's balcony and went inside."

"Did they talk? Could you make out anything they said?"

"You kidding me? They were eight stories up! How the hell was I supposed to hear what they were saying?"

"Alright, alright. Keep your voice down, you crazy fool. Otherwise I'd have to…reconsider your reward."

The figure slowly reached into his trench coat pocket and ruffled his hand around, crunching up the contents and making the clear and distinct sound of paper cash.

The mole's eyes widened.

"Oh, right. Sorry, man."

"Just tell me everything. The more you give me, the more I give you."

"OK. So it was a short guy. I think it might've been a turtle. Yeah, I think that's it. He had glasses on."

"Alright, go on." He slowly started to pull his hand out of the pocket.

"He was in a wheelchair of some kind. But let me tell you; this was a wheelchair out of Back to the Future."

"Oh, really? How so?"

"I swear to God, it had rocket boosters or something on it! There were bursts of fire on each side, and it made him fly over the rooftops."

"Are you on something?"

"No, no, man! I swear it! I saw it with my own eye!" As the mole said this, he gestured a dirty finger at the only eye he had that wasn't covered by an eye patch.

"Two eyes are better than one, you know."

"But this one eye hasn't let me down before."

"How about the time you thought you saw an alien?"

"Damn it, I told you that I DID see it."

"Alright, whatever. After all, that was over 13 years ago. Anything else?"

"Nope. That's all. Turtle, glasses, wheelchair that could fly."

"Alright. Here you are."

He pulled out a black-gloved hand, clenched into a fist. Sticking out from it was a massive wad of money. The mole was all too quick to snatch it out of his hands and run off.

The figure stuck his hands back into his pocket, with one last look back in the direction of the fleeing mole, he turned around and headed further down the alley.

Eventually, he arrived at the waiting police car. He opened the door, slid casually into the passenger seat, and closed the door behind him. He removed the gloves one at a time, stuffed them back into his pocket, and removed his hat and tossed it into the backseat.

"Well?" The driver sitting in the seat next to him asked.

"I think we've got us a strong lead here." The monkey in the black trench coat responded.

"What kind of lead?" The mouse shot back.

"Apparently, Inspector Cooper had a visitor tonight."

"A visitor?"

"Yes. Pierre described it the best he could."

"Hold on, it was Pierre? How can you trust what Pierre said? The guy's got only one eye left! Besides, he's been wrong before."

"Out of all the figurative moles I've worked with, he's the best. I.e., he's been wrong the least amount of times."

"How do you know he wasn't on something again?"

"I could smell no alcohol, and I saw no signs or other symptoms of drug use. He was clean tonight. Besides, his description was too coincidental."

"Too coincidental?"

"According to Pierre, the visitor to Cooper's apartment was a glasses-wearing turtle. In a wheelchair. A wheelchair that could fly."

"You're kidding, right? You absolutely sure he was sober?"

"Many police reports and reliable eyewitness accounts in the past were able to confirm that the turtle had a flying wheelchair."

"No, not that. I mean, his overall description. It perfectly matches…"

"His former partner and member of the Cooper gang, Bentley."

"I knew it." The mouse muttered as he slammed the wheel with a fist.

"So, after 8 straight years, our suspicions have been confirmed. Sly Cooper has been faking his amnesia."

"Well dang it, Eugene, the hell didn't you give him a camera or something?"

"First of all, Glen: Pierre can barely walk straight even when he's sober. I doubt he could take a good picture if his life depended on it. Second, it was eight stories above the ground. Third, what if they were to see the flash?"

"Well, what evidence do we have then? We can't possibly report this to Barkley, and say that the only proof we've got is the word of a bum on the streets that we've been working with almost illegally for years. It would expose the entire ring of moles you've got roaming the streets, alleys, and sewers of Paris."

"Which is why we're not telling him. But I think we've got enough circumstantial evidence to support this. Just look at the facts: Now, after his wife is mysteriously killed. Now, after the one and only reason he gave up his life of crime to join the other side has been removed from his life. It's too obvious, and I think Barkley will agree."

"Well, what do we do? As long as he doesn't do anything illegal, he could still be considered clean…"

"I have the feeling that he's going to take it upon himself to do what the law has failed to do. He's gonna find some way to exact his own revenge on whoever did this, and he's going to enlist the help of his former partners, and perform it in a way that is perfectly illegal."

"Are you sure?"

"Like I said, with Fox dead, he has nothing holding him back. He'll do it, I'm sure."

"So what do we do about it?"

The monkey turned away for a moment, looking out the window at the grungy, steaming alley just a few feet away. He paused in thought.

Then he turned back. "We'll talk to Barkley. We won't mention tonight, but we'll ask him for permission to keep a special close eye on Cooper. I have a feeling that he'll be on the move soon, undoubtedly after asking Barkley for official leave of absence. We can keep ourselves updated on whatever flight arrangements or other modes of transportation he uses and wherever he goes. We just need to tail him long enough to catch him breaking a law, and then we nail him."

"And then…?"

"And then, Glen, you and I become heroes. The men who caught and exposed the Fake Forgetter. The man who fooled Interpol and his own wife for almost a decade. We'll both receive great honor, several accolades, and perhaps even a promotion or two. The two officers who uncovered the biggest scandal in the history of the Interpol Paris branch."

The mouse grinned. "Sounds good, Eugene. Let's get back to HQ."

The mouse started the engine, which coughed and sputtered the first two times before finally catching. The car pulled away from the alley entrance and headed down the cobblestone road back towards the massive headquarters building.

To be continued…

Author's Note: Sorry for the one-day delay. Complications with getting a brand new computer, transferring the files, yadda-yadda-yadda...

In response to a question posed in one of the last chapter's reviews, which pointed out that my timeline is "off," as Sly 3 reportedly took place in 2005, yet this story depicts it as taking place in 1997. My answer is this: That's my own interpretation of the Sly Cooper timeline. I always imagined that that series generally took place in the 90's, and I also drew some conclusions by the dates provided in the backstory of Jean Bison in Sly 2 (frozen in 1852, thawed out 120 years later, placing his thawing out in 1972, give him no more than 20 years to have met and joined the KLAWW Gang and start enacting his plans for Canada, and so on). So that's my own interpretation.