Discovery

Interpol Headquarters, Paris, France; Friday, June 10, 8:13 A.M…

If there was one thing about this place that Sly could not stand, it was the onslaught of condolences and apologies. He knew that it was all in good nature, but it started to get just plain ridiculous. Every five seconds as he walked towards the Forensics Wing, someone stopped him just to say the usual.

"I'm so sorry."

"I understand how you feel."

"How awful."

"Dreadful, dreadful, dreadful."

"I apologize for your loss."

Sly tried to return an honest thanks to everyone who tried to comfort him, but he started to get sick of it.

Then, mercifully, he arrived at the Lab. He pushed open the door, entering into the Forensics Wing's preparation room. Here, he washed his hands in a metal sink as per procedure. Then he donned a pair of latex gloves from a box sitting on a shelf, and also strapped on a surgical mask. He entered through the next door, now heading into the Laboratory wing. Here, a pale blue light was cast over everything, almost like a freezer room or something. He walked past the many doors on both sides, until he finally reached the one: 304. Just as he started to push the door open, there was a rapid slapping of shoes behind him, followed by, "Hey, wait up! Mr. Cooper!"

Sly sighed an exasperated sigh. Just when I thought I was home free…

He turned, and watched as the geeky, lanky Wren approached him. In addition to a matching pair of gloves and a surgical mask (which was pulled up onto his head), he was also wearing a white lab coat that needed some good ironing, with a black undershirt and brown, creased pants. He had a pair of thick, square glasses, along with a constant sniffling in-between words. Wren was one of the most senior Forensic scientists, but he sure found a way to annoy the hell out of anyone. For that reason, some called him "Wren the Wretch." He didn't look like much, but at least he knew his stuff.

He finally reached Sly, taking a few moments to catch his breath. "Mr.…Mr. Cooper. I'm sorry, I just couldn't help noticing you in here, and I just wanted to see if you were heading for the lab with all the evidence from…well, what happened four days ago, in it."

With a slight roll of his eyes, Sly replied, "Yes, Wren. I was, and am."

"Oh, goody! I can help you out no problem! If you need help or assistance with anything…"

"All I really need is your expertise. Now let's go."

Pushing the door open, he walked into a lab just like all of the others: There were several shelves full of equipment on one side, and a stack of lockers on the other, each with a padlock on it. There was a metal table in the center of the room, with a single bright lamp over it.

Wren immediately walked over to the stack of lockers. "So, which one are you interested in?"

"The knife. That's all."

"Yes, yes, of course." Wren grabbed the padlock on the locker marked "129." After dialing in the three-digit code, he pulled it off and opened up the small, metal door. He slowly reached in, pulling his surgical mask down, and grabbed the object inside. He slowly slid it out.

Sly's face hardened into a fierce scowl, his eyes burning with hatred as he once again laid his eyes on the hideous object that had ended Carmelita's life. It was an ugly steak knife with ridged edges and a thick black handle. It still gleamed, after all of Carmelita's crusted blood had been scraped off. It had been swabbed and scanned dozens of times, but the handle was as devoid of fingerprints as the Sahara Desert was as devoid of footprints after a windstorm.

Wren carefully laid it out on the table with a clink. He adjusted the massive lamp and held it over the blade, flicking it on and casting a bright glow on the table.

"So, what do you want to do first, Mr. Cooper?"

Despite the fact that Wren was just trying to be respectful, Sly had to first say, "Alright, Wren; first of all, you can just call me Sly, alright?"

"Um, OK. So, what do you want to do first, Sly?"

"What are your best techniques for finding a trace of DNA or any other kind of evidence?"

"Here's a new type of swabbing." He quickly moved over to the shelf full of equipment and grabbed two things: A long, glass vial containing a phosphorescent, light-green substance inside it. The other was a large, glass beaker which contained many Q-tips. He brought them both back and set them on the table.

"See, here's how it works. I dip one of these into the vial, like this." He demonstrated by removing a Q-tip and carefully dipping it into the vial several times, covering the end with the sticky green substance.

"Then, I carefully brush it all over the handle like this." With long, soft, careful strokes, he brushed the green all along the black handle. With a couple more dips, he had enough to turn the entire handle green.

"You see, this substance brings out any fingerprints that may be on it. Here's an example."

The weasel promptly removed his left glove and laid it out flat on the table, carefully brushing the knife aside. He then pressed one fingertip firmly onto the glove, and then brushed it with the green substance as well.

"Now, we need to activate the infrared version of this lamp here. Would you mind hitting the light switch on the back wall there? And also pulling the shades down on the window?"

After Sly quickly did so, Wren flipped the lamp off, and flipped the switch right next to that one. The lamp cast a much darker light; a fine cross between dark blue and violet. It gave off an eerie glow and was all that illuminated the dark lab. And sure enough, among the now bright green substance on the back of the glove, Wren's fingerprint was clearly visible.

"Now, we move the glove out of the way, and put the knife in its place."

He moved the glove, and reached over for the knife, careful to only touch it by the blade and moving softly to avoid inflicting injury to himself. As he slowly brought it into the light, Sly tensed up. Then it was under the lamp.

Nothing.

"See? We tried this before…"

"Try something else." Sly said quickly and firmly as he turned the lights back on.

"Like what, Sly?"

"Anything! Even if you have to be Sherlock Holmes and look at it with a magnifying glass, just do it!"

"Y-yes, sir."

For the next 45 minutes, against Wren's protests, Sly had him use every trick in the book. He wanted to see it all for himself. More swabs, dipping the blade in a fine solution, even literally taking a magnifying glass to it. Then a microscope. Nothing worked. No results were yielded.

After the umpteenth attempt, Sly finally decided to give the now-exhausted Wren a break.

"Alright, Wren. You can sit for a minute if you'd like."

"Oh, thank you…Sly." Wren gasped as he collapsed into one of the metal chairs.

Sly tore off his gloves and mask and stormed out into the hall. Crumbling the three pieces of equipment into a ball and throwing them against the other wall, he cursed. He paused, hoping that it was loud enough for Wren to hear it.

It was.

After a moment, the weasel poked his head out the door. "Um, Sly? Are you alright?"

"Oh, sure. Just frustrated that I can't find any leads in the death of my wife."

"Oh…yes, of course."

"You can go now, Wren, if you want to."

"Um, OK, Sly. Thanks. Will you be needing anything else?"

"No, you've had a long day. I'll clean up."

"Oh, OK. Thank you."

With that, Wren slipped out the door completely and moved swiftly down the long hall before turning down another corridor with one final glance back at Sly, who had now sunk back against the wall, burying his face in his hands.

After a few moments of silence, Sly raised his head and looked to his right. Wren was gone. He looked down to his left, and saw nobody else around. With a slight grin, he slipped back into the lab, pressing a finger to the communicator in his left ear.

"Bentley, you there?"

"Yeah, pal. I'm here."

"First off, having this thing back in my ear brings me back a long way, let me tell you."

"Just like the good old days, I'm sure. Better than these days, at least. What's your status?"

"I finally got rid of him."

"You better have; it's almost been an hour!"

"If I could overwork him enough to send him away, then no one will bother me. We used everything in the lab."

"Alright. Now you can try out my lab."

"A lab squeezed into my leg pouch?"

"Precisely."

After Sly finished putting away all of the equipment Wren had used, he put one leg up onto the cold metal table and lifted up his pant leg. Underneath it, just above his ankle, was the familiar red pouch. He lifted open the flap and reached in, grabbing a handful of the small tools inside and putting them on the table. Once it was emptied, Sly spread them out and started sifting through them. Tweezers, a watch, a small black object that resembled a flashlight (albeit a flashlight that was barely three inches long), and many others.

"OK, let's start." Sly reported. "What's this one? It's about a few inches long, black, metal, looks like a flashlight."

"Ah. That's a special heat detector. Only this one can trace heat on a surface as far back as 96 hours."

"So, if the murder happened four days ago…"

"You have enough time. You said it was about ten o' clock at night when it happened, right?"

"Well, that's when she left…"

"It's barely nine o' clock A.M. right now. If there's any traces of heat from the attacker's hand still on here, we'll still find it. Now, in order to work it, you hold the larger end to the handle, and press the small red button in the middle."

"OK, but before I do; how is heat supposed to give us a lead on the identity of this son of a-."

"There's a special signature in the heat that gives the slightest trace of the contours of the fingerprint that was there to create the heat; kind of like an infrared fingerprint. Assuming that not too many others have held it by the handle yet, we might be able to find it."

"OK, fine."

With that, Sly held the head of it close to the handle and held down the red button. Running along the side of the black bar of the device was a small screen, with a readout similar to a heart monitor. The green line on it was scraggly and shaking, not remaining steady. There was a symbol in the top corner of a circle, with a light travelling around it in an endless rotation.

"I'll never know where you get this stuff, pal. Q-Branch of the British Secret Service?"

"Ha! I wish. Now, just trace it along slowly, and if we get a definite readout, that line will remain flat and stable. I'm looking at a monitor back here that gives me a larger and much more-detailed readout of the device you're holding right now. Like I said, if you get something, stop and hold it right where it is."

"You got it."

And with that, Sly slowly started sweeping it in a pattern: Up and down, all while moving it slowly to the side. The green line remained scraggly and out-of-control, and the circling light didn't cease its rotation. Soon, the entire handle had been scanned.

"Dang it." Bentley muttered as soon as Sly had finished. "Nothing. But don't give up, Sly."

"Believe me, the words 'give up' aren't in my dictionary at this point."

"Glad to hear it. Look for another tool in there that you can use."

"OK."

Sly set the heat detector aside and did a quick once-over of all the remaining tools. Most of them were of different shapes, sizes, and designs. He had no idea which served what purpose and which he should choose. Then, suddenly, something peculiar caught his eye: A gold-plated watch with a diamond at the center of the face.

"Um…what's this watch for?" Sly asked as he picked it up.

"What? Did you say a watch?"

"Yeah, there's a watch here."

"Oh. Darn it! That's where it went! It was something I had been working on recently, and it went missing. It must have been put in that kit with all of the others by mistake. Just ignore it."

Sly was still stunned by the extremely ornate appearance, and also noticed something else about it: It was set on exactly 12:00, and wasn't moving at all. He noticed a small button on the side and casually pressed it.

Almost immediately, a horrid scratching sound began emitting from the watch. Sly dropped it and covered his ears, wincing. He looked down at it briefly and noticed that the two hands were now moving; the minute hand moving at a steady pace, and the hour hand following it with a slower – but still considerably fast – pace.

Sly reached over with one hand – the other still covering an ear – and pressed the button again. The scratching ceased abruptly, and the two hands stopped. He paused, and then, after a moment, noticed that the two hands were slowly moving backwards, returning to the even noon position. They hit the position once more and stopped.

"Sly! That…was amazing!"

"Amazing? That thing sounded horrible. And what's with this screwy watch?"

"No, it's not a watch! It only looks like a watch. The rather extravagant appearance is part of its disguise. It's actually a Geiger counter."

"You're kidding, right?"

"I know. Quite clever, isn't it? But…that sound! That feedback was off the charts!"

"You mean those nails on a chalkboard?"

"That's the sound it's supposed to make. The louder the sound, the more radioactivity is on it. And the two arms read the level of radioactivity in a rough draft scan. Once it's finished, it saves all of the data it recorded and can be plugged into a computer to relay a more detailed analysis of the readings."

"So you're telling me that this knife is loaded with radiation?"

"It would appear so. I'd like a full reading. Hold the watch close to the knife and press the button again."

"OK. Here goes."

Sly picked up the golden device and held it right next to the handle. He slowly reached for the button and pressed it. Almost immediately, it responded. The loud, scraggly sound came back, and Sly covered his ears once more, but he kept his eyes on the watch face in amazement. The two arms were rising, both moving from their spot at exactly 12:00, and moving in a clockwise circle. Both arms moved fairly quickly, and eventually settled on 11:33, but were noticeably wavering.

Immediately, Bentley's voice came in. "Still louder than ever! Sly, where are the arms right now?"

"About 11:30, but it's not really staying put." Sly replied.

"11:30? And still wavering? That's…that's extraordinary! OK, Sly. I think it's got enough data in it now. Quick; put the knife back, gather all the stuff up, and come on back. I'll need to plug that watch into my computer to get the full readout."

"Wait, quiet!"

Sly paused, waiting and listening as a familiar sound outside started to grow louder.

"Shoot."

Sly started scrambling, gathering up all of the tools in a messy handful and stuffing them back into his leg pouch. All the while, the footsteps in the hall grew louder, undoubtedly coming from the same direction that Wren had come from. But these footsteps were much harder, more solid, and not as fast or frantic as Wren's had been.

"Sly? Sly, what's wrong?"

"Someone's coming."

Just as he finished stuffing the last of the tools into the pouch and pulled his pant leg down, the door opened.

Sly tried to look nonchalant as the two figures entered the room. He had to use a lot of his willpower to not scowl when he saw who one of them was: A monkey, fairly well-built, with a slight moustache curling beneath his nose. His face was otherwise very clean, sharp, and hard. His eyes, however, were very relaxed and casual. But when they centered in on Sly, a slight smile started to form on the face of Captain Eugene Braskel. Braskel was the head of the homicide division here in Paris, and was an arrogant jerk. He had been fairly jealous of the praise that Carmelita received from other officers, often commenting on her unprofessionalism and sloppiness when handling serious cases. Thus, he loved the torture that she faced from Barkley, and often made no attempt to conceal his enjoyment of this.

"Hello, Officer Cooper. Might I ask what you're doing here?" His voice was deep, firm, and reeked with a pompous attitude commonly seen in most typical mafia bosses or casino owners.

"Just studying the knife, Braskel."

"Ah, so my informant was correct. Might I ask what you're doing here without the proper equipment and assistance by a professional Forensic scientist?"

"I had the gloves and mask on; I just recently took them off."

"Ah. And you were not assisted by anyone?"

"I was." He replied coldly. "Wren was just helping me out."

"Oh, really?" The other man spoke up. A mouse with a slouched stance, graying hair, and a cigarette hanging from his mouth, Lieutenant Glen Whitman was like Braskel's right-hand man. He similarly shared a dislike of Carmelita, as well as a dislike of Sly, mostly brought about by suspicion and distrust. Or maybe it was because Sly got the promotion that Whitman had wanted about four years ago, even though Whitman had been with the force for several more years than Sly himself had.

"Then where is Wren the Wretch?" Whitman asked snidely.

"I sent him away; he was getting tired."

"Oh, come now, Cooper." Braskel said, striding over to him casually. "With or without Wren's help, I know exactly what it is you're up to here."

"Do tell."

"You're trying to solve the mystery. You want to be the hero who discovers who killed your wife. Now look here; if Wren and all of the other top scientists here couldn't find a single trace, then the trail is cold. You can't follow this yellow brick road, my friend; it will lead you nowhere. Don't think that you can succeed where the professionals couldn't."

"There's nothing wrong with pitching in, my friend." Sly replied.

"There's a difference between pitching in and being desperate. Isn't that right, Glen?"

"Sure."

"Now listen to me very carefully, Cooper." Braskel was now standing next to Sly, towering over him. "I know what your intentions are. You've been stone-faced ever since it happened. You've rarely spoken to anyone or done anything besides walk, eat, and sleep. Hell, you haven't even been doing that much eating recently. I know that you are having fantasies of going on some personal vendetta to exact revenge on whoever did this. But you are not a vigilante. You are not Sherlock Holmes."

He put his arm around Sly to humble him, with a grin that made Sly want to punch his lights out.

"You are just an average Interpol officer who can't cope with the death of his wife. Don't go trying anything."

He gestured to Whitman, who snatched up the knife and stuffed it back into the open locker.

"Now, I'm the head of HD, so this is my job. Not yours. I assure you, my boys are studying this case the best they can, trying to find out who committed this horrible act."

"You're just loving the fact that she's gone, aren't you?"

"Oh, Sly, Sly, Sly…why would you say that? We're all one big happy family here. Carmelita was a fellow officer. She was an icon for many new and rookie officers…despite her rather black-and-white views."

"Go to hell."

"Oh, of course; you always were the bad cop, weren't you? Now, you really should be on your way, Cooper."

"Get your arm off me, and I'll go." Sly muttered through gritted teeth.

Braskel grinned, and slowly pulled his arm back.

Without another word, Sly stormed out of the lab and down the hall. Even though he refused to look back, he heard the door open behind him, followed by a voice: "And don't think that Barkley won't be hearing about your unannounced presence in here!"

…

"That arrogant jerk!" Sly exclaimed. "I just wanted to knock all of his teeth out, and then shove them up his-."

"Sly, forget about him! We got what we wanted; you don't need to worry about going back there anymore."

He turned away from Bentley and walked up to the wall, leaning forward and pressing his face into the glass of the massive window, cursing under his breath at Braskel and Whitman's interference.

"It doesn't matter if we got what we wanted. Now, even if we have what we were after, it's going to be harder to pull this off! He's convinced that, if I do find out who killed her, I'm gonna go and use unorthodox methods to find him and kill him."

"But, isn't that exactly what you were already planning to do?"

"Yes! And he knows about it! Now, Barkley's probably gonna be watching me like a hawk!"

"Look, why don't you just calm down and let's head into the basement to analyze these readings?"

"Fine."

As they turned and started to head down the stairs, Sly took notice of the fact that the old Safehouse hadn't changed a bit. The living room on the second floor was the exact same; the table, the sofas, the chairs, even the giant-screen TV, it was all still there. On the first floor was the kitchen, with the familiar table and three chairs still around it. Near it was the counter, with the many cabinets surrounding it, along with the dishwasher, oven, and sink. Opposite that was the wall with three doors in it; one room for each former member of the gang. Only one of those rooms was still occupied.

But the basement was easily where all of the magic was; its walls were lined with the scores and scores of pictures, from their earliest days to just weeks ago. There were also many glass cases containing so many old souvenirs from past heists, old outfits, Sly's original backpack, Bentley's original hat and sleep dart gun, and so on. Against the back wall was the large wooden desk, with a single candle on it and a massive bookcase behind it.

Standing by the bookcase, a mouse was rearranging books on the shelves. At the sound of their entrance, she turned around.

"Sly! It's so good to see you again."

"Hello, Penelope."

She walked over to him and hugged him quickly.

"I'm so sorry about all that's happened…"

"It's alright. According to Bentley here, we've got a lead."

"I'm positive we've got a lead. Come on over to the computer here."

The three of them went over to the desk, with Bentley sitting behind it, and Sly and Penelope standing on opposite sides of him. On the desk was a sleek, flat computer. Bentley reached into a drawer at his side, and pulled out a long cord. At one end was a small point, like at the end of a cord for a set of headphones. At the other end was a small square, with a flat point stretching out of it. Unraveling it, Bentley plugged the square end into a small outlet in his computer console, and then held up the other end. He pulled out a small screwdriver and pulled off the lid of the battery compartment on the back of the watch. Next to the small batteries, there was a small hole. Bentley plugged the other end of the cord into the hole, and then brought the computer out of sleep mode.

"So, what exactly do we have here?" Sly asked.

Bentley brought up a small window, and eventually brought up a small black screen with a flat, green line running along it.

"Here, we can more thoroughly analyze the recorded readings that you took today. Study its movements and elements."

He pressed the play button, and the line started writhing on the screen, growing larger and forming massive rise in the middle of it. All the while, the scratchy sound of the watch played over the speakers, only with a more static-y feel to it. The line only grew larger and larger as time passed.

"The readings of radioactivity are off the charts! Its increase was steady and sure. It wasn't ragged or waving out of control as it rose; it maintained a firm rise. These readings indicate that, while it's a few days old, it is still unbelievably strong. However, it's not the amount of radioactivity; it's the source."

"You know the source already?"

"That's another special feature to this particular model of Geiger counter. It is able to thoroughly analyze the nature of the radioactivity, and read a special signature in the radioactivity that can trace right back to the element it originated from."

"Well, what is it?"

"It's over here." Bentley said. He grabbed the edge of the desk and pushed himself back away from the computer, grabbing his right wheel and holding it still with his right hand while his left hand turned the left wheel and shifted his whole chair to the right. Before he moved forward, he reached for one of the desk's drawers and pulled it open. Reaching inside, he pulled out a small bronze key. He rolled away from the desk towards one of the many glass cases that lined the walls of the basement, in between the dozens of framed photographs hanging on the walls. Penelope and Sly followed behind.

Bentley soon approached a glass case containing a strange object; it was a dark gray chunk of metal, unevenly shaped and lumpy, barely the size of an orange. It was extremely dark, but at the same time was very pristine, almost like platinum. He wheeled up to the case and reached into one of the many compartments in his wheelchair, first placing the key on the arm of the chair beside the open compartment. He reached in and pulled out his old pair of brown leather gloves. He slipped them on, pulling them tight over each finger. He then grabbed the key again raised it up to a small lock on the front of the glass case, pressed it in, and turned it firmly. There was a click, and the entire front side of the case jolted briefly, falling loose. He put the key away and reached up for the edge of the glass pane, pulling it open with the slightest of creaks. With slightly trembling fingers, he reached into the case and wrapped both hands around the strange object, lifting it up off of its thin metal support rods, and pulled it out.

"What is that thing?" Sly asked, his eyes fixated on the piece of metal as Bentley wheeled back over to the desk and carefully placed it on the wooden desktop.

"A metal that is so rare, that I truly believe no one else has discovered it."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Never. I am entirely serious about that."

"A whole new metal? Never before seen or discovered?"

"Well, there are no official records of it. No scientific data on it or its structure. Nothing even on the periodic table. So, I took it upon myself to give it a name: Karovanine. Named after the one place in the world where it is found: The Krak-Karov Volcano in Russia."

Almost instantly at the mention of the infamous Volcano, Sly went rigid. "You mean…?"

"Wait, isn't that where you guys faced Clockwerk the first time?" Penelope asked.

"That's right. This metal was the same kind that was used in two high-tech blasting vehicles owned by Mz. Ruby and the Panda King, back when they still worked for the Fiendish Five. As you recall, I managed to get a hold of Mz. Ruby's before the authorities arrived at her lair. Upon analyzing it, I realized the rarity of the metal it was constructed of and made sure to acquire the Panda King's as well. It's a very strange type of metal. It apparently doesn't rust, nor does it wear down over time. It doesn't even get scorched. It's a rare alloy that remains strong and fresh for…well, forever! It's like platinum, only rarer and harder. It's the same kind of metal that Clockwerk himself was made out of. The Volcano's base and underground structure is rich with it. And, after the confrontation, it became apparent that the only thing that could damage the metal was molten lava, as evident by the destruction of the Death Ray. Following the incident at the Volcano back in 1990, the authorities came to rescue Carmelita, and found Clockwerk…well, you know the story."

"Wait, hold up." Sly interrupted. "Then how come so many parts of him were destroyed when I shot at him with Carmelita's jetpack?"

"The parts that you hit were not destroyed; they simply broke away and fell into the lava. You see, the fault there did not rest with the Karovanine itself, as it did with how it was put together. You saw yourself how the inner frame and endoskeleton of Clockwerk was arranged; there were patches in between the metal rods that served as 'bones.' The parts that were over those patches had a hollow interior, and thus fell away relatively easily under the gunfire."

"But there's something else that doesn't make sense." Penelope interjected. "You said that lava could damage this Karovanine; if Clockwerk himself fell into the lava, how was he not damaged?"

"You see, when Clockwerk finally gave in under the gunfire and plunged into the Volcano, he did not actually submerge beneath the lava. He simply rested on top of it. Thus, only the parts of him that were actually underneath the lava were destroyed. And even then, they appeared rather resistant. You see, I was able to deduce that the level of purity determines the level of strength for the sample of Karovanine. The purer the stronger. Clockwerk himself was constructed out of the purest Karovanine at the Volcano. Naturally, he was a bigger priority than anything else; even the Death Ray. Had he been completely submerged under the lava for a certain amount of time, however, even he would've been completely dissolved."

"Wait. Stop." Sly interrupted. "Then how exactly did the Clockwerk parts shrivel up and disintegrate in 1992? If this metal is indestructible to anything except lava, how did that happen?"

"Well, I haven't been able to figure that part out yet. That's what has always eluded me in my studies."

"Wait, you don't know? So then that means that, as far as we know, this Karovanine can still be destroyed, right?"

"Perhaps. But that's all beside the point. The bottom line is, the person behind this was at the Krak-Karov Volcano at some point in time, and was near some of that metal; perhaps even touched it. That's why the radioactive energy clung to him, and thus to the handle of the knife. Whoever held this knife, and used it to…" His voice trailed off, and he recovered after a brief pause. "…this person handled some of the Karovanine not too long ago."

"So our best chance of finding the beast who did this is going back to the Volcano." Sly stated.

"It would appear so." Bentley replied.

"Then that's where we'll go. Whoever this monster is, he can't hide forever. And even if he's not there, then maybe we can find some kind of hint as to where he plans to strike next."

"Strike next? You really think that he's…not finished?"

"Yes. Originally, I was thinking otherwise. You know, Carmelita has made plenty of enemies – on both sides of the law – over the course of her life. But now that I know that the Volcano is involved…I have a feeling that this is no random attack, and it wasn't against Carmelita herself. Someone's out to get us, and it's most likely someone we've encountered before. Even if the person who actually did this isn't one of them, we know that they still mean business."

Sly slowly walked away from the desk, hands behind his back and shaking his head.

"Sly…"

"Tomorrow."

"What?" Bentley asked.

"Tomorrow is when I ask Barkley for permission to extend my official leave. If he approves it, I leave the same day. You can either come with me or not. But I'm personally going to hunt down the scumbag behind all of this and kill him myself."

Both Bentley and Penelope were stunned by the sudden brutality of Sly's words, even though the former had already seen an example of this. They could not see his face, but they knew from his voice that he meant it with the most sincerity they had ever known. He was definitely a force to be reckoned with now, but he was still their friend.

"No. I'll go with you." Bentley replied firmly.

"Count me in, too." Penelope added.

Sly slowly turned his head back towards them. After a pause, he gave a single nod before he turned and left the room.

…

As they walked down the hall, Braskel and Whitman were snickering back and forth. The latter patted the former on the back.

"Oh, Glenny boy, this is perfect! We just caught him examining the murder weapon by himself! Oh, it's too good to be true! We tell this to Barkley, and he'll 'take it into consideration' a hell of a lot faster!"

"You said it! He's sure to give us the authorization now!"

Later…

"For the love of God, Braskel, you two have been hounding this guy ever since the moment his wife was found dead! Give him some slack, would ya?"

"Sir, you yourself admitted that you had been keeping a close eye on Cooper and Fox. You yourself admitted that there was always that little feeling in your heart that Cooper wasn't completely reformed."

"I know what I said before, but damn it, Braskel; reformed or not, his wife is dead. I know what that feels like. Can't you give him a little breathing space?"

"He was in the Forensics Lab, examining the murder weapon, sir." Braskel reported. "Unauthorized."

Barkley paused in mid-stride. He removed the cigar from his mouth.

"Unauthorized?"

"He claimed to have been assisted by Wren, but he wasn't there when we arrived." Braskel added. "He was completely alone."

"So let me get this straight." Barkley replied, putting the cigar back in his mouth and leaning back against his wooden desk. "You want to deliberately take advantage of the death of the man's wife to stalk him and hope to catch him committing some sort of crime, believing that he has, in fact, faked this amnesia for all these years, having gone through Interpol receiving several awards, commendations, and promotions along the way, and this kind of incident will jolt him back to his old ways and will give you enough evidence to have him locked up?"

"Yes, sir." Braskel replied firmly. "Sir, I believe we've got ourselves the best circumstantial evidence…"

"Braskel, there is no such thing as 'the best circumstantial evidence.'" Barkley shot back. "Circumstantial evidence is no more of a substitute for solid, hard evidence than a cap gun is a substitute for a 9-millimeter Uzi. Now I know full well that you're making this proposal based solely on your personal dislike and distrust of Cooper. That goes for you too, Whitman."

"Sir, whether we like him or not, we still both firmly believe that he has been faking it all these years. You have to hear us out. We believe that he's going to come to you and ask for permission to extend his official leave. If he does that, could you consider giving us the authorization to follow him at any cost until he either returns or his leave expires?"

Barkley moved back behind his desk and stopped at the massive window of his office. He stared down through it at all the rooftops stretching off into the horizon. He looked down at the streets many stories below.

"Sir, can I ask you something?" Braskel asked.

"It won't kill me."

"Sir, imagine for a moment that he really is faking it. Now imagine that we caught him, proved that he was faking it, and locked him up. You, me, and Whitman. We'd receive so much publicity. The people would love us! We'd be forever remembered as the three men who helped to reveal a faker, a man who had always remembered his life of crime during his time of service, and put him back where he belonged, on the side of the police force that he should've been on in the first place: On the inside of the bars."

Barkley straightened up. He looked up at the sky through the window. He took another long drag on his cigar, then slowly reached up and took it out between two fingers.

"Sir." Braskel said again.

Barkley turned and looked hard at Braskel. He then turned to Whitman.

"You, Whitman. You haven't said a single thing since you two came in here."

Whitman swallowed.

"Braskel seems to be doing all the talking here." Barkley looked back at the monkey, then back at Whitman. He paused. Then he looked back at Braskel.

"Braskel, why don't you head outside for a moment? Get yourself a cup of coffee if you want."

"Um, yes sir." Braskel stood up and quickly left.

Barkley took another long drag on the cigar, and walked back around to the front of his desk, before speaking to Whitman.

"Braskel really is the forerunner here, isn't he?"

Whitman paused for a moment. "Yes, sir. He is."

"You seem to be nothing more than the follower." Barkley leaned back on the desk. "You simply just agree with him and then shut up. Why?"

"Well, he has always been the better talker."

"I see. But why follow him so diligently? Why him over anyone else?"

"Well…I…I trust Braskel more than anyone else on the force. When I joined as a new recruit here, he kinda took me under his wing. He guided me and helped me out. He's been like a big brother to me, almost. For 11 straight years, sir."

"I see. But that doesn't mean you have to worship him."

"I know, sir."

"Because, in the end, I outrank him, and you, and I make the final calls. I'm the one you have to worship."

"Yes, sir."

"Do you personally believe this story? Do you really believe that Sly Cooper has been faking it for 8 straight years?"

Whitman paused and took a deep breath.

Then, "Yes."

"Alright." Barkley straightened up. "What do you think about Braskel?"

"I…I said a moment ago…"

"No, no, no. You said why you follow Braskel. You said why you worship him. You didn't say what you think of him, as an individual."

"Well…"

"Do you think he's trustworthy?"

"To me, yes."

"Personally, I think he's a weasel. Figuratively speaking, of course. But regardless, he's got one hell of a record, and numerous commendations. He's probably the best head of the homicide division we've had in decades. He has been wrong before…but then again, we all have." Barkley paused for another inhaling of his cigar. "Except for me."

"I truly believe that he's right about this one, sir. Again, in light of all these recent events, this could be the perfect chance to prove it."

Barkley sighed and shook his head. He took another deep drag on his cigar. "Well, you know what they say: 'Some low blows can bring about high things.' What the hell?"

He leaned over and pressed one of the buttons on his small speaker on his desktop.

"Miss Barnes, send him back in."

"Right away, sir." The secretary replied.

After a moment, Braskel walked back in.

"Yes, sir?"

"I've thought it over Braskel. And I suppose that a little surveillance won't harm anyone. It's not like if he's found completely innocent it'll cause a bureaucratic nightmare. However, if he is found to be clean, then you two will, at most, lose a lot of points with me. This'll be something that I'll remember with crystal clarity in the future when you two ask me to trust something that you say. Are we clear?"

"Sir, yes, sir." Braskel said as he stood up. Whitman mimicked him.

"Crystal?"

"Diamond, sir."

Barkley snorted. "Very well. Dismissed."

To be continued…