8:45 am, October 22, 1953
Factory District, Detroit, Michigan

John Blacksad, private investigator, stood on the corner of the street and watched the people around him. The building at his back was cold, hard brick and plastered with at least a dozen posters depicting a wanted figure along with the sum of money that would be awarded for that particular criminal's capture. On the corner across from him, going along the street currently in front of him, was a white circle containing a stylized snowflake—the chosen symbol of the radical white supremacist group known as Arctic Nation.

Arctic Nation believed that the minority species residing in the United States were perverting American culture with foreign elements and contaminating the "pure" bloodlines of the country's majority species by breeding with them and creating mongrel children. Arctic Nation also believed that the so-called "master species"—specifically, those animals with pure white coats—had some kind of divine right to rule over and subjugate all others, and that the children produced by the abominable act of interspecies breeding were so much trash to be disposed of.

Such a philosophy was as foreign and ridiculous to Blacksad as the idea that Mars harbored life or the moon was made of cheese. Who were these people to think they had any right to condemn others on the basis of race? One had no control over their parentage, however much they might wish otherwise, and trying to play God never turned out well. Race was certainly not a determining factor when it came to intelligence or ability. Blacksad was himself an example of such mixed heritage and living proof of Arctic Nation's hatred and arrogance.

His life had been difficult, to say the least. Born in Corpus Cristi, Texas in 1919, John was the eldest child and only son of a shipyard worker and a diner waitress. His family barely had enough money for necessities like food and clothes, so he'd never had a proper birthday. His mother had been raped and lynched by a white supremacist mob when he was ten and his father had disappeared when he was seventeen. His younger sister had fallen for a half-decent fellow in high school and married him after graduation, and for several years they were happy. But that marriage had ended six years ago when she learned that her husband was a deadbeat with a drinking problem and gambling debts. Like their father, he left one night and never came back; they both assumed he'd run off with another woman or gotten into a scuffle he couldn't get out of. She wasn't the type to wish harm on another, even if that other was causing her harm, but she hadn't shed any tears over the man. Now her nine-year-old son Ray, her '48 Chrysler Town & Country, her house and her job as a historical park guide in Santa Fe were the only things she had left.

John had enlisted in the Army in 1938 and was just as shocked and enraged as everyone else when Japan attacked the naval base at Pearl Harbor and blew 23 warships, 322 aircraft and nearly 3,000 young men to oblivion. He and his unit were sent to the Mediterranean theater and placed under the command of Omar Bradley; he'd survived the ambush at Kasserine Pass in Algeria, the campaign to liberate Sicily and the drive north through Italy, but many of his friends had not. After the war ended in 1945 and he came home to the largest ticker tape parade ever seen, he'd enrolled in the Eastern Regional Police Academy and become a private police detective—but with his mother dead, his father missing and his sister struggling, his only celebration was a bottle of Old Crow whiskey at a dingy roadside bar somewhere in Louisiana.

And his career hadn't always been kind. He'd gained notoriety and some prestige over the years, even a bit of celebrity status with the New York Police Department officers, but the deaths of so many friends during the war and several fellow officers had put a serious damper on the celebratory mood. Because of it, he was calculating and objective—some of the best qualities in a crime scene investigator—but also had a severely reduced interest in making friends. The only friends he had now were his notepad, his loneliness, the occasional glass of whiskey, a pack of Marlboro cigarettes and the Los Angeles Police Chief.

He pulled out a small notebook and a pen from his coat's inner breast pocket—the same implements he used to jot down noteworthy features at crime scenes and witness statements—and began to write.

One day, I'll write down my memoirs. I'll publish the directions my life has taken me in so the world may know of the things I've done, the words I've said, the places I've been. Perhaps it will be an epic adventure, a tale that will stir children's imaginations and foster dreams of great deeds and heroic exploits. Or perhaps it will be tale of caution, one to let future generations know of the dangers hidden in the world that will do everything in their power to devastate societies and cut lives short. I've lived through incredible experiences, such that all who care to read about them will think them a pack of lies, that such spite and hatred can't possibly hold this world captive.

I wouldn't be surprised if, once published, the whole thing reads like a detective novel. The obscure police investigator who finally gets his chance to impress the bigwigs and gain some sort of notoriety in the world. It starts out with little things that seem to do nothing but state the obvious that something happened. Then as the investigation plays out, other clues will appear that provide a few more pieces to the puzzle. Eventually, the villain might hear of the investigation and learn the name of the one who's investigating and attempt to discourage him by threatening his life or his family. In the end, the bad guy always gets caught.

And like those types of stories, it would probably sell ten thousand copies in the first year. People tend to have an insatiable appetite for intrigue, violence and the female spy who tries to obtain information by threatening, blackmailing, torturing, intoxicating or bedding her male counterpart. Her success will depend upon her ability to act the part, and if she's clever enough she'll obtain the information she needs without him noticing and report back to her superiors. If all goes well, she'll be recommended for promotion and sent on assignments in or near the capital city of her country's enemy.

How ironic that I will die rich and misunderstood. Not exactly the ideal way to go out.

John was snapped out of his musings when a snout suddenly appeared in his peripheral vision. He looked down and saw that it was attached to the head of a weasel peering with more than a little interest at his notebook and not exactly succeeding at being subtle. He snapped the small book shut with a thump and the fellow jerked his head back. "Nasty business, these hate crimes," the weasel commented as he adjusted his cap, then held out his hand. "James Weekly of What's News," he said by way of introduction. "Which rag do you bump for, pal?"

John glared at the weasel. The term "rag" was street slang for "paper" in the news world, and "bumping" simply meant "writing." So asking which rag a reporter bumped for was the same as asking in plain English which paper they were with. But John didn't like the slang, thinking it a lazy and disrespectful way to ask what one did. He was a literal man; to him, a rag was a filthy scrap of cloth used by mechanics, cooks and nurses to keep their workspaces clean while bumping had a number of connotations and meanings that could too easily get confused with subjects and actions meant for private settings.

Ears flat, he leaned down and shoved his nose into the weasel's face as he snarled, "For 'bad news,' I strongly suggest my latest article, One Is Not Friendly." Then he straightened, stuffed his hands in his pockets and stalked away, his slender tail whipping the air behind him.

That kind makes me sick. We cats are cursed with an acute sense of smell, which makes it particularly difficult when one crosses paths with somebody who's allergic to soap and takes them for the type to spell out their thoughts and feelings for the world to read in the papers! These newsies are always scrounging around for the latest word on some big scoop that might promote them, and it irks me to no end that they seem to believe the private musings of others will provide that chance.

I made two decisions then: To stop taking notes in public and go straight to my client.


Mrs. Alicia Grey was a teacher who'd unfortunately fallen on hard times. Though getting on in years, the doe still taught at one of the few schools still left on the Line, the name given to this disaster victim of a district. She was a woman of frail body but strong spirit, and I was here regarding the disappearance of one of her little angels.

"I know it sounds strange, John, but Kylie's disappearance didn't seem to bother anyone in the district. Not even her own mother," Alicia said, her voice calm but holding the tone of one who was at the end of their wits and patience. She stood on the edge of the playground of her beloved school, now decrepit and overgrown with ugly weeds and decaying leaves. On top of that the weather had turned overcast, reflecting the old doe's mood. "It makes no sense," she went on, "especially coming from this girl who's the definition of a 'difficult childhood.' Her mother died when she was even younger. As for her father…they never met."

"I see," John said, finding it difficult to keep his voice completely clear of emotion. Whoever had Kylie may be very much like the man his testimony had put away five years earlier for the rape and murder of a schoolgirl. He cleared his throat. "Two unwed mothers. And the police?"

Alicia walked up to the rusting frame from which four old, moldy ropes hung—two had decayed to the point that they came apart; the other two were just as worn and looked almost ready to join their comrades in the trash. She turned and sat carefully in the remaining swing, the wood creaking under her weight. "As always, they were more than happy to blame the whole thing on the Black Claws Gang and leave it at that."

John stuck a cigarette in his mouth and cupped a paw over the end of it to shield the tiny flame of his lighter from the wind as she continued, "Things have changed quite a bit recently, and not for the better. This district was like a dream come true when we established it. You'd think that after the war, things would get easier. Not so: The plane factory and munitions plants closing brought only unemployment and delinquency. The district broke down and the dream became a nightmare." She looked at a magpie raking leaves near the building. "Look at Mr. Oldsmill. These people throw their money down the drain or into the fire while others look for work until their feet bleed." She looked back at John, her face set in resolve. "But I won't give up. After everything we've lost, I believe that now more than ever is the time to fight."

John plucked the smoldering cigarette from his lips and tossed it on the ground, where the drizzling rain would soon extinguish it. "That's very brave, Mrs. Grey," he said, then laid a paw on her shoulder. "I'll do what I can for Kylie, when and if I find her. I promise."