1:15 pm, October 26, 1953
Brahman Street, prefabricated residences
Identical prefabricated houses lined both sides of the street, all white with apple red bases and roofed porches. They'd been built hastily in the wake of the attack on Pearl Harbor, to house the influx of workers coming to operate the machinery in the factory that was visible in the distance. It was very picturesque, with spotless sidewalks and a red fire hydrant every fourth home. The perfect postcard image, if one overlooked the complete lack of second and third-class residents.
Blacksad and Weekly sat in the front seat of Blacksad's car, which was on the side of the road heading west. Blacksad had his arms crossed over his chest and an upset scowl on his face as he glared out the windshield, while Weekly tried to be as invisible as possible in an effort to avoid setting him off. He suspected Blacksad's job had him facing society's ugliest and meanest, which probably left him short-fused and irritable on a regular basis. And being a reporter, Weekly knew how dangerous a short-fused and irritable person could be. Especially one who carried a gun as part of the job description.
Finally, growing tired of the silence, he tried a bit of small talk. "You wouldn't have really shot that guy, would you?" he asked. He looked at Blacksad from the corner of his eye, as if looking at the cat directly might snap whatever thread was holding his temper back. "Of course not! You ain't the type." His face was jovial as he said this, but his tone loudly spoke his nervousness.
"And you," Blacksad answered, not taking his eyes off of something only he could see. "You plan to print that crap?"
"And how!" Weekly confirmed excitedly. "Only two days on the job and I've already got the story of the week! Just a bit more and I'll be the patron saint of What's News!" He opened his door and stepper out. "And speaking of, you know why the guys at the paper call me Weekly?"
"Obviously not." Blacksad's tone and the fact that he turned his head away would have indicated to anyone with even a grain of observational prowess that he was utterly uninterested in the reason for the reporter's nickname.
Leaning against the door in a relaxed position, the weasel said, "'Cause I only go there once a week to deliver my articles. I'm sort of a mythical beast to them."
"Well then, Mythical Beast, how's this for a legend?" Blacksad said, pointing at the reporter. "I want you to learn everything there is to know about Karup's and his angle in all this: How he got that cushy job, who his friends are, where he likes to hang out after work. But most importantly, I want you to know what goes on inside that house of his."
"Don't worry your little head about that," Weekly said confidently as he patted his camera. "I won't miss a thing." He closed the door.
Apparently satisfied, Blacksad started his car and drove down the road. Before Weekly vanished from view, he glanced back and saw the weasel throw him a salute. "Mythical," he chuckled, amused by the thought that one so nosy could be such a legend in anyone's mind except their own.
—
1:35 pm, EV Oldsmill Sport Club
Blacksad drove several blocks toward the center of town to the EV Oldsmill Sport Club, an exclusive establishment where only members and those invited participated in the activities and parties hosted by prominent figures. It was an idyllic place, meticulously kept up to maintain the image of an upstanding community establishment where all were welcome and everything was hunky-dory. But again, the complete lack of dark-furred members indicated just the opposite.
Blacksad walked into the private area of the club, the section that subtly proclaimed that those without white fur were barred from entering. Except for those who happened to be police investigators. He walked down a short hallway and through a door that opened into a spacious tennis court, where he saw a white tiger smacking balls back to a cheetah server. "Excuse me, Edward Oldsmill?"
"Who's asking?"
"John Blacksad, private investigator."
"Indeed?" The tiger hit another ball across the court before turning to face the cat. "And what can I do for you, good sir?"
"I'll be blunt," Blacksad said. "I think you had something do to with Kylie's kidnapping."
Edward shot his visitor a prompting glance. "I see. And?" He tossed up another ball and hit it toward the cheetah.
"Well, the face is that I'm being paid to find her," Blacksad continued, "and your son's name keeps popping up everywhere I go."
Edward lowered his racquet and gently plucked at the mesh with his claws. "Of course," he said. "Then you'll also have noticed that Karup is taking great care to divert all blame from anyplace where it might tarnish my family's name. Such a loyal pack of idiots." He pointed at the cheetah on the other end of the court. "Tell me: Who in their right mind would sleep with this sorry excuse for a son?"
Blacksad looked at the cheetah, and had to agree with Edward. The poor lad didn't look like he had the intelligence to ride a bicycle, much less plan the kidnapping of a little girl. His eyes were crossed, his legs were bowed and he picked absently at his racquet's mesh. And the drool dripping from his chin suggested that he barely possessed the awareness to understand what was in front of him.
"I fear the situation has become too big for our esteemed police chief to handle. I wouldn't be surprised if that dirty gamine turns out to be Karup's daughter, seeing as how that family's already married into the black population." He looked back at the cheetah with a look of either disgust or disappointment. Maybe shame, Blacksad thought. "But then, anyone can make a retard." The cheetah served another ball, which bounced past him beyond the reach of his racquet. "Let me tell you something, my friend: I find it disturbing that a man of Karup's class might mix with rabble like Danah."
Blacksad caught the ball in an iron grip, transferring his indignation at Edward's racial slur into it. He wasn't the only living example that one's parentage or fur color had nothing to do with intelligence or capability, and he could name many more: John Henry, Jesse Owens and the Tuskegee Airmen came to mind. "And how does it disturb you, this 'rabble'?" he asked, emphasizing his dislike for the word.
Edward bounced a ball up and down, dribbling it like a miniature basketball. "They…contaminate, let us say. Before they arrived, this district was the model of wealth and prosperity. Now look at it: Nothing but homelessness and misery."
Blacksad put a hand on Edward's shoulder and leaned in close, saying, "But that's not the case for everyone, is it? Some still live quite well. It's such a pity that none in your family could benefit from a strong heritage like yours." He removed his hand, leaving behind a red mark. "Sometimes the mixture works out well." He turned and walked away, bidding the tiger a French farewell as he left.
—
2:00 pm, Brahmun Street, prefabricated residences
Residential District, Detroit, Michigan
"Stupid winter!" Weekly hunkered down behind a bush, pulling his knees close to his chest while munching on hot onion rings in an effort to stay warm. Which wasn't easy to do when one had to sit and wait in the cold. Even the performance of his cotton-lined leather jacket was proving to be less than stellar. He knew that grumbling about it wasn't going to change anything, and fortune could certainly have been less favorable—it could have been a blizzard, and then he'd really be in trouble—so he was grateful that the winter weather was feeling friendly. For now, it was simply cold.
Besides, Blacksad had told him to watch Karup's house for anything suspicious. The guy was an investigator, so how wrong could he be? Also, if he did happen to catch something in this stakeout, it would prove to the white population that their esteemed chief of police wasn't so upstanding after all and shake the community's confidence in him, not to mention the credit Weekly would get for bringing in what would likely be the story of his career up to that point! Once it was leaked to the mainstream outlets, that is.
He'd pulled out another onion ring and was about to pop it into his mouth when he heard knocks on a door across the street. His snack forgotten, he dropped the small brown paper bag and parted the center of the bush he was hiding behind to create a small window. Although the figure's face was partially hidden by the angle, he definitely recognized it as the white fox who had been screaming from the podium earlier that week, the one who had been preaching his gospel of ethnic purity and how the minorities were destroying society by breeding with their natural superiors.
The door opened, and only then did he recognize the blond-haired female polar bear as the woman he'd whistled at in the police station. Except now, instead of a dull-green dress and overcoat, she wore a red plaid shirt and blue jeans. She smiled at the fox, who smiled back, then invited him inside. "What do we have here?" Weekly muttered. The spokesperson for the local Arctic Nation chapter being seen anywhere was bad news in his book, but here at the police chief's home could yield some very juicy tabloid reading for the next several weeks at least. After the door closed, he dashed across the street and around to the back of the house when he figured that the occupants were probably smart enough to keep their private activities as far from prying eyes as they could. He stopped at a sliding window when he heard suspicious noises and climbed onto the small cellar door hatch beneath it and slowly inched his eyes above the sill to peek through. What he saw nearly made his eyes leap from their sockets.
The fox and the bear where inside the room. Both were naked. The bear was bent over the bed, her breasts swinging, with the fox gripping her hips and thrusting his own into them. The sounds he'd heard were the sounds of sex.
Weekly leaned against the side of the house with a delirious smile on his face. This wasn't a story, this was a scandal, one that wouldn't be run just for the week, or even the month. "I love my job!" he giggled as he lifted the flash cover on his camera.
10:30 pm, subway restroom
Business District, Detroit, Michigan
Several hours later, Weekly and Blacksad were in a subway restroom, one which had a sign at the bend of the L stairway that said this restroom was for whites only. But segregated restrooms were among the silliest inventions of the white imagination, originating from the absurd notion that blacks and whites carried and were affected by different diseases. The basic concept of the public restroom was that it could be used by anyone who needed it, and not just those of a particular religion or ethnicity. Besides, who was going to notice this late at night?
"He went to the chief's house?" Blacksad asked. This was surprising, but it proved his personal suspicions that Chief Karup and the screaming speaker from the plaza had some sort of connection. "What for?"
"You'd never believe me if I told you," Weekly said.
"Try me," Blacksad dared, and the weasel told him. "And she let him!?"
"More like she invited him," Weekly answered. "And that's not all. After the fox left, I tailed him to a restaurant. And who do you imagine our adulterous lover was meeting there?" He paused to give Blacksad the chance to hazard a guess, which wasn't taken. "The missing girl's mother!"
Blacksad looked at him in surprise. So Arctic Nation was behind Kylie's kidnapping. That was something, at least, but it didn't tell them where the girl was being held. Arctic Nation certainly made no secret about where they stood on the subject of segregation, but Blacksad wouldn't put it past them to commit kidnapping in order to control loose elements in matters they wanted to keep under the radar. Or ensure a witness's compliance.
"I hid under a table to listen in," Weekly went on. "Danah seemed quite nervous, to tell the truth."
"And what did you hear?" Blacksad asked as he zipped his pants and stepped over to the sink to wash his hands.
"Just bits and pieces," Weekly admitted. "But Danah was using a secretive tone, like she was speaking of something important."
"What sort of something?"
"No idea. All I know is that it led to her daughter, and her determination to not let her be hurt."
"Hm." Blacksad sounded thoughtful, but his voice held a tone of suspicion. "I'd say the chief knows where the girl is."
"You'd say!?" Weekly demanded as they climbed the stairs and stepped back into the weather. "Blacksad, the guy's a pervert! A regular Gerald Morris! And rest assured that Mister Karup's adventures will be printed in What's News. Let's see how the public reacts to the revelation that their esteemed chief of police likes to play Headstock!"
So we finally had a lead, even if it was a thin one.
That pompous Oldsmill character was too rich and cynical to even need to lie, and I had to agree that no self-respecting girl would even think about allowing his retarded son to bed her. I'd also heard of the discreet feud between him and Karup, but it was kept so quiet through bribes and blackmail that it had never even made it to the back page of the tabloids.
As for Kylie, things were still hazy. I'd figured that Karup might be Kylie's father; that would confirm my suspicions about multiple motives for wanting the girl to disappear. Any affluent self-respecting white man with a reputation as gleaming and spotless as his would seek to distance himself from anything even remotely linking him to mingling with the "lesser races." Such action is deplorable and unforgivable in the eyes of the white population. So I went to Danah's home, intent on learning what she'd kept from me during our first meeting. Either she'd sing or point me to someone who could.
But as I approached, one detail stood out to me: Someone had gone to the trouble of sweeping over their prints. Not just that, but the door was wide open in the middle of the worst winter Detroit had seen in fifty years. And as I looked inside, I knew that Kylie would never see her mother again. Someone had made certain of that.
Danah's body, which had overflowed with life and beauty only a few hours earlier, now lay dead and half-dressed on the floor. By the wounds on her neck and torso I judged the murder weapon to have been one with an edge, like a machete. Or a saber. It wasn't enough evidence to accuse Karup directly, but an expert poker player knows when his opponent has a winning hand or is bluffing. And experience had taught me to play my cards carefully.
12:00 pm, October 27, 1953
Greater First Baptist Church of America
Residential District, Detroit, Michigan
Blacksad walked up the pathway toward the church that was just letting out for the week. Foxes, wolves, horses and even a few owls filed out the front doors to return to their homes and relax for the afternoon, some of them pausing to shake hands with the pastor and bid him goodbye or comment on his sermon as they left, but the cat ignored all of them for the two bears who were walking straight toward him.
Karup and his wife were smiling and chatting amiably about the mundane things they'd done in the past few days, interspersed with questions each asked of what the other thought about the preacher's sermon, when Karup noticed the investigator and a look of disdain crossed his face. "Well, if it isn't our old friend the detective," he sneered. "Come with another report of the trouble you're causing?"
"You can stow your convoluted sense of humor, chief," Blacksad growled, glaring daggers at the bear. "What would the great Robert Edward Lee think of you now, Karup, if he knew how you'd used his sword?"
Karup held himself in the fashion befitting a dignified southern man and glared just as intensely back down at Blacksad. "I'm quite sure I have no idea what you're talking about," he answered snarkily. "Please remove yourself."
But Blacksad wasn't about to back down. Pointing his cigarette at the bear, he said, "You listen to me, Karup, and listen close. You better find yourself a concrete alibi, because I'm the one with the pick who's starting to chip away at your foundation. And I hope for your sake that nothing happens to that little girl, or I swear you'll—"
He was cut off when Karup's wife suddenly jumped forward, yelling as she pointed a finger in his face, "Leave my husband in peace! He's a man of the law, and no one is better qualified to keep the peace than—"
"Jezebel!" Even Karup was surprised.
She hugged against her husband again. "I'm sorry, Hans," she apologized. "But I'll not allow filth like him to insult you in this way!"
Blacksad looked behind them. Jezebel's outburst had apparently attracted the attention of some unsavory-looking acquaintances of Karup's, among them the fox from before. The fox walked up to Blacksad and grabbed the collar of his trench coat. "This guy bothering you, boss?" he asked.
Blacksad glared down at the fox, who was at least six inches shorter than himself, then effortlessly flicked the fox's hands from his coat. "Oh-ho!" he laughed humorlessly. "And who exactly are you defending, Romeo? Your friend the chief, or his charming and accessible wife?" He saw a look of utter shock appeared on the faces of everyone who had gathered around to watch the altercation—the most profound being on the fox's face—and watched Jezebel timidly and frightfully hide herself behind her husband's arm.
He spread his arms to the crowd. "And what of you, friends? Is Karup really the kind of man you want handling your children? And I do mean handling."
"Listen here, vermin," the fox snarled. "You better make yourself scarce if you don't want this to turn ugly. You're starting to clash with the landscape."
Blacksad looked back down at him with an expression of utter contempt. "Very well, fox," he said. "But keep in mind that your boss is a lot stronger than I am. Whatever I can do to you will be ten times worse coming from him." Having said his piece, he turned on his heel and walked away.
They all watched his retreating form until it turned and disappeared around a corner. "Huk," Karup said. "I want to talk with you later."
Huk, the fox, tried to conceal his trepidation at what this talk would entail.
—
1:15 pm, Greater First Baptist Church of America
Residential District, Detroit, Michigan
Later was that afternoon. Karup stood at the podium, reading music sheets as he listened to twenty-two small voices sing their hearts out. They weren't the best vocalists he'd ever heard, but they were still young and didn't have the experience of professional singers like Elvis Presley and Johnny Cash. Some of them may not grow up to be singers, but getting them started early would plant the seed that might sprout into such a career. In addition to being the chief of police, Karup also directed the local children's choir.
As the final chorus faded and the children folded their songbooks and began stampeding toward the door, Karup said, "Be careful walking home, little ones. Until next Sunday."
He felt a tug on his pantleg and looked down to see a tiny seal pup grinning up at him. "Gubbie, Misser Krup," she said. Her frazzled whiskers, innocent eyes and mispronunciation of his name combined into a look that was simply impossible to not smile at.
Karup bent down and lifted the pup with a kind smile, then dug a piece of candy from his pocket. "And as for you, Mignonette—" The sound of a clearing throat interrupted him, and he looked over to see Huk standing in the doorway. He handed the candy to Mignonette and set her down. "Off you go," he told her, patting her back, and she scampered out the door.
As soon as she was out of sight and hearing, Huk pulled the latest copy of What's News from under his coat. "Read the news lately?" he asked.
Karup snatched it from the fox's grasp and tore it to shreds. "Yes. The truce is over," he declared, a dangerous tone in his voice. "I don't intent to let such insults against my person stand, especially not from refuse such as him!" He reached for his coat. "Bring the boys and meet me there. Wait." He dug his car keys from his pocket and tossed them to the fox. "Ready my car. It's time to settle accounts with this agitator and his friend with the bleached muzzle."
"Speaking of the cat," Huk said almost timidly as he opened the door, "surely you don't believe a single…word…" His voice faltered as Karup's large hand pushed the door closed again before spinning him around and slamming into his muzzle like a wrecking ball. The blow was so unexpected that it picked him up off the ground and knocked him back three feet, where he landed with a whuff as the air was driven from his lungs. "Hans!" he cried. "You can't seriously think I would—" He was cut short as the bear kicked him in the gut, then lifted him up over his head and heaved him into the pews, several of which toppled backwards as he crashed into them.
Karup stalked toward him, and he held up a shaking hand in a feeble attempt to shield himself from whatever other abuse the bear might inflict upon him. "Chief," he groaned, "I understand that you're a little agitated, but please. That whore Danah deserved to die like she did, but there are other ways—more discreet…" His voice failed again.
Karup stopped in front of him, towering over the fox. "I'm not going to kill anyone," he said dangerously. "Yet."
