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The Fire Triangle

Part Two:

Oxidizer

Chapter 10
All Together Now - Cont'd…Part 3

It was a good thing Nick wasn't driving. Otherwise, he might have put the brake pedal clear through the floor.

He was on the road with Martin Pennanti at the wheel, the two of them cruising north on the Garden State Parkway and listening to a selection from the fisher's playlist. In a rather eccentric homage to his roots, he was a connoisseur of Italian prog rock.

"Now all the seasons run together
And the middle days are gone…"

"Who's that?" Nick asked, pointing at the car deck.

"Band out of Milan," Pennanti's eyes stayed glued to the road as he spoke. It was a drizzly day with crummy visibility. "They're called Premiata Forneria Marconi."

"Had my bicycle risin'
Fast-wheelin' and climbin'…"

Nick's ears went in several different directions, "Uhhhhh…."

"Means the Famous Marconi Bakery," The fisher explained helpfully. And then almost as an afterthought, he added, "By the way Nicky, Vern Rodenberg didn't get the Mister off on that RICO charge. The government sabotaged its own case."

"WHAT?!"

Nick's fox-scream would have drowned out a thunderclap if one had come along at that particular moment. He spent the next few minutes fumbling for words and sounding not unlike channel surfing.

"Wha…are you…I…why…give me…" Eventually, he managed to get it out. "All right, but WHY?"

Pennant offered him a humorless smirk. "The only reason the Feds even prosecuted him in the first place is because both the Governor and the Mayor were leaning on them. It was an election year, y'see. Rodenberg was basically brought in as a fig leaf, so The Feds could say, 'Hey, we tried our best.' He rapped the steering wheel with the heel of his paw, a familiar gesture to Nick by this time. "But they were never gonna let The Mister—or his brothers—get put away; he was too darn valuable for that."

And now it became a good thing Pennanti's car had a relatively high roof. Otherwise, Nick's ears would have punched right through it. "Valuable…h-how?"

"A little something McCrodon picked up from his mentor, Whitey Bullgoar." The fisher kept his eyes on the highway as he explained. "If you're 'in the life' and you want to keep The Feds off your back, there's only one way to make it happen…become an informer."

"Uh-huh," Nick nodded, trying not to sound skeptical. He had heard the Bullgoar story from Mr. Big and there was a lot more to it than what Pennanti was telling him. Bullgoar had corrupted his federal handler and ended up in the slam anyway, doing life without parole.

"But the Mister was smart; he took it one step further," Pennanti seemed to have read his mind. "He never informed on his fellow wiseguys; only terrorist groups—and being an arms merchant, he had plenty of information on those jerks."

"Ohhhh," Nick fell back in his seat; it seemed to half swallow him up. Okay…now he got it.

And his host had even more information to impart.

"I gotta give it to the guy Nick," he was grudgingly shaking his head. "Much as I despised him, it was stinkin' brilliant. Most of what Bullgoar gave to The Feds was useless—but not The Mister. All of it was good, and some of it was pure gold. And no other boss was gonna call him a snitch for informing on a terrorist cartel. Their only problem was, 'Hey, how come we never thought of that?' He sniffed and narrowed his eyes a little. "Wanna know why The Company guys were forbidden to deal dope or even have it in their possession? Because that's the one thing The Feds wouldn't have tolerated—no matter what kind of juicy intel McCrodon was giving them."

"I see," the red fox nodded. Privately, he had to wonder where this was going—and what it had to do with Conor Lewis. Still, it was interesting to hear.

"No doubt you're curious how the Company got taken down, even with the government having their back." Pennanti was saying.

"I was kind of curious," Nick admitted, glancing sideways out the window for a second. In truth, the thought had never once crossed his mind, but now that the fisher mentioned it…

"To be perfectly honest, I don't know myself." His companion's jaw became fixed as he spoke. "The prevailing theories are that either The Feds decided he was more trouble than he was worth, or else he was becoming too erratic to be trusted any longer." His eyes narrowed and shifted in Nick's direction for a second. "Or—if you wanna put on your tin-foil hat… There's some say that McCrodon picked up some dirt on The Feds—serious stuff—and they took him out before he could make use of it."

Nick's ears went up again, but at the same time a frown was stretching along his muzzle. Given The Mister's penchant for blackmail that wasn't as far-fetched as it sounded. Still…he couldn't imagine the government signing off on anything that draconian.

And yet…

Facts were facts. Only two of The Company's many members had emerged from Finagles still breathing—and they were little more than vegetables now, if what he'd heard was accurate. If the real reason for the raid on the Mister's stronghold had been to ensure his silence, then it had more than accomplished its purpose.

And on that subject, Nick had the very strong and sudden feeling that his host had finally gotten to the point. What that point was, he had no idea. But it was there, a walnut, still in its shell, waiting to be cracked open.

"Okayyy, here's our exit." Pennanti angled his car to the right and the spell was broken,

…for now.

They knew they were starting to get close when a sign appeared on an approaching overpass.

JUVENILE DETENTION FACILITY
DO NOT STOP FOR HITCHHIKERS

The text was faded, and barely legible.

About a quarter mile later they were passing along a chain-link fence of somewhat eccentric design. Curving inward, away from the road, it gave the impression of a baseball diamond backstop. Nick had to admit…it would be tough to climb that thing from the inside, even for an arboreal species. Even so, there was something off about it.

After perhaps another half mile, they came to the main gate, a sand-colored trapezoidal concrete arch with a guard station set into the left side wall. As they pulled up beside it, a bighorn-sheep with a clipboard exited, indicating for Pennanti to roll down his window. The fisher complied at once, at the same time proffering his badge.

That gave Nick the opportunity to give the ram a quick once-over.

His uniform was simple to the point of minimalism; a dark-blue, billed cap, khaki shirt and slacks, perfectly matched, and a dark blue web-belt. Nick thought that it gave him the appearance of wearing a jump-suit. The only indication of his status was a single stripe on his sleeve with a patch just above it, the emblem of the Zoo Jersey Youth Authority. He had a name tag on his chest, but the lettering was too small for the fox to make out…

"Your badge sir?"

Whoops, the officer was holding out a hoof in his direction and Pennanti was giving him a look that said, 'For crying out loud, wake UP already!'

Nick passed his badge over with an embarrassed expression. The sheep examined it quickly and then gave it back.

"Are either of you carrying weapons…or are there any in your vehicle?" the ram's eyebrow was arched as he posed the question.

It was Pennanti who answered him.

"No, sir," he responded smartly, "nothing on us…or in the car either."

"All right then," the sheep replied, indicating the road ahead with his clipboard, "You'll want to report to reception and intake at the top of the hill; you'll see it."

"Thank you, officer," the fisher nodded with a bright smile. A half-moment later, it was gone—replaced by a sour expression —and he was muttering to no one in particular. "Jerk! He was hoping that we were packing."

"I noticed," Nick concurred, although he hadn't. He had simply assumed that the sheep was rude by nature.

Well, at the end of the day, it probably didn't matter.

For the next few minutes, they found themselves on a satin-smooth, ruler-straight road, fringed by small, neatly-trimmed shrubs, and with a pair of well-manicured lawns on either side.

"Sheesh Nicky, Pennanti observed at one point, "What the heck is this—a juvie hall, or a stinkin' country club?" This time, he and the fox were on the same wavelength. Nick thought it was…the only word that came to mind was weird.

At the top of a hill, they came to a sentry-line of poplar trees with the road, bisecting them through the center. On the other side, it split off in two different directions; one leading to the service dock, and the other towards the main entrance.

But it was an area abutting the road, about the size of a basketball-court, that drew the bulk of the fox and fisher's attention.

It was a garden—and not just a garden-variety garden—a riot of brightly colored flowers interspersed with koi ponds, and a trickling waterfall. That in itself, was odd. Wouldn't a vegetable garden have been more practical? As they drew closer, Nick could see in one of the pools, roils and flashes of color as the occupants vied for whatever tidbit had fallen into the water. "How the heck have those things not been eaten?" Pennanti asked rhetorically, turning to stare for just a second. Nick knew exactly what he was talking about. There had to be at least a few piscivorous young offenders incarcerated here—and having served a little time himself, he knew that in the graybar hotel, pilferage is the name of the game.

"Maybe," he ventured, "they don't let…any of the fish-eating kids near those pools?"

Nick immediately wished that he'd kept that conjecture to himself, because the garden also contained four topiaries in various geometric shapes, a cube, a sphere, a pyramid, and one trimmed into the shape of 'plus' sign. The latter was currently being worked on by a pair of young animals with hedge-clippers, both of whom were clad in Day-Glo orange coveralls with the letters ZJYA stenciled on the back. One of them was a young deer-buck—but the other was a juvenile grizzly bear. Ohhh-kay, so much for his theory about the fish-ponds. One swipe of that kid's paws would empty any one of them onto the lawn…and everyone knew that grizzlies adored fresh fish.

"And…where the heck are the officers?" The red fox wondered to himself. "There should be…Oh. wait there's one."

Yes, there was…but only one.

He was a cougar, seated in a folding quad-chair. His uniform was a carbon copy of the one worn by the bighorn sheep at the gate, except his belt and the baseball-cap were red, rather than blue. And…was that a magazine laying in his lap? Well, if it was, it hardly mattered, because at the moment he was giving his undivided attention to the two young mammals under his watch.

Unsurprisingly, it was the deer who seemed to be enjoying his task, working along at a merry clip, no pun intended. The grizzly, on the other paw appeared to be suffering from lockjaw, his mouth pulled back in what appeared to be a permanent toothy grimace. Even so, he was keeping his eyes on his task…mostly. Every so often, his attention would shift sideways to the big cat watching over him, but only for a hint of a second, and then it was back to clipping again–hurriedly. Nick had seen the look he was wearing before, but couldn't quite remember where.

And then there was that cougar; there was something peculiar about him, too. But what…?

Never mind, they were already past the garden.

But still…

In another moment, they came to a high, ivy-covered wall. Directly in front of them was a two-lane gap in the edifice. It was topped by a wrought iron arch, bearing a message in stylized letters, 'FOR THE WELFARE OF THE CHILD.' There was no gate and Pennanti drove straight through without stopping.

And now, at last, they could see Granite Point's central structure.

It was a three-story affair, with a sloping, tiled roof, and a stucco exterior, the color of dark mustard. It reminded Nick a little of the Met Cloisters, the Renaissance-flavored building where he'd met the elk, Ed Bewgel. Had he been here to see The Point before the renovations, he would have noted the absence of the central tower, replaced by a squat guard-station mounted just above the main entrance.

And on the subject of that entrance, could anything have looked more out of place here than that…thing? It was a glass-fronted, ultramodern hexagon, that would have been perfectly appropriate as the front foyer of a hi-tech firm. Here, it stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb, and Nick said as much to his companion.

"Well, ya gotta remember Nicky," Pennanti observed, as he pulled into a visitor space and set the brake, "This place wasn't built as a tourist attraction."

"True enough," the fox agreed, and then opened his door and got out.

Entering through a double set of sliding doors they were greeted by another bighorn sheep, who gave them a quick once-over with a paddle-shaped wand. Neither Nick, nor the fisher objected. This was standard procedure in any correctional facility.

The decor of Intake and Reception area was another matter entirely. The place could almost have passed for the lobby of a 60's vintage, 'futuristic' motel. The front desk was shaped like an artist's palette, and a forest of cylindrical lights dropped down from the ceiling on long, metal poles of varying lengths. The clock set into the wall had no numbers, only metal 'ticks.' And how about those stairs? The staircase at the back of the enclosure went swirling along the paneling as it ascended to the upper floor, offering only a thin, metal railing for support.

Sweet cheeze n' crackers, as the fox's former partner would have said—and as his present partner had observed on the way in—what kind of a crazy juvenile correctional facility was this?

At the front desk, they were obliged to trade in their cell-phones and credentials for a pair of visitor badges—to yet another bighorn sheep, who directed them to a pair of elevator doors on the far-right side of the lobby.

"Dr. Lampley will see you first," he informed the pair tonelessly, pointing at the first door, "Third floor, at the end of the hallway on your left."

Nick wisely chose to wait until the door closed before turning to speak to Pennanti.

"Holy foxtrot. Does this place seem like something out of The Twilight Zone or what?"

Pennanti only looked at him curiously.

"Dunno what you're talking about, fox," he said, and then resumed his forward gaze.

"Wha-WHAT?" Nick's ears shot upwards while his lower jaw crash-dived. He couldn't believe what he'd just heard. "Hello-o-o? What about those kids…"

The fisher instantly wheeled on him, "For the tenth time Nicky, don't bug me, okay?"

"Huh?" If Nick had been only confused a second ago, now he was totally flabbergasted.

Until…he noticed that his companion's eyes were canted upwards at the ceiling.

Oh, riiiiight…better get into character and quickly.

"You said that exactly twice…fisher," he snarled, half baring a fang. "And just because we came in your car, it doesn't mean…."

"Yeah, yeah…yadda, yadda," Pennanti waved him off as the door opened, and they continued with their bickering as they made their way down the hall.

At the end of the corridor, they came to a plain double door, painted in dark varnish; plain—and yet not so plain. Nick studied it closely while Pennanti knocked. After perhaps half a second, a deep but nonetheless reedy voice answered from the other side.

"Yes, come in." The tone was congenial, almost friendly.

There were knobs at three different levels. Nick grabbed the one at the correct height for small mammals and pushed…and pushed again, the door refused to budge. It might be a plain-Jane design, but it had been hewn out of some seriously exotic wood.

Pennanti was just about to lend a shoulder when they heard a buzz and a hum, and the door swung open on its own.

On the other side was a birchwood-paneled office with a bay window and vintage photographs decorating the walls. At the center of it all was an oak schoolmaster's desk, currently occupied by an animal of indeterminate species. The large horns, curling around the side of his cheeks, proclaimed him to be a sheep, but the thatch of whisker protruding from beneath his chin, said 'goat' in big, capital letters.

"Good afternoon, gentlemammals. In answer to your question, I'm a urial sheep.

It was no use, Nick and Martin Pennanti were unable to keep from exchanging glances. Either this animal was highly perceptive, or they were far from the only visitors to have pondered that question.

And there was yet another surprise in store for the fox and fisher. When the sheep came out from behind his desk, he came not under his own power, but by way of a high-tech wheelchair—very high-tech. He had only to look in the direction he wanted to go, and it obeyed. Hmmm, well that explained the automatic door anyway. But then, from beside him, Nick heard Martin Pennanti stifling a low whistle. He would ask about that later but for now, their host was wheeling towards him and offering a hoof.

"Detective…Nicholas Wilde, is that right? I'm Dr. Edward Lampley, superintendent of the Granite Point Youth Correctional Facility." He turned his head and the chair turned with him, now facing towards the fisher on his left. "And you would be Detective Martin Pennanti…of the Minkerton Detective Agency."

There was an air of condescension in his final words, but Pennanti appeared to take no notice, instead taking the urial's hoof in a firm, dry grip. "Yes, that's right. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Likewise, I'm sure," Dr. Lampley smiled. And though he couldn't say why, Nick would later remember this as the moment when he first began to dislike the good doctor.

And now, the sheep turned again, gesturing towards an overstuffed couch. "Would you like to sit down…and can I get you some coffee?"

Nick answered thanks, but no thanks as he took his seat in the section reserved for small mammals. Pennanti, however, replied in the affirmative, "Yes, please…black, no cream, no sugar."

"I'll have some sent up right away," Their host thumbed a button on his chair, "Lieutenant Terrence, this is Dr. Lampley, could you send up a pot of coffee to my office please? Two cups."

"Right away, sir." A tinny voice replied from an unseen location.

Nick felt his ears trying to rise. Why didn't Dr. Lampley simply have a coffee machine installed in his office? There was plenty of space for one.

Oh, well…to each his own.

"So, Detectives," The urial sheep had pulled his chair up to a low table fronting the couch. "What can I do for you today?"

It was an entirely diplomatic inquiry and everyone in the office knew it. Dr. Lampley knew exactly why his visitors were here—else they'd never have been allowed past the entrance gate.

Meanwhile, a discreet nod from the fisher was telling Nick to take the lead.

"It's in regards to a young silver fox who was once an inmate at this…"

The sheep cut him off with a raised hoof. "We don't use the term 'inmate' here, Detective Wilde…even among our staff. The young mammals held here are either detainees, or sometimes prisoners. I hope you understand."

"Yes of course," the fox replied, dipping his muzzle. He did understand…though not completely. This wasn't the first time he'd heard that rule, but back then it had been a law of the prisoners, by the prisoners and for the prisoners. The correctional officers could use whatever the heck term they wanted. Oh, well…. "May I continue?"

"Certainly."

Nick cleared his throat before returning to his explanation.

"As I was saying, we've come here in regards to a young silver fox who was held here some years ago." He decided to lay it on a little, allowing his ears to fall back and assuming the same meek deportment he'd employed when he'd begged Jerry Jumbeaux to sell him a Jumbo-Pop. "I must tell you right up front, Dr. Lamprey…"

"Uh, that's Lampley."

"Oh, yes sorry," the fox corrected, looking properly chastised. Beside him, Martin Pennanti had turned away, clutching his muzzle, with his shoulders quivering. "Anyway, as I was about to say, this boy was incarcerated here in the days before the AKER corporation instituted their reforms—a courageous and commendable action I must say, given the circumstances."

"Yes, thank you." The sheep responded, sounding appropriately grateful…and beginning to look impatient. Nick caught it and quickly adjusted.

"But I digress, Doctor. The young silver fox in question was held here under the nammmme…" He pretended to rack his brain for second, "Alan Murphy."

He expected Dr. Lampley to respond with a frown and a scratch at his horn, but instead the sheep just nodded grimly. "Ah-ha, yes…When I heard you say 'silver fox,' I thought that it might be him."

"So, you're familiar with the boy?" Martin Pennanti asked, joining the discussion.

Just then, there was a knock on the door. Dr. Lampley angled his chair in the direction, at the same time thumbing a control knob on his chair.

"Come in."

The door swung open with the speed of a crypt in a 30's horror movie and a young Siberian Tiger entered, pushing a four wheeled cart bearing a coffee service. There was nothing fancy here. Nick recognized the cart as the same type used to move AV equipment during his grade-school years, and the mugs and coffee-pot might have come straight from a truck-stop. Just the same, the level of service seemed a little excessive.

The young feline, meanwhile, was setting the pot and the cups on the table, along with a sheaf of napkins. When he reached for the coffee-pot again, Pennanti politely waved him off, taking it upon himself to do the honors.

"Allow me," he said, speaking to Dr. Lampley. "How do you take yours, Doctor?"

"One sugar, half cream." The sheep replied.

Pennanti poured for the sheep and then for himself. And then he did something rather strange. Raising his mug in the young tiger's direction, he smirked sardonically, "Nice to see you with an honest job, tovaritsch. Za zdorovei." He slammed the Java in a single gulp, and winked conspiratorially. "Vashi brat'ya-khuligany budut ochen' vpechatleny, da?"

If the fisher's actions appeared odd, the young tiger's reaction was even odder. For perhaps half a second, ears seemed to be trying to lay sideways, but then fell limply backwards. Taking a half step backwards, he turned quickly to Dr. Lampley. "W-Will that be all sir?" His voice was soft and Slavic, with just a hint of a mewl thrown in.

"You can go," the urial replied, nodding at the door. When the young feline was gone, he turned a pained expression on Martin Pennanti. "Really, Detective!"

"Sorry," Pennanti shrugged, looking not at all ashamed. "I had a lot of dealings with the Russian mob, back when I was with the ZYPD. And believe me…I know a mafiya wannabe when I see one. For instance, notice that he…"

"Uh, can we talk about that some other time?" Nick was asking. He was in no mood for a forensics lesson…and what the heck had his companion done that for anyway?

"I agree." Dr. Lampley nodded tersely at the fox, and then pulled at his chin duster. "Now, then, where were we before the coffee arrived?"

"Detective Pennanti had just asked how it was that you were familiar with Alan Murphy." Nick offered helpfully.

Ah, yes." the Urial answered, cocking an eyebrow and swiveling his chair in the fisher's direction, "Hard not to know that boy—no matter how far back his story goes to before my time; the only inmate ever to escape from Granite Point." He took a small sip of his coffee. "Oh yes, there isn't a correctional officer in this entire facility who isn't familiar with him."

"Yes, of course," Nick pretended to ignore the urial's hypocrisy, instead filing it away for later reference. Here was the opening he'd been waiting for. "And I agree with you, Doctor. Conor Lewis—that's the alias he uses now—is quite the escape artist. He not only managed to break out of the Precinct 1 youth jail; he was later able to evade a trap set for him at the Zootopia Academy for the Performing Arts. Even with an entire SWAT-team assigned to the take-down, he was able to get away." He pointedly left out the young silver fox's recent escape-run through the Canal District; he hadn't been fully briefed on that incident, and besides—he didn't want to make the ZPD look too bad. "At the present time, he's wanted for, among other things, assaulting a police officer…not once but twice. And I should know." He lifted his forearm for Dr. Lampley to see, even though any visible marks had long since disappeared. "The first time it happened; I was the officer in question. And, needless to say, those charges are just for starters."

"Not at all surprising," the urial looked almost sympathetic, "As I said, Alan Murphy's escape happened long before my arrival. But from what little I've heard of his time here; it was a real horror-show."

…As Nick had already known when he had arrived here—and as his host had no doubt known that he knew. The ZPD had learned it from no less a fursonage than the CEO of AKER Correctional Management. However, that wasn't the real purpose of his visit today, and he suspected that Dr. Lampley knew this as well.

And, on that note…

"So, I've heard," he admitted, "and you might as well know Doctor, my presence here today is something of a fluke. I was originally sent to Zoo York in pursuit of a diamond smuggler…who, much to everyone's surprise, turned out to be the Lewis kid." He looked away for a second, growling under his breath, "Just when I was beginning to think that little…" He bit off the rest, and a few seconds of silence followed.

"But what I really hope to accomplish here," he finally said, allowing himself an awkward tug at his collar," is to uncover any clues that might help lead to his current whereabouts. At the present time, the trail in Zootopia has gone cold, and so we're casting about for any possible leads…and that includes taking a closer look at his history before he came to Zootopia."

Dr. Lampley slapped lightly at the arm of his chair.

"Well, of course, AKER Correctional Management would be happy to cooperate in apprehending the Murph…excuse me, the Lewis boy in any way we can." His face assumed the doleful expression of a loan officer about to deliver bad news, "But I'm afraid there's not much we can tell you, Detective. Conor…er, Lewis didn't try to break out alone; he had a partner." He snorted and wrinkled his nose. "Or…should I say 'patsy', The fact that he got away and his accomplice didn't was by no means a matter of blind luck. Since he made his breakout, it's become more and more clear to us that sacrificing his partner like that was his plan all along." Another snort, "And, I might add, he had some substantial assistance from the outside."

Nick studied the urial for a second. Was he trying to deter the fox-detective's inquiry, or was he simply trying to minimize AKER's culpability in allowing Conor Lewis to escape? In the end it hardly mattered, because his words had the effect of bringing Martin Pennanti back into the exchange.

…with both feet!

"And that's what brings me here, Doctor. May I presume you're aware that the 'substantial assistance' you speak of came from the criminal gang known as The Company?"

"You may," the urial answered, offering a nod more impatient than deferential.

"All right then," Pennanti got to his feet, and came out from behind the table, pacing back and forth, with his paws behind his back.

"You see…the Company was MY beat, back when I was with the ZYPD. And that's only one of several connections between them and our young silver fox."

"Yes, I know." Dr. Lampley sounded even more irritated than a second, "His partner in the escape was Wesley McCrodon, aka 'Crazy Wez, who was captain of his crew and a close compatriot…and also the nephew of James 'The Mister' McCrodon, The Company boss. I'm aware of all that, Detective." He waved a hoof as if batting away smoke.

"But are you aware of this?" Pennanti spun on his heel, pinning the urial in his gaze, like a beetle to a collection-board. "The Murphy kid was fursonally given the job of transporting those diamonds to Zootopia by none other than the Mister himself."

For a moment, the sheep remained dumbstruck. The abrupt change of topic had caught him by the blindside.

"That I didn't know, " he finally conceded. He was trying to affect a steely gaze, but his eyes kept darting sideways.

Watching this Nick didn't know whether to feel amused or awed. "And I thought I was laying it on," he sniggered to himself. Pennanti meanwhile, was gesturing with a paw.

"Furthermore, that was by no means the closest shave our young silver fox had while running from the law. Did you know that he escaped from Finagles mere moments before the raid went down?"

"What the…?" Nick's ears shot up and his eyes felt as if they were going to drop right out of his head. Why the heck was this crazy fisher revealing that fact now…and to this animal?

"Mmmm…No." Dr. Lampley replied. Now he was almost stuttering.

"Well, it's true," Pennanti folded his arms, once more fixing the sheep in that piercing gaze. Whoa, Nick decided, he must have been a holy terror, grilling suspects, back in the day. "And there's something else I'm sure you're not aware of. No way would the Mister have given an assignment of such importance to an associate or an outside contractor. It would have had to be an actual member of The Company or, at the very least, an animal being groomed as one."

He turned without warning and nodded at Nick, passing him the baton—passing him the buck, in the fox's opinion. Oh well…he was supposed to be the lead investigator anyway. Only, where the heck should he go with this?

Nothing to do, but play it by ear, he finally decided.

"By himself, the Lewis boy isn't that much of a threat," he said, "Except he ended up in Zootopia with something like a quarter of a million smackers in his possession. And we—the ZPD, I mean—have good reason to believe he's hooked up with an unsub who may have been one of The Company's former associates."

A bit wordy, but not bad on the whole.

Dr. Lampley, however, seemed to think otherwise.

"I was under the impression that all of The Company mammals were either killed or captured in the Finagles raid," his tone was frank, but with a scornful undercurrent.

Nick was ready for that one…but Martin Pennanti was even more well prepared.

"All of their soldiers and crew captains, yes," he pointed out, cocking a finger, "but as I just mentioned, The Company had a large number of associates who weren't actual members of the gang." He offered a half shrug. "Every crime family has them; they couldn't do business otherwise. Look at The Mister; after all his good service on behalf of Whitey Bullgoar, Bullgoar never brought him into the Winter Hill gang. To be made into that crew, you had to be South Pawston, born and bred—and McCrodon was from Zoo Bedford, so no dice." he scratched at his muzzle and then switched gears. "But the important thing is, not one of those Company associates was inside Finagles when the raid went down. It was members only, period. Some of 'em were later taken into custody, but not all of them. At least a few managed to slip the net—and in the case of the Company's cybercrime crew; as far as I know, they've never even been identified."

Nick saw where the fisher was going with this, and this time, he knew exactly where to take it.

"When he died, The Mister was the head of a crime family that made the Winter Hill gang look like the Lollipop Guild. It's not the Lewis boy that the ZPD wants so much as his senior partner, whoever they may be. The last thing Zootopia needs is The Company reborn in our city—especially with two of our biggest crime families already on the brink of an all-out war."

This last tidbit earned him a sharp look from both Dr. Lampley and Martin Pennanti. Nick had to wonder—was the fisher putting on an act, or was he genuinely unaware that Mr. Big and Red Pig were at loggerheads? Well, in the end who cared? The important thing was that his story was having the desired effect. Right then, an invisible light-bulb seemed to switch on above Dr. Lampley's head.

"So, if I understand you correctly…your main concern is that if you can manage to recapture the, er, Lewis boy, he can lead you to that unknown partner of his."

"Yes…and no," Nick answered quickly. "There's another issue. Since his escape from the Precinct-1 Youth Jail—and even more since the Academy Incident—Conor Lewis has become something of a role model to the juvenile delinquent class in Zootopia. Everywhere you look, you'll see graffiti saying, 'He Fought the Law and HE won,' usually with a modified V-for-Vendetta design underneath it."

"Hmmmm," the urial was stroking his goatee again, "Could he have been behind the recent rioting in Savanna Central, then?"

Nick almost smiled. As if he hadn't been expecting that line of questioning.

"Do you mean the Lewis boy, or his partner?" he inquired coyly—and then proceeded to brush the question aside. "In both cases the answer is 'no'. The Lewis kid got more than he bargained for in his fight with Detect…with my former partner. He was in no shape to incite anything afterwards, even if he'd wanted to. As for his as-yet-unidentified partner, there was nothing in it for him. We're also certain that he had nothing to do with the cyberattack on Precinct-1; he'd already sprung his protege from jail, so why antagonize the ZPD even further?"

"Yes, I see," Dr. Lampley drummed hooflets on the arm of his chair; a sign of reflection rather than impatience. And then his eyes sharpened on the fox seated in front of him. "But from what you're told me so far, I gather that the popular view, among many of the young mammals in Zootopia, is that the Lewis boy WAS responsible for both the riot and the cyberattack." He lifted a wry brow, "As the saying goes, 'Perception is everything,'"

Nick tightened his jaw, a fang pinching into his lip. It was the only way to keep from grinning. The good Doctor was taking the conversation in exactly the direction he wanted it to go.

"And that," he said, "Is the other reason we're here. There are many skills the Lewis boy acquired during his time with The Company, his abilities as a computer hacker for example. But while he was here in Granite Point, as you correctly pointed out, he was a member of the crew headed by Wesley McCrodon—aka 'The Bearfoot Bandit."

"Oh, yes…him again." Dr. Lampley's eyes tilted upwards at the ceiling, while his hooves clasped and unclasped—as if something was coming that he wasn't going to like.

He wasn't…

"Right," Martin Pennanti nodded, having taken his seat once more. "And I don't think I need to tell you how good that young sea-mink was at dodging the cops. Conor Lewis may have been the only detainee, ever to successfully escape from here, but he was only the junior partner in that break. It was Wez McCrodon who actually planned it."

"Wha-a-a-t?" Dr. Lampley bleated in surprise. For a moment it looked like he was going to rise up out of his wheelchair. But then he settled back down with narrowing eyes. "How do you know this, Detective?"

"Like I told you before," the fisher shrugged, "The Company was my beat, back in the day. We heard their guys talking about it on the wire a couple of times, and The Mister was seriously unhappy about the way that the breakout went down. 'The wrong kid got away.'" He seemed almost amused by the memory.

While all this was going on, Nick was looking from Pennanti to Dr. Lampley and back again. Two things were obvious—well, one thing anyway. The urial had been caught completely off guard…but why? He'd known from the beginning that Conor Lewis had been a ranking member of the 'Crazy Wez' McCrodon crew. For him to have been the mastermind of their jailbreak was hardly a long stretch. So…why had the revelation nearly sent the sheep in the wheelchair opposite into a tail-spin?

And…Nick had no idea where the feeling was coming from, but he couldn't shake it to save his life. The last part of Pennanti's explanation had been an out-and-out whopper.

Well…that was something else he could bring up later. Right now, he had other business to attend to. Assuming his 'meek fox' attitude once again, he spoke directly to Dr. Lampley.

"The point is Doctor, it's becoming more and more clear to us—to the ZPD, I mean—that the Lewis boy picked up his skills at evading capture from Wez McCrodon. Except for the fight with my former partner, a completely unexpected fluke, his escape from the Performing Arts Academy dragnet was almost textbook Bearfoot Bandit; setting up some other kids to take the fall, for instance, while he made good his escape."

This was Nick's fib, of course…but he was willing to bet the good doctor wouldn't know it.

"I see," Dr. Lampley replied, running a pair of fingers along the curve of his right-side horn. "So, correct me if I'm wrong; it's Wesley McCrodon that's your primary interest in coming here, rather than the Murph…the Lewis boy."

"Exactly," It was Martin Pennanti, "Even I have to admit that sea-mink kid was Houdini-junior on hi-test when it came to evading arrest."

Nick could have hugged the fisher; he had just been given another perfect opening.

"And so, the more we learn about Wez McCrodon's modus operandi, the better our chances will be of nabbing Conor Lewis," his shoulders lifted and fell again, "Or that's the thinking, back in Zootopia. I've talked to several law enforcement agencies that had…er, dealings with the Bearfoot Bandit, but all they've been able to tell me is what I already knew, that he sometimes used other kids as decoys to cover his own escape."

"But the real secret of his success was always seeming to know when the heat was on." Martin Pennanti added. "When the Zoo Jersey State PD finally busted him, it was only the third time out of a hundred that he was ever caught by surprise. More often than not when the cops moved in, he was long gone. Sometimes, he'd leave a note, 'Tuff Luck, Suckers!' that sort of thing. But there was never a clue as to where he was headed next." He had more to say, but Dr. Lampley already had a hoof raised.

"Before you go any further, Detectives, you should know that the mental breakdown Wesley McCrodon suffered in the wake of his failed escape attempt was a lot more serious than most mammals realize. To this day, he remains a borderline catatonic; completely uncommunicative. There's nothing he could tell you I'm afraid, even if you were granted access to him." There was an undertone to his final words, dark and thorny. Nick pretended to ignore him, but here was something else to sock away in his mental file cabinet.

"We're aware of that," he said, "But is there anyone available who knew him, back when he was held here?"

Dr. Lampley's head moved slowly from side to side.

"I'm afraid not, Detective. In the wake of the Lewis boy's escape, a fair number of staff members were let go, and that was before the scandal broke. As of more than a year ago, there's no one from that time still here."

"What about one of the other detainees?" Martin Pennanti was asking. He was answered with another head-shake.

"Either transferred to other facilities or set free by the courts." Doctor Lampley seemed to be living up to his species; he looked genuinely sheepish.

Pennanti glanced in Nick's direction as if to say, "Gimme a break already!" It was a feeling the red fox shared. Every single one of the kids who'd been held here, at the same time as Conor Lewis was gone? He didn't think so.

But he also knew there was no point in pushing it—and so he switched to a lower gear.

"Can you at least let us have a copy of his incarceration records."

"Don't you already have those?" Dr. Lampley lifted a quizzical eyebrow.

"No, no…I mean Wesley McCrodon's records." Nick didn't know whether to groan or wring their host's neck. He'd known who the fox had been talking about; he was just being obstinate.

"Oh, I'll have one printed out, right away," the urial replied, deciding to be ingratiating. That told Nick, whatever records he was going to receive, they'd be thoroughly scrubbed. "Or…would you prefer to have them on disc?" Now his expression was almost smarmy.

"On paper," Nick answered evenly, "and can you e-mail a copy to the ZPD?" Even redacted, those records might yield something of interest.

"Certainly," Dr. Lampley responded with a beaming smile. "They'll be waiting for you at the intake desk downstairs." He seemed to have sensed that his stonewall was holding firm. To prove it, he glanced quickly at his watch and frowned. "But…I'm afraid my time is short, Detectives. Before you go, is there anything else I can help you with?" His words seemed to imply that it was time for them to leave…not just his office, but the Granite Point Youth Correctional Facility.

Nick's first instinct was to decline, but he wavered, unsure of himself. Was there anything he'd forgotten?

And so, it was Martin Pennanti who answered the urial's question. "Well, if it's not too much of an inconvenience, could we have a quick tour of your facility?" His voice was deferential to the point of flattery. "I've heard so many good stories about it, I'd like to see for myself."

"Oh yes, no trouble at all." Dr. Lampley replied and then pressed the call button on his chair arm.

"Captain's Office," came the toneless reply.

"Hello, this is Superintendent Lampley. Our visitors have requested a tour. Can you send someone to escort them?"

"Right away, Doctor," the deep, rough-cut voice responded, "I'll take care of it myself."

While this was going on, Nick was shooting a quizzical glance in Martin Pennanti's direction. The fisher responded by making a discreet, patting motion with his paw; trust me.

After five, or perhaps seven minutes, another knock came on the urial sheep's office door, not hard, but clearly from a set of ginormous knuckles—whoever was on the other side of the partition, they were a large mammal, very large.

A half-second later, the door swung open—this time without any mechanical assistance—and a towering polar bear came lumbering into the office. He was almost as big as Koslov, if not quite as broad shouldered.

"Detectives?" Dr. Lampley said, waving a greeting to the newcomer, "This is Captain Daniel Williams. He'll be the guide for your tour this afternoon."