Chapter 5: Traitors Get What They Deserve

Anya sped her SUV through the almost empty streets, the siren blaring loudly in her ears. The few cars that were on the road slide out of her way as if sitting on conveyor belts. That was good; it meant she was making good time. This was her first case since coming back from suspension and it would not look good if she showed up late. Besides, the longer it took to the get there, the greater the likely hood of evidence being lost, witnesses suffering memory loss, and potential suspects going into hiding.

Anya pressed down harder on the accelerator.

A strange, foreboding feeling began to wash over her as she drove. Now that she thought about it, she still had two more days of suspension left. The captain deciding to call her back in early meant that she was going to have one helluva case to deal with. Not that she was complaining or anything—even though her job entailed dealing with murder, she would take a day at work over wasting away in her apartment with nothing to do any day.

Someone in a Ford pickup tried to slip through the upcoming intersection. Anya slammed down on the car horn and still had to swerve to avoid an unwanted fusion of their vehicles. She swore under her breath as she continued speeding down the street. What was the point in using the damn siren if people were still going to be crazy enough to think they could squeeze through before she caught up to them? It almost made her miss the days when she worked in a county sheriff's office for a small town in a forgotten corner of the world. At least there she didn't have to worry about being scrapped off the street because some asshole couldn't wait two seconds.

Almost.

The three years she worked with Sheriff Arnold King were the most peaceful in her entire career. Only one murder took place during that time. There were also a few near misses (mainly a drunken brawl that got a little out of hand), a couple of prank calls, and an attempted suicide, but even then she spent most of the time sitting at her desk watching YouTube videos on her computer.

 But it'd been almost ten years since she moved to the city and joined the force. If this case was the only one she had for the rest of the day, it counted as a slow day.  Strangely, she didn't regret it one bit. Not spending a day consoling a grieving witness or chasing down homicidal suspects was something to look forward to, but not doing it made her feel as if she wasn't doing her job. After all, if the occupational hazards were not her cup of tea, there were other, safer careers out there.

So, slow day or not, she intends to do her job. Anya pushed the discussion of her occupational grievances out of her mind, opting to focus on the road in case any more civilians didn't feel the need to step aside for the speeding cop car. Thankfully, she was able to drive the rest of the way without incident. Knowing there was a cadaver waiting at her destination was just about the only thing that kept her from believing the day was looking up already.

“Looks like this is the place," Anya said out loud to herself as she parked her SUV behind the police squad car. She let out a long slow sigh at the sight of her fellow officers walking around on porch of the nearby house. She just spent the last fifteen minutes driving as if the world was ending so she could get here on time for everyone to arrive before her, and from the look of things, they'd been here for a while. Hopefully no one would give her grief about being late…again.

She took a moment to examine her appearance in the rearview mirror, the brown eyes of her reflection judging her as she ran a hand through her darker, short brown hair and brushing her bangs away from her eyes. But no matter what she did, it still hung down the sides of her round face as if it had a mind of its own. It didn't make much sense why her captain kept getting on her case about her appearance; as a homicide detective, there was no one she needed to impress. The vics were dead, their loved ones were too busy grieving to care, and it would be a cold day in hell before she dressed to impress the suspects. But the captain complained that it hurt public opinion if she looked like a bum on the street, so now she had to make herself presentable for the news cameras which she had no intention of talking to. She scoffed at her reflection. Even though she'd never cared about her looks, she knew she didn't walk around looking as if she just climbed out of bed.

Running a hand through her hair made it look messier than it already did and she didn't have a comb in the car. Screw it. She would just tell them it was because she left the windows open. Certain that she was not wearing any of her breakfast on her face, she got out of the car.

Anya broke out into a sweat the moment she stepped out of her air conditioned SUV. She immediately took off her black suit jacket and tossed it onto the back seat. It was only a little after eleven and already the temperature was close to ninety degrees. Thankfully, she didn't have fur—there was no way she would have come outside otherwise. “I have no idea how the anthros deal with this," she mumbled as she headed for the house.

Despite the heat, she moved slowly and took her time analyzing the rest of the neighborhood and its residents. The clean sidewalks, perfectly trimmed lawns, and homeowner-magazine-style houses reminded her of those nice peaceful neighborhoods they showed in movies before everyone found out that their neighbor stashed bodies in the basement. She chuckled to herself at her little joke. Maybe that's the reason the captain called her in early; they just found the dumping site of an infamous serial killer.

The smile on Anya's face faded when looks at the other residents. Most of them were standing in middle the sidewalk across the street while others poked their heads out of their windows or stood in their doorways. All of them were leaning and whispering amongst themselves. Not a single person seemed the least bit worried by the large police presence outside of their neighbor's home. In fact a few of them were actually smiling as they whispered to their fellow neighbors. Even as she watched them, more people began appearing, lining up like birds on a wire.

Suddenly her joke didn't seem so funny anymore.

“It's nice to see that everyone in this neighborhood is so caring," she said under her breath.

“You're right, it is," said a deep growling voice.

Anya jumped. She relaxed and swore under her breath when she realized the voice belonged to her partner, George Watson.

Anya wasn't a large woman, but she was not short by anyone's standards and weighed slightly more than she should (thankfully it was mostly muscle, something she was quick to point out to people). But her partner was a full head-and-a-half taller than her when he slouched and was twice as wide as any anthro or human she knew. Despite this, the bulldog could still move like someone half her size. Even after several months of working with him, she still hadn't gotten used to his ability to suddenly appear in the room as if by magic, or maybe his cocoa-spotted fur acted like a natural camouflage. And the deep growl in his voice made every word he said sound like a threat.

His face also didn't help matters. As a bulldog he had a thick build and strong under bite (a common trait among bulldogs) giving him the appearance of someone who broke people's limbs for a living. But his cocoa-spotted fur and gentle green eyes was a direct contradiction to the rest of his intimidating features. It almost made him approachable. Until he spoke.

She looked up at her partner. His ears were peeled back and the expression as if he just ate something sour made him look more terrifying than ever.

“You okay? You don't look so good."

George continued to look around the neighborhood, the sour expression still on his face. “It's too early for this."

“What do you mean?" Anya asked, raising a brow.

George had been working homicide far longer than she had. Actually he'd been working cases when she was still playing cops and robbers with her friends. George “Blue-Blood" Watson was a legend within the department. He didn't scare or get upset at a crime scene easily. In fact, in the four years she'd been his partner, she didn't think she'd ever seen him this unsettled by something.

“You'll understand when you go inside. I should warn you now—this is going to be one of those cases…"

Anya wanted to discuss further what was bothering her partner, but the heat was beginning to get to her, so she headed inside.

The moment she went inside, a chill washed over her. Not the refreshing, crisp chill of walking into a cool space, but an unnerving, fear-induced chill that leaft goosebumps all over her brown skin and made her feel like a small child.

She told herself she was just being silly because of her partner's reaction. But knowing that a veteran detective was unsettled counteracted any attempt to calm her nerves. Knowing it was the same feeling she felt during the drive over made it worse.

As Anya approached the medical examiner, a skunk who was examining a body on the sofa, her mind swam with theories as to why her partner was so bothered when he'd seen more corpses than any sane person should ever have to admit to. It dawned on her that it may be a child or perhaps a murder-suicide. Another chill shot up her spine. She hoped it was due to the air-conditioning and not her imagination. She never had a case like that but the veteran detectives said they always struck a nerve no matter how many years one had on the force.

Looked like she was about to get to see if the theory is true.

Peering over the M.E.'s shoulder, she saw what has her partner so rattled.

A human sat on the sofa. His appearance was almost peaceful—if not for all the blood and lacerations covering his face and hands.  His front was so soaked with blood it was near impossible to tell the original color of his clothes. The man's head tilted backwards too far to be considered comfortable, revealing several holes in his neck. As she drew closer, she could see his face was covered in just as much blood as his clothes. His eyes and mouth were wide open making the victim appear to be in complete shock. Other than the eyes and mouth being open, she couldn't make out any other facial features. It looked as if someone ran over his face with a lawnmower.

“Holy shit. No wonder George needed some air," she whispered.

The skunk looked up from the corpse. He smiled broadly at Anya, his white teeth looking even brighter with his pitch-black fur. “Hello, Detective Corázon," the skunk said cheerfully in a thick Spanish accent. “How's it feel being back on the job?"

Anya fought the urge to roll her eyes at the skunk. Engaging in small-talk on the crime scene had always felt rude to her and she knew he was aware of that. But this once she could cut him some slack. She had been MIA for the last two weeks. “I've been better, but we can talk about that later. For now I want to focus on the vic. What do you have, Donovan?"

 “Not in the mood for small-talk, huh? Well, according to the witness and the I.D. in his bedroom, the victim's name is Oliver Peers. The cause of death appears to be a cut throat, assuming the multiple stab wounds to chest and face didn't do it first. I don't know. I'll be able to give you a more definitive response when the body is brought in. What I do know is that they really went to town on this poor guy."

Anya's stomach churned a little. “I really don't want to ask this: George seemed a little out of it when I saw him. You have any idea what's wrong with him? This seems a bit like a typical homicide." Even as the words left her mouth, she wished she never said them. Since when had any murder ever been considered “typical?"

“He didn't tell you?" Donovan asked, his face full of surprise. “That's unlike George. I guess he's more shaken up than I thought. Unfortunately, I can't tell you, or at least I shouldn't. George should be the one to tell you."

Anya nodded and made a mental note to bring it up later as she turned her attention to the coffee table. Besides the empty, blood covered glass and a few beer cans, an open photo album was resting on the surface. Some of the pictures in the album were missing and there were splashes of blood covering the photos left inside, making it impossible to see them. The pictures that weren't inside the album lay scattered on the table and the floor.

The chill returned, running over her body as if someone overturned a bucket of ice water on her.  She'd encountered plenty of bodies who were beaten, run over, or mutilated. This one was no different. Yet she couldn't shake the foreboding feeling that something was missing. In all of her past cases, death was always the endgame. Whatever the reason, the purpose was to make some poor bastard stop drawing breath. The body sitting on the sofa, more than half his face unrecognizable, told her the killer had a different motive in mind: Someone wasn't satisfied with simply killing the poor bastard, they wanted to erase him. And judging from the scene, they have come pretty damn close to doing to it. So very close. People only did that in cases of extreme rage.

Anya walked back to the sofa. She could almost see the attack playing out before her eyes. It felt as if she was watching a movie; a movie where the picture was hazy and the sound was distorted. She watched Oliver answer a sudden knock at the door. The human opened the door, cheerfully greeting the unexpected visitor. The visitor, who was in the form of a dark shadow, followed Oliver into the living room.

The two talked indistinctly as they sat on the sofa together. Suddenly, the shadow took out a knife and jammed it into the man's chest. Oliver's eyes widened in shock. He grabbed at his attacker's arm, but the shadow pulled the knife back before stabbing the man again. The man still attempted to hold back his attacker, but it was clear he's lost…

A hand on Anya's shoulder snapped her back into reality.

Anya jumped and spun around coming face-to-face with her partner. Trying her best not to appear confused, she asked: “What's wrong?"

“Nothing. You were doing it again. I came in and said something to you, but you didn't answer," George said, his green eyes looking worriedly into Anya's, “I hate it when you space out. It makes me think you're about to have seizure or something."

“I was not about to have a seizure. Anyway, I have a theory on what may have happened—"

“You don't need to worry about trying to figure this out."

Anya raised a brow. “Why not? We already know who did it?"

George motioned for Anya to follow him as he turned towards the kitchen."Yes, we do. The door was unlocked and she confessed to killing him the moment the officers came in."

“She?"

George continued into the kitchen without another word.

They approached the table, where a calico feline was sitting, wiping her spotted hands on a bloodstained dish towel. Her fur and the front of her blue blouse were wet with tears and stained with blood. As they approached, the calico looked up. Her green eyes were bloodshot and puffy from crying, but Anya also saw something else in the calico's eyes. She couldn't even begin to describe it, but it reminded her of a fire that had been burning for a long time and it was just beginning to die down. Anya found herself staring in disbelief. This was their suspect?

“Um, excuse me, Miss…?" Anya asked.

“Pepper Peers," the feline said in a very shaky voice, wiping eyes with the back of her hand, “But just…call me Pepper." Her eyes darted back to the living room and she burst into tears again.

“Okay, Pepper. If you want, we can do this outside," Anya said, surprised by the gentleness in her voice. Normally she couldn't care less about comforting a suspect.  But seeing the feline sitting there an emotional wreck, she just couldn't believe this was their suspect.

The subtle swaying of Pepper's hair was the only way they could tell she was shaking her head. “No, I-I can…I can do this here."

“…If that's what you want. Now I know you're going through a rough time right now, but I need you to answer a few questions okay?"

 The calico sniffed and nodded.

“Okay, first can you tell us what happened?" George asked, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small notebook and pen. “Were you the one who found your husband like this?"

Pepper wiped her eyes again. She took a deep shuddering breath before answering: “Oliver's actually my brother. But, yes. I'm the one who found him—or actually, I'm…I'm the one who killed him."

 Anya and George exchanged confused glances. Anya felt as if she had just been punched in the gut. Did she really just hear a confession? So it was true. In all her years, no one had ever owned up to their crimes so quickly…or easily.

“Pepper," Anya said gently, “You do understand that we haven't arrested you yet. You don't have to tell us anything without a lawyer present."

Pepper's green eyes glossed over. “It's fine. I'm not going to hide from it. I-I know what I did was wrong and I'm ready to accept the consequences. But before you arrest me, I need to tell you my story…I need you to understand.

 “I'm adopted," Pepper explained to the bewildered detectives. “I got teased a lot growing up. But Ollie always protected me. He never once made me feel as if I didn't belong. No one in my family did. And yet…and yet…he…" Every time Pepper tried to finish her sentence, she made a strangled choking noise instead as if her brain had some kind of embargo on the story.

Anya just stared. Comparing her to the now dead man sitting on the sofa, she found it difficult to believe Pepper murdered him. The calico looked as if she weighed a hundred ten soaking wet, and she couldn't even finish her sentence. Dead or not, she could tell Oliver Peers had his sister beat in both height and weight. Winning in a straight fight seemed unlikely, but if she caught him off-guard with a knife…

Pepper wiped her eyes again before continuing. “I had my son when I was fifteen—it was stupid, I know that. But I made it work. Things have been difficult—money's been real tight. I have done everything I could to take care of my child. About a year ago, Ollie came to and made me an offer. He said it was a sure thing…that if everything worked out we were looking at a huge payday. I told him: 'As long as it wasn't illegal, I wanted in'.

“I never really understood how it worked, but Ollie said in a month's time, I would have triple the amount. All I had to do was pay him the five thousand he needed. I had only a little money saved up that I managed to scrape together. I put my entire life savings into his project and had to borrow the rest. The months went by and he never called me. I called him, asked what was going on. He always blew me off or made up some excuse why nothing's happened yet. And I—like an idiot—believed him."

Anya stole a quick look at her partner. So far Pepper's story seemed to add up, but something still felt off. It seemed safe to assume from her story that Pepper was upset over being stiffed out of the money. But the rage exhibited in the other room shows that something else was going on.

The look in George's eyes suggested he was thinking the same thing.

“Pepper, is that why you killed him? Because you found out that he was lying to you about the money?" George asked.

Pepper laughed, but it was empty, humorless, dead. It was the complete opposite of her timid appearance. “Yesterday I received an e-mail. The subject line said: 'You need to open your eyes'. I thought it was spam and was about to just delete it, but something told me to look at it. I just felt this really strong feeling telling me that something was wrong. The e-mail showed me Ollie's bank account. He's been living real large the last few months. Meanwhile I have to scrape together whatever money I can just so my son doesn't go bed hungry. He knew--he knew I needed money. I'm behind on my rent; me and my son are going to be put out on the street and he couldn't even toss a few dollars my way, knowing it was because of my money that he was living it up like he was." Her voice rose with each sentence. Her fur began sticking out from her body like needles, and Anya noticed the dying flames in Pepper's eyes were dangerously close to igniting again.

“I just came over to talk. Just to talk. Everyone in the family knows not to trust Ollie when came to money, but when I heard that there was a way to make things easier on my son, to give him the things I wish he had…At first we reminisced over some old photos. Then I brought up the money. I tried to be casual, y'know? Give him a chance to explain himself. When I asked him about the money, he laughed. He actually laughed. Told me that I was being selfish and stupid from trusting some random e-mail instead of my own family."

“And that's when you killed him," Anya said.

Pepper nodded. A deranged smile began to creep across her face. “I didn't realize it at first. I still have no idea when or how I got the knife. I just…When I saw that ridiculous, shit-eating grin on his face, I just…It wasn't the first time he lied to me, betrayed me. When we were kids he would talk me out of my allowance or black-mailed me whenever I did something wrong. I took it back then, but knowing that my son was going to bed hungry because of him, knowing we were in danger of being homeless because of him…When I came to, I was standing over him and my-my hands, they were covered in blood."

Anya couldn't think of anything to say.

“Pepper, what did you do with the murder weapon?" George asked.

“It's in the sink."

Anya quickly approached the sink to confirm Pepper's theory. Sure enough a blood-covered steak knife rested at the bottom of the stainless steel sink next to a plate still wearing the remains of last night's dinner.

“You said someone sent you an e-mail," Anya asked. “Do you remember where it came from and do you still have it?"

“I don't remember who sent it, but it might still be in my inbox."

George rose to his feet and took out a pair of handcuffs. “We're going to need to look at that e-mail. For now, I need you to stand and put your hands behind your back. You're under arrest for the murder of Oliver Peers."

Pepper wiped her eyes and complied. “If you do find out who sent it, make sure to thank them for me."

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will…"

Anya stopped listening as George read Pepper her rights. She couldn't fight the twisting feeling of anxiety building in her gut. Pepper receiving that e-mail couldn't have been an accident; the subject line alone proved that. But it still seemed odd to send an e-mail rather than tell the truth in person. But that didn't bother her. What bothered her was not knowing if they knew she would kill her brother or if they were trying to warn her that she was being deceived.

She moved to leave the kitchen but hesitated to examine the picture sitting on the table. It showed Pepper and Oliver sitting next to a dark-haired woman with gentle brown eyes and a grey husky in desperate need of a comb. Everyone was smiling and holding drinks in their hands. A single bloody thumbprint sat in a small corner of the photo.

Nothing in the picture seemed relevant, so Anya tossed the picture back on the table and followed her partner outside. Whatever the intent of the e-mail, it didn't matter now. A man was dead, an innocent mother was going to jail and would most likely lose custody of her only child. Even if Pepper walked, things between her and her remaining relatives would never be the same; not after she was adopted, brought into their home, then murdered one of their blood relatives. And for what? So much death and grief, all because someone wanted a few extra dollars and didn't care how they got it.

Now she understood what her partner meant when said it was going to be one of those cases.