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Decoy II

Part I - Blown Away

A sequel to: http://www.sofurry.com/page/160628/user

Monique, or Belle as she called herself when she was working the streets, leaned against the entrance to her alley and waited for the next prospect to come along. It wasn't the best alley for her line of work, but she was still new on the street and did not have enough seniority to demand a better spot from Raul, the wolf that ran this section of downtown.

It wasn't the worst spot either, though. The worst spot was near the missions and soup kitchens where the living skeletons that could barely form an 'O' with their mouths sucked off the homeless for half a sandwich or a pawfull of nickels. Monique had not sunk that far. Not yet.

There was a couple of bars half a block east of here, and a cheap rub-and-tug massage parlour to the west, so there was a steady flow of potential customers. She could usually intercept a tipsy client or two on their way to the parlour and convince them that a bargain blowjob in the alley was a better buy than a paw job from some overweight Siamese slut with too much makeup. It was enough to pay off Raul and score enough crystal to get through another night.

She heard footsteps coming up the quiet street and straightened up. Monique still prided herself on her looks, enough to dress nice and try to cover up the effects the meth was having on her anyway. She was a white toy poodle, still young, barely eighteen, and it showed despite the extra mileage she was putting on lately. She had been a party girl long before reaching the age of majority, and had traded her soft curves for good company and good times before getting hooked on meth. But now the crystal was ruining her teeth and had robbed her of her body fat, making her already petit form appear childlike. But with the help of a good stylist, bright clothing from the junior miss department and a couple of ribbons in her hair she could pull off cute. Guys liked cute and innocent more than big tits anyway, Raul said, and a quickie in the alley, where it was too dark for them to see the sores that were beginning to mar the fur of her arms and legs, was the best business she could hope for.

She kept her mouth closed as she smiled at the approaching male and wagged her short tail seductively. He was a prosperous looking one, likely to have more money than the kids who circled the massage parlour for hours trying to work up the courage to go in. She wondered if he was a cop. He had not come from the bar, and she could see no car parked nearby, but the cops had just done a sweep of the area last week. Raul had tipped off the girls in good standing about the raid, letting a few who needed a lesson in humility get scooped up to appease the cops. Business had been bad for the next couple of days, but came back in greater numbers thanks to the papers reporting which streets the ladies hung out on. An informed consumer becomes a customer, Raul liked to say.

"Hey, buddy, in the mood to party?" She asked as he was about to pass. The chances that it was a cop were small, but the first few seconds of conversation would tell.

The guy stopped abruptly and turned to her. "No, but I could give you fifty bucks for a blowjob."

Definitely not a cop, she thought, and not shy either. "Sure thing honey. Come on into my office." Monique took him by the paw and led him into the shadows of the alley.

There was a dumpster halfway down the alley that blocked the view from the street and Belle led him around it. He passed two twenties and a ten over once they were out of sight. She had a piece of shag carpet stashed there to protect her knees and she backed the john against the wall behind the dumpster before she knelt down.

He was tall enough to see over the dumpster. "Keep an eye on the street and let me know if anyone comes down here." She instructed him as she deftly pulled his penis from his trousers. It was already stiff enough to slip a condom over. She gave it a couple of strokes anyway while she groped in her purse for a rubber. She brought the foil packet to her mouth to rip it open, but the john grabbed her wrist before she could.

"No. Bareback." He demanded in a voice that was used to being obeyed.

Monique wasn't fazed. A lot of these guys got all macho once you got them alone, but she had her cell phone hanging on the belt of her skirt and she could speed dial Raul if he got too rough. She dropped the condom and put her paw on the phone, one digit resting on the emergency number.

"Not for fifty bucks." She told the John. "A hundred."

"Sixty five."

"Eighty."

"Seventy."

"Seventy five. That's what a paw job will cost ya down the street." She said, beginning to rise to her feet.

"Okay, okay. Seventy five." He pressed her back down and fumbled for his wallet. Another twenty and a five joined the rest in her purse.

"And no cumming in my mouth." She added.

"Whatever."

"I'm serious." She told him sternly, stoking his prick slowly to take some of the steam off him. "You tell me when you are going to cum or my wolf will rip your cock off and stick it in the first orifice of yours he sees." She didn't like to resort to threats, but that type of warning usually cowed the average citizen.

"I'll let you know." He actually sounded sincere, she marvelled. "Just make it last." He added.

"Yeah, yeah." She mumbled as she tilted his cock down and opened her long white maw to take it in. Making it last is your job, she thought as she began to bob her head rapidly, holding his hip with one paw and jerking the base of his cock with the other to speed him to orgasm.

Her long ears, weighed down by pom-poms of teased fur and red ribbons, swung in time with her motions. She felt one of his paws on her head and tensed a bit; waiting to see if the other would join it. Some Johns liked to grab your ears and hold on, like they were riding a bike. Others would caress your cheek as if you were their lover. A few would grab the sides of your head and jam it down on their cock, almost choking you. If he tried that she would grab his balls and squeeze until he got the hint.

The paw remained alone, resting on the tuft of fur on top of her head. She relaxed and closed her eyes to concentrate on the finish. That was why she didn't see his other paw slip into the pocket of his jacket and pull out a snub-nosed revolver. But she felt it when the cold steel touched her temple, and she definitely heard the double click as he cocked the action. Monique froze with a mouthful of stiff penis.

"Don't mind me." He said as if he had merely coughed or farted. "Carry on."

Monique did not even realize that she had stopped breathing until she started to gasp for air around his cock. Instinctively, she tried to pull back and spit it out, but the paw on her head was surprisingly strong.

"Really, don't stop." He ground the muzzle of the gun into her temple for emphasis. "Suck it until it cums, and then keep sucking it."

Monique had been threatened with weapons before, by punks who had probably been more scared than her, as well as by pervs that were almost ready to cum in their pants from the thrill the sense of power gave them. Cooperation was in order as the sooner they came the sooner they went away. She was more afraid of them cutting her or shooting her accidentally than deliberately. But the paw holding this gun was not trembling, not from fear or excitement, and that was terrifying. His voice showed no emotion either; he might as well have been ordering breakfast.

She tried to drop a paw to the phone at her waist, but he moved as fast as snake and intercepted it again. "Touch that phone and you're dead."

Monique swallowed hard, drew air in through her nose and began to suck on his engorged member again. Her eyes were closed once more, to keep the tears of fear back in case crying made him angry.

The gun came away from her head, that was a relief, and the other paw was removed from her head. His hips began to rock in counterpoint to the movement of her head and she heard little moans coming from above. He was getting into it, she thought, and she contemplated biting him and making a run for it while he was distracted. She opened her eyes to see where the gun was pointing. It was just in front of her eyes, sideways to her. She was puzzled to see that he had what looked like a potato in his other paw. A potato with a hole drilled in it. A hole about as big around as the short barrel of the gun he was moving it toward.

Before she could think of stopping he had pushed the potato over the barrel and pressed the blunt end of the spud against her ear. The gun was tilted slightly up, the line of fire away from where his cock was seated deep in her throat. Monique froze again, but it did not disturb him, he just pumped her face harder.

"Here we come, baby. Here we come." His hips moved faster, his cock slid in and out easily, lubricated by his pre-cum and the tears that now flowed freely down her cheeks. "Oh yeah. Here we come." She still wasn't moving, she just knelt there and let him yiff her face while she prayed, for the fist time in years.

"Aaaggghhhh ...." The cry came an instant before he did. Monique felt her mouth fill with hot cum and she sucked and swallowed desperately to keep from choking. Eyes wide in fear, she watched his face for a sign of her fate. He hardly changed expression at all as his load emptied into her throat. After a few spurts he seemed to be done. He looked down and into her eyes. She kept slurping, not intending to stop until she was told to.

"Almost done." He advised as he pulled his cock out of her mouth.

A bang and a flash, neither as loud nor as bright as she had expected, filled the space in her head.

The John shuddered as the sight of her exposed brains sprinkled with bits of potato teased a final wad of cum from deep in his balls. He pulled a tissue from an inside pocket and carefully wiped up the semen from where it had landed on the alley pavement and then from around her mouth. The tissue went back into a pocket of the jacket, which he would place in a black plastic bag along with all the other clothes he was currently wearing. The bag in turn would be placed in a garbage bin behind a convenience store on the far side of town that was due to be emptied at dawn.

He checked the street quickly before exiting the alley. As expected, it was deserted. At this time of night the local patrol car would be back at the station for shift change and it was too early for the drunks to leave the bar. He headed back the way he had come, avoiding any open businesses on his way to where he had parked a car that was not registered to him.

Another soul saved from this cess pit of vice, he thought as he strode nonchalantly down the street.

* * * * * * * *

Several hours later, on the other side of Downtown, in a neighbourhood just slightly less seedy that the one Monique lay dead in, a similar scene was playing out.

In this case the alley was wider, almost a laneway, wide enough for a dark sedan to have backed into its shadows. It was a big car too, a monster from the mid-seventies, when gas cost less than the gross national product of Paraguay and folks prized a little leg room. It had a transmission hump in the back, and a bench seat in front. It was lovingly cared for and big enough to camp out in. Still, it was scarcely big enough to hold the bulk of the driver, a massive rottweiler. The dog looked like he could have played pro football, before putting on an extra hundred pounds or so. The ball would have disappeared between those massive paws.

He was not alone in the car.

A small, white feline, barely tall enough to peer over the dash of the Detroit showboat, sat close beside him. A patient observer would have noted that she was slowly inching closer.

A tiny white paw slipped across the space between them and up on to his leg. He shuddered at the sudden contact, but kept looking straight ahead. After a moment the paw continued, sliding in and up until it was wedged between his balls and his inner thigh. He still did not react, even after the paw began to rub the spot seductively.

"What do you say big fella? Want a little pussy?" She asked, leaning against him and bringing her other paw over to tickle his jaw.

"No." He replied, but she saw that beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead. She tilted her head up and nibbled at the corner of his ear.

"No Pussy? Then why did you bring me here?" As she spoke she turned her body until she was draped on his thigh, her chest against his. She rubbed her small breasts against one of his massive pecs. "The strong silent type, eh? Well I know what you want."

The little feline slid down to the floor between the big canine's legs. She fit conveniently under the old car's dash. The driver reached out and pulled a lever that made the steering wheel tilt up and out of the way.

"Thanks, love." She acknowledged his courtesy while her paws rubbed his stiffening penis through the material of his trousers. It was getting big, and would be too stiff to manoeuvre through the layers of material if she did not retrieve it soon. She found the tab on his zipper and pulled it down. Reaching inside she deftly drew forth the impressive member, grateful that he was wearing old fashioned boxers with no buttons on the fly; she was in no mood to wrestle with it.

"My, my." She clicked her tongue appreciatively at the long pink pole that wobbled in her paw. "You are a big boy, aren't you? She stroked until it stood up on its own, becoming too thick to close her paw around in the process. A few drops of milky fluid leaked out of the slit at its tip. She licked her lips.

"Knick knack, paddy whack, give a dog a bone." She sang under her breath as she leaned in. He shuddered again as she took the first few inches into her warm, welcoming mouth.

At first he kept his eyes glued on the alley entrance, but as her salvia lubricated his prick and she began to take more of it in they flickered downwards. They had been sitting in the dark long enough for his night vision to develop and her white head stood out against the dark interior of the sedan, the tiny amount of light that found its way in the gloomy interior making it glow. It bobbed up and down, regularly exposing the shaft of his cock.

She was dressed simply, in a white blouse and plain skirt, knee socks and red sneakers. She had tied her pale locks back with 'Winnie the Pooh' hair clips. He suspected that she was wearing plain white cotton panties. With her tiny buds for breasts, there was no need for a bra. She called the outfit her 'working clothes' and like those of the recently expired Monique, they came from the children's section of a popular discount chain.

Despite the windows being opened a crack it was getting hot inside the car. The big dog loosened his tie as the tiny feline ran her rough little tongue up and down the outside of his shaft. Her eyes were closed and she was making little mewing sounds. He undid the button on his oversized sports coat and opened it to let more air in. A faint odour of sweat and oil drifted off him; sweat from his arm pits, oil from the short-barrelled gun tucked under his arm. He pulled the gun out carefully and laid it on the seat beside him.

She engulfed his penis once more, stretching her lips and jaw to the limit to take most of it in. He could feel the muscles of her throat as she worked the tip down as far as it would go. Spit flew as her head moved faster and faster on him. He tucked the wings of his jacket behind him to keep then clean, and felt an uncomfortable bulge. He groped in his pocket and pulled out the offending object. It was an apple, dark and smooth except for a pale spot on one side where a section had been taken out. He held the fruit in his paw, on the side opposite the gun.

She had slipped a paw into his pants to caress his balls and now she used it to pinch the top of his sack. When he came, soon now, it would start there. A quick squeeze would hold it back long enough for her to prepare. She could feel the tension in his tube already. Any second now, any second and ....

The interior of the car was flooded with red and blue flashing light. His paws moved, grabbing the gun with one and guarding his eyes with the other that still held the fruit. Between his legs the cat sputtered and cursed as she spit his rapidly deflating member out and fumbled to stuff it back in his pants.

There was a short blast of a siren from the cop car that was now blocking the mouth of the alley, and then a voice came over the loudhailer.

"Sergeant Johnson? The dispatcher said that we would find you here. Is Detective Turner with you? Headquarters is trying to contact her."

The diminutive feline pulled herself up and turned to face the front of the car before raising her head up over the dash. "Yeah, it's us." She spoke into the microphone she had grabbed on her way. "What's up?" She was still trying to close the zipper on Johnson's pants with the other paw but it wasn't working.

"I don't know." The young patrol officer replied, marvelling at how tiny se was. He had not even been able to see her sitting there beside the sergeant until she leaned forward. "They said contact them on channel six."

"Got it." She replied. "You can return to your patrol, thanks." The flashing lights went out and a moment later the patrol car moved off. Johnson, sweating more now then ever, gratefully finished zipping up before starting the engine.

Turner gave the big dog, who was her partner as well as her lover, a quizzical look. Channel six was a restricted channel, only used for gangland busts or politically sensitive emergencies. As the senior members of the Child Protection Task Force theirs was one of the few radios that had access to the frequency, but as far as they knew nothing big was going down tonight.

"Charley one." She announced using her call sign after she switched the frequency.

"Watchdog here." The familiar voice of the Deputy Chief of Detectives filled the car. The head of detectives was always called 'Watchdog', just as the Deputy Chief of Protective Serves was always 'Guard Dog' and the Chief of Police was 'Big Dog', even though he was a she and a rodent at the moment.

"We've got a job for you Turner." He told them where to meet him. "Come in quietly, I don't want anyone to see you." He added before signing off.

What could be so important to pull us off another case, she wondered, and why the secrecy? Turner hung the microphone up and pulled the seatbelt over her shoulder as Johnson hit the gas. The belt was modified to match her small frame and it clipped into a special slot on the top of the bench seat. She settled back but something was wrong. She reached down and dug around under her ass and pulled out an apple that had a big bite gone from one side. She pulled a chunk of lint off it.

"Jesus Carl, you didn't have this in your pocket did you? Buy a lunch box why don't you?" She rolled down the window and threw the apple out onto the street.

"You know I get hungry on stakeout." He said sullenly.

Turner rubbed her temples. "Just drive Carl. Just drive."

* * * * * * * *

Detective Constable Chloe Turner was a most unique police officer. She was an albino with white, almost translucent fur and light pink eyes. She was exactly one hundred and ten centimetres tall, less than four feet, and weighed barely 45 kilograms soaking wet, or about 100 pounds. Her short stature and slim build gave her a childlike appearance, but Chloe could kick some serious butt when she had to, and she had had to, to get where she was.

You didn't get a field position on the national Child Protection Task Force on looks alone, but being an albino midget had its advantages when you were trolling for child molesters. She had spent months studying the art of makeup and could apply dyes to create any markings she wanted. Coloured lenses for her eyes and a tight corset to flatten her chest even further completed the image. If the pervert preferred Siamese she could be a seal-point, chocolate point, or lilac point on demand. If he liked Persians she could add hair extensions and a prosthetic to make her face look flatter. She could look like any form of teen or pre-teen feline, males included. She could even pull off a chihuahua or west highland terrier in a pinch.

But looking like what the perpetrator liked was only half the battle. To be an effective decoy she had to lure him to her before he struck at anyone else. She had to fake him into believing that she was what he needed. There were many ways of moving, habits, and attitudes that one loses as they grow up. Chloe had to learn to display an air of innocence, vulnerability, or submissiveness; whatever the profilers said would attract that particular pervert.

It was dangerous work. Besides the fact that she had to frolic like a kitten in the sun for hours on end and albinos don't tan, they burn and develop skin cancer and die, she had to be able to arrest males that were always much bigger than she, and often much stronger. Carl Johnson backed her up, and had saved her bacon on more than one occasion. He had fallen in love with her long before she picked up it.

It took a particularly ugly incident with a cop gone bad to make her realize that she loved the big, loyal, tender-hearted canine too. They had been lovers for almost a year now, but they kept it a secret least the force break up their team. The only other creature that knew was Chloe's lone female friend on the force; Erica, the busty, tanned, bubbly and sometimes crude coyote from our west who served as the CPTF's administrative assistant. And Chloe only found out that Erica knew when the coyote left a sexually explicit card of congratulations on her desk one morning. But the knowledge was a relief, now she would have someone to talk about her relationship with, and she knew Erica would not spread the news to the rest of the unit.

So for the first time in her life, Chloe was happy, content and fulfilled in both her professional and her personal life.

So why did the Watchdog's mysterious summons make her feel so apprehensive?

* * * * * * * *

They drove across downtown as fast as they dared with no siren or lights. Carl pulled the car over a block away from the alley Watchdog had indicated and surveyed the scene through binoculars that he kept in the cavernous glove box.

"They have a cordon up." He commented. "There's a fair crowd on this side, including at least one news team. The far side is clear though."

"Let's drive around and park by the massage parlour." Chloe directed. "We can walk back from there."

The strip mall where the rub and tug parlour was situated was deserted at this time of night. She stayed behind Carl as they approached the yellow police tape and the officer that was guarding it. The big rottweiler flashed his badge as he approached. The cop, a young border collie, made him stop and produce his ID card, and then radioed in for clearance. Good boy, Chloe thought, nobody was going to get past him.

"Okay Sarge, you can go in." The collie said, and then he spotted Chloe behind the big dog. "But you can't take you daughter in to a crime scene." Chloe's admiration for his earlier thoroughness vanished.

"Listen tailhole, ..." She began, stepping forward, but Carl blocked her advance with one massive paw.

"This is Detective Constable Turner." He told the collie. "Watchdog wanted to speak to her specifically."

"Oh, yeah. Sorry detective. I had heard ... I mean I didn't realize ... I thought you would be more ..." The patrol officer was also a constable, but detectives automatically outranked uniform cops and he was trying to keep from being in shit, but he was just digging himself in deeper.

"Yeah, yeah. I know." Chloe sighed as she walked under the police tape without having to duck. "I'm short."

"And cute." Carl whispered so only she could hear. She knew that he meant it as a compliment but it did not cheer her up.

Carl blocked the view of the crowd on the other side as Chloe ducked into the alley. She saw a small cluster of people standing around a dumpster about halfway down and headed toward them. As she approached one of the group broke away and stepped out to intercept her.

In the dim light she could see that it was a tall thin canine in a trench coat. His arms and legs were short in comparison to his long torso and pointed nose. His fur was short, reddish brown under his chin and on his neck darkening to almost black on the rest of his face. His tie and top button were undone, his beady black eyes shone out from under his fedora. It was a dachshund, the Deputy Chief of Detectives, Watchdog.

"Evening Chief." She greeted him, stopping a deferential three paces away. She knew that he preferred the simple title of 'Chief', which he rated as head of the detective division, over 'Deputy' or the more formal Deputy Chief.

"It's morning." He shot back, always a stickler for accuracy. "Come look at this." Without further ado he spun on his heel and led her behind the dumpster to where the forensic team was working around the corpse of a tiny white poodle. Carl, ignored for now, followed.

"This is the third victim that we have found with a throat full of cum and her brains exposed." Watchdog began. "Look familiar?"

"She's not a juvie." Chloe said defensively. Her team went after child molesters and pedophiles. They did not work regular vice, just the occasional child prostitution case, and Watchdog knew it. Chloe was the decoy and as such kept out of sight so her cover didn't get burned. So why was he asking if she knew this hooker?

"She looks like you Chloe." Carl said from behind her.

The dachshund's nose shot up, as if he was just noticing the hulking detective for the first time. "Correct, Sergeant, as did the other two victims. He likes the cute ones." The fur on the back of Chloe's neck came up at that, but she told herself that he probably did not mean it about her.

"The first was a young feline with pale yellow fur. She was new in town, a recent poli-sci grad from some backwoods school. She was short, slim and had a liking for pre-teen fashions. The second was another working girl like Belle here. An underage hooker called Star. She was a skunkette that dyed her fur all white except for a black blaze on her forehead. She went for the clients that liked 'em young. Except for the different species you put them in the same room and they would look like a cosplay convention."

"The first wasn't a hooker?" Chloe wanted to clarify the point, but part of her mind wondered what, and how, the Deputy Chief knew about cosplay.

"No. She was a political aide."

"Are you certain that the three killings are all related?" She asked. To her experience, serial killers that targeted hookers didn't usually do ordinary people, not at first anyway. Sometimes after they spun totally out of control they began to see every female as a prostitute of some kind, but that type always started with hookers and progressed to ordinary citizens, not the other way around.

I'll let Greg explain." He stepped aside and waved Chloe toward the corpse and the team working the scene.

Gregory David Robertson, the Great Gregory as he was known in CSI circles, was a rotund rodent, a brown beaver who was famous for his work on recovering DNA. Chloe knew that he usually worked in the comfort of his lab, and only came out to a scene when recovering and separating samples was extremely problematic, like after a bombing or a major fire. Except for the top half of her head Belle seemed pretty much intact. She wondered why the great one was here.

"Ah, Detective Turner." The rodent waddled over and looked her up and down studiously. "Oculocutaneous albinism Type 1, the most severe form, I'd say. A total absence of Melanin in the eyes, fur and skin. Combined with proportional dwarfism. Rare, very rare. I wonder if the two conditions are related? Chances are that they are both genetic, but exposure to heavy metals during pregnancy could cause them also. Where did your mother work?

Chloe, naturally sensitive about her stature and appearance, opened her mouth to tell the beaver where he could put his questions but he rushed on before she could utter a syllable.

"Or maybe your ancestors included the native American Kuna or Zuni people? Did your family originate in New Mexico? Both tribes had a high percentage of albinism and dwarfism, although the first is recessive and the second dominant. They believed that tribal members with those conditions were holy. A common belief in primitive cultures. Did you know that in Tanzania and Brunei your body parts would fetch a fair price as ingredients for witchcraft recipes? I'd avoid traveling there if I were you. Hmmm." The rodent paused, but just for an instant. "There is another condition, called Turner's syndrome coincidentally enough, which affects females of some species. They are missing one of their 'x' chromosomes. They have non-functional ovaries, are sterile and usually don't menstruate. Do you? Menstruate? But they also have webbed necks and low-set ears, and you don't show those symptoms." Robertson peered at her neck and head through thick glasses. Chloe was speechless for once in her life.

"Only one way to be certain." He produced a cotton swab at the end of a stick out of nowhere. "I'd like to take a sample of your DNA, if I may?" His buck-toothed grin was eager and unsettling.

"No." Chloe said coldly with death, or at least severe maiming, radiating out of her pale pink eyes.

"O - Kay then." The swab disappeared as suddenly as it had materialized. "What can I do for you then, Detective?"

"What do we know about the suspect?"

"Male. Fairly strong from the marks on the first one. She struggled. It was a sloppy job." Robertson shook his head. He liked precision. "He probably uses a revolver. The powder marks on the first victim are consistant with one and it would eliminate the need to search for shell casings in the dark. We have not found any casings in any event. It's a smaller gun, .32 calibre probably, but he uses soft lead bullets that deform on impact with the skull so no ballistics so far."

"I thought that those soft bullets were illegal?" Chloe pointed out.

"They are, but there a lot of them still out there; in hunting kits, shooting ranges, old stock in stores. It is not illegal to own them, just to shoot them. You can get up to a thousand dollar fine."

"I don't think our perp will be too worried about the fine at this point. What else do you know?"

"He used a potato as a silencer on the last two, the hookers, but nothing on the first. Straight out of the 'Poor Guy's James Bond' that, but effective enough at a distance. That shows a high degree of planning."

"You think that the first might have been a spur of the moment thing?"

"I do, yes. I can't tell you why he did it, of course, but he has obviously developed a need for it since then. He kills them at the point of ejaculation or shortly thereafter by the way."

"You found sperm on their fur?"

"Some trace amounts around the inside of the mouth, but mostly in the stomach. He makes them swallow it. A smart move." Robertson said with some admiration. "Like the vagina, the normal environment of digestive tract is a hostile one for sperm cells, as it is very acidic, viscous, and patrolled by immune cells." He was off and rambling again.

"The components in the seminal plasma attempt to compensate for this hostile environment with amines. Basic amines such as putrescine, spermine, spermidine and cadaverine are responsible for the smell and flavour of semen, although your diet can influence the taste. Vegetarian's semen has a nutty taste, or so I am told; I don't eat nuts. Anyway, these alkaline bases counteract the acidic environment and protect the DNA inside the sperm from acidic denaturation. But the stomach contains DNA from all the plant and animal tissue that the person has ingested and they get mixed up together. PCR Analysis of DNA extracted from stomach fluid from the autopsy can reveal the presence of DNA from a sentient species, however it couldn't determine specifically that it came from semen, but that would be the obvious assumption. That or the victim was a cannibal." The beaver finally ran out of steam.

"PCR analysis?" Carl asked from over her shoulder.

"If the stain is small and the amount of DNA minute, a method based on the polymerase chain reaction, or PCR, is employed to make millions of copies of selected segments of the DNA." Robertson responded. "Note that PCR does not change the DNA but merely amplifies the amount, and it can't fill in the missing links in the DNA chain."

"Did you find enough semen to make an analysis?" Chloe enquired.

"Of course." The beaver answered, standing up proudly. "Even one sperm cell is enough for me to tease the DNA out of it. Here, let me show you." The CSI specialist switched on an ultraviolet lamp and it illuminated Chloe's face for an instant. That was enough to show a few glowing blotches around her mouth. Carl reached around her and shut the lamp off before the Deputy Chief could notice.

"We all know how it works." He advised Robertson, who was peering at Chloe's face quizzically. "Continue."

"Well, yes, where was I? Semen. There was a tiny amount on the first victim. Although it was degraded by her saliva it was enough to determine that the suspect was a canine."

"That is as close as you can get, that he's a canine?" Chloe was shocked. Half the damn city was a canine of some sort.

"Don't look at me like that detective." Robertson whined, reading the disappointment in her face. "Species that can interbreed have very similar DNA, and it was a very short segment. However we were able to match it to a miniscule amount that we found in the second victim's throat; there was a slight overlap in the segments. Given the similar M.O. I'm betting that the sample I've teased out of this one will be a partial match too. Although that is not in itself conclusive, if all three overlay perfectly on a complete sample that creature will be your killer.

"But you have not found a match in the DNA registry I take it?" Chloe asked to be certain. All convicted sex offenders and certain other felons were required to contribute to the registry. DNA collected from unsolved crimes was also entered. If there was no match it meant that it was probably this particular pervert's first time.

"No." Watchdog answered. "And we are keeping the fact that we found any at all under wraps. The way this guy tries to cover up tells me that he's arrogant, that he thinks he's smarter than the cops. One day he'll make a mistake and then we'll be able to compel a DNA sample from him, and that will be the end for him.

Chloe knew that DNA tests can show that semen is not from the suspect but that it could not prove with complete certainty that the semen is from the suspect, only the odds of it being from them. In court the prosecutor would present it as a one in eleven million chance, or one in fourteen billion chance, or a one in three trillion chance, or whatever, depending on how many markers matched. In a city of barely one million creatures, anything more than one in a million would get them a conviction. But first they had to catch him.

"So you want us to drop the case we are on and set up a decoy operation for this guy." Chloe said. They would need a lot more info on the suspect's profile than the fact he was a canine and stronger than a junkie to be able to do that effectively.

"No. We're stretched to the breaking point with other cases." He did not have to add that dead hookers were a low priority. "I'm having you two reassigned to homicide temporarily. I want you two to act like real detectives and figure this out."

Chloe began to protest, mostly because of the 'real detective' insult; their current case wasn't going anywhere and she suspected that the perv they were after had blown town. She began to remind the Deputy Chief of the fact that the CPTF was not exactly under his jurisdiction, but before she could damage her career irrevocably he was distracted by a commotion at the mouth of the alley.

A tall figure had gotten past the cop who had questioned Carl earlier. The lamp above the entrance was enough for Chloe to see grey fur, a large muzzle, blazing yellow eyes. A wolf? Somehow it didn't quite look right.

She saw why as the figure strode boldly down the alley. It was a wolfhound, as big as a large wolf but with a more dog-like head. The square-jawed face looked familiar.

"McGinty, what the hell are you doing here?" The Deputy Chief growled.

"I could ask the same of you, Deputy" the tall canine sneered. "Taking a personal interest in this too, are you?" The dog then began criticising the lack of progress in the case.

Chloe recognized the name, and the face fell into place. City Councillor Maurice McGinty, the Reverend Maurice McGinty to be exact. Although he lived in a gated neighbourhood in the hills outside of town he was the Councillor for this ward because he used the address of his church, and the mission attached to it, as his place of business.

The church was a former movie theatre in a neighbourhood full of run-down bars and boarded up shops. The reverend had moved his fundamentalist evangelical church to the downtown core some years ago to save the souls of the downtrodden, misguided and immoral. Given that the district had the highest percentage of poverty, crime, and drug use in the city, he had his work cut out for him.

McGinty had some rich and powerful backers, but most of their contributions went to maintaining his opulent life style. It was visual proof of the benefits of being 'born-again' he unabashedly told investigative reporters. He relied on grants from the city to cover operational costs. He had run for city council when that funding was cut off, thanks to what he declared was obvious journalistic bias. He had won, and was now the chairperson of the Social Programming Committee. The mission was now once again fully funded by the city. He still preached at his church, but the day-to-day operations of the mission had been turned over to a manager to preserve the illusion of impartiality.

As far as Chloe knew the Councillor was not on the police committee, and she wondered why he was getting involved in a case that had not made the press yet. Then she remembered that the first victim had been a political aide.

"Councillor." She interrupted his tirade. "Was the first victim one of your aides?"

The Councillor turned and regarded her as if he had found a new, and disgusting, type of insect clinging to his sleeve.

"You should be more concerned with your immortal soul young lady, than in business that does not involve you." He looked her up and down disapprovingly. "Dressing like a slut is bad enough, even without the low morals and unclean habits that go with it."

This time Watchdog stepped in before Chloe could lose her temper. "Detective Constable Turner works with the Child Protection Task Force." He explained to the Councillor. "As a decoy, mostly, but she and Detective Sergeant Johnson are quite capable investigators. I have just reassigned them to this case."

The wolfhound did not change expression. Evidently he was a believer in the adage that you are what you wear. "I have already provided a statement to the detectives originally assigned to this case." He said dryly. "If you need further information I would suggest that you set up an appointment with my Chief of Staff. I trust that you will wear something .... more appropriate?" On that note, having made his point to the Deputy Chief, or upset because he was no longer leading the conversation, the Councillor turned and left as quickly as he had come.

"Tailhole." Watchdog muttered under his breath before turning to Chloe and Carl. "You are on the clock as of now. Where do intend to begin?" He demanded.

"With Tailhole's Chief of Staff."

* * * * * * * *

Chloe and Carl actually began by reviewing the case file. They returned to the main station where the CPTF offices were located to find Erica, the unit's Administrative Assistant, already there with the file box full of reports, interview transcripts and evidence bags.

"I got a tip off from a clerk I know in the Deputy Chief's office." She explained. "Us admin types watch out for each other." That's what made Erica so effective, Chloe reflected, her membership in an organization that paralleled the 'Old Boy's Network': the 'Young Ladies Collective'. Well, she amended, youngish; some of the senior clerks were in their fifties.

"It says here that the first victim was one Bernadette Schneider. She was attacked on her way home from working late in the Councillor's down constituency office. She was one-point-four-seven meters tall, about four foot eight inches, and slim. Bernadette came from some dirt poor town up north and graduated from the local community college last spring with a political science degree." Carl showed her the transcript.

"That and a buck-fifty would have got her a cup of coffee in this town." Chloe observed. "So how did she end up working for the Councillor so soon after arriving in the city?" Despite a fair sized hole on her head the crime scene photos showed a young feline that would have had that wholesome, country look when she was alive. She would have appeared childlike enough with her slim, short build and small-town cuteness, but on that fateful night she had also worn clothes that were a little too young and a little too tight for a political aide. Chloe wondered what her duties were, exactly.

"There's a note that the Councillor's Chief of Staff hired her. We should go ask him." Carl said.

Chloe agreed, and asked Erica to arrange a meeting while she washed off the kitten makeup and changed into a more adult outfit. By the time she was done Erica had tracked the fellow down to the Councillor's office in the Downtown mission. They took Carl's car.

The Chief of Staff, one Reginald Smith, was a fox terrier and a veteran of the city political scene according to the file. He met them at the main door to the mission, what was once the loading dock for the former theatre.

"I hope you don't mind." He said as he escorted them to the office suite that served both the mission and the church up front. "I didn't know if you would showing up in marked police car or not and I'd like to keep the church separate from this business."

"Is it though?" Chloe asked. "Separate, I mean. It seems that the Councillor has made his church and mission part of the city business."

"Maurice runs the church, and the church runs the mission, but at an arm's length since the he was elected." The Councillor's chief aide informed them as he showed them the cubicle where the deceased feline had once worked. It was spotless now. "Bernadette's duties involved neither. She was a researcher, plain and simple. She compiled the demographic statistics we use in our communication strategies. She and her work had nothing to do with the Councillor, the church or the mission. She had never even met the Councillor."

"Oh, come on." Carl said with a degree of exasperation. "You must have had a list as long as my arm of people the Councillor owed political favours to, and yet you hired some kid fresh in from a nothing school. Why'd you do it?" Carl loomed over the smaller canine menacingly.

"I didn't." The dog said rather smugly, far from being cowed. "I did not start here until after Bernadette's death. The former Chief of Staff hired her."

The revelation stopped Carl cold. "You have his name, his employment records?" Chloe stepped forward to ask.

"Sure. See Max, the manager." The terrier waved them toward a corner office. "He has all the old records, except Bernadette's, the other detectives took them."

Chloe and Carl crossed the mission, once the backstage area of the theatre, heading for the manager's office. The space was divided into an eating area where an old poodle was serving a breakfast of oatmeal to a few decrepit citizens and a sleeping area where a few more of downtown's finest still snored and farted. The smell of intestinal gas fought the odour of sour wine and beer for supremacy. The office was small. Probably the stage door manager's in former days. The door was half-open, and Chloe knocked as she pushed it open the rest of the way.

"Come in." A middle-aged coyote, presumably the manager, said with a trace of sarcasm, since the two detectives were already inside the office by the time he could respond. They showed their badges and passed business cards over. The manager introduced himself.

"I'm Max, Max Detweiller. Former patron and now manager of this establishment." The coyote said dryly. Chloe could see the pattern of broken veins showing red through his facial fur. They told the story of his life on the street and inside a bottle more succinctly than words ever could. But his clear eyes indicated that the last chapter may have a happy ending. Chloe began by asking the same questions they had posed to the new Chief of Staff.

"I don't know much about the political side of things. I managed a hardware store before my problems got too bad in my former life." The manager stood up and pulled one of a dozen dusty cardboard boxes off the shelf behind his desk. "But the Chief of Staff's right about Schneider's records. The other detectives took all of them. But we don't have much on Danny O'Shea, the former Chief of Staff." The coyote brought out an untidy pile of employment and tax forms and laid them on the desk between the detectives. "He was another of the Reverend's congregation, a local lawyer. He had been the campaign manager before the election and assumed the Chief of Staff's job when the Reverend won. He didn't have a lot of experience in the field and he just left when it was obvious that the Reverend needed a seasoned paw at the helm."

"He hired Schneider though?"

"He hired a lot of charity cases, not that that is a bad thing." The manager said, hooking a thumb at his chest. "Sometimes it worked out, like with me or Curly the cook." He pointed out the door to where the poodle ladled mush into the passing bowls. "But a lot of the folk he hired didn't know what they were doing, and Danny didn't know what to do with them. Mister Smith came in and cleaned house. I was under the impression that if Bernadette had not of shown up dead that she was going to be fired when he took over anyway."

Do you know where we can find this Danny O'Shea?" Carl enquired as he skimmed over the forms Detweiller had provided.

"No. He disappeared after he left the Reverend's employ. He even stopped coming to the church." The manager shrugged. "Ashamed, probably."

"What cab you tell us about her and the Councillor?" Chloe asked. "Did she have any contact with him? Do any work for him in relation to the church or the Councillor's office?"

The coyote's reaction was immediate, and intense. "The Reverend is a good dog, unlike most of the religious leaders and politicians in this city." He snarled as he stood up and leaned over the desk at her. Carl jumped up to defend her, if necessary, but the coyote did not back down. "He is actually doing something to help those in the city that need help the most, while others line their pockets or trade .... favours" Detweiller spit the last word like it had left a bad taste in his mouth.

"Just answer the question." Carl directed him.

"No. The two had no contact. She did not have anything to do with the church or the mission. She barely did any work at all, to be honest. She spent most of her time tying up the phone lines, calling the office managers of other elected officials, at the state and federal level, trying to get a better job. That's what she was doing the night she was killed, using our phones for her own business. I far as I know she was not having any success, but you can have our phone records if you would care to track them all down." The Coyote threw down another pile of papers.

Carl shifted uneasily, trying to suppress the urge to rip the guy's muzzle off and shout obscenities down the hole, Chloe supposed. Carl was a sweetheart to her but he had an old-school approach to detective work. Chloe, on the other paw, had studied abnormal psychology and body language extensively, and could usually get more from a suspect's twitch than Carl could with his threats. But she was getting nothing from this coyote. He appeared to be genuinely offended, and his answers seemed to be honest. This was getting them nowhere.

"Don't you get it in your head to disappear on us." She warned him lamely as she scooped up the phone records. "We may want to ask some more questions later."

* * * * * * * *

Out on the mission floor Chloe swore under her breath as crumpled the paperwork between her tiny but strong paws.

"This is bullshit." She complained to Carl after the door to the office was closed. "Homicide has covered all this ground already."

"Except for the phone records." Carl noted, unhappily. It would take days of slogging through the lists and following up to check them all out. He was certain that they would all be dead ends, but it had to be done none the less.

"Yeah, lucky us."

"Say, you two is Detectives, right?" The words came from a bundle of old clothes on a nearby cot that smelled of sterno and urine. While they watched the bundle shifted and turned, eventually evolving before their eyes into a bleary-eyed badger with only two teeth.

"I could hear you guys in Max's office, the door was wide open." The badger exclaimed, sending a waft of acidic breath their way. "You is looking for Danny."

"You know Danny O'Shea?" Chloe overcame her aversion and stepped closer.

"Sure, all the regulars here know Danny. He used to live here when he was disbarred. Volunteered in the kitchen before the Rev'rend took to politics." On autopilot, the old rummy continued to recant how the young lawyer, a red fox from a good family, had fallen to an addiction to designer drugs and fast females, eventually losing his practice, his mate, and his money. "The Rev'rend took him in and cleaned him up good. He was doing fine until that Bernadette came along."

"He hired her, didn't he?" Chloe prompted.

"Sure did. That kitten must have been to every Councillor's office in town before coming here. But nobody wanted what she had to offer, leastways, not until she found Danny."

"Did Danny hire her because the, uh, Reverend, liked hiring the down and out? Did McGinty ever meet her, that you know of?"

"Oh, god no!" The badger laughed and almost fell off the cot in amusement. "The Rev'rend would have shit his self if he ever came face to face with that slut. He don't take to that type. Danny didn't hire her 'casue she was needy, he hired her 'cause he was!" The badger's laughter dissolved into a series of alcoholic burps.

"You mind explaining that? What did Danny need that Bernadette could give him?"

"Lip service, young lady. Blow jobs, hummers, skull, or-al grat-if-ee-cation. Bernadette weren't no hooker, but she knew that to get ahead you got to give some head." The boozy badger chuckled. "First it was weekly blowjobs in Danny's office for getting the job, then daily sucking for letting her spend all her time looking for better work. She had ambitions, our Bernadette. She wanted to move up into federal politics eventually. It was tearing Danny up though." The badger shook his head sadly. "He was starting to fall for that trollop, but he couldn't keep up with a young party girl like her. Pretty soon ol' Danny was back to using, trying to impress her and make her dependant on him. But other than using sex to break into the business she wasn't having it. They got into a terrible fight right here the night she died."

"That explains a few things." Carl whispered in her ear from bind her. He addressed the badger, louder than necessary. "Who else knew about them?

"Everybody, except the Rev'rend, at first. They wasn't exactly secretive about their activities. But the Rev'rend only found out when Danny confessed to what he had been doing. Danny was supposed to fire that bitch, that's what the fight was about. Danny couldn't do it, and she was laughing at him because of it. She told him to come see her again when he grew some balls to match his hard on. Mean, just plain mean that was, broke Danny in two. He ran off just after she left and ain't been seen around here since."

"Do you know where we can get a hold of Danny these days?" Chloe risked her health to lean in and ask.

"Sure do." The badger smiled with his two teeth. "Only other place in this part of town that takes in our type on a long term basis other than the Rev'rend is the Sally Ann."

* * * * * * * *

Back in the car the two detectives compared notes.

"O'Shea is looking good as a suspect." Carl commented afterward. "He's got motive, opportunity, he's a canine."

"So is half the city." Chloe played the devil's advocate, even though she agreed with Carl's analysis. A quick call to Erica had produced the fox's rap sheet. He had been convicted on possession and battery charges, and was still on probation. "Where would he have gotten a gun from? He wouldn't be able to buy one while on probation."

"Plenty of guns in this part of town." Carl shrugged. "One of the downtrodden could have left it behind, or the manager might have brought it in. Hardware stores sell guns and ammo, don't they?"

"Some of them do." She admitted, making a mental note return and ask around about a gun. "But if he did Schneider why would he do the others?"

"He was a sex addict, and a violent one at the end." Carl was reading the rap sheet on the car's police computer's small screen. "He's back on the drugs now, according to our halitostic friend, but you bet that he can't afford the good stuff anymore. My guess would be the local crystal, and you know what that can do to your attitude."

He had a point, Chloe had to admit. The meth they sold around here could change a mouse into a raging bull. Unconsciously she adjusted her revolver in its holster as they pulled up in front of the Salvation Army Mission, the Sally Ann as it was known to those that frequented it.

The manager of the Sally Ann, used to visits from local law enforcement, directed them to a tiny room in the rear of the building. It was occupied by a thin, emancipated, but apparently sober fox.

"You Danny O'Shea?" Carl asked as he showed his badge.

"Yeah. That's me."

"We got a few questions for you."

"You are supposed to tell me that I have a right to a lawyer first, aren't you?"

"You aren't under arrest, yet." Chloe informed him. "And we're not about to prejudice a case by arresting anyone without proof, but I'll bet that if I call your probation officer I'll find you in violation and that's enough to bring you in on."

The fox sighed and hung his head. "What do you want to know?"

They questioned him for an hour. O'Shea's story matched that of the badger, but he denied having a gun or ever laying a paw on Bernadette.

"The Reverend, Councillor McGinty, told me to fire her and then get myself out of his church." The ex-lawyer said ruefully. "He said that my conversion was a false one, that my salvation was a sham. After Bernadette left me for a fool I realized how low I had fallen, and how both she and the Reverend were right. I've been holed up here, sweating it out cold turkey since the night she walked out laughing. Sure, I heard that she had been killed, but not until a couple of weeks later when I was straight enough to leave this room, and I didn't know that it was the same night until you told me just now."

"Anyone around here that can verify your story?" Chloe demanded.

"Not anyone you would consider an upright citizen." The fox admitted.

"We have lab tests that can tell us how long you've been clean." Carl mused. "Volunteering to submit to them, and providing a sample of your DNA, would be considered cooperating with an active investigation, should your parole officer ask about where you've been."

"Okay." O'Shea stood up on wobbly legs. "I know I'm innocent, so why not prove it? I can't get in any worse trouble than I am in now."

* * * * * * * *

Chloe and Carl found their suspect to be more cooperative than the Police Lab.

"I am not wasting valuable lab time and resources to produce test results that are fundamentally inadmissible." The Great Gregory informed them.

"But the drug tests can tell us if he is telling the truth about getting clean." Chloe protested.

"Not with enough accuracy to be used in court." Robertson shot back. "Your suspect could have been in a fugue for days before or after the first murder, and capable of committing the crime without memory of it. No. The tests would be a waste of time and money when we are already overwhelmed." He did however, agree to take a sample of the fox's DNA.

The beaver produced one of his hidden stock of swabs and swirled it around inside O'Shea's mouth. He sealed it in a plastic capsule and wrote a code number on the side. Leaving the fox in the reception area, he led the two detectives into the lab. Just then his pager went off. He read the screen and passed the capsule over to Carl in obvious frustration.

"I am late for testifying in court. Bring this to Henderson in the lab." He directed them. "But don't tell him what it is for; just have him bring the sample and the results directly to me when he is done. This case is under special scrutiny from the City Council and the less people that know about this the better." With that Robertson hurried out the door.

Carl watched him leave and then held up the tiny capsule between thick digits.

"Amazing how much you can get from a little saliva, isn't it?" He asked Chloe, who had to crane her neck to look up at it. Carl bent forward to give her a better view, and hit is head on the exit sign above the door. The capsule flew from his paw and struck the floor hard enough to pop open. It rolled under a desk.

Chloe swore and crawled after it. She stood up with the open capsule in one paw, and the dusty swab in the other.

"I'm pretty sure that this would be considered contaminated evidence, butter paws." Her whiskers twitched in exasperation.

"Sorry."

Chloe thought for few seconds. "No problem. We still have the fox. Come with me." She led her suddenly sheepish partner deeper into the lab to the DNA analysis section where Henderson usually hung out. They had conferred with the bloodhound often for past cases, usually about semen and saliva taken from dead children.

"Hey Henderson." She greeted him as they approached. I need you to do me a favour. Can you take a DNA swab from a volunteer for me and do an analysis on it for Robertson? It's kind of a hush-hush job though."

"Sure. No problem." The hound put down the charts he was comparing and picked up a swab kit. "Where is the good fellow?"

They led him out to where O'Shea sat waiting to be released. Henderson repeated the sapling procedure and sealed the new capsule. Back in the lab Chloe repeated the beaver's instructions and showed him the soiled capsule so he could copy the number on the new sample.

"This does not make any sense." Henderson said, squinting at the number.

"Why not?" Carl and Chloe asked in unison.

"Because this is the case number for the potato gun pervert, uh, that's what we are calling him around the lab now." He explained.

"Okay, you have to keep this quiet," Chloe cautioned him, "but we need the sample to eliminate the fox as a suspect."

"Or to prove he did it." Carl added.

"That's why it doesn't make sense. He's a fox. He can't be a suspect. Robertson would know that." Chloe and Carl stared at the dog in confusion. "Let me explain." He continued. Henderson picked up the charts he had been comparing earlier. There were three of them.

"See these? These are the samples from the three victims. They are all degraded, but there is enough overlap to tell two things. First, that they came from the same creature and second, that the subject is of the genus Canis."

"Right." Chloe said, still perplexed. "A canine, like our fox friend outside."

"Not quite. The family Canidae is divided into 'true dogs' or Canis and foxes, Vulpis. The two can't interbreed, and for a very good reason." He pointed to the charts. "See how this grid is filled out nearly to the end? It's a map of the chromosomes present in the sample and Canis species have seventy-eight chromosomes, one of the most in all the sentient species. Vulpis, of which your fox friend is one, has only thirty-eight chromosomes. His sample would fill up less than half the chart. Wolves, dogs, coyotes and jackals can breed, but not with foxes or any other species in the greater canine family. So it's not necessary to take a sample from him. He is automatically cleared."

"Thirty-eight chromosomes." Chloe muttered as she examined the charts.

"The same number as felines, that's one of the reasons why you don't see dog and cat mixes even though there are so many interspecies couples these days." Henderson said casually, missing the blush that suddenly came over Chloe's face. "But felines and foxes can't breed either, to many differences in the genes."

"Why would Robertson take a sample if he knew it wasn't necessary?" Carl asked to distract the hound. "Are the tests that inexpensive?"

"Oh no. With the equipment we have and union rates for the Techs it's about two thousand a crack. More for the kind of tests that Robertson had to run to get these samples." Henderson indicated the charts. "Frankly, I'm surprised that he was able to get anything at all." The hound paused, looking away in contemplation. "Hmmm. He may want to compare certain sequences just to be certain that he didn't screw up the original tests. The PCR process has been known to create some impromptu gene splicing with contaminated samples. It would not be the first time we got different results after more testing."

"Wouldn't that bring the whole of the DNA evidence into question?" Carl asked.

"Only if the defence asked about it." Henderson shrugged. "Serial killers don't usually have the funds required to hire experts that can understand The Great Gregory's work."

"You sound like you disapprove." Chloe observed.

"I just work for the guy," Henderson said defensively, "but he's been acting pretty strange since he was reborn."

"Reborn? As in Evangelical Christian reborn?"

"Yeah. He's been going to that church down in the slums since going to collect some samples a few weeks back. Now he goes on about using scientific method to prove the truth in the word of God and all that. It creeps me out."

"We need to talk to Robertson." Chloe frowned, knowing that cell phones were suppressed in the courthouse and that police witnesses normally turned off their pagers while testifying. "Do you which court he would be in?"

"Court? There's no court this afternoon. Wednesdays are set aside for depositions and motions. If he went to the courthouse he's probably gone to meet with a prosecutor to go over some testimony before presenting it tomorrow."

"Right. Listen Henderson, do me a favour. Send me a sealed copy of the original DNA analysis, along with anything Robertson produces from this sample." She indicated the capsule with the fox's swab inside. "Can you do that for me? On the quiet?" She stared intently at him, sending a silent message until he nodded and agreed. "Thanks." She turned and strode out of the lab before he could have second thoughts. Carl fell into step beside her.

"You thinking that there's something going on here?" He enquired mildly.

"We've got a suspect that Robertson could have eliminated, but didn't. We have DNA evidence that can only be explained by Robertson, who turns out to be a follower of an influential figure linked to the case. You know the department better than I do. So tell me," she stopped and turned to face him, "do the CSI members carry guns?"

"Sure, small ones. Just for self defence. Thirty-twos, I think."

Chloe paused, chewing on her paw in deep thought. "Are beavers mammals or amphibians?" She glanced up and raised one eyebrow in question.

"Mammals." Carl answered, perplexed.

"Then why does this one smell fishy?"