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Hi, my name's Reynard Malone, though I prefer being called "Rey". I'm a red fox, and I also happen to be a police officer, more specifically a Detective-Lieutenant in the Melapardus Police Department, assigned to Major Cases, Robbery/Homicide. I hope you got all of that.

Almost my whole family is involved in law enforcement. I'm actually a seventh generation police officer. The Malones have been in the business of law enforcement ever since the 1840s when they immigrated to America during the Irish Potato Famine. I remember looking through all the photos of my ancestors when I was a little kit. I loved my heritage, and knew from a very young age that I too wanted to continue our proud tradition of serving the public trust.

As I mentioned before about my family being in law enforcement. I should tell you that my Dad, Bill, or as he's better known, "Big Bill" is a Bureau Chief--that's a three star chief in our ranks--and will probably be the next Chief of the Department. My brother Sean--ten years my junior--has been on the job for two years, and I have no doubt that in another two he'll be out of the bag and in the Detective's Bureau.

If you want, you can hear me talk about some of the most important cases of my career . . .

It was on a day in mid June when I decided to go into work early; not an unusual thing for me to do. I had gotten behind on some paperwork and new that I had to get it caught up before I was drowning in the stuff. So, I left the house that morning, making sure not to wake up my wife or young son. Upon arriving at the office, I turned on the old desktop and went to work.

Now, let me tell you something about paperwork in the police department. Any cop, whether uniform or detective who spends twenty plus years on the job will probably write enough reports to fill a stinking library. I can't say it's my favorite part of my career, but it's crucial to write accurate, detailed reports. Cases can be made or broken depending on how well, or poorly a report is composed.

I spent a few hours typing away, my paws aching after awhile. Once I was satisfied that I was caught up, I decided not to drink coffee, but instead I wondered over to the head of our division's office and take a nap. I'm not sure how long it took me to fall asleep, but I knew exactly when I woke up because I was being hit over the head by a rolled up newspaper. Once awake, I rubbed my head, as I looked up at my very angry boss. A wolf, named Inspector Wallace Isengrim.

"Lieutenant Malone," he snarled. "Get your vulpine butt out of my chair, now!"

Yawning, I decided to further irritate him. "Sorry, sir. I just thought I should try to keep it warm for your lupine butt."

"Smart ass," said the Inspector as I relinquished the chair to him.

"That I am," I said proudly.

Inspector Isengrim sat down, still glaring at me. Grabbing his mug, he took a sip of his freshly brewed coffee, blended with hazelnut cream if my nose serves me correctly.

"You got the reports on the Gulozi case done yet?"

"Yeah," I said, still somewhat groggy. "That's why I came in early."

"Good," he said, then stared at me. "Well? What are you still doing in my office? Go out to the squad room!"

I saluted him. "Yes, sir, Uncle Wally!"

Instantly, he put the mug down and glared at me even harder than before. Perhaps I should explain why. Remember when I said that most of my family was in law enforcement? Well, it just so happens that the good Inspector is married to my Aunt Molly, my Dad's twin sister. He absolutely hated it when I called him "Uncle Wally" during work hours. Needless to say, I was always amused by it, especially in front of the other guys.

"How many times have I told you not to call me that on the job? How many?"

"Let me see," I said, and started to count out loud. "One, two, three, four,"

"Just get out!" he yelled.

I covered my muzzle, trying to keep myself from laughing. I shut the door behind me, though I could still hear him calling me a "smart ass" through the closed door.

Out in the squad room, I was greeted by Sgt. Stanley "Stan" Tibert, a somewhat chubby orange tabby cat.

"Hey, cool cat!" I said fist pumping his paw.

"Hey, sly fox!" he said back to me.

Stan just happens to be my best friend in the entire world. I've known him my entire life, as his Dad, Assistant Chief Charles "Charlie" Tibert and my Dad went through the Academy together, and are great friends. I would hope that every decent creature in the world has a friend like Stan. Even though I was a rank higher than him, and his boss, he never resented it in the least. He's one great cop.

"Sounds like you were pissing off Uncle Wally again, huh?"

I smiled, pouring myself two mugs of coffee; one for me and one for Stan. "Of course. It's one of my more loveable traits."

Stan sniggered "You know, one of these days he might actually go through with the threat of busting you back down to uniform."

I shrugged. "Oh, he loves it, and you know it!"

I sat down at my desk, which of course, was right up against Stan's. Not long after, Ed Bruin, a large bear, walked into our area.

"Hey, fellas." he said in his deep, but always friendly tone.

"Morning, Ed," I said.

"How's it going, Ed?" said Stan.

Ed is a second grade detective under my command. He's got twenty plus years on the job, and not only does he have a knack for finding clues in a case, he's also great at coaxing a confession out of a suspect.

"I told you, Mom, you need to use the black remote, no not that black remote, the other one!"

I would know that voice from anywhere. It was Mike Grimbart, a badger on the phone with his mother. Mike is a first grade detective with over thirty years on the job, and he's just about the grouchiest creature you could ever meet. Cynical, sarcastic, Mike's been through three failed marriages and lives with his ninety year old mother, Doris, who frequently comes into the squad for various reasons. Doris is just the sweetest old lady, though she never seems to have anything nice to say about Mike. Huh, wonder where he gets his attitude.

"Morning, sunshine," I said to him, grinning.

Mike, still on his cell phone, shoots me a nasty look. I know he wants to say something nasty to me, but he knows better than that. I am, after all, his supervisor.

Mike finally finished his conversation, and threw his cell phone on the desk before sitting down on his chair, paws covering his face.

"Problems in paradise, Mikey?" asked Ed.

"More like non-stop problems in Hell," he said, paws still covering his face.

If ever there was a creature that could handle the hard-boiled old cop that Mike is, it was Ed. I'm not sure Mike would ever say directly that Ed was his friend, but if he had a gun pointed at his head, I'm fairly certain he would admit it, though I wouldn't risk my pension on it.

"Hey, guys," said the lean German Shepherd walking in the door.

We all greeted him, him being Jack Mauser. Jack is a second grade detective, with fifteen years on the job. He's a very discipline cop, and can sniff out drugs from a mile away. Never once has he been a discipline problem, but he was in the Marines, so I think they probably instilled that into him.

And finally in my unit, there's the hare, Johnny Kyward, who was, as usual, the last one into the squad. Johnny's a 3rd grade detective, and the youngest one in the squad. He's tech savvy as hell, and works well with TARU (Technical Assistance Response Unit). I paired Johnny up with Jack, hoping that the German Shepherd might help him with his lack of discipline. I wasn't exactly thrilled with his progress.

"Sorry I'm late, sir," said the hare, sweating nervously.

"You know," I said, folding my arms. "You know how to use a cell phone, right?"

"Uh, yes, sir," he said.

"You might want to check the time on it more often, it'll save you from having to go into Inspector Isengrim's office and explaining to him why you're always late, okay?"

Johnny gulped. "Yes . . . sir."

I'm not a mean guy. You can probably tell by now that I'm a bit of a wise-ass, but I was just getting sick of this kid always being late. So, after having angered my beloved Uncle earlier, I felt that maybe a good tongue lashing from the large, gray wolf would straighten him out.

Stern faced, I pointed him towards the Inspector's Office, but was instead greeted by the sight of Uncle Wally walking out to the squad room.

"I've got one for you guys," he said, a piece of paper in his paws.

"Where at?" I asked.

"The Franklin Housing Projects. Looks really nasty. We got four bodies."

"Four?" asked Stan.

"Yeah, I want everybody on this one," he said. "Get going."

We all grabbed our gear and headed out the door to our cars. I took the opportunity to remind Johnny that he wasn't off the hook.

We arrived at the Franklin Projects, a run-down old tenement building on the south side of Melapardus. The building was named after one of the mayor's of our town, who was years later kicked out of office for corruption, very fitting given the state of the structure.

Walking past the uniform police barricade at the front, we got into the building. Instantly, we were greeted to the sight of dimly lit halls, graffiti, and terrible smells, and I didn't even want to think about what the cause of those odors were. The elevator, not surprisingly, was out of order, so we were forced to walk up six flights of stairs, all the while Mike complaining about his bad back. Occasionally, I would see doors opening, only to suddenly close when whoever was behind it saw cops roaming the building. The place was infested with drug dealing, prostitution and many beasts who were not exactly in the country legally. Translation? I didn't exactly expect anyone to come out of the woodwork to cooperate with us.

On the sixth floor, we saw several more uniform cops standing outside one of the apartments, the door open and covered with yellow POLICE LINE tape. We'd finally reached our crime scene. As we entered, there were several crim scene technicians gathering forensic deviance that we'd need for our case. Lights flashed bright as the techs took several photographs of the scene. The apartment was pretty pathetic; sparse furniture, dirty, obviously a very poor family.

We'd yet to see the bodies, but one of the techs, a fox, pointed us to the single bedroom of the apartment. Inside the bedroom, four individual white sheets were spread out over the floor, our four victims. An old ram, Dr. Arthur Bellim, was busy writing on his clipboard.

"Whadda ya got for us, doc?" I asked.

"One adult female, and three dead kids, two girls one boy. They're coyotes."

I have to tell you, this job can do a lot to you emotionally, and no matter how hard I tried, I could never desensitize myself to kids being killed. Cops have a special, unimaginable hatred for baby killers.

"How'd they get it?" I asked before I lifted the sheets to view the corpses.

"Strangulation," said the doc. "I'd say they were tortured before they finally expired, but I'll know more once I get them on the table."

I had to look away soon after viewing the bodies. It was just appalling, seeing those little coyote pups with such a look of horror on their now dead faces. Whoever did this took great joy in their suffering; a violent psychopath. My biggest worry? That this was only his beginning.