FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

The sins of the past are a problem that all people have to deal with, and for some, those sins simply refuse to stay in the past, where they belong.

Despite all of the bad press they'd received in the years prior to his joining the force, Maxwell Connors wouldn't be denied the chance to live out his childhood dream. As a kid, he'd looked up to the police officers in his neighborhood, and unlike most teenagers who grew up with a negative notion of the police in their minds, Maxwell made an effort to reach out to them as he grew older, finding out just what great people they could genuinely be.

The natural progression of an internship, a degree in criminology, and passing his local police academy in flying colors was just like watching a fish grow legs, and Maxwell could remember his graduation day as one of the most fond memories in his entire life. Parents, siblings and friends attended in droves, and thanks to the other natural progression, that being the maturity of teenagers into adults, everyone was proud of Maxwell, nearly to a fault. That night was a night for the ages, filled with all of the drunken shenanigans and celebration that one might expect.

What Maxwell didn't expect was just how quickly the world would turn on the police, shortly after his joining the force.

There were already rocky years and plenty of recorded incidents with the Cinder Grove Police Department [b]before[/b] Maxwell decided to join the force, but shortly after his graduation, the number of incidents seemed to climb that much higher. In his first year on the force alone, cries of racial profiling and excessive use of force were through the roof, and as town of Cinder Grove became more urbanized, the increased population called for a greater police force, lowering entrance standards for the police department, in turn.

It was a recipe for disaster, and one that left the now 32 year old Maxwell Connors with a little salt-and-pepper gray in his once rich, thick brown hair. His childhood dreams were now nothing more than a memory of a world gone by, and the shining honor of his vocation was tarnished with stubborn, thick rust.

His badge, in turn, was no longer worn on his person.

"You're gonna drink yourself to death one of these days, Maxxy...seven beers a night [b]can't[/b] be good for you."

There was an inherent freedom in not being bound by the code of the police force any longer, but that didn't even come close to making up for the tragedy that resulted in his dream being shattered, and his time spent on the police force being cut dramatically short.

Most nights, the company of a bartender at Scorcher's, his favorite tavern, kept him from reaching for the gun in his dresser in the hours of the evening. "Maybe I'll try and cut down to six a night sometime, Frank."

Frank Weller was a former police officer himself, and the owner and purveyor of Scorcher's. He was in his final year on the Cinder Grove Police Department when he watched Maxwell Connors make a decision that no police officer ever wanted to make, and fate lashed out against poor Maxwell, despite his years of honorable work.

"I [b]know[/b] it isn't easy to deal with the memory of what you did. I shot a few people myself, Maxxy. No one wants to remember that," Frank reminded him, "But if all you're doing to cope is drinking yourself into a stupor seven nights a week, you're never going to get past what you did."

"That's why I started the private investigation business, Frank."

"And that isn't the best way to cope, either! Putting yourself right back in the heat of the action is only going to make things worse for you, Maxxy. I really think it would be best if you distanced yourself from the action for a while. You ever think about going back to college and trying something new for a living?"

Maxwell took another long, satisfying swig from his beer and firmly shook his head. "You know I respect your opinion, Frank, but I was put on this Earth to do one thing, and I'm not gonna let [b]anything[/b] stop me."

The attitude that Maxwell spoke with was his personality to the "t," and unfortunately, it was also the cause of his tragedy, no matter how he wanted to look at it. On one of Frank Weller's final patrols, Maxwell Connors was his assisting officer. When a domestic violence dispute turned ugly, Frank did what he was supposed to and moved to restrain an estranged wife. Maxwell went after the husband, only to find the man was concealing a pistol, prompting Maxwell to draw his own weapon.

His body armor was able to take the round fired from the pistol.

The caring, desperate child who jumped in front of his father, hidden from view before, couldn't take the bullet that Maxwell fired in return.

There were multiple people at fault in the moment. The dispatch didn't mention that there were any child in the house, the father wasn't a registered gun owner, and Maxwell himself could have reached for his taser before he reached for his gun.

Only one person truly paid the price that day, and in an era where police didn't have to do much to find themselves in a world of trouble, Maxwell knew that his career was over, even when his body camera showed that there was nothing more he could have done to prevent the incident.

Maxwell Connors shot his dreams away with just one bullet, and within a month, his friends were encouraging him to check into a rehabilitation facility.

"Just...give my advice some real thought, okay?" Frank asked of his old partner, his older, experienced face painted with authentic concern. "I don't want to see you in a body bag before your time is up."

Maxwell left a small wad of cash and a generous tip on the bar counter, standing up from his stool before the men shared a firm, confident handshake. "As long as I'm welcome at Scorcher's, I think I'll be able to get by."

"There's always a stool open for you here, Maxxy. Be safe out there."

Scorcher's was actually a gay-friendly bar, and though he didn't wear it on his sleeve, Maxwell was a homosexual. As the world became more accepting of the lifestyle, it wasn't too shocking to find that he only received the occasional jab about it from his old co-workers, and even though he was no longer officially on the force, his business as a private investigator kept him very close to his old friends, especially on murder cases.

Maxwell didn't even have a chance to make it all the way out of the bar before his cell phone started to ring in his coat pocket.

"Mr. Connors! Glad we finally got a hold of you. We've got a pretty bizarre case downtown, in an alley off of Chestnut and State. [i]Really[/i] strange looking murder. Think we can get you in on this one?"

Having the common sense to keep his cases as private as possible, Maxwell made sure he was well outside of the bar before he actually said anything, drawing a quick "Uhm...Maxwell?" from the other end of the line.

"I'm here, I'm here," Maxwell eventually replied. "I was just having a drink or two."

"Jesus, Maxwell...are you even good to drive?"

A long few years of heavy drinking left Maxwell with a tolerance that was borderline legendary, and though he knew it wasn't advisable, and was entirely illegal, he trusted his own abilities to drive. "I'm [b]fine[/b] to drive, Steven. You want me to head right over there?"

"As quick as you can. We've never seen [b]anything[/b] like this before."

He didn't relish in the idea of going straight to a murder scene, but sitting alone in his downtown apartment didn't sound any more appealing than that.

**

Streaks of bright, thick crimson were painted across old, dirty brown bricks at the very end of an alleyway, and yellow caution tape was drawing more attention than it was turning away. A crowd of onlookers was trying to take a peek down the alleyway, but if they could actually see down into the corner, they'd be quick to turn away in disgust.

A young female was the victim of the crime, though, if not for the curves of her body, it might have been hard to tell. Her face was torn to shreds, her arms and legs were covered in brutal scratches, and her cheek bones, high as they were, were exposed down to the sickening off-white of the chitin.

"What...w-what the hell happened here?!"

Maxwell knew he wasn't drunk, but he began to question that fact as he looked over a body that hadn't been shot, stabbed or even beaten to death, but [b]literally[/b] torn apart. There had been reports of packs of wild coyotes roaming around downtown, but they weren't liable to attack full grown people, and though he didn't love his job, Maxwell wasn't afraid to get close enough and inspect a clear set of bite marks on the back shoulder of the woman.

"We can't be sure, Maxxy, but whoever took this lady out, they a [b]serious[/b] vendetta against her. I don't think I've ever seen so many wounds on a body...she was likely dead before even half of these were inflicted."

Steven Pratt was the lieutenant in charge at the time of the tragedy that forever changed Maxwell's life. Now, he was a captain on the police force, and retained a strong professional relationship with Maxwell, knowing that his dedication to upholding the law was second to none.

"To be honest, Steven...I don't think this was a malicious attack. I think there might be some psychosis going on...do you see this bite mark on her back?"

Marks went into the flesh of the woman, easily an inch deep into her flesh. The wound was already starting to decay despite her body still withholding warmth, and there was something entirely unusual about her blood, as it ran down the small of her back.

It was tinted [b]green.[/b]

"That definitely wasn't the coyotes...hell, a fully grown wolf doesn't have that kind of a bite radius! Almost looks like a bear took her down or something..."

"There aren't any bears in Cinder Grove, Steven."

"You don't think a bear would wander this far south?"

Maxwell was leaning down over the body, kneeling next to it and looking over the bite wound with a terrible fascination. "Certainly not, but have you taken a closer look at this wound? Her blood is turning color...and it looks like it's [b]curdling.[/b]"

Fresh blood had a tendency to run and spill easily, but the trails of blood that were leaking over the victim's shoulder moved with a slow, drooling pace. "Looks like she's got rotten cottage cheese coming out of her...got an explanation, Maxxy?"

"Not a damn clue, Steven...all I can tell you is that this is [b]seriously[/b] creeping me out. Got any leads for this whatsoever?"

"We've got nothing to go by...we're collecting evidence, and we've got DNA samples from the wounds, but...go figure, we don't have a match in the database. Almost twenty years on the force and I've never seen anything quite like it...we'll just throw the tarp down and try to preserve whatever dignity she's got left. Seems to me that she's had a long enough night."

"Not like she's waking up anytime soon," Maxwell replied, knowing that his banter was plenty morbid, but developing that kind of sick sense of humor was vital to surviving in a field where death and violence were constantly around you.

"We'll take good care of her at the mortuary," Steven said, continuing the joke slightly longer than was acceptable. "Until then, see what kind of information you can find out about her. We've got her ID; name's Miranda Coswell."

Steven handed the driver's license over to Maxwell, who took it with more than a hint of disgust about himself. "I don't think we've got much of a chance on this one, Steven...but I'll see what I can find. Mind if I take a small blood sample? I'll need to study it to-

"Not a chance, Maxxy...you know that. Her blood could be contaminated. We still have [b]no[/b] idea what's going on inside of her to make her blood thicken that way."

Maxwell shrugged. "You guys have been here for hours, and you all seem to be just fine," he pointed out, "But protocol is protocol. I'll just have to work off of information today."

"Appreciate it, Maxxy. Hoping to hear some good news from you in the morning."

"It'll be business as usual, Steven."

There was a handshake, more of a professional courtesy than a friendly gesture between the two men, and Steven walked away for a moment to speak with another officer. Maxwell, however, couldn't take his eyes off of the hypnotizing, engrossing flow of blood from the woman's back.

It was a risky move, but when Steven was clearly dismissing Maxwell's presence, he pulled a small evidence bag from inside the confines of his black coat and drew a small knife from his pocket. Using the flat side of the blade, Maxwell scraped a small sample of the tainted essence into the bag and quickly sealed it, all away from the usually watchful eye of Captain Pratt. The silver edge of his knife clicked back into place silently, still coated with a thin gloss of the mess...and already, Maxwell had no idea what a fatal mistake he'd made.

**

Maxwell didn't hate his apartment, but to say that he enjoyed living where he did certainly wouldn't have been true.

Like most downtown apartments, it was too small for anyone to truly enjoy, meaning that Maxwell had to keep a lot of his belongings in boxes, closets and a nearby storage unit. Only essentials were ever out in the open, save for his old police badge, which he kept on a working desk in the living room. To make his apartment feel that much smaller, it served as the office for his private investigation service, a trifle though it might be.

The routine was the same as it ever was: Maxwell would arrive home from working or drinking, toss his coat on the floor, and make it about as far as the couch before he gave up on anything that required even a modicum of effort. The only difference tonight was the evidence bag that he slipped out of his coat pocket, which came to the couch with him, still holding his interest with an iron grip.

"That's not blood..." Maxwell pondered aloud. His eyes narrowed on the reddish-green fluid as it tossed back and forth in the bag with a creeping flow, never moving as quickly as it should have. "Not any kind of blood that I've ever seen, anyway. Wonder if she was poisoned?"

It was a plausible thought, and given the way that the flesh around the wound was already beginning to decay when Maxwell arrived, it was the conclusion that he held to be the truth, at least for the early evening.

Maxwell never would have gone to sleep that night, if he knew just how wrong he really was.

"I'll worry about it in the morning when I'm fresh," he muttered, tossing the evidence bag on the small, dinky coffee table in his living room, leaving it to rest among the clutter of dirty coffee cups and empty ramen packages. "Poor girl was probably stabbed a shitload of times and had poison poured in the words to make sure that it took."

The image of that unsettling fluid refused to leave Maxwell's mind, even when his eyes couldn't see it anymore, and heading into the kitchen to make himself a snack didn't help the situation. He knew that he was hungry, and could tell that he needed the pick-me-up to calm his nerves; it [b]never[/b] got any easier to see a dead body splattered across a sidewalk, but for some reason, the appearance of her blood was truly haunting him. It weighed so heavily on his mind that he almost felt like it was following him around, and as he prepared to open the twelfth ramen package that month, he was [i]certain[/i] that he felt a chill across his lower back.

[i]Did I leave the door open? No...I couldn't have...[/i]

Maxwell left the noodles to cook in the microwave, feeling assured that he was only imagining things. He saw exactly what he expected when the door to his apartment was closed...but the deadbolt was unlocked.

[b]Now,[/b] Maxwell was spooked, and he jumped right to the door, dead-bolting it immediately. He drew his knife from his pocket and flicked it open, worrying that his last regret in life was going to be that he didn't bring his gun to the crime scene.

"Is there anyone there?!" he called out, aggression deep in his voice to try and dissuade a lesser attacker. "I'm a private investigator! If you're serious about leaving here with your life, show yourself and come out with your hands up!"

The threat couldn't have been any less empty to the beast that heard it.

Another chill took hold of Maxwell with fingers of ice; the ridges of his spine felt like icicles trying to pierce through his lower back. The sensitivity was nearly painful, and Maxwell whipped around to look behind him, his knife at the ready.

Even if he'd swung, he only would have cut the air. There was no target, and yet, no matter which way he faced, it felt like his nerves ran through the arctic itself. He tried to focus his senses the best that he could, but he was entirely outclassed by an adversary that he couldn't see. Clenching his knife with a white-knuckle grip, he stepped into the kitchen with a painfully slow gait, hoping that his training in the police department would pay off. There simply [b]had[/b] to be someone in the kitchen, just around the corner.

Maxwell lead with his knife, but he never had a chance to swing it.

[b][i]CRACK![/b][/i] Maxwell felt the bones in the back of his hand breaking as a massive fist came down upon it, shattering as easily as fine china dropped from a counter. If not for the numbing effects of the alcohol, Maxwell would have doubled over in pain, but he watched as the knife flew from his hand, leaving him defenseless against whoever, or [i]whatever[/i] had broken into his home.

There was no rhyme or reason to why anyone would want to break into a backwater apartment like the one that Maxwell lived in...but wild beasts rarely used reason, and though his mind refused to believe what his eyes beheld, Maxwell watched as a long, muscular leg stepped out around the corner of his kitchen cabinets. Claws the size of daggers scraped against the tiles of his kitchen, leaving deep marks in the weak, flimsy linoleum and sending a fresh wave of goosebumps over Maxwell's flesh. A second leg followed, and modesty could only be preserved by the thick coat of fur that wrapped around the whole body of the beast.

Miranda Coswell's killer saved Maxwell the trouble of finding him, but did him no favors in solving the mystery.

"Th-this...this can't be real..." Maxwell groaned, as the shock of the moment wore off just enough for the broken bones in his hand to overwhelm his better senses. Fight or flight kicked in, and foolishly, Maxwell chose flight.

His punishment was a set of heavy, thick, drooling fangs sinking into the side of his arm. It was a sensation unlike anything he'd ever known, as if a fire was burning just under the surface of his skin, and [b]nothing[/b] could put it out. "L-let me go...g-good God, that fucking [b]hurts![/b]" Maxwell cried out, unsure of if he could handle the pain much longer.

All of his training was failing to prepare him for a true life-or-death situation: there was a difference between this and anything he'd ever known, including his brush with the only life he'd ever taken.

This time, there was a [b]real[/b] chance that he might die, and having only a knife to defend himself with wasn't settling down his already fried nerves.

The beast, coming into view as some sort of a hybrid between a human and a wolf, went for the knife at the same time as Maxwell.

Maxwell reached further, and he reached faster, burying the knife deep into the shoulder of the creature with his right arm.

As if Maxwell needed further reason to fear him, the beast didn't cry out in pain, or even retaliate with a strike of his own.

The knife was acting as nothing more than a beacon to the wolf-man, and now that he had it, whether or not it was the way he wanted to take it, he had no quarrel with Maxwell. His fangs eased out of the poor, defeated human with no malice, and as Maxwell dropped to the floor, gushing blood like a broken faucet, the creature stood upright and looked down upon him, as if he felt pity for Maxwell's pain.

A cloudy blur like a smear of petroleum jelly on the lens of a camera filtered over Maxwell's eyes, and the reality of his wound set in, now that his body no longer had to worry about self-defense. He knew it was only a matter of moments before he passed out, but the nearest gun in his apartment was far out of his reach, and the creature would beat him to it, even if it didn't know where to find the weapon.

[i]Gotta stay awake...gotta remember all of this...do...n't...p...a...ss...ou...t...[/i]

**

Having no wife or kids to speak of, and very few close friends outside of the department, it was no surprise that Maxwell spent an entire day on the floor of his kitchen, coming just short of bleeding out entirely through his shoulder. It was the desperate need for answers from his former co-worker that ended up being his guardian angel, and even then, it truly was miraculous that he was able to survive until Captain Pratt literally kicked his door down.

Splinters of wood flew into the air, and the deadbolt on Maxwell's door failed completely against the combined effort of Steven's boot, and a few properly placed shoulder checks. The loud and powerful [b][i]THWUMP[/b][/i] of the broken door against the floor wasn't enough to bring Maxwell out of his slumber, and in moments, Steven was thrown into a total panic.

"Oh, [b]shit![/b] They got to him after all...c'mon, Maxwell! Get up!" he yelled, able to see creeks of blood already soaked into the cheap, tired carpet. He had no qualms about stepping right through the ichor stain and kneeling down next to his old employee, having literally only a prayer to hang onto.

He rested a hand on Maxwell's chest and waited, terrified at the reality that he might feel a chill, rather than the warmth of life.

What he felt was the most subtle of lifts, a sign that Maxwell was still drawing air, and the only sign that he needed to start providing medical attention. "He's [b]alive![/b] Swanson, Mears, get your asses over here and help me out!"

The officers ran over as quick as they could. They knelt on either side of Maxwell and did their best to follow procedure, hoping and praying that they could wake the private investigator without moving him; the risk of a head or neck injury being aggravated was [b]far[/b] too great.

They could only hope they weren't too late to save the only man with the key to solving the mystery...