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Chapter Text

The sky over Point Wobbegon was a slate gray, so vast and cold and uniform that the point where the fog met the dark ocean in the far distance couldn’t be seen. From her lookout over the sea, Constable Hopps could imagine she was standing in the bell tower of some ancient, primeval church. Down below her feet, the granite cliffs, like vaulted abbey walls, fell away to the whitecaps and ocean spray. Further away, lonesome pillars of rock jutted out from the sea, headstones in a pauper’s field.

She’d been told that the Lovers-Look on the old dirt road was supposed to be scenic. Maybe on a beautiful day, a warm sunset. Now it was hard to think of anything but lovesick young poets hurling themselves down onto the rocks. Even at this awful height, the wind swept cold, salty spray into her face.

She shivered, and pulled her scarf tighter.

Briefcase under one arm, paws inside her thick, woollen police blues, she turned back down the road and kept marching, the rocky scree of the mountain to her right side. There was no railing and no road to speak of, just a trackless dirt path with the cliffs above on one hand and the cliffs below to the other. 

No map, but no way to get lost. A few ancient, solemn trees kept her company in the fog. 

Her mind knew that there was no one out here and nowhere to hide. No bus was liable to emerge from the mist to run her down. Still - a rabbit never lets her ears down. How many times had she heard that, growing up? Her brain knew she was perfectly alone and thus perfectly safe, but even now - two, three hundred miles from Bunnyburrow? - her ears refused to bend to that logic.

The thought entered her mind once again: if you’d stayed, you’d be home by the fireplace now. That thought was a frequent lodger, always knocking whenever she was alone with her thoughts too long. She set her jaw and refused to entertain it further.

Down below, she could see roofs through the fog. Houses, lights, even curling fingers of chimney smoke. Zinnsmouth, just when she’d started to doubt the place still existed. Thank God. Her ears had gone numb under her cap. Huffing small white clouds, she made double-time down the steep switchbacks that crisscrossed the mountainside like bootlaces.

The edge of town was marked by nothing but a pawful of darkened shacks, windows empty. She still marveled at that: hollow houses. Loveless houses. Poverty didn’t shock her, but she’d come from a town of homes. Not all good homes -- none sinless -- but all lived-in.

These windows still scared her, a little. Lightless like the eyes of a corpse.

Then the road became something like main street, and a great, two-story clapboard house rose to meet her. The windows were frosted over, but the shutters were open and she could see firelight flickering inside. No streetlights here, but she could see stores and front porches and hear distant out-of-tune piano music from somewhere down the street. 

Somewhere again, at last. She allowed her shoulders to relax and stepped up to rap hard on the big house’s door. 

It took a few minutes, but finally she heard the deadbolt squeak in its socket. The door opened, just enough for the snout of an older hedgehog to peer out at her. 

Judy tried to put on a warm, unthreatening smile. “Hello, uh… Erina Ježek?”

The old woman nodded, just once.

“I was told you take lodgers?”

Another nod, still silent. A beady eye peered deep inside Judy, trying to scry some hidden motive. Judy cleared her throat and held up the pewter badge fixed to her lapel.

“Constable Judy Hopps, ma’am. Zootopia Police and Fire. I wired the post office Saturday to arrange a room for ten days. Is this the correct house?”

One more short pause, for luck. The old lady pulled the door open and Judy could see she was wearing a flannel nightgown and cap.Judy gave her a grateful nod and stepped inside. The foyer of the house was dark, but a flickering fire in the next room let her make out the dim staircase and turn-of-the-century wallpaper.

“Got to be careful nowadays,” Miss Ježek croaked, slamming the door shut and bolting it once more. “All sorts of folk out. World done lost its mind.” She fixed Judy once more with those black, pinprick eyes. “Only other room to let is the barroom. With sailors.”

With the door closed, and a fire crackling in the next room, it was almost warm. Judy rubbed feeling back into her paws and nodded. “I appreciate it, ma’am.”

“Well, come on, then.” The old woman tottered towards the kitchen. “Best put on some coffee.”

Judy followed eagerly. Stepping through the doorway into the light of the wood-burning stove felt like sinking into a hot bath, and she almost sighed aloud in relief. It was cozy in here, a full larder and a tiny table squeezed against the wall, and it smelled like butter and burned eggs. If she closed her eyes, she might have been back in Bunnyburrow. A knot that hadn’t felt tight before loosened inside her. 

Miss Ježek set a kettle on and took one of the spindly chairs, hoisting her stout frame up onto the seat. Judy could see she’d left behind a pair of thick glasses and a worn-out book emblazoned Grace Unending.

“I, uh, had a little problem with my motorcar,” Judy spoke up, setting her briefcase in a chair. “If there’s someone who could go out and have a look at it-”

Miss Ježek gave her a look. “How’d you get here, then?”

“I walked-”

“Alone?”

“Yes, ma’am, from the car.”

“Then who drove you in?”

Oh, not this again. “I did,” Judy repeated, trying not to sound strained. “I have a license. The engine conked out a mile or so from the lookout.” She didn’t know what compelled her to add: “I had a poke around it, and it must be the carburetor; I couldn’t find anything else wrong-”

“Sure you can get one of the men in town to go out there,” Miss Ježek interrupted with an air of if-you-say-so-dear. Judy decided to shut her mouth. “If they not all stone drunk t’morrow.” She cast her eyes up at the ceiling. “Might be that layabout knows summat useful, but lord, I doubt.”

“Another tenant?”

“Fox.”

She said the word with a certain tone in her voice and a set to her jaw. As though that one word should tell Judy all she needed to know. Judy declined to comment.

“This is a godly household,” she continued, eyes snapping back to Judy. “I won’t be having liquor in here, nor noise, nor men upstairs. Nor fffor-ni-cation neither.” 

She pronounced the word like it was from some ancient, scholarly language. Judy bit back a laugh and nodded sheepishly. “Yes, ma’am. Loud and clear. I was raised in the spirit, I know.”

Miss Ježek examined her in silence for a moment, scrutinizing her as though weighing her heart on a scale. 

“How old're you now, girl?”

“Twenty-two, ma'am.”

“Married?” Miss Ježek added sharply. 

God give me patience. It was like being back home with her mother. Judy privately hoped to die before she got to whatever age made old ladies so entitled to ask why her finger didn't have a ring on it - after a whole twenty-two trips around God’s own sun, no less. 

“Not yet,” she admitted. Sure that's a strike against me. 

Miss Ježek sniffed. “Can't imagine any husband would want you out here by yourself. This town is rotten. Gambling in the barrooms, liquor and blasphemy on every tongue.” She closed her eyes, fleshy chin wobbling, just imagining the depravity. “No good men here. Only sailors and their floozies now - and them all foreigners and meat-eaters, mercy.”

If she were a little meaner, Judy might have asked which category Miss Ježek fell into,  or indeed why she was even still here. “Good thing I'm not looking for a husband,” she tried instead. “Strictly police busi-”

“What you need,” the wrinkled old hog interrupted, “is a godly man to settle you down. So you won't have to do this dirty business for money.”

And give me a litter and buy me dresses. Judy tried not to roll her eyes. And send me to bed without supper if I talk back. She ought to change the subject, but God help her, Judy had never been good at sacrificing the last word. 

“Miss Ježek,” she said firmly, “I realize this might seem odd, but I enjoy my work. I'm a policewoman. I protect people - I protect men, even, if necessary. If I get a husband, he's not going to tell me what I can and can't do.”

That quieted the old hedgehog. Temporarily, unfortunately. Miss Ježek pursed her lips and gave Judy a practiced librarian's stare. “Young girls always think they can have it all.”

“I'm twenty-two, ma’am. And I know how the world works.”

“The church on Sunday don't wash off the stink of the dancehall on Monday.” Her beady eyes dared Judy to back-chat. “You think you're clever. But you don't see I'm trying to save you. You got nothing to gain spending your mothering years in the gutter. Think you're a knight in shining armor now, mhmm, but come judgement day, those drunks and felons and meat-eaters, they'll pull you down into the lake of fire with ‘em.”

She could've argued till the sun came up, but what for? Just like Mama. Thinks being stubborn is the same as being right. With great effort, Judy reminded herself that this was a lost cause and sounded her retreat. 

“Respectfully, ma’am,” she said coolly, “I think God's made my calling pretty clear.” She picked up her briefcase. “I'd best be getting to bed, then. Thank you for the talk.”

Miss Ježek did not look at all pleased with that answer, but she just donned her reading glasses and picked up her book. “You're at the end of the hall. First door is the privy. Be sure you lock your door at night.” She shot Judy a stony look. “And you stay clear of that fox, now.”

Judy couldn't help herself. “I don't judge mammals by their teeth,” she informed Miss Ježek. And she swept out of the kitchen before the old biddy could reply. 

The nerve! she fumed as she stalked up the creaky wooden stairs. Her Mama would've had some words to say if she'd heard her youngest mouth off to her elders like that. But it was late, and she was bone tired, and damn it, even in the fullest of her patience, Judy had never seen the point in humoring someone else's hate. 

It's a new century, she groused to herself. If my little brother can fly a plane in the army, then I can make inspector - ring or no ring! 

There were no electric lights on the landing, and anyway she would've worried about waking the other boarder. Fumbling in the dark with one paw on the wallpaper, she made her way down to the end of the hall where her other paw found a key sticking out of the door. She'd just opened it when her ears - still up - made out the faintest of creaks. Like a padded foot on the old, uneven floorboards. 

She turned, half expecting to see a flash of orange fur or a shard of moonlight reflected in a vulpine eye. The hallway was still behind her. And for a moment, perhaps, she considered that she'd heard the house settling and scared herself.

And she might have believed it, if her ears hadn't caught the whispered click! of a door latching.

She was not, she'd decided long ago, afraid of foxes. Yes, they were big; yes, they'd eaten rabbits in the foggy past, and some of the old bunnies swore they'd never quite lost the taste. And yes, that useless soak Gideon had left a nasty scar on her cheek when they were kids. But if the intervening centuries of evolution and civilization had left them all cold-blooded killers, then it stood to reason that she, a rabbit, was still just a fearful, trembling little morsel to be devoured, and that she would not countenance. She’d heard plenty of attitudes just like Miss Ježek’s, and she despised them - so high and mighty, as though a hedgehog is more than one step away from a predator! As though you’re nobler than them because your ancestors used to eat caterpillars!

No, sir! She refused to fear foxes and she refused to fear men. She had no reason to believe that her fellow traveler wasn't just curious about the noise and a mite shy. 

…but a rabbit never let her ears down. 

Just being careful, she assuaged herself as she locked the door behind her and palmed the key. I'm a stranger in a strange town. I'd do the same if he was a - a lion, or a mole. Any mammal. 

Once she’d lit the lamp, Judy discovered that her room was barely more than a bed and a closet. The ceiling sloped with the roof from the doorway to the baseboard. The wall on her left was unfinished, with several large lead pipes running around the closet door. The wall on her right was peeling, papered with striped yellow wallpaper that had long faded white, with a small porthole window above the bed. A fine view, though; if she stood on the mattress and glanced out, she could see the lumpy, misshapen backs of buildings trailing down to the waterline. There seemed to be few streetlights here, and the sky was moonless but aglow with stars.

Far, far off, she could see a faint glow that strengthened and lessened in tempo. A lighthouse, out in the bay; the fog was rolling in and had swallowed all of the beam but it's bright heart. It was comforting to watch, even as the great bank of cloud like a misty mountain inched closer.

Settling down on the lumpy quilt, she popped the latches on her briefcase and began to pull out papers.

A black-and-white photo, sun-bleached, of an otter in the prime of his life. He stood next to his seated wife, their month-old infant swaddled in her lap. He posed with his chin high and his chest puffed, as though he were trying on the role of the stern paterfamilias. The small handwriting on the back dated that July 10th.

A missing mammal’s report, ink smeared from being shoved into a desk drawer and forgotten before it had dried. That one was dated to December 20th.

A clipped newspaper article, about a body dredged from the dockside. Date January 3rd.

An autopsy report. The handwriting started out ambitious and quickly cramped up in the margins and curled down the side of the page.The coroner’s verdict was death by drowning. Date January 5th.

And one more photo. A still picture of the dead man’s back, body misshapen by its swim. The fur parted to reveal a strange tattoo; recent, to judge from the red, inflamed skin. A circle, and inside it two triangles with their points overlapping. Ten lines stretched away from it, all across the otter’s back, like the rays of the sun.

What happened to you, Emmitt? 

Well, nothing she was going to solve tonight. And too much pouring over the case would just set her brain whirring and chase sleep away. A lingering unease prompted her to check the lock and the closet before she took off her heavy police blues, put on her nightdress, and crawled into bed. 

Before the wick of the lamp had stopped smoking, Judy was fast asleep. She dreamed of nothing - not the fog that stretched its fingers through the streets of the town, and not of the dark shapes stirring in the sea below.

Like a wire around the throat, a quiet wrapped the town tight.

Chapter Text

It was no sunnier than it had been, the sky was still cataract-gray. But it was warmer, the frost dripping from her window, and Judy awoke from her dreamless sleep feeling like she’d risen from the underworld. The unease of her fellow-lodger’s presence had evaporated with the mist, and when Miss Ježek informed her that the fox had woken up early for a stroll - “Or whatever he does” - Judy decided to do likewise.

The light of morning chased off the foreboding air that hung over Zinnsmouth. Now that she could see, it might have been a seaside getaway gone badly to seed. Every house was sorely in need of a whitewash, and all the shops had peeling paint. The townsfolk seemed to be mostly otters and beavers, plus a smattering of raccoons and squirrels, marmots and porcupines. None seemed to be in much hurry to get anywhere, nor much interested in stopping to chat with each other like they would in Bunnyburrow. Some cast her a glance; most just ignored her.

The city seemed to have been struck, once, with a large amount of money, from which it had never recovered. That was the impression she formed walking down Main Street, the only paved road in town. Crammed into the heart of the town was a haberdasher, a florist, a jeweller, a sign-painter, a shoe store, a tailor, a cigar shop, a restaurant, a candy store, and even a tiny little cinema that boasted a whole TWO SHOWS PER DAY! No garage, unfortunately. Signs in the windows advertised patent shoes and foreign tobacco - at prices to compete with the Red-Shoes District back in downtown Zootopia. But almost to a one, their windows were dark and dusty, the mannequins nude.

At the end of Main Street stood an establishment whose sign announced it as THE HOTCHKISS RAGAMUFFIN, and whose stairs led down into the cellar. It was the only building on the street that boasted electric lightbulbs on its sign, and it was clearly very much still in business, to judge from the battalion of empty brown bottles loitering out front. Prohibition seemed to be taking its sweet time here. Good thing I don’t work Vice.

A much smaller sign on the upstairs floor drew her eye. THE ZINNSMOUTH TELL-ALL. The local paper? She tried and failed to recall what rag had published the article about Otterton’s death. Can’t be much business out here, can there?

She turned the corner onto Bighorn Street. Up ahead rose the stubby little red-brick spire of the town hall. It was nothing special, but the gables and eaves were freshly painted white, and the roof looked newly tiled as well. Out front stood a little stele with a plaque, commemorating something, and a damp flag hanging from its pole. Much more prominent was the sign that pointed around the back of the building:

COMMUNITY VEGETABLE GARDEN

“Oh, shall we all toil together!”

NO UNACCOMPANIED YOUTHS

Directly across from that was a second spire, the steeple of a clapboard church so old and sagging that it might’ve been buried and unearthed again. First Church of Our Savior on the Sea, the gilt lettering over the door proudly proclaimed. Out behind it, directly past the town limits, Judy could spot a little dirt trail through the trees that wound up the side of a hill to an iron fence. Must be the cemetery. 

She glanced in the church’s windows, mindful not to look too much like a burglar, but it was locked. I’ll have to drop by later. She did notice that someone had staked a wooden sign beside the stairs, painted with the green and white of the Zootopian flag:

JOIN THE PURITY LEAGUE AND 

PROTECT OUR HOMES + VALUES

Bighorn Street curved along the cliff face, towards the docks. A number of houses, clapboard heavily supplemented with corrugated sheet metal, looking as though they’d been built outwards one room at a time - some leapfrogging on top of others as they went. Some of the windows bore wooden planks or iron bars. The alleys between them were narrow gullies that ran out into the street. They clustered around one large, brownstone tenement building that was strung with clotheslines like a ship’s rigging. The road was dirt and gravel, and badly potholed, some of them filled up to her waist with rust-colored rainwater. 

Judy wouldn’t have thought that you could tell the difference between a prey neighborhood and a predator one in a town this poor. Clearly, she’d been wrong. No one gave her any trouble, but the hairs on the back of her neck told her that eyes were following her. A wizened old wolverine on his porch. A couple of young ermines sitting on a fence made from tires. She hitched her paws into her belt and gave them a courteous nod, but each time they just glanced away from her and pretended they hadn’t seen.

As she walked, Judy got a view for the first time of the port proper. At the bottom of the cliffs she’d walked over just yesterday, a forlorn line of warehouses stood at attention. All of them advertised SAGINAW LIMITED in yellow paint on the walls, roofs, and over the doors, as though the owners were afraid someone might accidentally walk off with their warehouses. For the first time since she’d arrived, Judy saw actual trucks - three of them, crouched sleeping outside the metal walls, with a crane and winch drooping over them like a great metal river heron. Lined up across from them, against the water, sat a half-dozen empty quays, waiting patiently for business with their ropes strewn about. Green water lapped at wooden posts. Past that, she could see a long stretch of pebble beach trailing off toward the mirror-gray water.

As there were no ships around, the dockworkers had appropriated the truck beds as benches and were sitting about smoking and playing dominos. Most of them were scruffy-looking coyotes, all but two of them men, wearing heavy work coats with gloves dangling from their pockets. The kind of mammals that would’ve made Judy’s mother clutch her bag double-tight and turn right back where she’d come from. 

As she watched, though, a large, black-furred jackal - of all creatures - emerged from the warehouse door. Even in Zootopia proper, where you might spot grizzlies and alpacas on a daily basis, they were rare; as far as Judy knew, they didn’t exist outside of one restaurant where nine or ten congregated. The jackal made to speak to one of the coyotes, but he abandoned that plan and retreated back inside when the rest greeted him with a hail of rude gestures.

From what Miss Ježek had told her, the town had one mailman, one telegram, and no formal post office. They ought to have one - every township that made up Zootopia had one in theory - but it had never materialized. Judy suspected the funds allocated for it were lining the pocket of some Bellwether lickspittle back at City Hall, but she kept that theory to herself. The post came in by boat, and as the Saginaw Company owned the docks, they picked up the tab on the town’s behalf. The company equivalent was a tin-roofed, two room shack squatting beside the last warehouse. A pile of crates and parcels, thoroughly damp with last night’s fog, sat outside the door.

As she approached the warehouses, Judy could tell the coyotes were watching her, but they made no move to bother her, nor she them. She let herself in, stepping into a room that was almost entirely filled by a desk and a massive tree sloth in suspenders. He was one-third of the way through a paperback and looked startled that anyone was actually visiting the post office.

“...help you?”

Judy pulled a slip of paper out of her pocket and laid it on the table. “Good morning. Here to pick up my luggage?”

“...was it outside?”

“It was not.”

The sloth picked up the paper, examined it, and laboriously stood. He disappeared into the back and she heard boxes shuffling. Despite herself, her foot soon began tapping on the floor as he took his sweet time looking.

After many long minutes, his head emerged through the low doorway. “...not here.”

Judy furrowed her brow. “I wired this office yesterday. I spoke to Mr. LeMurr?”

The sloth just nodded, seemingly uncomprehending.

“Does he work here?”

“...our mailman.”

Judy tapped the slip of paper with one finger, trying not to sound impatient. “He says right here that it was received, sir. Yesterday morning.”

The sloth pondered that ponderously. It seemed like a great undertaking. Finally, he shrugged. “...guess it got picked up.”

“By whom?”

Another shrug. Judy took a deep breath and stilled her tapping foot. “Are you saying that you let someone walk off with my property?”

The sloth considered it. He seemed to realize that he’d painted himself into a corner here, and took a long, deliberate time in answering. Either he was trying to think of an excuse, or or he hoped that if he stood still enough she might forget he was there.

“...I’ll ask Mr. LeMurr,” he finally conceded.

I can’t believe this. She was sorely tempted to throw something; unfortunately, she doubted he was much of a dodger. Instead, Judy stalked forward and swiped a fountain pen off the desk, and a sheet of paper with it, and scribbled down Miss Ježek’s address. “This is where I’m staying. If you find it, send it here. Okay? I’ll be back tomorrow.”

He nodded slowly. His beady eyes never left her as she turned and huffed her way out of the post office.

It could be worse, she reminded herself as she stormed off. I could’ve sent my money, not just my clothes. Cold comfort; she didn’t have enough on her to purchase a new wardrobe on no notice, if there was even a place in town that could sell her one! And there certainly didn’t seem to be a bank to draw on. 

She was going to need to ask someone. The precinct was out of the question; even if Bogo was inclined to front her the cash, he’d certainly want to know why. It didn’t matter the circumstances; if Fangmeyer and Wolfhard and all the others found out that she had asked for police money for clothes shopping, they’d treat her like - well, like the woman she’d always been in their eyes. Bonnie and Stu were an option, but her mother would interrogate her first, and that might be hours. She’d want to know where her trouble-minded middle child was, and then why, and then what she needed money for, and the money order would come with a heaping helping of scolding. Exactly what she didn’t need right now.

One day, she decided. If they haven’t found it by tomorrow, I’ll - I’ll wire Petunia! Her older sister would give her no end of grief for this, that much was certain. Petunia had a sharp tongue - for dewey-eyed suitors as well as her own little siblings. But if anyone in the Hopps clan would understand her plight, then Petunia - the eternal bachelorette, unmarried at thirty-five - would pony up to save little Judy from looking foolish in front of men.

It was then, as she walked away from the warehouses and back toward Bighorn Street, that Judy noticed a narrow trail leading up the cliffside. It didn't seem to be private property; there were no warnings posted. She craned her neck looking up and thought she could just spot a green-tiled roof,  like a dragon's scaly back, up there. But the angle was too poor to make out much.

Well, it's not like the post office is expecting me… and it's important to know the lay of the land…

Somewhere, far away back in Bunnyburrow, her mother was shaking her head right now. She'd been scolded for this exact thing, what, a hundred times as a girl? Eavesdropping on gossip. Peeking in windows. Making maps of the forest and following them on expeditions that made her very late for supper. Too curious, girl. Too nosy for your own good. All them smarts and no sense! 

Judy had never listened to her mother so far, and now she had a badge to show for it. Why start now? She took the trail at a jog. 

As she crested the cliff face, slightly out of breath, she realized with awe that she'd badly underestimated what was up here. A sprawling manor house greeted her, a truly tacky turn-of-the-century monstrosity that looked out over the dismal ocean view. A squat, neoclassical beast, heavy on the columns and arches; white on its face, with dull green tiles on its roof. From the weight-iron fence, she could see smaller cabins and greenhouses behind it. 

Judy was no architect, but she would've bet money that it was modeled after some foreign palace. It was both new and poorly maintained; no corner was weathered or worn, but its roof was shedding, its fence rusting, and its flowerbeds bare dirt. It looked like it had been thrown up in one violent spasm of luxury, and then left here to stoically suffer the hangover. 

Where'd all the money in this town come from? Judy wondered, examining the gates. And where'd it go?

She’d turned to go when she heard the sound of hooves clip-clopping on shale. A short-horned ewe, much more out of breath than she, had climbed the trail after her. She glanced up at Judy through thick, round glasses and started in surprise.

“Oh!” She laid a hoof over her mouth. “You’re very early - I’m so sorry, I must’ve forgotten my appointments.” She went fishing in her small, sensible purse, to the tune of jangling keys. “Silly thing - let me just get the gate open.”

Judy held up a paw to stop her. “No, no. I don’t have an appointment. I was just - sightseeing.” 

Even to her own ears, the excuse sounded feeble, and yet the ewe didn’t seem at all surprised. “Oh! And you came to see the library? I’d assumed you were from the university.”

Judy glanced back down at the town, wondering if she’d somehow missed a college. “The-”

“The Miskapawnic, up in Barkham. Students take the train down, or professors - sometimes they send their secretaries; I assumed…” At last, she held up the key she wanted and waddled forward to open the gate. Up close, she was rather plump, mostly around the hips. Small, for a bighorn sheep, which meant at least twice Judy’s size. She wore a heavy cashmere sweater over a long, blue skirt. Her only jewelry was a shiny silver bangle around one hoof.

“Most of the mammals who live here are - oh come now, it’s always fussy - aren’t terribly big readers. But Missus Ovis is very adamant about the library being open to all comers.”  She puffed up her cheeks and fiercely jiggled the key in the lock. “She wants to leave it as her endowment to the town.”

“Isn’t Barkham hours from here?”

“Four and a half, by train. And it’s quite the walk from the station.” With a final wrench, the lock gave way and the gate squeaked open. The ewe adjusted her glasses, which had gone crooked in the struggle, and patted down her wool with dignity. “But the Ovis collection is among the finest in the country. Would you like to see?”

The great, hunched house was alluring. Any other day… no, she was here to work, not play gadabout. “I’ll come back,” she promised, and as an afterthought, she extended a paw. “Constable Judy Hopps. I didn’t get your name?”

“Oh!” The sheep’s eyes rapidly scanned her, and for the first time, seemed to take in her navy blue coat, brass fittings, and black boots. Her face bloomed red. “Oh my - I’m so sorry, Officer, I didn’t realize - Dollie Clover, Ma’am, at your service-”

Being around this sheep put Judy in mind of her little cousin Bluebelle and her nervous lisp. Poor girl’s walking around spring-loaded, as her mother liked to say. Smiling - and careful not to move too sharply - she reached out and gave Dollie a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Judy’s fine. I’m not here on police business.”

Dollie nodded so quickly that she almost lost her glasses again. “Of course. Of course. I’m sorry - mistaking you for a secretary; I don’t know what I was thinking!” She giggled, only a touch fearfully. “It must be so thrilling, Offic- erm, Judy, I mean - you're welcome any time. Really - a-and if it's late or you need me, anytime, just ask after me at the church and someone'll come collect me for you.”

Judy had been expecting a polite yes or a nervous no, not this level of enthusiasm. She watched as Dollie swallowed nervously - opening her mouth and then closing it, locking eyes and then hurriedly averting them. She seemed to be caught between warring desires. To give the officer some respectful space, or to breathlessly interrogate her. Judy watched and tried not to grin. Bet I know which she’ll pick.

“And, um… a-are you here about the fellow who died, by any chance?”

Ding ding ding! We have a winner. That explained her eagerness; the poor girl was starved for hot gossip. Judy contemplated giving her the standard ‘police business’, but she wagered that would only make Dollie either clam up or start apologizing. She leaned casually against the iron fence as though they were just two neighbors chatting. “Is that story going around?”

Dollie nodded eagerly. “It's all anyone's talking about. We sometimes get punch-ups or brawls down at the Ragamuffin - once a bad fire. But I don’t think we’ve ever had a death - n-not besides, you know, old age and pneumonia.” Her eyes widened. “If you’re here, do you think it was a murder?”

Judy shrugged in lieu of answer. “What are mammals saying?”

“All kinds of things. Mary Beth told me it was a suicide, but most of the church aunties in town are saying he was killed over a woman. No one knows who, though. It must’ve been one of the Dockies - they hate the sailors, always getting drunk and picking fights…”

“The coyotes down at the warehouses?”

Dollie’s face took on a grim expression. “We stay away from them. Most Dockies are foreigners - gamblers and moonshiners too. The company is usually very strict about keeping them downtown and not letting them mix with the sailors and crabbers. That poor otter must’ve come off one of the crab boats and done something to make them mad - if one of them hates you, they all go after you.” She shivered at the thought.

Judy nodded thoughtfully. Alright, we’ve learned that Dollie doesn’t know anything. Emmitt Otterton, in life, had been a second-rate accountant at a third-rate bank, and she sincerely doubted that he’d ever moonlighted as a crabber. But this is how we build a case. Find out what people think happened. Compare that to what did happen. And see what doesn’t fit.

She put on a gentle smile. “Thank you, Dollie. That’s a big help. I’ll be sure to stop by later.”

And she left Dollie at the gate. Even as she walked away, Judy could feel Dollie’s eyes following her. And no sooner had she reached the trees and the trailhead than suddenly a voice blurted out from behind her:

“If there's any way at all I can help with the investigation - n-not that I mean to intrude! I'm just happy to…”

Judy turned back with a polite smile and made a mental note not to tell Dollie anything she didn't want the whole town knowing. 

“I'll let you know if I need anything.”