Several hours had went by since Vulpecula first entered One Step Back, much of the customers there when he entered had been replaced by a new cast. The glass Vulpecula spun around in his hand was empty, as it would remain. Bartender Red having since cut him off.
“What you must understand though, is that they weren't methodical. They weren't driven by anger or by frustration, or bitterness. They were driven by the entertainment-value of it all. That's what's heartbreaking about it.” Vulpecula explained, somehow with a complete knowingness of how the perpetrator's thought.
“Heartbreaking?” Bartender Red said, his full-attention on Vulpecula, now that the bar had died down.
“Give me a man who does bad things because he's bad, I'll find you one who does good things because he's good. But a man, weighted down in neither spectrum, driven by a want, nay, a need for mental stimulation.”
“Sure we're still talking about the Cemetery Man?” asked Red, a raised eyebrow and a half-smile. Vulpecula offered no quips or comment. “Alright, well, now you know the epitaphs spell out this acrostic, how exactly does that help with finding him?”
“Them. And do you know who etches in all those tombstones for Alo Cemetery?”
“No?”
“Neither did I.”
7.
Cascade provided all the supplies needed for funeral preparation. Once a family owned operation, the business became corporate when a couple suits bought the company with a deal the original owners couldn't refuse. That's what the trusty old internet said. Rumor has it Cascade was on the brink of bankruptcy and all this and that, but Vulpecula chose not to concern himself with such trivial details.
The important matter is Cascade stood larger than ever as one of the primary funeral parlors in all Urgway. For convenience, practically all funerals in the Alo Cemetery were conducted by the neighboring business.
Vulpecula chose to not bother calling Psitticus with the little unraveling, after all, his involvement would be more bothersome than helpful.
Instead, The Fox Detective, Lacerta, and Apus arrived near Cascade with well-groomed suits and attempted watery eyes.
They walked up concrete steps, V's left-paw wrapped around a metal rail that reminded him more of a pipe than what it was meant as. Vulpecula flinched at first, the gelid winter made the rail cold to the touch, and the frosty snow hid most of the painted white concrete stairs, like flakes of dandruff on an albino's head.
The whole building reminded Vulpecula of a cross between a church and a retirement home. Likely, Water Lily churchgoers were the target demographic. Though, individuals in retirement homes were equally valuable, albeit, in a separate way.
A stained-glass door at the front-entrance depicted nothing descript, a repeating circle pattern with an array of colors outlining each.
As Vulpecula walked inside, the smell of distinguishable plainness, the smell of that waitress at Beagle's Bagels, that smell lingered and encumbered the room. Reminded Vulpecula of a hospital in that respect.
The floors were carpeted, dark-red, complimented by the decoration of orange flowers spread about in a tiled fashion. In-front of them, the first thing visible was not a service desk, but two large wooden chairs, each with arm-rests and dark-red cushions, same color as the floor.
Between them, a bouquet of flowers filled up a long, narrow vase. The flowers were tightly packed, with no room to breathe, in that melancholy funeral-esque style, a plain white and red that looks so bleak Vulpecula thought he was looking at a photograph from a grainy film in the sixties. Depressing tackiness rubbed down on every crevice, nook and cranny, like ointment on a wide-spread rash.
Vulpecula walked forward. For a strange reason, he didn't feel uncomfortable with it.
Hospitals had always bothered him, the smell of ammonia and urine, and the knowledge that someone most likely died in the small interval of his visit. In Cascade, he reaped a great benefit from knowing the deed was already finished. To the left of the chairs, Vulpecula walked up the spiraling staircase, but not before taking a moment to adjust his collar; haphazardly. The suit was all a part of the act.
The wooden steps creaked with each stamp down onto them, and Vulpecula made note of the homeliness of Cascade. Hardly a corporate professionalism, The Fox Detective pondered whether they'd made any modification to the abode's confines and aesthetic.
“Excuse me,” a voice called out, “Excuse me, yes?”
Vulpecula's head peeked over the staircase's rails and made eye-contact with a small brown feline, the top of his head encroached with hair-gel; fur slicked back. “Oh, hello, maybe you'll be able to offer us an assist, we're looking for Akil Somali, can you help us?”
“I'm Ajou Somali, his younger brother. This is both our establishment, what can I do for you?” Akil spoke with proud-stature and waivered poise, a cat of class, and yet, the crowded and cramp funeral parlor suggested neither.
“You and your brother run this, by yourselves? We read it's owned by Cascade Corporations.” Vulpecula said, a speculative tone that waned once he realized his 'sister had just died'. “My sister recently, most unfortunately, expired, and my friends and I, both of them very close to her, were looking at a smooth and hassle-free burial. I believe you recently buried my half-cousin, Steven Fosbis?” The Fox Detective's act was far from extraordinary, and he knew it. His voice spoke rapid-fast and without delay, unable to enunciate the proper inflection.
Still, Ajou Somali seemed calm and unabashed, a man who ran a funeral parlor was used to all varieties of grievance, a stuttering buffoon in shock was one of them. “Ah, yes, where do I begin with that? Let's see,” Ajou said, his hand-gestures miming as if he was skimming his finger through a paragraph in the air. “First, my brother and I own Cascade Corporations, yes, that is very accurate, yes, indeed. And, while I certainly recall the name Steven Fosbis, I can't with complete confidence recall us working on him. All of our work is kept on a database, however, and for chances' sake, let's say my brother Akil worked on that one.” His words were faster than The Fox Detective's, but with so much more comfort. “And finally, I am most sad to hear about your sister's death.” Ajou finished, adding a final “Awh” cry that couldn't have sounded faker.
“I think about her sometimes,” Vulpecula said, “What I'd say if I could, if I knew,” He stopped, with his best attempts at squeezing crocodile tears.
“But we mustn't dwell on if's and could's, my friend, I know exactly what you're feeling and in-fact, it isn't uncommon. You know,” Ajou said, stopping for a brief second, “If you'd step inside our office, I'd be more than happy to square you away and make this, as you said, a smooth and hassle-free burial.” The cat smiled, bowing his head as he made small glances to Lacerta and Apus.
Vulpecula nodded his head graciously and followed as Ajou led them to a door, opposite the staircase, a wooden one with a mahogany finish.
“As said, I am very saddened to hear about the loss of your sister, was she ill?” The Cat inquired, leading into the office-space and motioning toward the two chairs sitting in-front of the desk. “I can fetch a third chair if you'd like?” He asked, turning his attention back over to the three.
Vulpecula had no doubts Ajou could fetch a third chair for them. That wasn't much up for discussion, but rather, looking at the stuffy encumbered room, he wondered whether a third chair could even be wedged in. A hyperbole, but not too outlandish of one. The room was a tinsie tiny space eight-by-eight at most, with a desk that more-or-less engulfed it all. In-front of that desk, was a chair for Ajou, a window peeking outside, and a bulletin board with various nondescript dates and addresses that meant nothing significant to Vulpecula.
The Fox Detective shook his head at Ajou, allowing Lacerta and Apus to take the two vacant chairs while he stood.
Ajou smiled politely before walking over to his desk, which was, almost every bit as wide as the room. In-fact, a small metal trash-bin sat beside it, and Ajou had to step over it in-order to reach the front-side of the desk.
“Ah, yes, and so, was your sister ill prior?” The suavely dressed cat asked again, curious wide-eyes directed at them, sitting in his desk, his hands together like a man delivering a prayer.
“She was run-over by a drunk driver,” Vulpecula responded.
Ajou cringed, “That sounds like a tough one, closed-casket then? Either that, or my brother and I do offer restoration services and will do our best to bring her back to a pleasant light.”
“Do you offer a lot of services like that, restoration services, do you conduct the ceremony and offer other items as well? Caskets, and the like?” Vulpecula asked.
“Cascade offers all funeral arrangement services. My brother and I inquired the funeral parlor with that fullest intent. The Cascade website features all our different caskets, the type, the size, so on and so forth. Other-wise, we offer restoration services, tombstones, and the decoration for the ceremony. It is also your choice whether your sister's ceremony will be upstairs or in an outside tent at Alo Cemetery, which is where the bodies are oftentimes buried.” Ajou didn't have the empathetic stare of a man attuned with conventional emotion, he seemed like an actor offering an audition, like Vulpecula claiming the loss of his sister. Only difference is Ajou was a good actor.
“Do you also etch in the epitaphs?” Lacerta interjected, not abruptly, calmly, but unwanted by The Fox Detective.
Vulpecula resisted the urge to glare at his lizard acquaintance, if only because his eyes knew to glue themselves to Ajou's reaction. The reaction didn't disappoint. And while, Vulpecula would've most certainly preferred to keep such a specific question out of Ajou's mind, the look on the cat's face told all he needed to see. A soft-smile, a smile that wasn't just or reasonable in such a situation, but still very real. Even a knowing look to Vulpecula from Ajou told him he understood the connection they were making, but instead of confronting them, the younger Somali sibling said plainly: “Yes, epitaphs are included with our work on the tombstones.”
8.
“We had them,” Vulpecula announced firmly, “But it doesn't really matter whether somebody did something or not, now does it?”
“Not really,” Bartender Red admitted.
One Step Back might as well have been closed by this juncture. Nobody frequented it. A ghost-town, aside from Vulpecula and Red, of course. It had been a long time since Vulpecula first entered it, and by now, his light buzz of intoxication had left him.
“What you really need is evidence that someone did something, and that's fair, I mean, it wouldn't be fair if a prosecutor's basis was a smile and a stare, but at that moment, I knew Ajou at least, was responsible for what happened at Alo Cemetery.”
“Yeah, I understand,” Red said, pouring himself a drink of his own, and Vulpecula found himself wondering how much of a nuisance he was being to him, “How did you find a way to prove it?”
“Those nondescript notes on their bulletin board? Those weren't as nondescript as I originally thought. But, luckily, my mind made a mental note of them. Turns out they were circled names of deceased that'd been worked on by Cascade. I knew the dates were intended for a continuation of their magnum opus.” Vulpecula lied, his acting having improved so much in such a short-time, but at least this had sprinklings of the truth.
In truth, Vulpecula considered himself above the law in that respect. Choosing against an aimless plea to Detective Psitticus of his suspicions, instead, Vulpecula did what he had done only sometime earlier with Comet Fowley, and broke into Cascade after-hours, under the nose of his friends.
Upstairs, beyond the ceremonial room with aisles and rows for seating, through the curtains of the altar, he discovered a second staircase descending. A chill overtook when he made discovery he was walking toward their morgue.
The Fox Detective yearned very much not to run into the vision of a lifeless corpse, and instead, had the benefit of finding a small desk first. A computer sat on top of it. On it, no passwords or barricades, in-theory, nothing worth hiding was on the laptop. Still, Vulpecula easily discovered the database equipped with all the Somali family's previous efforts. This included Harris Woof, Stephen Fosbis, and Benjamin Sexton.
Evidence was much easier to obtain when one didn't have to play with unfair limitations. By the book, Urgway's Police Department would ask about this, and would most certainly come up with nothing.
The story of circled dates wasn't an entire lie, but it wasn't on the bulletin board. A calendar beside the desk had them. Marked with smiley-faces. The next date circled was the day of The Giving.
9.
Days later, Vulpecula found himself invited back to the Alo Cemetery by a phone-call from Psitticus. The day of The Giving as one would have it.
The Fox Detective had informed Psitticus of the same lie he'd feed Bartender Red later on in the day. That Akil and Ajou Somali had intentions to act again on the night of Urgway's big-holiday while everyone was nestled into their beds commemorating the winter solstice.
Lacerta and Apus had since gone off to their respective families for the holiday-season, whereas Vulpecula had opted to stay in Urgway for the time. And in that time, Vulpecula only delved deeper into his stupor of befuddled principles and shattered will. Like an alarm-clock going off in someone's brain, but instead of turning it off in the morning, Vulpecula simply decided to go on about his day with it on.
The Fox Detective made his way back to Alo Cemetery again, a big cemetery, one of the biggest in Urgway, it took him some feet before he ran into Officer Psitticus. Psitticus glanced at him only for a second, standing in-front of a tombstone with somber eyes and a downward beak.
Vulpecula walked beside him, once more awkwardly fidgeting with the fur on his chin. As the fox arrived as the parrot's side, he stared down at the tombstone:
Lucky Prescott
“A friend of yours?” Vulpecula asked, plain-face. He felt his body shivering within his fur with every minute.
“Hardly such,” the parrot answered, still wearing his big black-coat, “He always hated his last name, hated it. Got a lot of comments at his expense for it, so he demanded to be called Officer Lucky.”
“How'd he die?” Vulpecula asked.
“Ironically,” Psitticus replied, and continued: “He lived from 1992 until 2016. Or, not until, that isn't what the big-rock says. It says 1992 dash 2016, and it's strange, the smallest detail of a tombstone is the one with the most significance. That little dash is his life, his existence in Urgway, in Maharris, … in this world, and now it's over. That little dash is everything, until inevitably it's nothing.”
“Was he a good man?”
“Good is subjective,” Psitticus smiled, walking away from Officer Lucky's grave, “But yes, I'd say he was one. So many on the force, so many are here for the wrong reason. They take on this job because they want the respect that comes with the badge. They want money or power or anything else. And when they discover how little respect is given, how little wealth, and how oftentimes they'll feel powerful, they become corrupt. But I can say, at least for the most part, Lucky really did want to make a difference.”
“I wonder if I am in it for the wrong reason or not.” Vulpecula said, following where Psitticus led.
“I can smell the alcohol on your breath every time I am within a couple feet of you,” Psitticus said, a small chuckle, “That tells me it gets to you. Tells me you care.”
“I am not so certain,” Vulpecula admitted.
“I can also smell doubt and fear, negative thoughts, always the worst of yourself. Vivian Herms made the same deduction.”
“I don't think negatively about myself,” Vulpecula said, defensively. He wondered if it sounded as weak and desperate to Psitticus as it did to him.
“You don't have to. Those thoughts are already there, etched into your subconscious. Like chalk drawings inside a cave.”
“The blank chalkboard,” Vulpecula mumbled to himself beneath his breath, but Psitticus eavesdropped.
“Either that chalkboard isn't
as blank as you thought, or there's a suicidal whiteboard a few rooms down from it,” jested the parrot, who laughed at his own joke.
After a silence, Psitticus sighed, “In this world, you have a limited amount of time, all of us, a limited amount of days, a limited amount of years. Most of us, less than one-hundred. Ask yourself if this is who you are, if you believe in it, and if you can live with it. Because that alcohol I smell on your breath, that's the beginning of something. Decide for yourself if it's worth it, decide for yourself if the reason you do it is worth it. The real reason you do it, not the reason you wish you did it.”
Vulpecula made a mental note of Psitticus' words in the blank chalkboard, and smiled, “Why did you call me down here? Did Akil and Ajou Somali show up last night?”
“They did,” Psitticus answered. “In the dark, I had some of my men wait around for them. Sure enough, your evidence ended up being accurate,” Psitticus walked further out into Alo Cemetery, until, at last, Vulpecula saw a pile of wooden planks and a zipped-up bag lying indented in the snow.
Several members of the Urgway Police Department stood by the scene with dejected looks. One in-particular, a dog whose face seemed oddly amused, who adjusted his collar every once in a while, like some sort-of compulsive twitch. Vulpecula stared at him for only a moment, fidgeting with the fur on his chin.
“Akil and Ajou were taken aghast but managed to escape. At least now we can identify them as the perpetrators and we have their bags and equipment as evidence.”
“They'll be on the run,” Vulpecula commented.
“Indeed.” Psitticus said, shrugging his shoulders, though, The Fox didn't have to also be a Detective to sense how dissatisfied he was with the results, “Can't understand why they'd even bother doing something like this anyways.”
“Some do the right thing for the wrong reasons, some do the wrong thing for the right reasons, and others do the wrong thing because they're bored.”
10.
“At least you solved the case,” Bartender Red assured. “They'll be snatched up in a day or so's time.”
The Canes Files Page 21
