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Alton Woods, South Minnesota

December 4th 1997.

Anywhere is a place. Its a time and a place and as such, it is fixed. When someone says 'anywhere', you'd better be damned sure that both you and them know where 'anywhere' is, because its always somewhere. Usually where you'd least expect it to be.

It just so happens that 'anywhere' became an open field. An open field covered with snow and dried blood, the centerpiece an overturned hatchback. Three stiffs in the car, four shots to the chest each, five cigarette butts in the Crown Vic ashtray. One of the bodies was that of a state trooper. Tough shit. Puffs of smoke rise from my cigarette as I stand in the biting cold. Snow's been falling for weeks now. Every night, it would descend upon the unwary and cover the entire town in a paralyzing mixture that resembled powdered sugar from a distance. A silent town shaken by a murder. This would get the old rumor mill going.

Sheriff found them. First responding too. A passing driver spotted them, mist on the windows and all. Assume occam's razor. Simplest solution usually correct. Probably a mob hit with one unwitting witness. No cars reported shots fired. Must have been playing vigilante. I retell these thought to Tillman, who just nods. He nods and whispers something. The radio buzzes into life. Reminds me briefly of the report that came in just as our graveyard shift was ending. Two counts of 419, confirmed as 187 seconds later. I sipped my coffee with my feet on the table. Tillman put some files away.

"Get that one, will ya?"

I did. Here we are. Managed to slip up and forget my winter jacket. Shivers run wild on my back. CSI is taking pictures out there while we drink even more coffee. Confirming stereotypes wasn't on my to-do today. Tillman rolls the window down, letting more cold air in, and drops his cigarette down into the snow. Unsatisfied with the job the snow did, he slides the door open and snuffs it out with the sole of his shoe. Always methodical, that Tillman. Snowflakes play against the headlights of the car parked opposite us. Crime scene duty always involves terrible parking jobs. Saves space, they say. Why do they need an ambulance? The blood coming from the remains of what were once their chests should have been hint enough. I read and re-read the printout of our talk on the phone. My fingers glide against the perforated edges of the paper, feeling each individual hole, the texture of the fax paper more than familiar to me. This'll go into a binder later.

"Two dead bodies in a car."

"Where?"

"Some ways away. Out by old Fielding's farm."

"What's the skinny?"

"Car flipped over, two 419's, signs of a possible 187."

"Really? Are you-"

"Scratch that, confirmed for 187."

"Who called it in?"

"Commuter, half an hour ago."

"Took your sweet time."

"Fuck off."

Deciding that I've had enough of just sitting around, skimming over the same reports we've seen and read a dozen times this morning, I open the door and stand up. A trooper jacket lies discarded on the hood. Someone must've forgotten it. Tillman follows my lead, glaring unhappily at the heavens as snowflakes catch onto his fur. He grunts something and steps off the road and into a ditch. His shoes squeak. Out in the distance three or four vaguely human shapes shuffle around a car, scene after scene burnt solid in time by a series of flashes. Photography still wasn't finished. Evidence neither. We'd still have to wait. I just wanted to see what's what and Tillman immediately assumes we're moving. Classic.

Stuffing my paws into my pockets, I follow him, nearly slipping on a snowdrift. With my shoes full of snow I pull my shoulders up and trudge around skidmark after skidmark of dried blood. My mind instantly shoots into analysis mode. If the car rolled, the blood had no reason to be there. We still needed a positive ID on the driver. Passenger confirmed for state trooper. Possible carjack followed by kidnapping? No one called anything in. Besides, who would kidnap a state trooper? Hardly rich fellows, to say nothing of their families. Slowly the scene fades into sight. I take tally of the faces. Dillon, hyena, tall, bald for the most part. Our coroner. Lewis, cheetah, stout, well-fed, fresh-faced but experienced. Our CSI man. And of course, Tillman. Brown wolf, average height, average build, average face. If I had to pick one man I couldn't be able to find in a crowd of one hundred people, it would be Tillman. Inside joke is he should be a terrorist. Completely incognito. No mask needed.

Dillon kneels and lifts a paw that is sticking out the driver's side door. Slowly he rolls it over and moves some of the fingers. Equally slowly he puts it down where he found it. I squat behind him and try to see what he's seeing. He shakes his head.

"Any news?" I ask and he jumps.

"Jesus, Harris. Don't sneak up on me like that." He says but doesn't turn. Lewis takes a wide angle shot of the car from the front and two more of the grille. Close-ups. LA Traffic would probably want guys like him. They always complained about a lack of detailed frontal shots. Three or four of them around a table, looking at stained polaroids. It could never tell you what you wanted to know. The infernal complaining would go on until the small hours of the morning and by that time, the vehicle would already be in the pound. Two corpses stare back at me as I stare in. One belongs to what was once a moderately attractive red panda, a female, dressed in skimpy clothing, her arms flailing in the direction of the roof. Slowly I waltz around the car and kneel on the other side, peering in. State trooper, or stolen jacket, same pose as the other stiff, dried blood on a neat shirt, unbuttoned. Must've been driving for some time. Shattered glass peppers the interior from top to bottom. Blood on the dash. Connect that to the headwound, Harris. Trauma, blunt. Possible cause of death? Whole car buried under snow. Nothing in the back. Just some files scattered around. I pick one up and rotate my wrist, looking it over. Rubbish. Burnt. No clue what it says. Forensics will make sense of that one.

I stand back up and puff at the air, expanding the lining of the pockets even further as I try to keep warm.

"Cause of death should be obvious, but I'll confirm when I cut them open." Dillon says thinly to no one in particular, standing back up and sniffing the air "Could be trauma from the actual impact."

"Time of death?" I ask, reassured by Dillon confirming what I thought.

"No clue. Can't take their temperature. They're frozen solid." Lewis turns on his heel and walks back to the convoy of vehicles on the interstate "But If I had to assume, I'd say eight to twelve hours ago."

Tillman walks around the metal coffin and approaches us from the back, dropping his nth cigarette of the day into the snow. Dillon picks it up and stuffs it into his pocket so as to not contaminate the scene. More flashes behind us as Lewis takes a few more photos of the barely visible skidmarks.

"Nothing's been moved. Whole interior is completely frozen in time." Lewis says and lays his camera slack against his chest, the sling keeping it steady, bouncing as he walked around, his thick southern accent making him seem out of place "Skidmarks out back indicate an attempt at breaking, but no cigar. More to the point, no tire tracks on the actual interstate. Seems he purposely diverted the car into the snow, tried to brake, ended up flipping, and landed on the roof."

"What if someone rear-ended him and flipped him over?" I ask and touch my paw to my chin "Could be the shots were inflicted post-mortem."

"Possibly. Nothing left for you boys to do here. We'll have more for you when we get the vehicle out of the snow. Evidence could be scattered around in there. No telling right now." Lewis interjects out of the blue, walking up behind us. "What are your thoughts on all this so far?"

"Must've swerved off the highway. Could be that they were chased. Blood by the edge of the road doesn't add up." I reply, slowly walking back to our Crown Vic, and motion towards Tillman, who follows me at once "Maybe the shooter was injured?"

"Possible." Dillon adds as the three of us follow Lewis back onto the highway. The snowfall made the crime scene a nightmare. Any and all traces of the car's trajectory become lost in the waves of white. I stop for a moment and take in the scene. A convoy of response vehicles this large is unheard of in our county. Brightly-coloured emergency light stream in through the fog as weak slivers of daylight illuminate the scene.

"Welcome to sunny Minnesota." I say through clattering teeth, prompting the three men in front of me to turn around, with shoulders hunched, and look at me. "What?" I ask and Tillman points down.

"You're standing in evidence, cowboy."

Lewis laughs. Dillon shakes his head, moaning something about 'city boys'. Carefully I lift my foot out of the skidmark and follow the men up the shoulder. Doors pop open in unison along the convoy as several people duck into their cars at once. I fasten my seatbelt and turn the key in the ignition. Sputtering. Goddamn cold mornings.

"Needs a jump again." I say and Tillman gets out, cables in hand, and walks casually to the hood of the ambulance. With one hand he pops it open and steadies it with the other. Without any fuss, he opens the driver side door, gets in, turns the damn thing on and gives a thumbs up. I turn the keys once more and sure enough, she springs into life. A sigh lingers on my lips but I restrain it. L.A. was warm at least.

An hour later we're at Charlene's, a diner smack dab in the middle of town, sipping our coffees. Tillman is reading the papers with a neutral frown on his face. Stabbing my fork into the scrambled eggs, I wonder exactly how a frown can be neutral. He'd know, of course. Closing my eyes slightly, I feel the rush of blood in my ears and think back, trying to recall when I last saw Tillman show any emotions apart from anger and disinterest. He perpetually lingered in this emotional limbo. On neither side of the wall if you will. Three resonating taps break the silence as my partner dries his teaspoon. Said he'd cut down on his coffee. Bullshit. He had at least two cups while I wasn't looking. My neck pops as I turn it to look outside into the parking lot. Usual fare of trucks. Our little Vic parked between two eighteen-wheelers. One of the drivers is still in the cab with his feet on the dash, flipping page after page of the same papers Tillman is reading. Something about the bird flu and The Diary of Anne Frank. Passively I steal words from the cover.

A waitress shuffles past us, her tail nearly smacking me in the face. Snow leopard. How appropriate. Leaning out of our booth, I eye her behind, eliciting a laugh from Tillman. "Bachelors" he says with a knowing laugh and folds the paper shut, his toast slowly cooling on the plain white plate. Always with that self-righteous I'm-married-and-you're-not bullshit. A sneer of disapproval dances over my face as I eat.

"What'cha make of this case, eh?" He asks and I pause, a forkful of scrambled egg hovering inches away from my mouth.

"Mob hit. Someone saw something they weren't supposed to see. Guy gets out and whacks 'em too." I make a finger gun and shoot twice, mouthing a 'pow' each time "Just hope it isn't. Hate to see the feds involved."

"Same here. Last I need is those monkeys fucking around." Tillman smirks uncomfortably. Seems he had run-ins with them before. In L.A. they were a pain in the ass. Take the whole scene over in a matter of seconds.

"I don't think it's a mob hit." I look up, surprised at this utterance "Nothing else found for miles up or down the road. Nothing for them to see."

"Crime of passion?" I grab the paper and look over the front page, rereading the same words again.

"No clue. Not until we get an ID." Tillman replies and taps his watch "Almost nine. Pay up and get oscar-mike, cowboy."

With a snap of my fingers, I make the waitress appear beside us. Young, smiling, full of life. A rare sight in Alton Woods. She smiles as I hand her the cash. My eyes wander to her bottom once more as she walks away. Tillman stands up and walks away, obviously lacking the patience for my wandering eyes. Light on my feet, I follow him. Sometimes he seems annoyed at having a partner that's a decade younger than him. So far, he didn't complain. Just made annoying me into a sport. But we work together when it matters. At least I like to think that. Comforting and so on. In one fluid motion he slides his jacket onto his shoulders and pushes the door open. I follow him outside and we light our cigarettes in unison. Old man Rutledge gives us a wave as he stumbles across the pavement. We wave back and duck into our Vic. Tillman grabs the radio.

"Dispatch, Union Nine here. Any news?" He says and takes a drag, releasing the button on the side of the mic.

"Union Nine, we've got an ID on your two stiffs. Over." Lanza's broken voice stutters through the speakers as I start the car, mentally mapping out where we need to go.

"Copy, dispatch. We're on our way."

I catch a glance of myself in the rear-view, locking eyes with my reflection. Old and tired for a thirty-year-old. Light brown fur, badly kept and shaggy orange mane, sagging eyes. Too far apart. Quiet blood flood in my brain. Lions have become a rare sight outside of California. People look at me weirdly. Town of wolves.

Pulling out of the parking lot, we see the waitress from earlier leaning against the open door of the diner with a cigarette in hand. For a moment I consider waving. What can I say? Always had a weakness towards felines. The streets are dead. Porches lay empty and shut, mailboxes covered in snow, cars lining the driveways, all quiet and motionless. Still life. Icicles hang from the power lines. Probably a power cut later tonight. The motel has a generator, most likely. Nobody opens a motel in south Minnesota without a backup generator. Instinctively I feel around for my cellphone. Left it back at the motel. No reception here anyway. Holster snags on my jacket. I tuck it back in. Hopefully the state trooper I nabbed this from found a replacement. I'll mail it later anyway.

"What's with the jacket?" Tillman asks me, adding to my suspicions about him having ESP.

"Stolen."

"Oh."