Sighing, he picked up the last piece of evidence in the file. “Anyway, Baldwin and Dobthon were definitely thmokerth, but there’th no evidenthe about the otherth. Tweety did find one more thing, though. The latht contact anyone had with Athhley Dobthon wath a textht she thent her thithter Thioban with a picture the took. The captthion readth ‘Check out thith drunk creeper’, thquare bracketth, ‘laugh track’, but the picture ith of a dark, theemingly empty alleyway, with thtairth leading up to it. It appearth to be the thame one Mithter Wattth dethcribed in hith thtatement, the one that area mapth thay leadth to Tron Thquare, but it doethn’t look like there’th anyone in it. Tweety learned thomething about photographic enhanthement when he wath working on that mythtery thow back in the ninetieth—which, good for him, I don’t think the retht of uth have had much to do with that thort of thing—and he wath able to do thomething I don’t underthtand to the picture until it showth the outline of a giant hand. He thayth he can’t shake the feeling that it’th beckoning.” He scoffed and tossed the photograph back onto the file. “Perthonally, I don’t think we have any proof that Mithth Dobthon wathn’t a Toon, tho it’th probably jutht an incompetent animator. Thith ith ridiculouth. End recording.”
For the next few months, things continued much as they had been. They slowly worked their way through mountains of paper, following up on cold trails, getting shouted at by people who thought they were through with this, and arguing about staples. Maybe once a week or so, Daffy would sit down to record a statement only for the Foley to jump to a completely different track, forcing him to set aside the digital recorder and reach for the reel to reel tape recorder. He’d sent Wile E to the shops around London looking for a smaller tape recorder that was less of a pain in the tail feathers to set up and operate on short notice. Then he thought better of it, and sent Porky looking for one instead. He hadn’t had any better luck finding one, but at least if he did, it would be less likely to blow up in his face.
Anyway, it was strange. Maybe he was thinking about it too hard nowadays, but it seemed like the more he used the reel to reel recorder, the harder it was to get set up quickly. He’d have thought that the more experience he got with it, the easier it would be, but no. Then again, he had to admit that when he’d used one—or “used” one—in cartoons, it had always been scripted, and all he’d had to do was plunk it down on the desk and start it going. This wasn’t a cartoon, it was a real job, and now he had to actually do the work himself.
Yeah. That had to be it.
The Institute closed for a couple of weeks for Christmas. Daffy thought about flying back to California and spending Christmas in Toon Town, but the possibility of a white Christmas was higher in London, so he decided to stay. Wasn’t like there was anybody back there who would really miss him, after all. The other three didn’t contact him during their break, which drove Daffy crazy—crazier than usual—so when they got back, he made them all tell him exactly what they’d been up to. They’d all seemed reluctant, but they’d humored him, at least.
What hurt the most was that even Bugs hadn’t wanted to spend time with him at Christmas.
They’d been back for almost two weeks and he was hard at work when there was a polite tap at his office door. Daffy, who was in the middle of sorting out some papers, didn’t even look up. “Come in, Wile E.”
The door creaked open and Wile E poked his head in. “How did you know that it was I at your door?”
“There’th glathth in the window,” Daffy pointed out, raising his head and giving Wile E a glare. “Bethideth, you’re the only one who knockth anymore. Or at leatht who knockth firtht. What’th up, doc?”
Wile E preened for just a moment; Daffy knew he was momentarily considering the possibility of obtaining a doctorate degree. Then he gathered himself with a cough. “Ahem. Rosie called down from the front desk to indicate that we have a visitor. Someone has arrived at the Institute wishing to give their statement directly and in person, and I—aha—took the liberty of going up to collect her myself.”
“You didn’t even give me the chanthe to dethide if I was too buthy?” Daffy began, then stopped. There wasn’t any point in being angry. Technically it was his job, after all. He didn’t have to like it, but it was his job. “Fine. Thend her in.”
“Of course.” Wile E bowed and ducked out, and Daffy heard him say faintly to someone further in the Archives, “Right this way, madam.”
A new motif sounded faintly in the back of Daffy’s mind, something…vaguely familiar, actually, with a lot of low, smoky saxophone and a heavy noir feel. He knew what he could expect if this were a detective picture, but what could he expect now?
The figure that stepped in through the door certainly merited the saxophone. She had legs, as they said, that went all the way to the floor, a pair of black high heels and silk stockings covering them. They disappeared into a wasp-waisted suit with wide shoulder pads and a pencil skirt, good quality but at least fifty years out of fashion, with a pencil skirt, a fitted jacket, and a ruffled blouse, her hands encased in a pair of black kid gloves. The long, thick hair was glossy but faded to a soft bluish silver, topped with a wide black hat with a black lace veil and a white ribbon around the crown. You could have been forgiven for believing she was in a black-and-white cartoon, except that her skin was a creamy peach still, her plump lips painted a rich, vibrant red, and her eyes shadowed in a deep purple.
Daffy rose to his feet, astonished. “Jeththica? Jeththica Rabbit, ith that you?”
Jessica lifted her head and met Daffy’s eyes, her gaze as steely and direct as ever. “Hello, Daffy,” she said in the low, husky voice he remembered.
“Well, heaventh to Betthy!” Daffy smiled, despite everything, and came around the desk to shake her hand. “I haven’t theen you thinthe the Ink and Paint Club clothed down! Here, have a theat. How have you been? What bringth you to the Inthtitute?”
“Truthfully, I didn’t know I’d find you here.” Jessica took the seat Daffy offered her and removed her hat, carefully. “But everyone knows the Magnus Institute is where you go to talk about…things like what I experienced. I’m here to give my statement.”
“Oh, of courthe. Let me get the recorder out.” Flustered, Daffy began setting up. “I know who you are, of courthe, but jutht in cathe thomeone wantth to lithten to thith later, can you thtate your name and what you’re here to talk about?”
“My name is Jessica Rabbit,” Jessica said in a low voice. “Today is the thirteenth of January, 2016. I am here to give a statement concerning—”
The sounds that came out of Jessica’s mouth were like nothing Daffy had ever heard, and he jumped back, startled. She…didn’t seem to notice, just kept talking. After a minute, though, he threw up a hand and snapped off the recorder. “Thtop, thtop, wait jutht a darned minute. Thorry, Jeththica, but thith recording ithn’t going to be thalvageable. We’re going to have to thtart over.”
Jessica blinked at him, then sighed and nodded. “If you’re sure.”
Daffy took a couple of minutes to thread the reel to reel recorder, since Porky still hadn’t found a smaller one. At last, he nodded and started the recording. “Right. Let’th try thith.”
“Are you sure?” Jessica eyed the recorder skeptically. “I haven’t seen anybody use one of those in years.”
“Yeah, I know, but we’ve found it’th utheful when we have thtatementth that won’t record digitally,” Daffy told her.
“You need better equipment.”
“Believe me, we’ve tried. Thith ith what we’ve got.”
Jessica sighed. “No wonder nobody takes this place seriously. This is not a cartoon, you know.”
“Tho I’ve heard,” Daffy said dryly. “You don’t have to talk to uth.”
Jessica shook her head. “No—no, I need to tell someone, and now that I know you’re here, Daffy…I can’t imagine who else I would tell.”
Okay, Daffy had to admit, just for a moment, he was flattered. Then he tried to make himself seem professional. “Better thtart over from the beginning. I’m not thure we’ll be able to uthe anything on the other recording. Name, date, topic, et thetera.”
“I suppose so.” Jessica took a deep breath and began again. Her voice was as sultry as ever, but quivered just slightly with emotion…or maybe with something else. “My name is Jessica Rabbit. Today is the thirteenth of January, 2016, and this is my statement about the events that occurred after the funeral of my husband Roger.”
Daffy gaped at her, just for a minute, then manually shut his beak and started for the door. “I’ll leave you to that, then,” he muttered.
Jessica’s worried voice stopped him in his tracks. “Where are you going?”
Daffy frowned slightly. “I thought I would leave you to make your thtatement in privathy.”
“Don’t,” Jessica said, in a low, pleading tone. “I don’t want to be alone right now.”
Daffy should leave, but he found he didn’t want to. Instead, he only said softly, “Right,” then sank back into his seat and nodded for her to continue.
Jessica only half seemed aware he was there, let alone that he had spoken to her, but she did continue. “I was…so alone before I met Roger. You don’t know what it’s like, being a woman looking the way I do, especially back then. Everyone wanted my voice, my body, my acting, but none of them seemed to want me. Or know there was a me under the ink. And then I met Roger. It was during the war; I was doing the entertainment circuit, performing at the USO shows, and he was a private in the Army. All the other doughboys were whistling at me, making comments, but…Roger was different. He brought me a plate of food after my performance and told me what a good job I did, then started asking me questions—how I got into entertainment, what studios I worked for, what I liked to do when I wasn’t performing. Not many people know that I was never contracted to a studio; I would freelance from time to time, but I was never interesting enough for steady work, I suppose. Or not the kind I wanted to be known for, anyway.” She shuddered at an old memory. “But Roger never judged me. He was with Maroon Cartoons even then, but he’d taken time off to serve, just like most Toons did. And I remember he never tried to coerce me by offering to try and get me a job, or put in a good word for me—I’d heard that line so many times. Roger just asked if he could see me when we were both back in Toon Town, and I surprised myself by agreeing.
“I’m sure you’ve seen the picture. It’s very famous—the one of us in the center of Toon Town on V-E Day, Roger dipping me and kissing me with excitement while the confetti falls around us. He apologized after for not warning me, and I told him it was the best first kiss I could ever have asked for. He was…so surprised that it was my first kiss, but he never judged me for that, either. He just told me I did very well for my first time and he would love to help me practice as often as I wanted. We got married six months later. The Ink and Paint Club was looking for a new performer. I’d…never thought of myself as good enough to sing there, but Roger told me I should. He believed in me, in a way nobody ever had. And he was right, as you well remember. I thought I would be a chorus girl, but before long…I was a headliner. I was just so thankful I’d waited until I was married, because it made me so proud to see the name ‘Jessica Rabbit’ in lights.