Four days of pacing, whining, refusing every hand that tried to guide him away from the front door. Until this morning, when they finally let him ride in the patrol car one last time.

He jumped in like he knew where they were going.

The ceremony was quiet, respectful. Badges polished, flags folded just right. I stood back, near the last row, not really part of the crowd but not able to stay away either. I’d seen them together so many times—officer and dog, working like one mind in two bodies. Everyone said the K9 was trained, sharp, all protocol. But I’d seen it—the loyalty. The way he’d stare at his handler like the whole world could end and he wouldn’t budge until told.

And now, here he was.

Front paws up on the casket. Nose pressed to the wood.

Not barking. Not growling.

Just… sniffing. Slow and steady, like he was trying to make sense of something that didn’t.

The officer holding the leash looked like he was barely holding it together. His knuckles were white. The dog didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he didn’t care. Maybe this was his way of checking the facts for himself.

Because here’s the thing no one wanted to talk about—

His partner wasn’t supposed to be on duty that night.

And the case they were called to? No record of that call exists.

And whoever made that last radio transmission—it didn’t sound like him.

The K9 finally let out a low, sharp whine.

And that’s when I saw the tiny piece of folded fabric wedged behind the casket’s base. A shred of uniform.

But it wasn’t his.

It was a darker shade of blue, a different material. And it smelled… acrid. Like burnt metal and something else, something I couldn’t quite place. I knew then, looking at that scrap of fabric, that something was terribly wrong.

The next few days were a blur. I wasn’t a cop, just a local journalist, but I had a feeling, a gut feeling, that this story was bigger than anyone knew. I started digging, pulling strings, asking questions. Most people shut me down, told me to let it go, that it was a tragedy, plain and simple.

But the dog, a German Shepherd named Valor, wouldn’t let it go either. He was back at the precinct, restless, pacing, refusing to leave the handler’s empty desk. The other officers were trying to comfort him, but he wouldn’t be consoled. He knew something they didn’t.

I managed to get access to the radio logs, the official reports. And I found something odd. The last call, the one that supposedly sent his partner, Officer Silas, to his death, was flagged as a ‘phantom call.’ No originating address, no caller ID, nothing. Just a garbled message and a location.

The location was an abandoned warehouse on the edge of town, a known hotspot for illegal activity. But there was no record of any activity that night, no witnesses, no evidence. Just Silas, gone.

I started to follow the trail of that fabric scrap. I went to the local uniform supplier, showed them the piece, and asked if they recognized it. They did. It was a custom-made material, used by a private security firm, not the police.

That’s when it hit me. Silas wasn’t killed in a random incident. He was targeted. And whoever targeted him was trying to cover their tracks.

I went to the warehouse. It was cold and damp, the air thick with the smell of decay. Valor was there, too, somehow slipping past the precinct’s security. He was sniffing around a corner, his tail low, his ears perked.