“It never does, Charley. It never does.”
“But this is different, Harry. I know he was along in his years, but I was here just yesterday. He was as spry as ever.”
The chief nodded and turned to his patrolman.
“Coroner’s back there?”
“Right behind me. Julie raised him on his car phone.”
“Let me talk to him, Charley,” Harry said. He and Clark moved through the darkness. Clark had taken the portable spotlight off the patrol car and left it with the coroner. Intermittent moonlight, breaking through what was now a partly cloudy sky, helped too. When
they turned the corner of the house, they saw Dr. Hamilton kneeling beside the body.
“Any ideas yet, Doc?”
Hamilton looked up. He was a short man in his early fifties with wavy, reddish-blond hair and freckles, but his Van Johnson face was incongruous with his Peter Lorre voice. He always spoke slowly, methodically. Depending on accuracy, he looked at the world with microscopic eyes. Sometimes he gave Harry the creeps because he was so intense, even when he carried on an ordinary conversation. It was as if a simple “good morning” might turn out to be a clue.
“Well,” he said, standing slowly. “Off-the-record first impression?”
Harry looked behind him to be sure the others had remained far enough behind to be out of earshot.
“I’m all ears, Doc.”
“Well, we have peticial hemorrhage in the eyes. See the little round blood spots?”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“There’s swelling in the lips, tongue, and eyelids. You’ll also notice the lips and earlobes are purple—cyanosis. Simply put, Chief, this man died from asphyxiation. He was smothered to death.”
“A definite homicide?”
“No question about that. Whoever did it put some furry, hairy object over his face and blocked his respiration.
“Hairy?”
Hamilton took a sealed plastic sack from his pocket and handed it to Harry.
“I got those hairs off his face and hands. He struggled against whoever it was.”
Harry looked down and saw that the coroner had placed plastic bags over Ken Strasser’s hands to protect them for the autopsy and for the forensics team.
“How long has he been dead?”
“An hour, hour and a half tops. I have my pictures.”
“Clark, go get the camera and diagram the scene. What about that rifle?”
“It’s back there, Chief. From the grass stains on the stock and the indentures in the earth, it looks like it flew out of his hands.”
“Bag it carefully after you photograph. Was there much of a struggle, Doc?”
“Not from what I can see now. He received a blow on the abdomen, a blow that sent him backward, I imagine. That was probably when the rifle left his grip.” He turned toward the barn. “Probably heading toward the door. There are contusions on his back from the fall and from being pressed down. Held down, I should say. It wouldn’t take much to hold down a man of his age and frame.”
“Not now, maybe, but twenty years ago, it would have taken two fully grown men. I once saw him lift the back of a car to get the wheel off some ice.”
“I’ll tell the ambulance squad to take him to the hospital morgue as soon as you’re done.”
“Okay, I’ll go up with them. I’d better call the district attorney,” Harry said. But he looked toward the barn door again. He picked up the spotlight and went to it. Shining the light about, he looked in until he spotted the bed of hay by the door. He went to it and knelt down to inspect it. Running his hands over it, he found strands of hair similar to the ones the coroner had taken from Ken Strasser’s body. He held one of them in his fingers and twirled it about. Then he put some in his shirt pocket. He went back outside and watched Clark take photographs and complete the diagram. After he called the district attorney, he joined Charley at the front of the house.
“Coroner won’t say anything to me,” Charley said.
“He’s not supposed to.”
“What happened to him, Harry?”
“We’re going to have to wait for the autopsy before we make any definite conclusions, Charley. It’s standard procedure.”
“I know a little about police work, Harry. I watch television. You’re treating this like a homicide, right?”
“Yes, Charley, we are. Now I got a crazy question for you. Did your father have a dog, even a stray he kept around?”
“A dog? No. A homicide. Who would want to hurt my father?”
“Let’s wait until we gather all the facts together, Charley. I’m following the ambulance to the hospital.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“It’s going to be hours, Charley. I’ll call you. That’s a promise.”
Charley nodded. They watched the ambulance squad lift his father’s body into the ambulance. They handled it carefully, as if it mattered. As soon as the doors were closed, Charley shook his head.
“Kids are going to take this hard.”
“Go home, Charley,” Harry said and put his hand on Charley’s shoulder. “Get your family together. I’ll call you.”
“Thanks. Thanks, Leon,” he said, turning to Officer Clark.
After Charley left them, Harry turned to Clark. “I told Julie to tell you to be on the lookout for a stray dog when you made your sweep on Lake Street,” he began. He didn’t want to get into Sid Kaufman’s story, so he added, “It was bothering some people.”
“I ain’t seen any sign of him, Chief. A German shepherd?”
“Right. Make another sweep down Lake Street tonight.”
“Okay,” Clark said. They watched the ambulance pull away.
“Did you put the rifle in my car?”
“Yeah.”
Harry thought for a moment and then got into his car. When he came to Sid Kaufman’s house, he slowed down and turned his spotlight on the doghouse. It was empty and there were no signs of anything about. Still, he felt uneasy. He took out one strand of hair he had placed in his shirt pocket and studied it in the car’s interior light. It looked as if it very well could be dog hair—a German shepherd’s hair.
What the hell was going on here? he wondered. He looked at the doghouse again, and the coldest chill ran up his spine. He looked into the darkness around him. If he were to believe in his instincts at all, he would be afraid, for they were telling him that something unusual, something very strange and very dangerous was here and might even be watching him at this very moment.
He chastised himself for permitting his imagination to run wild and sped up to catch the ambulance.
As soon as the scent of death came up to him, he released the pressure on the man’s face and lifted himself from the man’s body. It had been as easy as he thought it would be. How fragile they were when they didn’t have clubs and fire and knives. He poked the body with his nose and sat back. It occurred to him that this was actually his first great kill. He couldn’t help it; something stronger than logic came over him. He brought his head back and howled at the night sky. The sound entered the barn, reverberated, and came back out at him. Then it died away in the darkness. He understood that others would come and find the man dead, but he hadn’t killed him the way he killed deer and rabbits. Perhaps they wouldn’t know he’d done it and they wouldn’t come looking for him in packs.
But he couldn’t be sure, so he listened to his instincts and fled to the security of the forest darkness. He stayed close to the farmhouse, watching, waiting, and listening. He saw the other man drive up to the house and enter it. He saw him come out and he heard the man shouting. He watched the man find the body and he watched the pack arrive with their lights and noise. He thought it was wiser to go away from the farm and back toward the house where the dog had lived. There, in the woods across the road, he found a space between two large boulders and slipped himself securely within. Through the trees he could see the lights of the house and remain undetected. He rested his head on his outstretched front legs and waited.
When he closed his eyes, a hodgepodge of images and memories began to play on the inside of his eyelids. The earlier remembrances were disjointed and sensual; there were things that made his mouth water, tastes he had nearly forgotten; he recalled feelings of warmth, the tongue of a larger creature, like himself, stroking him. He remembered the sound of flowing water and he remembered running in a field, digging holes in soft earth, going in and out of structures that took him through darkness and into light; he remembered being lifted and stroked and then being kicked and slapped by the same kind of creature. Once again he felt himself being tugged; he remembered the collar being tightened on his throat until it made him gag and he had no alternative but to turn or stop or to lie down.
Then there was another kind of light, a brighter light, and the confinement of bars. He pressed his nose in-between them and took in the scents of things he didn’t recognize. These images, which were more recent memories, were like nightmares now; they made him uneasy and he couldn’t prevent a spontaneous growl from forming at the bottom of his throat. He pawed the earth and opened his eyes to escape the
memories. Something burned at the base of his brain and he gagged on his own breath.
He started to stand but lowered his body immediately at the sight of the approaching ambulance. When he had heard it coming to the farmhouse before, it had made him think of some giant bird, some creature that had been in a cage not far from his. He recalled how it had lifted its claws through the bars and had thrust those claws repeatedly in his direction. Its eyes glowed like the tiny bulbs on the metal boxes around them and it screamed hideously at him until it fell over and lay still in the cage. He saw them take it out and he saw them put it on a table and cut it open.
He had gotten to the point where he was very content to simply sit there and watch them. They didn’t seem to notice him as much as he noticed them. He watched what they did with their hands, with their tools, and with their bodies; he came to an understanding of the meanings in many of their gestures and sounds. After a while he was able to anticipate what they were going to do and he was cooperative or uncooperative according to his own curiosity. If he wanted to see the outcome of something they were going to do, he was as pliable and as easy as an obedient puppy, but if he was bored because he had done it so many times before, he put up some resistance.
When the police car appeared, his memories were interrupted again. He saw the car pause in front of the house and he saw the spotlight go on to wash away the darkness around the doghouse. He lowered himself into the full protection of the rocks and waited. To him the vehicle seemed like some giant creature, panting while it decided what it would do next. When it started away, he rose to watch it disappear down the street. Once it was completely gone, he felt safe enough to move to the edge of the woods. He lingered there for a
few moments, studying the house. He could hear the sounds within and he could see the silhouettes of the people moving about.
He moved farther to his right through the woods and then crossed the street to circle the house widely. He moved swiftly and determinedly through the fields until he came out behind the house. Now, moving more like a fox, he crossed the yard in slow, methodical steps until he reached the basement door. There he paused and listened for a long time. Convinced that there was no one behind it, he sat back on his haunches and rose up like a performing dog about to receive its biscuit of reward for some trick learned through repetition and reward. He took the door handle in his teeth and clamped down until he could taste the metal on his tongue. He waited a moment, listened keenly, and then turned it slowly to the right. He wasn’t disappointed; he heard the click.
He lowered himself as quietly as possible and waited again, sniffing and listening. Satisfied, he poked the door gently and it swung inward just enough for him to slip inside and enter the darkness. He paused again, this time to listen to all the sounds above him. There was nothing threatening, so he went on with his exploration.
The floor of the large basement playroom was carpeted and soft. It felt like trotting over a field of moss. He went between the two sets of oval tables and chairs, under the end of the pool table, to the entrance to the bar. He went around behind the bar and sniffed the bottles and dishes on the shelves. He picked up a slight leak in the piping under the sink and licked the droplets of water that escaped from the joint. Then he went back out to the center of the room and sat listening to the patter of small feet above him.
This was so much better than the barn; it was warmer and more comfortable. He felt a sense of
possession, a sense of ownership, as if he had been the first to claim it. After all, it was within his territory; it was worth defending. He started to settle down on the rug to sleep when he was troubled by a pang of hunger. Some scent attracted him. He went back to the bar to search for it.
The box of bacon bits was slightly open. It was in behind a bowl and a glass. He reached for it, clamping it in his jaws and lifting it as carefully as he could, but he just grazed the glass and sent it toppling over the shelf. It smashed on the hard tiled floor behind the bar. To him the sound was like a commanding shout. He hesitated, the box still clamped in his jaw; he waited, but nothing changed in the sounds that came from upstairs.
He brought the box around to his spot on the carpet and there he proceeded to tear it open and spill out its contents. He consumed all of it in minutes, even licking the crumbs from the carpet. Now, more content than before, he settled his head on his front legs again, closed his eyes, and welcomed the relief of sleep.
This was good; this was the best he had felt since the escape. He had rewarded himself for doing the right things. And this was only the beginning.
Sid Kaufman rose from his chair quickly when he first heard the ambulance going down Lake Street. Clara was in the bedroom reading and Bobby and Lisa were sitting on the floor before him, watching television. He had been going over the prospectus for his new assignment. He went to the living room window and saw the ambulance rush by. A moment later Clara joined him to find out what was happening.
“What was that?” she asked.