Artist by Eric Drouant

notebook. “I think you should be careful. I think you should always be careful.”
    “Will you catch the guy?”
    “Yes,” Dupond said. “We’ll get him sooner or later. In the meantime, be extra careful. Tell your friends, too. Stick together at night”
     
     
    Viktor Watt was repeating the same words to himself. Be careful. Don’t get swept away by your own success. Don’t get cocky. It was easy enough though. He had now made three attempts. Two had been immensely successful, the last especially so. Maybe it was time to take a break. The idea of stopping though, he couldn’t really consider that. Not for long anyway. The need inside went away for a short time afterward. It came roaring back in a few days though.
    He continued his routine, scoured the n ewspapers for any reports in the newspaper. In the evening, after classes, he watched the news, flipping between channels. Nothing. It was a shame. He would have liked a little press. The idea that behind their doors the women of the city were nervous gave him a rush. Maybe he would have to do something about that, make some kind of public display. He thought about sending a note to the police department, filed the idea in the back of his mind. Too pedestrian. Maybe though, maybe there was a way.
     
     
    Lakeshore Drive runs the entire length of the southern shoreline of Lake Ponchartrain. A driver exiting Seabrook Bridge can drive miles along that southern shore. The expanse puts him between the levee and the lake, a green area populated with parking spaces and enough room to spread out and spend the day picnicking or fishing or just enjoying the view of the water from any one of dozens of benches set up to do just that. Halfway along its length the road passes the University of New Orleans. Beyond that the green area opens up. Across the levee, to the North, begins the more exclusive neighborhoods where business professionals, lawyers, and politicians enjoy the status of lakefront property.
    That status came at a cost though. Weekends were a trial as throngs of young people, high school and college students, used the lakefront green area as a party spot. From lunchtime till late at night it was a parade of cars, people sprawled on the levee drinking, throwing their bottles and cans behind the houses. Saturday nights were the worst and by Monday morning the levee and the area behind it were a mess no amount of policing could contain. The city gave up trying to enforce the litter laws and simply assigned a regular patrol to clean up at the beginning of each week.
    It was still, however, a good place for a health conscious lawyer to take a morning run before heading off to the city for a day of suing people. Lucas Dahl was one of those health conscious lawyers and on this Monday morning, the litter was especially bad. Every other day he ran two miles, leaving the gate through the fence along his backyard line, turning right and following the levee exactly one mile before turning back and covering the same distance home. His Golden lab, Jupiter, spent the time ranging back and forth, investigating the piles of trash and other interesting objects left behind by the weekend warriors. This morning Dahl was shaking off the effects of his own big weekend, his birthday. His wife invited friends over, they drank too much, and he opened gifts and went to bed with his head spinning. His wife, who tolerated his early morning runs, gave him a pair of very expensive running shoes. He was wearing them now.
    Dahl started with a slow jog. Jupiter was already well ahead, off the levee in the grass on the side of the road where the pickings were better. The dog trotted back and forth, sniffing. Dahl kept an eye on him. Jupiter had a tendency to wander too close to the street. A whistle usually brought him back. Dahl finished the first quarter mile, picked up the pace, and pushed on. He was over forty years old and getting a little thick around the waist, thinking about joining a gym