Distemper by Beth Saulnier Page B

stepladder and an urge to maim
     could use to get at us. Put security bars on the first-floor windows, he said, and plant prickly bushes underneath them. Close
     and lock the ones on the second floor, since it wouldn’t take much to climb the trellis to the garage roof and get in that
     way. Have the landlord fix the broken light fixtures outside the back door. Install motion-sensitive floodlights. Et cetera,
     et cetera.
    “Sounds like living in a prison.”
    “It’s living in the real world.”
    “How about you just catch this guy?”
    “We’re working on it.”
    “He’s crazy, isn’t he?”
    “I don’t believe in crazy. I believe in evil. How else do you describe someone who kills women, and leaves them lying in the
     woods like some sort of…”
    I thought of what I’d found on Saturday. “… sacrifice?”
    “Exactly.”
    “Do you have any leads at all?”
    “A few. And you know I can’t say anything.”
    “What if I promise to be a good little girl and keep my mouth shut?”
    “You wouldn’t know how.”
    “Look, I’m not asking you as a reporter. I’m asking you as the poor schmuck who found Patricia Marx in the goddamn woods.”
     I stared him right in his baby greens, and for a minute I thought he was going to open up. Fat chance.
    “I’d better get going before I say something I’ll regret later. You’re damn good at what you do. Too good for my taste.”
    He moved toward the front door, fast enough to upset the unfortunately named Tipsy and Nanki-Poo. They lunged for him, and
     I grabbed them by their collars again to give him enough time to get out. After informing the dogs that they were both very
     bad indeed, I followed him outside and shut the door behind me. “Sorry about that,” I said, and reached out to shake his hand.
    “I don’t mind. Like I said, they’re good guard dogs.” He went to shake, but all of a sudden he grabbed my wristand held it up to the light. For a minute I thought he was going to try some gentlemanly hand-kissing thing, but he was just
     trying to get a good look at my palm. He stared at it, and rubbed at the marks that were already fading.
    “What’s the deal?”
    “Which dog were you holding with your right hand?”
    “Jesus, I don’t know.” I thought about it. “It was Nanki-Poo. The German shepherd.”
    “Go get me his collar.”
    “Why?”
    “Just do me a favor and take it off him.”
    I went back in the house, took the collar off the dog, and snapped off the license tags. “Here. Now what’s going on?”
    “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you. But I’ve got to take this with me. I’ll give it back.” He started down the driveway.
    “Wait. Hold on. What am I supposed to tell C.A.?” I looked down at my hand. The marks were just faintly visible. “Oh, my God.”
     I ran after him. “It’s the marks on the girl’s neck. The diamond-shaped marks. She was strangled with a goddamn dog collar.
     Wasn’t she?”
    “I can’t talk about this.”
    “Come on.”
    “I’m sorry,” he said, and he was gone. I locked the door behind him and C.A.’s dog looked up at me, naked and wondering where
     his next biscuit was coming from.

6

    “A DOG COLLAR? A MOTHERFUCKING DOG COLLAR?”
    “Ssh. Mad, for Chrissake, can you keep your voice down?”
    “Who’s gonna hear in this place?”
    “Are you kidding me? Everybody. You know better.”
    We were in the Citizen Kane, our favorite spot for bringing journalistic stereotypes to boozy life. It was around nine on
     Friday night, and the place was just beginning to fill up. Lately, our turf has been invaded by students from Bessler College,
     which is located on the opposite side of town from the behemoth that is Benson. Bessler is a small liberal arts school that
     has amazing theater and music departments; too bad the rest of its student body is a bunch of beer-swilling numbskulls. Every
     once in a while one of them manages to drink himself right into a coma and the college president has to