across the back of my head, up and across and down into my forehead.
They did a hell of a job for missing my most vulnerable area.
The collie came at me for another kiss but I gently touched her face and eased her away.
And that was when I felt something sticky in the palm of my hand. I reached over, picked up the flashlight, aimed it at my palm.
Blood.
That's what she had all over her face.
I reached out to bring her closer but she was playing hard to get now. Apparently miffed that I'd resisted her earlier advances.
She trotted off into the fog.
Blood.
I got up, which wasn't easy, and closed my eyes against the headache sawing through my cranium.
I liked David Rhodes even less than I had before. I was pretty sure he was the one who'd struck me.
And then my friend the Border collie came back, prim and pretty and proud about what she had in her mouth. My mind didn't want to register the reality of what she was carrying. But I saw how she'd managed to smear herself with blood.
The ripped, ragged arm belonged to a Native American female — that much I could tell even from here.
The upper arm was the part that gave me trouble. After all those years studying serial killers, I had convinced myself that the occasional atrocity didn't have much power over me. But I was wrong.
The contrast between the sweet proud dog and the obscenely severed arm carried in her mouth overpowered me for a moment. All I could do was stand in the vast desolate night, the fog enveloping me, and listen to the distant owl hooting his forlorn prairie wisdom.
I reached down and patted the dog on the head.
She was so damned sweet and earnest sitting there. I petted her some more. I didn't want to break her heart by telling her, "See, honey, we humans have these laws we make up, and one of them is that it's in bad taste to walk around with somebody's arm dangling from your mouth."
She dropped the arm.
She wanted more petting and apparently the limb was becoming something of a chore to keep fixed in her jaws.
I played my light on the arm.
A small light-brown birthmark on the inner elbow was the only distinguishing feature. It wasn't easy to see because of the bruise-like decay of the flesh. Several days dead, I presumed. The stench told me that — a high hard sour-egg smell.
The collie got interested again and dipped her head to sniff at the arm.
I picked her up.
This particular piece of evidence needed protection now from the elements and the collie alike.
There was a garage to the west of the house. I groped for a door and went inside. The fire had left it alone. It smelled of lingering heat.
The collie squirmed and wriggled as if she were enduring great torture.
After a minute, I found what I was looking for — a cardboard box. I left the collie in the garage, closing the door behind me, and took the box back to the arm.
I carefully set the box over the arm. Safe.
The humidity had sweat rolling down my face and chest and arms. The fog wrapped itself around me.
Maybe somewhere in the gutted remains of the house I would find the body to match the arm. But that was official police business and I was happy to let them take care of it. They could also let the dog out of the garage once the arm was safe as evidence.
I started back down the drive through the fog.
Ten minutes it took to find my car, and another twenty to move slowly along the road until I located the glowing light of a phone booth.
I pulled in, dug some change from my pocket and phoned the Cedar Rapids Police Department. At this point, I had no desire to get involved anymore than I was already. I wanted to talk to Cindy and then to David.
I told the police how to find what they needed and then I got in my car and drove inchingly back to my motel room in the fog.
I ndians and blacks received justice in many cases. But when there was controversy, or when the crime was particularly savage, there was, on the part of law enforcement and the bench alike, a certain
They did a hell of a job for missing my most vulnerable area.
The collie came at me for another kiss but I gently touched her face and eased her away.
And that was when I felt something sticky in the palm of my hand. I reached over, picked up the flashlight, aimed it at my palm.
Blood.
That's what she had all over her face.
I reached out to bring her closer but she was playing hard to get now. Apparently miffed that I'd resisted her earlier advances.
She trotted off into the fog.
Blood.
I got up, which wasn't easy, and closed my eyes against the headache sawing through my cranium.
I liked David Rhodes even less than I had before. I was pretty sure he was the one who'd struck me.
And then my friend the Border collie came back, prim and pretty and proud about what she had in her mouth. My mind didn't want to register the reality of what she was carrying. But I saw how she'd managed to smear herself with blood.
The ripped, ragged arm belonged to a Native American female — that much I could tell even from here.
The upper arm was the part that gave me trouble. After all those years studying serial killers, I had convinced myself that the occasional atrocity didn't have much power over me. But I was wrong.
The contrast between the sweet proud dog and the obscenely severed arm carried in her mouth overpowered me for a moment. All I could do was stand in the vast desolate night, the fog enveloping me, and listen to the distant owl hooting his forlorn prairie wisdom.
I reached down and patted the dog on the head.
She was so damned sweet and earnest sitting there. I petted her some more. I didn't want to break her heart by telling her, "See, honey, we humans have these laws we make up, and one of them is that it's in bad taste to walk around with somebody's arm dangling from your mouth."
She dropped the arm.
She wanted more petting and apparently the limb was becoming something of a chore to keep fixed in her jaws.
I played my light on the arm.
A small light-brown birthmark on the inner elbow was the only distinguishing feature. It wasn't easy to see because of the bruise-like decay of the flesh. Several days dead, I presumed. The stench told me that — a high hard sour-egg smell.
The collie got interested again and dipped her head to sniff at the arm.
I picked her up.
This particular piece of evidence needed protection now from the elements and the collie alike.
There was a garage to the west of the house. I groped for a door and went inside. The fire had left it alone. It smelled of lingering heat.
The collie squirmed and wriggled as if she were enduring great torture.
After a minute, I found what I was looking for — a cardboard box. I left the collie in the garage, closing the door behind me, and took the box back to the arm.
I carefully set the box over the arm. Safe.
The humidity had sweat rolling down my face and chest and arms. The fog wrapped itself around me.
Maybe somewhere in the gutted remains of the house I would find the body to match the arm. But that was official police business and I was happy to let them take care of it. They could also let the dog out of the garage once the arm was safe as evidence.
I started back down the drive through the fog.
Ten minutes it took to find my car, and another twenty to move slowly along the road until I located the glowing light of a phone booth.
I pulled in, dug some change from my pocket and phoned the Cedar Rapids Police Department. At this point, I had no desire to get involved anymore than I was already. I wanted to talk to Cindy and then to David.
I told the police how to find what they needed and then I got in my car and drove inchingly back to my motel room in the fog.
I ndians and blacks received justice in many cases. But when there was controversy, or when the crime was particularly savage, there was, on the part of law enforcement and the bench alike, a certain
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