Snow Blind by P.J. Tracy

be turned into fertilizer, because they were nothing but bags of manure to start with.
    Even though he was barely forty and by all accounts a few years away from total burnout, Doyle was pretty sure he’d already crossed that threshold. His wife had been begging him for two years to change jobs, and he was actually thinking about listening to her for a change. In fact, Kurt Weinbeck might be the very last case he’d ever take, and the thought actually buoyed his spirits a little.
    He’d started this job as a young, devout Christian hopeful, believing absolutely that every criminal was merely a misguided victim in his own right, and that single-handedly he and God could reform any sinner. Five years in, he was a cynical agnostic thinking maybe the death penalty wasn’t such a bad idea. Ten years later he was a die-hard atheist with a .357 in his desk drawer, because half of these guys scared him to death. You could read only so many files about creeps who sexually abused their kids and raped strangers and slashed the throats of anybody who got in the way of their next hit of crack before you started thinking that if there really were a god keeping an eye on this world, you didn’t want any part of him. Year after year he’d watched the system that signed his paycheck suck them in, then spit them out so they could do it all over again. Lately he’d been fantasizing about pulling out the big gun and shooting any new parolee who walked through the door, and save the state a lot of money and the world a lot of grief.
    Get out of this business, he told himself. Right now, before it’s too late.
    He got up and turned on the little TV that was perched on a bracket in the wall, hoping to catch some college hockey while he waited, but instead saw a breaking news bulletin and a live feed showing a lot of Minneapolis cops knocking down snowmen at Theodore Wirth Park. He turned up the volume and felt his stomach flip-flop, wondering if there’d been a terrorist attack—hell, why not take out a parkful of children? Of course, it wasn’t a terrorist attack, not by today’s standards—but leaving dead corpses for children to find qualified as terrorism in his book.
    When Weinbeck showed up a few minutes later, Doyle turned down the TV, took his place at his desk, and did a quick visual inventory of his newest client. Parolees generally came in three basic models: fat and mean, muscular and mean, or skinny and mean. This one fell into the latter category, with big, bobbling eyes that raced around the room, and a sinuous, slinky body that moved and twitched like a meerkat on crack.
    â€œYou’re thirteen minutes late, Mr. Weinbeck. You realize I could have called in a warrant on you.”
    â€œI’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”
    â€œMake sure it doesn’t. For future reference, show up early, and if you can’t show up early, show up on time at the latest. That’s one of the rules, and if you follow the rules, we’ll get along just fine.”
    â€œYes, sir, I know.”
    Doyle made a show of paging through his file. “I see that this is your third time on parole. Do you think we can make this your last?”
    Weinbeck nodded enthusiastically and launched into his predictable spiel of bullshit about how he was genuinely remorseful, how he’d finally learned his lesson, how grateful he was for another chance, and how he would make it work this time around, blah, blah, blah. Doyle nodded at the appropriate moments, but his eyes kept drifting back to the TV.
    â€œSomething going on?” Weinbeck asked, following Doyle’s gaze.
    â€œNothing that concerns you.” He slid some paperwork across the desk. “This is your bible. It lays out the rules and regs, procedures, where you’ll be staying, where you’ll be working…”
    â€œâ€¦when I can eat, sleep, take a piss…I know the