Still Life With Crows

Corrie watched in vague horror as the FBI agent picked up the dog’s head, moved it back and forth gently, laid it down, shone his light in the mouth, the ears, down the flank. The angry drone of flies grew louder.

“Well?” asked the sheriff, his voice harder.

“This dog’s neck has been violently broken,” said Pendergast.

“Hit by a car. Dragged himself out here to die. Happens all the time.”

“A car wouldn’t have done that to the tail.”

“What tail?”

“Exactly my point.”

Both the sheriff and Tad directed their lights to the dog’s rump. Where the tail had been there was nothing but a ragged pink stump with a white bone at the center.

The sheriff said nothing.

“And over there”—Pendergast shone his light into the corn—“I imagine you will find the footprints of the killer. Bare footprints, size eleven, heading back down toward the creek. Same as the footprints found at the site of the first homicide.”

There was another silence. And then the sheriff spoke. “Well, Pendergast, all I can say is, it’s kind of a relief. Here you thought we were dealing with a serial killer. Now we know he’s just some sicko. Murdering a dog and cutting off the tail. Jesus Christ.”

“But you will note the difference here. There was no ceremony to this killing, no feeling that the corpse has been arrangeden tableau. ”

“So?”

“It doesn’t fit the pattern. But of course, that simply means we’re dealing with anew pattern—in fact, a new type altogether.”

“A new type of what?”

“Of serial killer.”

Hazen rolled his eyes theatrically. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re still dealing with a single murder. A dog doesn’t count.” He turned to Tad. “Call the M.E. and let’s scoop this dog up to Garden City for an autopsy. Get the SOC boys out here to work over the site and especially take a look at any prints they find. And get the Staties to post a guard. I want this site sealed. No unauthorized personnel. Got it?”

“Yes, Sheriff.”

“Good. And now, Pendergast, I’m hoping you will escort allunauthorized personnel from the site immediately.” Corrie jumped as he abruptly shined his light on her.

“Sheriff, you’re not referring to my assistant, are you?”

There was a thunderous silence. Corrie glanced at him, wondering what his game was now. Assistant? Her old suspicions began to return; next thing she knew, he’d be trying to assist himself into her pants.

After a moment the sheriff spoke. “Assistant? Are you referring to that delinquent standing next to you who’s facing a charge of larceny in the second degree, which, by the way, happens to be a felony in the state of Kansas?”

“I am.”

The sheriff nodded. And when he spoke again, his voice was unnaturally mild. “I’m a patient man, Mr. Pendergast. I will say this to you, and this only: thereis a limit.”

In the ensuing silence, Pendergast said, “Miss Swanson, would you kindly hold the flashlight while I examine the posterior of this dog?”

Holding her nose against the rising stench, Corrie took the flashlight and aimed it at the desired spot, aware of Sheriff Hazen standing behind her, staring so hard at the back of her neck that she could feel the hairs curling.

Pendergast turned, rose, and laid a hand on the sheriff’s shoulder. The man looked down at the hand, seemed about to brush it off. “Sheriff Hazen,” said Pendergast, his voice suddenly deferential, “it may seem that I have come here expressly to annoy you. But I assure you there are good reasons behind everything I do. I do hope you will continue to exercise the patience you’ve so admirably demonstrated already, and bear with me and my unorthodox methods—and my unorthodox assistant—a little longer.”

The sheriff seemed to digest this for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice sounded ever so slightly mollified. “I can’t say I honestly like the way you’re handling the case. You FBI boys always seem to forget that once we catch the perp we’ve got toconvict him. You know how it is these days: screw up the evidencein any way and the perp walks.” He glanced at Corrie. “She better have scene-of-crime authorization.”

“She will.”

“And keep in mind what kind of impression she’s going to make in front of a jury with that purple hair and the spiked dog collar. Not to mention a felony on her record.”

“We will cross that bridge when we come to it.”

The sheriff stared hard at him. “All right then. I’ll leave you to Fido here. Remember what I said. Come on, Tad, let’s go make those calls.”

Then he turned away, lit a cigarette, and disappeared into the wall of corn, followed by Tad. As the sound of crashing diminished, a silence descended on the site.

Corrie took several steps back from the stench of decay. “Agent Pendergast?”

“Miss Swanson?”