refined into a finished product complete with a scale on the order of 1/4" = 1'. This would ultimately be used by the district attorney or the county attorney in making his case.
Just as she was finishing, the left door of the blue Caddy was opened by a startlingly young-looking woman in white coveralls and the process of bringing the bodies out was begun.
"One dead?" I asked as I watched.
Jane nodded. "Yes. A woman. The man's already been taken to the hospital. He's alive, but not for much longer, I'm afraid."
I saw her then, in that moment before the final sheet was pulled over her the final time. Nora Conners. She had been wearing a white sweater and jeans. Her blonde hair was streaked and damp with blood; her white sweater was bathed in the stuff. I couldn't see a lot from this distance but it appeared that she had been both shot and stabbed.
The attendants eased the corpse into the rear of the big boxy ambulance, closed the doors quietly and then moved with no particular hurry to the vehicle's cab. There was no reason to hurry.
"You look funny."
I was aware of Jane's eyes on me.
"I always look funny."
"No, you don't. You usually look handsome, and you know it. But now you look funny. Ever since you saw the corpse."
She hesitated, studied me a little more. "By the way, I don't believe your 'journalist' story."
"You don't?"
"No. I called your publishing office."
"Then they told you that I do work for them."
"I have a brother in the FBI."
"Ah. I'll bet you're proud."
She frowned. "Wise ass, aren't you?"
"I'm just trying to forget what that corpse looked like." And that was certainly the truth. When they get worked over the way Nora was, all I can think of are slaughterhouses—what we humans do to the animals we raise to eat, how they look just as we're knocking them out with long clubs, and then chop off their heads, and then hang them from their feet and open up their bellies with long shining knives. I always wonder, when I'm on the highway and I see a truck of cows or pigs headed to the slaughterhouse, I always wonder if they know. Perhaps it's our fantasy that they don't know because we can't face the truth. Maybe they do know, and the startled bleating we hear on the highway is the sound of one species crying out to another for help. I wonder if Nora knew, as the killer approached her car tonight, knew what was coming, what the killer was bringing, and cried out for help.
"Did you know her?"
"Who?"
"The dead woman."
"No."
"Would you take it personally if I called you a liar?"
"You're the law around here. You can call me anything you want."
"I've got good instincts."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning somehow you know something about this."
She was about to say more when a fat bald detective in a suit came over shaking a small black camera as if he wanted to smash it against the wall. "I told the city council, I told the mayor in particular, that we need a new 35 millimeter for crime scenes and as usual he gave me the standard excuses about the budget. I'm supposed to be taking pictures and the goddamned shutter won't work. You bring yours along, Chief?"
"In my glove compartment."
He looked at me and shook the camera again and said, "You ever just want to smash something to bits?"
"All the time," I said.
He went over to her car.
"He's not taking his tranquilizers," she said.
"How come?"
"Claims that yes, they do calm him down but no, he can't urinate properly when he takes them. So he doesn't take them and gets pretty squirrelly."
She looked back at the crime scene.
Here we were in the rolling prairie night, all these red and white emergency lights whirling around in the gloom, all these farmers and small-town folks standing in the gravel road partly thrilled and partly horrified by what had happened here tonight. I wondered what the birds made of all this, or the wolves running in the hills, or the owl in the old barn down the hill. Just one more dumb-ass human doing one more dumb-ass human thing,
Just as she was finishing, the left door of the blue Caddy was opened by a startlingly young-looking woman in white coveralls and the process of bringing the bodies out was begun.
"One dead?" I asked as I watched.
Jane nodded. "Yes. A woman. The man's already been taken to the hospital. He's alive, but not for much longer, I'm afraid."
I saw her then, in that moment before the final sheet was pulled over her the final time. Nora Conners. She had been wearing a white sweater and jeans. Her blonde hair was streaked and damp with blood; her white sweater was bathed in the stuff. I couldn't see a lot from this distance but it appeared that she had been both shot and stabbed.
The attendants eased the corpse into the rear of the big boxy ambulance, closed the doors quietly and then moved with no particular hurry to the vehicle's cab. There was no reason to hurry.
"You look funny."
I was aware of Jane's eyes on me.
"I always look funny."
"No, you don't. You usually look handsome, and you know it. But now you look funny. Ever since you saw the corpse."
She hesitated, studied me a little more. "By the way, I don't believe your 'journalist' story."
"You don't?"
"No. I called your publishing office."
"Then they told you that I do work for them."
"I have a brother in the FBI."
"Ah. I'll bet you're proud."
She frowned. "Wise ass, aren't you?"
"I'm just trying to forget what that corpse looked like." And that was certainly the truth. When they get worked over the way Nora was, all I can think of are slaughterhouses—what we humans do to the animals we raise to eat, how they look just as we're knocking them out with long clubs, and then chop off their heads, and then hang them from their feet and open up their bellies with long shining knives. I always wonder, when I'm on the highway and I see a truck of cows or pigs headed to the slaughterhouse, I always wonder if they know. Perhaps it's our fantasy that they don't know because we can't face the truth. Maybe they do know, and the startled bleating we hear on the highway is the sound of one species crying out to another for help. I wonder if Nora knew, as the killer approached her car tonight, knew what was coming, what the killer was bringing, and cried out for help.
"Did you know her?"
"Who?"
"The dead woman."
"No."
"Would you take it personally if I called you a liar?"
"You're the law around here. You can call me anything you want."
"I've got good instincts."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning somehow you know something about this."
She was about to say more when a fat bald detective in a suit came over shaking a small black camera as if he wanted to smash it against the wall. "I told the city council, I told the mayor in particular, that we need a new 35 millimeter for crime scenes and as usual he gave me the standard excuses about the budget. I'm supposed to be taking pictures and the goddamned shutter won't work. You bring yours along, Chief?"
"In my glove compartment."
He looked at me and shook the camera again and said, "You ever just want to smash something to bits?"
"All the time," I said.
He went over to her car.
"He's not taking his tranquilizers," she said.
"How come?"
"Claims that yes, they do calm him down but no, he can't urinate properly when he takes them. So he doesn't take them and gets pretty squirrelly."
She looked back at the crime scene.
Here we were in the rolling prairie night, all these red and white emergency lights whirling around in the gloom, all these farmers and small-town folks standing in the gravel road partly thrilled and partly horrified by what had happened here tonight. I wondered what the birds made of all this, or the wolves running in the hills, or the owl in the old barn down the hill. Just one more dumb-ass human doing one more dumb-ass human thing,
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