Only one young deputy was there to book me in, a flat-topped kid who wore, beneath his uniform, an oversized bulletproof vest. He was familiar in an awkward way that made me suspect he was a former student. He took a little too much pleasure in smashing my fingers into the inkpad, and he smiled a private little smile as he plucked out hair samples for the evidence kit. All the while, I could see Sheriff Dan, recumbent in a big chair as he phoned other agencies to consult about rarely enforced statutes like “ritualistic dismemberment” and “crimes against nature.” On the corner of his desk was a little pile of dog collars.
I had to fill out a gang-affiliation card and submit to a tattoo search, and I was being digitally photographed and logged into Gangbank, the national archive of street affiliation, when Sheriff Dan raised his office window and called to the Dairy Queen drive-through across the way.
“Three double specials,” he yelled, and while the burgers were being fried and the malts were being mixed next door, Sheriff Dan fielded calls that, judging by the expectant look on his face, meant he was hoping for grand charges against me. I could hear him pronounce words like “mutilation” and “conspiracy” to parties unknown, but by the time the food arrived, he looked a little pissed. There was no chitchat with the delivery boy about Parkton High football. Sheriff Dan simply grabbed the grease-stained Dairy Queen bags and sauntered to the bench where I was shackled. He dropped a bag on my lap.
He said, “The County of Parkton, South Dakota, hereby charges you with trapping out of season and two counts of class-three cruelty to animals.”
He held the chocolate malt near my lips and took some pleasure in watching me strain for the straw. I sucked for all I was worth, but the malt was too thick, and I got nothing. Sheriff Dan grunted once, as if this confirmed his suspicions of me.
“Let’s go, son,” he said, removing my cuffs, leading me to a large, insulated door at the rear of the station. From behind its reinforced surface came volley after volley of low, gargly cries.
When Sheriff Dan put his key in the lock, I saw him wince in anticipation, and as the door swung wide I nearly gagged from the smell. Before us were three cells, constructed of bars painted mint-green with epoxy. The walls and floors were slick with an industrial sealant designed for easy hose-down.
The cell on the right contained nothing but a few children’s toys scattered across the floor; the walls were covered with doodly crayon drawings.
The middle cell was completely empty.
And the cell on the left contained a pack of dogs, a dozen at least, circling with frenzy, leaping on each other’s backs with scat-covered paws.
Sheriff Dan pushed me through the middle door. As soon as it swung shut, a great Dane in the next cell stood tall, rising a full head above me, his paws hooking in the upper bars so he could show me his big red one. Steam rose from it.
I grabbed the bars. “This isn’t funny,” I said. “This is no kind of joke.”
“The dogs are temporary,” Sheriff Dan answered. “It’s just till they finish the new wing at the dog pound. Wait till you see it,” he added. “The Humane Society’s going to double its capacity.”
“This is intolerable,” I told him. “I’ve got dander issues. I can barely breathe.”
“You’ll get used to it,” he said. “It’s just till morning. They’ll be gone by morning.”
I rattled the steel door. “This is my life,” I said. “I’ve got some serious thinking to do. I can’t have some parade of puppy adopters coming through here. I won’t tolerate big-eyed girls staring at me as they shop for poodles.”
Sheriff Dan gave me a knowing nod. “Nobody’s getting adopted around here,” he said. “You know what really happens to all these strays. A deputy will be in here to take care of them in the morning. The whole thing is over in five minutes, and then — hello, peace and quiet.”
This shut me up. When Roamy disappeared, it was a while before Janis finally found him on the roadside, and I have to admit that, in those couple days, I imagined Roamy had worked his way into another family’s heart, that he’d found a nice white farmhouse with lots of children, a swing in the tree, and someone always around to push you. Now I saw that sad dream for what it was. That pickup or semi did Roamy a favor, because he’d have really ended up in the hands of a human like Sheriff Dan, in a place like this.
Sheriff Dan leaned in close, shoulder against the bars, looking as if he had something serious to say. He jutted his chin, thoughtfully.
“Henry — you spent any time with the Good Book?” he asked.
I, too, leaned close. “It’s Dr. Hannah,” I said. “And don’t I get a phone call?”
Sheriff Dan shook his head. “Think you know it all, don’t you? You think you’re above justice.” Here he tapped his boot against the bars, as if to remind me which side of the iron I was on. “The second you waved that little spear at us, I knew you were the one who killed the McGeachie girl’s hog. Two hundred years of prize hogstock, wasted, and for what, some twisted thrill?”
“You mean McGeachie, as in ‘The Farmers’ Farmer,’ the founder of Parkton?”
“Don’t play the fool with me, Doctor. The boys are going through your office right now, and the word over the radio is it’s full of bones. Piles and piles of bones. And Gerry’s been keeping us posted on what you’ve been doing to the small animals of this town. You think these squirrel disappearances have gone unnoticed?”
“Gerry’s the real criminal here,” I said. “He’s the one who—”
Sheriff Dan lifted a hand. “Gerry’s got his own mistakes to answer for. And he will, believe me. You worry about yours.” Here he stared deep into my eyes and then rumpled his nose. “Innocent squirrels? Lapdogs? What makes people like you tick?”
I said, “I’m an anthropologist.”
His smile said I was the saddest thing he’d ever seen.
“Allow me to get your precious phone,” Sheriff Dan said, then turned and left, clanging the heavy door.
I pinched the bridge of my nose to help me breathe and took a seat on a metal bench welded to the bars that separated me from the dogs. I tore open my Dairy Queen bag and spread out the food, placing my double burger, napkins, and salt and pepper packets all in a neat row. I went for the fries first, squirting them with ketchup.
I had to figure a way out of this mess. I needed to do some serious thinking, but right away one of the filthy little buggers next door stuck his snout through the bars and grabbed my hamburger. The burger was then stolen from him, and a melee followed that sent bits of wax paper floating above a frenzy of wild-eyed dogs who — teeth flashing, ears folded — clawed up flanks and popped each other’s tails. When a dog’s hackles went up, you could see its nits lift.
Once the burger was gone, the dogs returned for more, licking the bench, nosing through napkins. They all sat in a row, like a wet-eyed boys’ choir, watching me eat my fries, following my hand with their noses as it traversed from the greasy container to my mouth and back.
I turned from them to the other cell. On the floor were various toys: a red rocket ship, an assortment of plastic zoo animals, and a laminated chart of the solar system. I walked over and slipped a foot through the bars. With it, I was able to scoot a coloring book close enough to grab. I pulled it through the bars. It was called Impossible Journey, and its pages were filled with roughly colored images of circus dogs, interspersed with scenes of an evil French fur-trapper.