The class was well attended as always, with more than twenty of the thirtysome desks occupied. The students represented a variety of ages, from teens to sixties, and an even wider range of talents, but they were united in their enthusiasm. Most were dressed student-shabby, a look that fit in perfectly with their instructor’s casual appearance. Others, who obviously had come straight from work, had on office wear.
Lourdes Ramirez sat in the front row, with male attendants on her left and right who paid closer attention to her than to the two cops, at least until Berwanger and Foley got into their more dramatic war stories. The anecdotes about domestic murders, drug killings, neighborly disputes, armed robberies, and gang wars were well polished and constantly replenished, and their tidbits about ballistics, jurisdictional issues, and crime-scene procedures kept the students’ pens and laptops busy. As usual, Berwanger did most of the talking, with Foley demonstrating the equipment – sidearms, handcuffs, weapon-weight flashlight – and throwing in the occasional one-liner from the sidelines. After about forty-five minutes, Berwanger asked the class for questions.
A hand in the second row shot up immediately. “Have you guys ever gone after a serial killer?”
Berwanger glanced at his partner with a humorous smirk and said, “These mystery writers love their serial killers, don’t they, Foley? Can’t they come up with something more original?”
“That wasn’t the question, though,” Foley pointed out.
“Right, it wasn’t. Well, you have to understand that serial killers get attention way out of proportion to their numbers. I mean, from the TV news and the paperback racks, you’d think there was one on every corner. Most Homicide detectives like ourselves go through a whole career without ever getting a crack at a serial killer. And I, for one, am thankful.”
Berwanger scanned the room as if looking for another question, but his partner said, “There was one, though.”
Berwanger said, “What? A serial killer?”
“Aren’t you forgetting about…?”
“Oh, you mean…?”
“Yeah, that one.”
“They don’t want to hear about that,” Berwanger said, but a murmur from the class contradicted him. Scowling at his audience, he said, “And even if you do want to hear about it, I’m not sure I want to tell you about it. Why should we encourage the creation of more serial killers, real or fictional, right, Foley?”
“Come on, Detective,” said a good-natured voice from an older student in the back row. They recognized him as a police buff who often hung around the station, asking research questions. “You have to tell us now.”
“I’m afraid he’s right, Berwanger,” Foley said. “We’re obligated.”
Berwanger sighed in resignation. “Well, I guess it was kind of interesting at that. And unique in its way. But it means you have to go to work, Foley.” He told the class, “My partner fancies himself an actor. He’s not really all that good, and I’m not all that much better” – Foley made a face – “so you’ll have to use your imagination while we do a little scene for you. You want some time to get into character, Foley?”
Foley twitched his shoulders, made a few faces, and looked at Berwanger with an intent stare. “Ready if you are,” he said.
“My partner, the Method actor,” Berwanger said. “Now you’ll have to use your imagination here. Close your eyes if it’ll help. It’s early morning on the bank of a big man-made lake in a city park. Cool morning, very pleasant, just after sunup. This lake is home to all kinds of aquatic birds. See them? Ducks, geese, coots, pigeons, seagulls. Occasionally, you might even see pelicans passing through, especially if the lake’s just been stocked with fish. There’s an island with some high trees in the middle of the lake, and there are usually a few cormorants perched on the branches, spreading their wings to dry them. Sometimes, when the cormorants go fishing, the pelicans will watch them, looking for guidance. That pair with a red ring around their necks are Egyptian geese, and that blue-beaked guy is an American wigeon. In this little scene we’re about to reenact for you, I’m a guy we’ll call George. Foley isn’t here yet, but when he turns up, he’ll be a guy named Fred. They don’t know each other. George likes to come here mornings and feed the birds.” Berwanger reached his right hand into an imaginary bag and made a tossing motion. “Notice how they all congregate at the edge of the lake, competing for the bread crumbs George throws to them. George thinks he’s alone, but then Fred turns up.”
Foley walked across the front of the classroom and stood next to Berwanger.
FRED WATCHES GEORGE for a while, looking as if he’s debating with himself whether he should speak. Finally he says, “Feeding the birds, huh?”
“You got it, pal,” George says, mildly sarcastic. “I’m feeding the birds.”
“Don’t think I’ve seen you around before. My name’s Fred.”
“George.” He says it kind of grudgingly, not really wanting to strike up a conversation.
“Glad to know you, George.” Fred pauses a few beats, then says, “You really shouldn’t do that, you know.”
“I shouldn’t do what?”
“Feed the birds.”
“They like it.”
“Well, yeah, sure they like it. But they’re birds. They are not the best judge of what’s good for them. We’re people. We should have more sense.” Fred keeps his comments casual, as if determined to stay reasonable, keep it friendly. “Haven’t you seen the signs saying ‘Don’t Feed the Birds’? They’re all over the place.”
“I don’t take those seriously.”
“Well, George, don’t take this the wrong way, but you should. There are good reasons for those signs. Lots of reasons.”
George looks at Fred scornfully. “Enlighten me,” he says with heavy sarcasm.
“To begin with, feeding the birds gets them too dependent on humans. They’re wild creatures. They shouldn’t rely on people for handouts.”
“Look, buddy, you see how many birds there are on this lake? And there’s just one of me. Giving a few of them a little treat isn’t going to make them dependent on people. And even if it did, that’s the nature of urban birds in city parks. I’m sorry if it bothers you, but you need to get over it.”
“No, really, it’s more serious than you think. Some of these are migratory birds.”
“Yeah? So?”
“If free meals discourage them from migrating, they’ll just stay here, and that makes for all kinds of problems.”
“Why? It’s a big lake.”
“To begin with, if there’s overpopulation of birds, the ones that don’t migrate will compete with the native birds for natural resources. That can lead to the spread of bird diseases. Like duck viral enteritis, fowl cholera, and botulism.”
George looks at Fred suspiciously. “What are you, some kind of veterinarian or zoologist or something?”
“No,” Fred says with a modest laugh, “but there’s a big sign over there that lists the diseases and also tells why people shouldn’t feed the birds. You should read it sometime.”
“Look, buddy, you get your kicks memorizing bird diseases and I’ll get mine feeding the birds and we’ll both be happy, okay?”
“The birds won’t be happy. The migratory waterfowl that come through here, when they do migrate – ”
“I thought your point was they won’t migrate.”
“Maybe some of them won’t. But some of them will, and if they do and they’re sick, they can carry the diseases to other areas that haven’t been infected up to now.”
“If they can fly away, how sick can they be?”
“They could be carrying the disease but not showing any symptoms yet. Another thing is, when you’ve got bird overpopulation, you get interbreeding of species. They have genetically altered offspring who often can’t fly. The result is more nonmigration, more overpopulation.”