"This morning."
"What?"
"He cut himself this morning. Why a dog bite? Why is that important?"
Slaughter couldn't bring himself to say it. "We've had trouble with those wild dogs in the hills. It's nothing. Look, I need a picture of your son. To help my men identify him."
He hoped that he'd changed the subject, and they looked at him and slowly nodded, walking toward the house, Slaughter just behind them. He really didn't understand now. If the boy had not been bitten, why had he behaved the way he did? Maybe what he'd said to Marge was true. The boy just had a breakdown. Maybe they mistreated him. Maybe he fought back and ran from home. The only way to know was to find the boy, and as the couple went inside the house, Slaughter turned to frown toward the sun. It was almost below the western mountains. Dusk would be here soon, then night, and how on earth they'd find the boy when it was dark, he didn't know.
He peered in at the living room. The place was absolutely clean and ordered. Surely anyone who kept a home so well was not the type to beat a child. But he'd been fooled that way back in Detroit, and he was wishing that his men were here so they could set out, looking for the boy.
The husband came back with a picture. Blond and bright-faced, blue eyes, in his Sunday suit. The boy was much like Slaughter's son had been at this age, and he had some trouble looking at the picture. God, the boy must be in terror out there. Slaughter couldn't show his feelings, though. He simply told the father, "Thank you. I'll return it."
"Listen, my wife's too upset to come back out and talk about this. Find him, will you?"
Slaughter heard the sirens, pivoting as two cruisers pulled up in the street. "We'll have him back. I promise." Then he paused. "I think your wife should see a doctor."
"She'll be all right once she rests a little."
"No, I mean her leg. A human bite. It's probably infected."
"I'll take care to clean it."
"Take her to a doctor," Slaughter told him. "I'll check back to see about it. Look, I have to go."
He stepped from the porch, the photograph in his hand, the policemen coming toward him.
"This is who we're looking for," he said. "Warren is his name, and he's no doubt scared. But stay away from him. He's just a kid, but he attacked his mother, and I don't want any of you hurt."
They waited, looking at the picture.
"You two check the streets down this way. You two check the other way. I'll take the lane in back. Remember. Don't get careless just because he's little. I don't know what's happened here, but something isn't right."
Abruptly Slaughter faced the people on the lawn. "Everything's okay now. We'll take care of things. I want you all to go back to your homes."
But they just stood and looked at him.
"Come on. Let's move it."
Slaughter approached them, gesturing for them to leave, and slowly they dispersed.
"You'll know soon enough how this turns out. Just go back to your homes."
He turned toward his men. They were getting in their cars, and he was all alone, except for Dunlap.
"There's no chance to take you to your room," Slaughter said.
"I was hoping there wasn't."
"Hey, I know you need a story, but if word of this gets out, I told you there'll be a panic."
"I'll be careful."
"I assume I have your promise on that."
Dunlap nodded, looking puzzled. "But if the boy wasn't bitten."
"Yes, I know. It doesn't make much sense." They got in the car.
At the corner, Slaughter steered right, then right again, slowing as he started up the lane. He'd had to make a choice: here or where the lane continued to the left. But this direction took them toward the house the boy had fled from, and he figured that would be the place to start his search, so he was staring up the lane, then at the backyards and the houses on each side.
"I can't watch for everything. You check the yards on your side. I'll check over here."
"Hell, a kid, he could be anywhere."
"Just think of how the yards would look to someone small. A crawl space underneath a shed. A low spot in some bushes. Places an adult would never figure."
"Or he's maybe half a mile from here."
"Don't even think that," Slaughter told him. He was driving past the backyard of the house now, slowing even more, then stopping.
"What's the matter?"
"I just want to look at something."
Slaughter stepped from the cruiser, walking toward a metal barrel near the gravel lane. What made him stop was the blood along the rim and down the barrel. He studied the blood on the ground as well, noticing the large drops leading toward the house. He peered inside the barrel, saw the rusty cans, the broken glass, the blood across it, and the woman had been right. So why then had the kid behaved the way he did?
He glanced around for places where the boy could hide, stooped to check underneath some bushes by the shed, then straightened, walking to the cruiser. Dunlap asked him, "Anything?" But Slaughter only shook his head and worked the gearshift, driving slowly down the lane.
The radio crackled. "Chief, it's Marge. I haven't found the medical examiner."
Slaughter grabbed the microphone. "Well, keep trying. Stay there until you get him. I need lots of help on this. I've got plenty of questions."
They were at a side street now. Slaughter saw a German shepherd on a chain in one backyard. The dog was lunging, held back by the chain as it glared at them. Slaughter studied it a moment. Then he looked across the street toward where the lane continued. Far along it, at the end, he saw the large trees of the city park and all the places where a boy could hide, not to mention all the places in the backyards of the lane. He was looking both ways on the side street. A cruiser went by, and Slaughter nodded grimly to the driver. Then staying to the search plan, he moved across the side street and down the lane. The thing is, he was thinking, we don't have much time until it's dark, and what the hell is that kid doing now? He maybe just was angry at his mother. What, though, if he's crazy? How do we behave if someone traps him and the kid attacks again?
THREE
The medical examiner scowled. He had been a star in his profession once, back in Philadelphia, but that had been ten years ago. Born and raised in Potter's Field, he had left the town to go to school. A doctor's son, he'd wanted to be like his father. He had guessed that he would be a surgeon, but when he had finished pre-med, staying on at Boston for his training, he had found that diagnostics more than surgery attracted him. His father had approved. After all, those specialties were quite compatible. A lot of men could cut, but not as many could detect a cause, and a combination of both could earn considerable fees.
But the son had soon determined he would specialize much more than that. Searching out diseases not just in the living but the dead as well. Pathology, and in particular those duties strictly relegated to a medical examiner. The father had been livid, but for reasons that the son had not expected. Granted that a medical examiner had little chance to make the money that a surgeon could. "But autopsies!" the father had shouted. "You should want to cure the living, not dissect the dead!" The son had not been able to explain himself. The best that he could manage was the notion that determining the cause of death could help prevent another death just like it. But the argument was not convincing, even to himself. He sensed that there was another reason, although that reason wasn't clear to him, but he had made his choice, and despite his father's angry objections, he had continued with his studies.
Even when his father threatened not to pay his tuition, he'd persisted, working part-time, getting money any way he could. As well as with his father, he had trouble with some teachers. They felt that working with the dead was self-defeating for a doctor, and they had tried to change his mind, but he was adamant. Everyone agreed, though: he was good at what he did. He finished in the upper tenth of all his classes, and when he completed all his training, he had little trouble finding work. By then, he and his father no longer spoke to one another. He was certain he would not go back to Potter's Field. The place he chose was Philadelphia, and in five years, he rose from simply being on the staff to acting as assistant medical examiner. The hard jobs he was always given. More than that, he sought them out: the murders that were mystifying, and those deaths that no one understood, those suicides that maybe had been awkward accidents. He solved them all. It got so other members of the staff would come to watch him do his work. There were betting pools to see how long he might be stymied by a body's puzzle. Homicide detectives hoped that he would be assigned to their investigations. Reporters interviewed him. Magazines did stories on him. Once he even had an article devoted to him in Time.