Chapter One

I was turning to the sports page when the newspaper jumped in my hands.

“He’s struck again.” Cheryl said, flicking the paper a second time for emphasis.

“Pardon dear,” I said, folding the paper and putting it on the table.

“You never listen to me,” scolded my wife of nineteen years, seven months and six days. “I said he’s done it again. Another murder. He’s run his score to three with this Freemantle person.” Her finger stabbed the salacious headline:

Police investigate another bizarre slaying of a suburban housewife.

“How do we know they’re even connected?” I replied, nodding toward the Tribune, Midlothian, Ohio’s one and only daily paper. “The news people say that, but the police haven’t.”

“Oh, please,” Cheryl said. “Don’t be an idiot. I grew up here. We have the occasional killing, drugs and such. But three in a month? All women? And so bizarre? Please. He must be a real sicko.”

I could feel her behind me, shaking her long, silky hair, its streaks of brown and grey replaced by bleach-bottle blond after her latest trip to the spa. I smiled at my buttered toast. “How do we know it’s a he?”

“Don’t be an idiot. You better hurry; you’ll be late for work.”

“I can afford to be late. I have a doctorate in veterinary medicine,” I said, nibbling a crust of bread. “And I work for the county.” I sipped more coffee. “And I’m a unionized supervisor.”

“Any idea when the doctorate unionized supervisor is going to get a promotion? Or maybe a raise? Or maybe a bonus?”

“I better get to work.” I picked up my lunch bag and kissed Cheryl on the cheek. “Why don’t you take some steaks out of the big freezer downstairs? I’ll grill. We can open a bottle of wine, have date night.” I gave her a hug. She didn’t hug me back.

“Oh yeah, I almost forgot. I have a thing tonight, um, a ladies thing. Dinner and a meeting.”

“Didn’t you just have one of those?” I asked.

“That was the monthly meeting. I’m on the board, you know. We meet every week. Might not get back till late. There’s cold chicken in the fridge.”

~ * ~

Morning traffic wasn’t bad – only used my horn once. The working portion of Midlothian’s citizenry putzed their way to Hokkaido Plastics, Deer Park Medical Center, or The Sunshine Café. I putzed toward the county municipal buildings.

Twenty minutes of breaking, accelerating, and grumbling put me in the county lot. I angled toward a parking space two over from a sheriff’s cruiser, when a darting orange streak forced me to hit the brakes. Heart hammering, I got out and looked around. There, huddled by the police cruiser’s right front wheel, was an orange tabby cat. Almost a kitten really, a scraggly, under-fed teenager. It looked as scared as I felt.

“Hey little guy. You’ve got to be more careful. I almost hit you.” I scanned the parking lot. “Where’s your mom?” The cat shrunk against the tire as I approached. “Don’t worry, little one. I won’t hurt you. You look hungry.” The cat eyed me suspiciously but didn’t move. “Stay right there.” I walked back to the car and got my lunch bag. It contained a ham sandwich, an apple, and a snack-sized bag of Fritos. I lifted a slice of ham slicked with butter off the sandwich and walked back to the cat. Now it was behind the tire, only its head peering out at me.

“Here you go,” I said, tossing the meat to within a foot of the hiding feline. At first it didn’t move, eyeing the ham as if it were poisoned bait. Then it pounced, carrying the treat back under the holding it like it was a trophy mouse. I smiled, watching the cat dash with its prize to the large maple. Then I ambled left to the municipal offices.

The county office building was constructed during the cold war and always reminded me of a bomb shelter; the concrete walkway descending into concrete walls bermed into a mound of industrial fill with grass on it. A few shrubs and trees had been added to break the grey monotony.

I entered through the double glass doors as receptionist Peggy Roberts was having the first in her daily series of heated ‘chats’ with her mother.

I waved and said, “Morning.”

Peggy waved perfunctorily back, her focus still on the maternal curse occupying the other end of the line. Turning right, I walked past licensing toward environmental services, heading for room 138.

My heels clicked thirty-seven paces down linoleum that might once have been brown. The smell of hot macadam gave way to eau de old building, with its bouquet of dust mites, floor wax, and wood seasoned by more than half a century. At my destination, light shone behind the black letters reading ‘Pesticide Control Program.’ Below the frosted glass was a white placard informing one and all that Randall Corlane, DVM was supervisor of this illustrious program consisting of exactly four persons: myself, one administrative assistant, and two inspectors.

What’s a veterinarian doing in pesticide control, you ask? Well, vets and pests go together like, well … dogs and fleas. We’re the docs who know all about mites and ticks, fleas and lice, mosquitoes and biting flies. We’re also the guys who know about the mange, malaria, and other diseases these creepy critters carry, as well as what kills them but not their hosts (in theory, anyway).

I turned the brass knob that hadn’t been replaced since Nixon occupied the White House and entered to the smell of ground roast rising from the Mr. Coffee in the corner.

“Morning Jan.”

“Morning Randy,” said Janyce Sterling, the aforementioned administrative assistant. Just a couple years out of community college, Jan was every bit the modern young woman, with piercings and multicolored hair proclaiming her individuality as it did for thousands of girls just like her. For Jan, professional attire meant the jeans only had small holes in them and the thong was only visible when she bent over.

“How was your evening?” I asked, pouring coffee into my OSU mug and adding one sugar.

“I spent most of it in bed.”

“Weren’t you feeling well?” I looked around for the cream.

Jan leered a grin. “Oh, I felt fine.”

I shook my head. “Which guy this time?”

“Kyle.”

“The one with all the muscles and tattoos?” There was powdered creamer but not actual cream.

“Uh huh. I spent a few hours exploring both.”

I raised my hand in surrender. “Too much data.”

“You’ll never guess where his snake tattoo is?”

I chuckled. “Have pity on an old married man and spare me the erotic details.”

“I thought you’d enjoy living vicariously?” She raised her pierced eyebrows. “Or if you want, I can introduce you to one of my girlfriends and you could live cariously?”

“You know you’re half my age, don’t you? And that I’ve been married almost as long as you’ve been alive.”

“I notice you didn’t say happily. Her name’s Rochelle Kolodny. She likes older guys. Even semi-happily married ones.”

“This sexual harassment thing works both ways.”

“I know. I just like to see you blush, Randy.”

I obliged.

Those of you who think the above erotica could not happen in a modern-day professional setting have never worked in county government. The limits are pretty much set by the employees, unless they have a strong hand at the tiller. My hand has always been a tad wimpy, eschewing confrontation. Plus, I didn’t see the harm.

“We have any cream?” I asked.

“You don’t take cream.”

“I know. Is there some in the breakroom?”

She shrugged. “Probably some half and half. Why?”

“Um, I have a friend who could use a square meal.” I dumped the chip crumbs from a Styrofoam bowl. “Do me a favor and put a note on my desk – ‘Get Meow Mix’.” Then I left for the breakroom.

~ * ~

When I returned from my errand of mercy, Jan was deep into People Magazine, so I grabbed my now lukewarm coffee and slipped around the cloth partition that separated boss from employee.

There are few personal offices in unionized county government. Like home fries, we’re cubed. Mine was a semi-private cube (three walls) with a window. I had a beautiful tunnel-like view of a tree and a parking lot. Not bad for government work.

I put down my mug and turned on my computer. Then I heard the office door open.

“Hey, darlin.” The cheerful voice of Nolan Webster, the senior inspector, carried easily over and around my partition. I didn’t need to see him to know he was dressed in threadbare jeans and that he hadn’t shaved. He always sported the same ratty, almost-beard, as if his hair grew out partially then stopped. I wondered if he trimmed it that way.

“Hey Nols,” Jan said.

“Miss me last night?”

Jan sighed heavily. “Yes, but I managed.”

“I’ll bet,” Nolan said. “You’ve got the well-ridden glow. How about me? Does mine show?” I didn’t need to look around the partition to see his leer in my mind’s eye.

“Was it human?” Jan asked.

“And lively. Um, Skipper in?”

Jan must have waved him around.

“Hey Chief.”

“Hey yourself, Nols. Where’s Tweedle Dum this fine morning?”

“Cash may be AWOL today. I left him at the bar around seven. He was already stinko.”

Carter (Cash) McCall was the junior member of my team. Imagine a skinny, male version of Jan, in coveralls with ‘County Inspector’ on the breast pocket.

“You are a bad influence on that young man, sir.”

“Don’t blame me, chief. Said young man was dead set on diving in the tank. Upset about something but wouldn’t tell me what. Just that he saw something that freaked him out. Sounded scared. Hey, did you see the paper?”

“What?” I mumbled, entering my password to unlock the screen.

“The paper. The Peeper’s added to his score.”

“The Peeper?”

“That’s what the press is calling him. From the way he, you know.” Nolan tugged his eyelid and scissored fingers across it.

“That’s disgusting,” I said.

“They say he has some skill with a knife. Single stroke to the heart.” He stabbed fist to sternum. “Knows his way around the anatomy. Like that guy on Ripper Street.”

“They never caught bloody Jack, did they?” I asked.

“Not the season I’m binging. Probably won’t catch the Peeper either.”

I checked my email. “Are you rooting for him?”

“Nah. But it does add spice to Midlothian’s humdrum summer.”

“I prefer humdrum.”

“Any complaints last night?”

One of the chief responsibilities of the PCP was chasing down misapplication complaints. These could range from concerns about routine yard treatments to accusations that someone poisoned the family pet. They all had to be checked out, even the backyard feuds and alleged dog-icides. So, I ran down the messages.

“Two. One out on Parkersburg Road, the other in town—Drury Lane.”

“Let me guess,” Nolan plopped his butt on my grey-metal desk. “Some yuppy accuses Farmer McPeet of spraying insecticide on little junior while he played video games on his Parkersburg-road computer. And a domestic feud – neighbor A killed neighbor B’s prize rosebush because B’s TV plays too loud.”

“You’re ruining the suspense,” I said.

“Which one do you want me to hit first?”

“Are your time sheets finished? They’re due today.”

“I’ll finish them later.”

“That’s what you said last month. And the month before.”

“How about I hit Drury Lane now, then Parkersburg. I can grab lunch afterward at that new place near the freeway.”

“You mean the strip club?”

“Bozo’s is not a strip club. The waitresses just wear casual summertime attire.”

“Like hot pants and halter tops?”

“No one calls them hot pants anymore, pops. They’re booty shorts now.”

“Tell you what, son. Get your booty out to Drury Lane and I’ll hit Parkersburg.”

“You? Inspecting?”

“Hey, I started out doing inspections. Back when this place was just me.”

“Was that the Jurassic or the Mesozoic era?”

“The bronze age. And I want those three months-worth of time sheets as soon as you finish at Drury.”

“Yes, Mein Fuhrer.”

I waved off his sieg heil. “And be careful leaving the lot. There’s a stray cat hanging around.” I sighed. “Poor thing.”