The gathered men nod. They are all displaced persons, I gather, all formerly of Mr. Matt's stripe.
I gather that not all the likely suspects have arrived, so l shepherd Miss Midnight Louise to an inconspicuous spot just outside the circle of empty chairs.
"I do not wish a seat on the sidelines. I wish to be in for the kill."
"Face it. Our job here is as mere witnesses. It is up to Nose E. to finger the perp."
"Do you think he will find the scent we have traced from Wilfrid's house?"
"Only if the person who carried it there, at the scene of the crime, is here. Nose E. cannot conjure the criminal; he can only snifff one out."
Midnight Louise sniffs in disgust. "Then we are just window-dressing. I call that small reward for wearing our footpads to nubs all over Las Vegas. And then the dog gets all the credit."
"Sometimes it is enough just to see justice done."
"Not for me. We female felines have hung back and let someone else hog the glory tor far too long."
"Am I hogging glory'? I ask you, am I'? Face it. We do not have the sniffers for this particular job."
"I detected the scent that Nose E. follows."
"But could you swear to the source?"
"Maybe."
While we have been having a quiet exchange of hisses under the chair legs, Mr. Matt and his performing wonder dog have been gathering the usual ooos and chin-chucks. The only thing worse than a cute little dog for hogging the attention is a human baby.
"What is his name?" one guy asks.
I can see Mr. Matt hesitate. He does not like to lie, but saying Nose E.'s name is like giving away his game. Chauncey." he comes up with.
I wince. A wimpy name tor a wimpy dog. Nose E. takes it like a canine, without a whimper.
They are so disgustingly eager to please; you could name them "Doormat" and they would come running, when will dogs realize that they will not get respect until they demand it'? Obviously, this species takes way too much abuse; they could use a bodyguard. In fact, maybe I sniff a new business venture in this somewhere: Midnight Louie's Canine Advocacy Service: Our Claws at Your Command. Our Claws in Your Cause. Our Claws . . .
Oops. Another guy has entered the room.
I can see why Mr. Matt's suspicions have moved in this direction. I note a lot of snowy thatches on the heads present that still have hair. The poor sinned-against human male! How demeaning. To lose one's hair right at the apex of your physical profile.
I mean, who would mind a few patches off, say, where nobody can see, like one's inner thighs? But right on top of Old Smoky'? Cruel, the ways of human aging. That alone would be enough to turn a male rogue, one would think. Luckily, my breed just goes gray around the muzzle and ears. Very distinguished.
I, of course, have yet to spot the first white hair--unless it has been left upon me by some feline of the female persuasion--so I can afford to sympathize. It is no fur off my chin! Perhaps that is why men with shrinking scalps cultivate chin and cheek hairs.
What melted like the snows of yesteryear up top can still flourish on the lower slopes.
Oh, well. It is their problem, thank Bast. Not mine.
While I am ruminating on these Serious Male issues, Miss Midnight Louise is pacing back and forth behind me like a penned panther.
"This is ridiculous. Get to it! I am waiting for Nose E. to sink a fang into the villainous creature who is willing to kill two species."
"Then you are waiting for naught, Girl. Nose E. does not do anything obvious that would give the game away. His signals are subtle, sort of like those in baseball."
"Baseball!"
Apparently I have touched another nerve, but then, that is what I am best at in relating to Midnight Louise.
She hisses quietly. "I do not understand this fetish for worshiping a sport in which human males spend so much time thinking about moving a ball around."
"Uh, it has a certain gender symbolism, it you will."
"I will not! It is stupid. And so is this exercise in waiting for Nose E. to do something."
At this moment, the door opens, and another dude ankles in.
As I had tried to tell Miss Louise about Nose E. (whom I have seen in action ere this), his job demands the subtle cue, not the noisy, media-friendly takedown one sees so often on Cops. Bad boys, what you gonna do when they come for you? Especially if they are nose-hounds.
He begins struggling in Mr. Matt's arms. Mr. Matt obediently sets him on the floor on his four fluffy little pins. Nose E. trots around the circle of gathered men. The chairs are full now.
Nose E. sniffs and accepts pats. He is rather like a royal personage off to press the flesh, or oh to have his flesh and fur pressed, rather.
At one man's feet he sniffs for a long moment. Then he sits, cocks his head, and raises his right front foot.
In Nose E.'s world, this is the equivalent of the Judas kiss, or maybe I mean sniff-off.
I stare at Mr. Matt, whose face has gone still and cautious and very, very sad.
Chapter 56
Evidence of Things Not Seen
Molina looked at Matt and Temple, sitting side by side on her office chairs.
"I know what Nose E. is," she said. "I don't know what the hell Nose E. thought he was scenting. Unfortunately, we detectives don't sniff' our way to glory. So a drug-and-bomb-sniffing pooch pointed a paw. This case has nothing to do with drug and bombs.
"What did the dog smell? I don't know. You don't know. You want to take this to court, with a Maltese as the main witness? I don't think so."
"There's a reason," Temple insisted. "Those animals were on that trail for a reason."
"What? They want to nail a killer? They're animals. They can be trained, but they can't reason."
"Oh, I don't know. I've seen Louie's wheels turning."
"I've seen windmills turning. I don't ask them to testify in court."
"Look." said Matt, "why not investigate this man? His background, his possible motive? Isn't that what you do all the time?"
"Yessss," Molina hissed in frustration, "but there is usually a little thing called evidence, physical or behavioral evidence, that gives the police some reason to investigate."
"What about animal instincts?" Temple asked. "That's behavioral."
Molina's eyes narrowed to laser-blue slits. "So is piddling on the rug. We don't build cases on it."
"What about human instincts?" Matt asked. "I know one of the men from my ex-priests'
group called the radio station, talked to me on the air."
"Did you recognize a voice?"
Matt grimaced. "We all develop that institutional pulpit voice. I recognized the syndrome, yeah, but not a specific voice. Not well enough to point a finger."
"Well, then. You do not have a dog's keen hearing. And you"--here she glared at Temple---
"do not have a dog's keen sense of smell, Strawberry Lady or no Strawberry Lady. We have three murders here: three women dead who came from wildly different spheres of life and experience, in one case, of age as well. Each was strangled. Each somehow . . . was punished for leaving. Something. This is beyond doggie sniffing."
"Would you take my request seriously if I told you I think I know the murder weapon?" Matt said, like a man who had committed to a great risk.
"You do?'"
"At least in the first murder. Your murder, Lieutenant."
"It is not my murder, any more than it is your murder. But what weapon are you thinking of?"
"It may sound far-fetched, but, if my idea has a possibility of being right, will you look into the dog's . . . suspect?"
"You give me a feasible murder weapon in the first case, and I'll investigate Lassie." She glanced from one to the other, expecting nothing.
Matt took a deep breath. "A rosary."
"A rosary! Much too small. The average rosary is--what? Fifteen inches around. You couldn't even slip it over someone's head."