And it was as I was trudging along in the direction of the amphitheater Mayor McCrady had opened with much fanfare just the month before, that I had the shock of a lifetime. Walking along the path, pushing a pram, a little girl of about four clinging to his hand, was the pimpled killer! I gasped, I reeled, I swayed, but after a second, third and fourth look, he was still there, cool as a cucumber and heading my way. The pimple was losing its plumpness, but the rest of his face was just the way I’d remembered. Broad and pasty, with a smattering of pockmarks along the rim, and two dark eyes taking in the sights from under drooping eyelids.
I wanted to scream and shout, but of course did nothing of the kind. I know what vicious killers do to witnesses, and even though I was merely a cat, I wasn’t so sure he’d make an exception for me. And seeing as I was alone and in no position to warn my FSA compadres, I decided to tail the perp and find out who he was and where he lived.
My heart was pounding in my throat, my breathing had become stertorous, and I had trouble walking a straight line as my limbs were quaking with every step, but I was resolved to see this through. I’d identify the Brookridge Park killer and see justice served or my name wasn’t Agent Tom. Visions of celebratory ceremonies and my name writ large in the FSA annals drifted before my mind’s eye as I stayed low and out of sight and waddled after the pimpled killer.
The shock of seeing the man abating a little, I now started to wonder what he was doing here, and what was more, why he was accompanied by a small child and what I assumed to be a baby. I don’t have a lot of firsthand experience dealing with killers, only knowing the breed from television cop shows, but they usually don’t strike me as the fatherly type.
Still staying in the bushes lining the path, I watched with surprise as the killer set off for an ice cream stall and proceeded to treat the little girl to an ice cream cone and buy one for himself, as well. The girl was obviously pleased, beaming up at the man and planting a big, wet kiss on his cheek.
“Thank you, daddy!” she exclaimed, and I blinked.
Daddy? For a moment there I’d assumed the guy to be a kidnapper. These being tough economic times, taking a second job wasn’t all that uncommon, and I’m not sure there’s a lot of money in being a murdering maniac. But if my ears hadn’t deceived me—and they seldom did—the girl was his… daughter?
The girl now leaned over the pram and dropped a small dollop of ice cream into its interior. A mirthful gurgle confirmed the treat was well received by the pram’s inhabitant, clearly some human infant. All the while, the pimpled killer was looking on with a look of such fatherly devotion written all over his pasty face, that I had a hard time keeping in mind this man was indeed the Brookridge Park butcher.
Of course, as I’ve indicated, my life hitherto has been pretty much killer-free, so the rules and regulations governing this particular type of human are unfamiliar to me. Perhaps all killers are devoted parents? Perhaps they all dote on their offspring the way this specimen did?
I watched with fascination, therefore, and not a little bit of fearful exhilaration, as I continued to track the man’s progression along the park’s lanes. He now parked himself and his little girl on a bench alongside the pond and I saw to my horror that on the other side of the pond a Red Cross vehicle had drawn up and two burly nurses were transferring Jamie Burrow’s remains onto a stretcher of sorts.
This was getting too weird: the killer looking on as his latest victim was being removed from the scene. I had taken up vigil in the bush closest to the bench and was studying the man’s face as he watched the proceedings. More than a mild interest didn’t seem to stir his features, the kind of curiosity that drives rubberneckers and thrill seekers to gather round the scene of a car crash.
“What are those people doing over there, daddy?” said the girl, having managed to deposit more ice cream on her shirtfront than in her stomach.
“That’s an ambulance, honey,” said the man, unperturbed.
The girl seemed to know what an ambulance was, for she said,“Is one of the ducks sick, daddy?”
The man chuckled.“I don’t think so. Probably someone was not feeling well. It happens a lot when it’s as warm as today.”
“I know what happened,” said the girl, nodding sagely. “Someone forgot to eat their ice cream and got too hot.” She then looked from her own half-melted, half-eaten cone to the ambulance. “Should I give them mine, daddy?”
“That’s all right, honey. I don’t think eating your ice cream will make them feel better. When people get sick, ice cream is not what they want.”
The girl’s face lit up. “They need apsirin!”
“Aspirin,” corrected her father.
“That’s what I said,” said the girl, sploshing more ice cream on her shirt.
The scene puzzled me. This guy didn’t look like a killer to me. I studied his nose and its most distinguishing feature: the pimple. Yes, it was the same fellow, I was sure of it. I sighed as it started to dawn on me that the life of the feline spy is not an easy one. Just when you think you’ve got the murder investigation all wrapped up in a neat bundle, your killer goes and turns out to be father of the year.
27
Interspecies Mingling
From the corner of my eye I detected movement and, turning around without letting the killer out of my sight, I saw that it was Dana. She snuck up next to me and heaved,“What’s going on?”
She appeared out of breath.“Where have you been?” I said, with not a little bit of pique, for I hadn’t forgotten how she had walked out on me.
But Dana gasped as her eye fell on the pasty-faced father of two.“That’s the killer!” she exclaimed. “You’ve found him!”
She directed an admiring look at me that mollified me to a great extent.“Just happened to bump into him,” I said modestly. “How did you find me, by the way?”
“I tracked your frequency,” she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. She pointed at the girl. “Who’s the kid?”
“You won’t believe this,” I said, “but our killer is a devoted family man.” And I proceeded to regale her with a blow-by-blow account of my detection work up to that point. She whistled through her teeth, something I’d never seen any cat do before, not even Brutus.
“It doesn’t add up,” she said, studying the man’s face. She nodded slowly. “It is the same guy, I’m sure of it.”
“So am I,” I said.
“It’s not just his face. I can sense his frequency, and it reads the same as the killer’s.”
“Couldn’t you have tracked him down by his frequency, then? Like you did with me?”
She grimaced.“I tried that, but couldn’t draw a bead on him. It was almost as if his frequency was jammed or something. Though I can’t even begin to imagine how that is possible.”
“The plot thickens,” I said ominously.
“It does indeed,” Dana said.
For a moment we stared at our killer in silence, as he wiped his little girl’s face with a napkin, the image of the loving father.
“That reminds me,” I said. “You have a secret admirer.”
“Oh?” She didn’t seem surprised. Cats like Dana collect secret, and not so secret, admirers by the boatload.
I was pretty sure she’d already read my mind, but I said it, anyway. One likes to cherish these old-fashioned habits. “Frank the Poodle has professed his undying love and devotion to you.” And if that wasn’t a discrete way of putting it, I didn’t know what was.
A smile lit up her furry face.“I know. That’s why I didn’t want to join you before. I didn’t want to embarrass Frank. Hewill get all goofy when he sees me.”