here is a whole pack of creatures slithering in that way, one behind the
other, like a commando team, for God’s sake. Rats just aren’t that
smart or that . . . determined. No animal is. It doesn’t make
sense.”
The thought of Vastagliano wrapped in a cloak of swarming, biting rats
had caused Jack’s mouth to go dry and sour. He had to work up some
saliva to unstick his tongue. Finally he said, “Another thing. Even if
Vastagliano and his bodyguard were overwhelmed by scores of these . . .
these things, they’d still have killed a couple-wouldn’t they? But we
haven’t found a single dead rat or a single dead anything else-except,
of course, dead people.”
“And no droppings,” Goldbloom said.
“No what?”
“Droppings. Feces. If there were dozens of animals involved, you’d
find droppings, at least a few, probably piles of droppings.”
“If you find animal hairs-”
“We’ll definitely be looking for them,” Goldbloom said. “We’ll vacuum
the floor around each body, of course, and analyze the sweepings. If we
could find a few hairs, that would clear up a lot of the mystery.” The
assistant medical examiner wiped one hand across his face, as if he
could pull off and cast away his tension, his disgust. He wiped so hard
that spots of color actually did rise in his cheeks, but the haunted
look was still in his eyes. “There’s something else that disturbs me,
too. The victims weren’t . . . eaten. Bitten, ripped gouged . . .
all of that . . . but so far as I can see, not an ounce of flesh was
consumed. Rats would’ve eaten the tender parts: eyes, nose, earlobes,
testicles…. They’d have torn open the body cavities in order to get to
the soft organs. So would any other predator or scavenger.
But there was nothing like that in this case. These things killed
purposefully, efficiently, methodically . . . and then just went away
without devouring a scrap of their prey. It’s unnatural. Uncanny. What
motive or force was driving them? And why?”
After talking with Ira Goldbloom, Jack and Rebecca decided to question
the neighbors. Perhaps one of them had heard or seen something
important last night.
Outside Vastagliano’s house, they stood on the sidewalk for a moment,
hands in their coat pockets.
The sky was lower than it had been an hour ago.
Darker, too. The gray clouds were smeared with others that were
soot-dark.
Snowflakes drifted down; not many; they descended lazily, except when
the wind gusted, and they seemed like fragments of burnt sky, cold bits
of ash.
Rebecca said, “I’m afraid we’ll be pulled off this case.”
“You mean . . . off these two murders or off the whole business?”
“Just these two. They’re going to say there’s no connection.”
“There’s a connection,” Jack said.
“I know. But they’re going to say Vastagliano and Ross are unrelated to
the Novello and Coleson cases.”
“I think Goldbloom will tie them together for us.”
She looked sour. “I hate to be pulled off a case, damnit. I like to
finish what I start.”
“We won’t be pulled off.”
“But don’t you see? If some sort of animal did it . . .”
“Yes?”
“Then how can they possibly classify it as murder?”
“It’s murder,” he said emphatically.
“But you can’t charge an animal with homicide.”
He nodded. “I see what you’re driving at.”
“Damn.”
“Listen, if these were animals that were trained to kill, then it’s
still homicide; the trainer is the murderer.”
“If these were dog bites that Vastagliano and Ross died from,” Rebecca
said, “then maybe you might just be able to sell that theory. But what
animal-what animal as small as these apparently were-can be trained to
kill, to obey all commands? Rats? No. Cats? No. Gerbils, for God’s
sake?”
“Well, they train ferrets,” Jack said. “They use them for hunting
sometimes. Not game hunting where they’re going after the meat, but
just for sport, ’cause the prey is generally a ragged mess when the
ferret gets done with it.”
“Ferrets, huh? I’d like to see you convince Captain Gresham that
someone’s prowling the city with a pack of killer ferrets to do his