Small Town

“Bullshit. Nobody ever stayed sober on cowardice. We’re all heroes.”

“I was afraid to call.”

“That’s something else. What’s the fear?”

“That they’ll think I’m an idiot.”

“You said they already think that.”

“Yes, but—”

“What they think of is none of your business, anyway. Is that all?”

He thought for a moment. “Well, see, I’m out of it now. I had a horrible couple of hours, first finding the body and then being asked the same questions over and over and finally giving a formal statement. I mean, they were perfectly nice, they were almost too polite, but underneath all that respectful politeness it was obvious they despised me. And it’s none of my business, right, but it’s not much fun to be around.”

“Of course it isn’t.”

“So why don’t I just leave well enough alone? I mean, for all I know she dropped the rabbit days ago and its ear broke off and she threw it out. Or it got lost, or, I don’t know...”

“The bear ate it.”

“Actually, I thought of that myself. Early on, before I knew what I’d find behind Door Number One. It was just a nice little whimsical thought. I have to call them, don’t I?”

“Yep.”

“Because it’s my civic duty?”

She shook her head. “Because it’s driving you nuts,” she said, “and you can’t get it out of your head, so for God’s sake tell them and be done with it.”

He stood up. “Thank God you’re my sponsor,” he said.

Alan reade said, “He called you? Why the hell did he call you and not me?”

“I guess I’m cuter,” Slaughter said.

“I was nicer to him than you were, man. I was the perfect Sensitive New Age Guy, treating him like a human being instead of a dizzy little flit.”

“Maybe your sincerity came shining through,” Slaughter suggested. “Did you even give him your card?”

“Of course I gave him my card. Call anytime, I told him. You think of anything, I don’t care if it’s the middle of the night, just pick up the phone.”

“Maybe he tried you first and your line was busy.”

“Musta been,” Reade said. “Now what’s this shit about a rabbit?”

“He called it a fetish, which to me is a sex thing, fur or high heels or leather, shit like that.”

“Black rubber.”

“Hey, whatever works for you, Alan. These are little figurines, the Indians carve ’em out in Arizona and New Mexico. You keep ’em around and feed ’em cornmeal.”

“Cornmeal?”

“Don’t worry about it. She had three of them, according to Pankow, and one was missing.”

“The rabbit.”

“Right. The others were a bear and a bison. You remember seeing them, because I have to say I don’t.”

“No.”

“Well, he says they were there, and—”

“Wait a minute, it’s coming back to me. On a little table, two little animals, and one was a buffalo. The other was pink—”

“Rose quartz, he said.”

“—and I couldn’t tell what it was, but I suppose it coulda been a bear. I don’t remember any rabbit.”

“That’s the point. The rabbit was missing.”

“Same size as the others?”

“A little smaller, he said. Maybe two and a half inches long.”

“Does that include the ears? Never mind. What did you say, turquoise?”

“That’s a kind of blue stone.”

“Jesus,” Reade said, “I know what fucking turquoise is. My wife’s got this silver necklace, her brother gave it to her, and he’s as light in his loafers as Pankow, incidentally. A turquoise rabbit, and he says it was there the week before?”

“Swears to it.”

“I didn’t see any kind of a rabbit in Creighton’s apartment,” he said, “unless you count the bunny on the cover of Playboy. But would you even notice something like that if you weren’t looking for it?”

“This time we’ll be looking for it.”

“If we can find a judge who’ll write out a warrant.”

Slaughter, beaming, pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket. “All taken care of,” he said. “Courtesy of Judge Garamond, the policeman’s best friend.”

Reade finished his coffee, pushed back his chair. “You want to go over there? It’s a little early, he might be sleeping in.”

“So we’ll wake him up.”

On the way Reade said, “Creighton seem to you like the type to take a souvenir?”

“No.”

“Me neither. That’s a serial killer thing, isn’t it? I didn’t see a whole lot of ritual in Fairchild’s apartment.”

“There wasn’t all that much to see, thanks to Mr. Clean. But I agree with you, Alan. Looks of it, two drunks went to bed, and one of them strangled the other either in the act or afterward.”

“I wonder how drunk he was.”

“Pretty far gone, would be my guess. Say he’s in and out of blackout, he could kill her and not know it. On his way out he’s in the living room getting dressed, because we know from Pankow that she left her clothes in the living room so he probably did, too...”

“And he picks up the rabbit and puts it in his pocket, and the next day he doesn’t remember killing her, and he doesn’t know where the rabbit came from, either. In fact...”

“What?”

“Well, if he puts it away when he gets home, and when he wakes up he doesn’t remember taking it or putting it away—”