Urge to Kill

She’d been jumpy all morning, still angry at her mother and that prick Milton Kahn, anxious because she’d slept so poorly. She was jacked up on too much coffee and considering taking up smoking to calm her nerves, though she had never smoked. But most of all she was worried about the removed mole. Where was it now, somewhere out of state in a jar on some laboratory shelf? Being whirled dizzily in a centrifuge? Subjected to extreme light, magnification, and probing with sharp instruments?

For the past two hours she’d been seated at her desk, working on her computer because there was nothing more productive or distracting for her to do. Now and then leaning forward to sip more coffee, she played her fingers over the keyboard and jerked and clicked the mouse on its pad, trolling for information on any murders, anywhere, any time, that involved the hanging and disemboweling of the victims.

There was a case in Seattle two years ago, but they’d caught and convicted the guy, who’d turned out to be a former medical student and city employee. Another, five years ago, in California. In that one the killer was a mental case searching for a healthy kidney to be transplanted in exchange for his own diseased one. He’d been caught when he’d broken into a hospital to perform the surgery on himself. His motive was that he’d been unfairly kept too long on the transplant waiting list. He, too, was convicted, and died in prison.

That was it. This kind of murder was less popular than gunshots, stab wounds, poisoning, blunt instruments, or strangulation.

Pearl was about to give up, get another cup of coffee, and do some serious pacing, when on an obscure Web site about crimes against animals she discovered the case of a man named Dwayne Avis. Five years ago he had gotten a suspended sentence and paid a fine after torturing dogs on his upstate New York farm. Six of the animals had been found hanging and gutted in his barn.

Not quite the same thing as dead women, Pearl thought, leaning back in her chair and pressing a fist into her aching back.

But what other leads did they have?

She reread the small-town newspaper article on her computer monitor. Avis expressed no remorse, according to the reporter, and had threatened state police with a shotgun when they entered his property. When subdued and arrested, he stated that the dogs were his and what he did with them was his business. There was no photo of Avis accompanying the article.

Sick bastard, Pearl thought. Who’d do that to defenseless animals and then resist arrest and try to defend his actions? Or maybe he was simply evil. It might not be a bad idea to at least talk to him, make sure he wasn’t getting away with doing the same thing again. After five years, people forgot.

After five years, people had moved away. It was possible Dwayne Avis was one of them. He might be gone or might even have died. Some dog lover might have shot him, and good riddance.

Or maybe he’d moved to New York City.

Pearl manipulated the mouse and made her way electronically to the paper’s front page. It was the Mansard Gazette, headquartered in Mansard, New York. Pearl clicked back to the five-year-old news article about the slaughtered dogs. She printed it out to show to Quinn or Fedderman, when one or the other turned up at the office. Then she made use of the Internet to find out more about Mansard.

It turned out to be a small upstate farming town with a population of less than five hundred. Pearl figured most of that meager number lived on outlying farms. The Web site listed two phone numbers for the Mansard city hall. Pearl called the one titled “Public Relations.”

She didn’t introduce herself as a cop. Small towns could be gossip nests. If Avis did somehow turn out to be a suspect, she didn’t want him alerted that the police were again interested in him.

A perky-sounding woman named Jane Ellen answered the phone and never even asked Pearl’s name, but assumed she must be writing an article or doing a school paper on Mansard—maybe because Pearl led her in that direction.

Pearl listened to a lot about average rainfall and temperature, home prices, school ratings, and something called the Fall Apple Theater, before asking if Dwayne Avis still lived in or around Mansard.

“He’s still on his farm,” Jane Ellen said. Her tone had definitely become cooler.

“I met him once, and he told me about Mansard,” Pearl said.

“Oh? He have anything good to say about it?”

Pearl laughed as if Jane Ellen were joking. “Of course he did.”

“Dwayne is one who keeps pretty much to himself. Likes it out there on his farm, all secluded. Folks pretty much respect his wishes.”

“Is his farm far from town?”

“’Bout ten miles.”

“What’s he grow?”

“Not much. Drives his old truck in and sells some tomatoes and corn at a local produce market the town has in season. Sometimes okra.”

Okra? Haven’t had that in years. Don’t miss it. “Does he have any animals on his farm?” Pearl asked.