Slaughter hung up and again tapped his pencil on his desk.

Too much in one day, he thought. Fifteen minutes later, the night man told him that the medical examiner was on the line.

Slaughter picked up the phone. "So how'd you know I was working?"

"Well, I called your house, and no one answered. Where else would you be? You mean you've got a lady friend shacked up that I don't know about?"

"You would have wakened me at this hour?"

"Why not? All the rest of us are working. Actually I knew you'd be waiting, and I phoned this number first. You care to visit?"

"You're finished?"

"Just this minute."

"On my way."

"Hey, hold it. Don't forget-"

"I have it in my trunk."

Slaughter stood and left the office. "I'll be at the medical examiner's," he told the night man. He was moving down the hall. What he'd put inside his trunk were two six-packs of Coors that he'd picked up at a convenience store as he was heading toward the office. It was now a ritual with them. Whenever Slaughter made the medical examiner work late, he always dropped in at the hospital and offered beer and talked with him a while. The gesture was a small one but appreciated, and besides, the chance to talk, to get to know the people whom he worked with, that was part of Slaughter's reason for his move out here. In fact, he'd even started looking forward to their chats, as if a corpse were not the reason for their late-night conversations. Not this time, however. No, not this time.

Slaughter got there in five minutes. In a town this size, there wasn't any place he couldn't get to quickly. He parked in back beside the spaces for the doctors and went in through the Emergency ward. The hospital was small by big-city standards: two stories made of brick and glass with wings off to the right and left, and one wing down the middle. But though small, it served the town quite well, and thinking of the nightmares of Detroit, Slaughter was grateful that he seldom saw a bleeding, groaning patient who'd been brought in from a knife fight or a shooting. He walked along the corridor and reached the section marked pathology where, without knocking, he turned the office doorknob, and the medical examiner was in there, sitting, waiting.

As they sipped their beer, Slaughter shifted in his chair to face the darkness beyond the open window where a dog began to bark. A frenzied howl came shortly afterward, then some sounds that Slaughter couldn't identify. He listened, strangely fascinated, at the same time apprehensive.

"You know," he said and turned and paused because he saw that the medical examiner was looking toward the window too and evidently concentrating on the sounds out there. "You know," he said again. "Since we saw Clifford in that hollow in that field, I kept remembering the night sheet that I read this morning. There's a mention about Clifford being missing. Something bothered me about it. I went back tonight and read it through once more. A couple lines above where Clifford's missing, there's a note about a dog that howled all night, another note about a prowler."

"So?"

"Both complaints were from that neighborhood."

The medical examiner glanced from the window, looking at him.

"Not quite near the field, but close enough." Slaughter squinted. "How drunk was he anyhow?"

The medical examiner just shrugged, not even checking through the papers before him. "Point-two-eight percent, and he'd been drinking like that several years. His liver looked like suet."

"Could he walk, though?"

"I see what you mean. Did someone drag him to that field, or did he walk? I found no evidence of a struggle. It could be you'll find something different in the field. I did find some bruises on his right forearm that are compatible with his position in that hollow. Also bruises on his shoulder."

"So?"

"Well, think about it. All those bruises were fresh, so fresh in fact that he incurred them just before he died."

"Not after? Someone kicking at him once he'd died?"

"No, bruises are just localized internal bleeding. If you strike a corpse, you'll cause some damage, but not bruises in the sense we mean them. Only living bodies bleed, hence only living bodies can develop bruises. Now a bruise will take a little time before it starts to color. Half an hour as an average…"

Slaughter stared at him. "You mean he landed in that hollow at least half an hour before he was attacked?"

"That's right. But bear in mind the words I used. I said the bruises were compatible with his position in that hollow. Could be he received them earlier some other place. But it's my educated guess that they're from where he fell down in that hollow. Now it's possible that someone pushed him. If so, I don't know what point there would have been, because the cause of death was dog bites at least half an hour later."

"What time?"

"Three o'clock. Three-thirty at the latest."

"Yeah, the people at the bar said Clifford left a little after two when they closed. Fifteen minutes walk up to that field. Half an hour or so beyond that. Yeah, it brings him pretty close to three o'clock."

"You're understanding then?"

"I'm getting it. There wasn't any other person, as the untouched wallet more or less suggested. He came lurching from that bar and stumbled up the street. He had to piss, he tried a shortcut, or maybe he was just confused. We'll never know exactly why he tried that field. But halfway through, he passed out from the booze. That's how he got the bruises. Then he slept a little, and at last the dog came on him."

"That's the way I reconstruct it."

"But how many?"

"What?"

"How many dogs? One? Or several?"

"Oh. Just one."

"You're sure about that?"

"You know how the language goes. My educated guess."

"Sure, but on what basis?"

"Well, the teeth marks were all uniform. But let's assume for argument that we've got two dogs with the same sized teeth. Their enzymes would be different, though."

"Their what?"

"Their enzymes. Their saliva. Hell, the crud inside their mouths. A dog can't plant its teeth in something and not leave saliva. All the enzymes in those wounds were uniform. They came from just one dog."

"Not a coyote, or a wolf?" Slaughter asked.

"No, the teeth were too big for a coyote's. Yes, all right, a wolf, I'll give you that. A wolf would be a possibility. No more than that, however. No one's seen a wolf down here in twenty years. It's hardly worth considering."

"All right, a dog, then," Slaughter said, abruptly exhausted. "Tell me why."

"You've been living here-what?-five years?"

"Just about."

"Well, I was born and raised here. Dogs are something to be frightened of. People take them into the mountains, camping. They lose them or abandon them. The weak and spoiled ones die. The others turn more wild than many animals who live up there. You see a dog up in those mountains, get away from it. You might as well have stumbled on a she-bear with a cub. I've heard about some vicious maulings. Hell, I've seen some victims with an arm chewed off."

"But this is in the town."

"No difference. Sure, they live up in the mountains, but they come down here for food. The winter was a bad one, don't forget. You know yourself, the stockpens put on guards at night to make sure that the steers are safe from predators. The field is near the stockpens. Some dog from the mountains came down near the stockpens and found Clifford."

"But nothing tried to eat him. He was just attacked."

"Without a reason. That's the point. We're dealing here with totally perverted animal behavior. They just like to kill. They'll sometimes come down here and chase a steer for several miles just to get some exercise. They'll bring the steer down, kill it, and then leave it. In a human, we would call that kind of behavior 'psychopathic.'"