Animal control arrived at the crime scene seconds after the limo pulled away. Alex, an animal control officer, carried Herman from the squad car to the waiting van. Heavy leather gloves protected Alex’s hands from possible animal bites and scratches. Alex’s dark, good looks were marred by years of alcohol and drug abuse. His latest burden could have been a sack of groceries as far as Alex was concerned.
“Where are you taking me?” asked Herman, frightened at the thought of being parted from Thomas.
Alex stopped dead in his tracks. He couldn’t believe his ears. “Mmmmmf. What??” snorted Alex convinced his last drink had more of an effect than he bargained for. Wiping his mouth with a soiled handkerchief, Alex shrugged and continued his job.
“Stop,” demanded Herman growing more alarmed by the minute. “I need to talk to the policeman in charge. I’m sure that was Victoria Vickers’s car I just saw.” Herman tried to squirm free, but Alex’s grip tightened.
Alex kept walking. No, the dog’s not really talking, he told himself. With Herman securely locked in the back of the animal control van, Alex made a beeline for the animal control center.
Over-worked Superintendent Harvey, Alex’s boss, had the uncanny ability to spot trouble before it happened. He took a hard look at Alex. Oh no, he grimaced, Alex is drinking again. Wonder what fantastic story he cooked up this time? Boy, I don’t have time for this he thought, sweeping aside a sheaf of papers cluttering his desk.
“Got me a talking dog in the truck—no fooling,” slurred Alex whose right eye and left eye weren’t quite synchronized. “I know you don’t believe me, but I’m tellin’ the honest truth.”
“This is the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever invented, and you’ve come up with some real doozies, Alex. How many times have I told you—no drinking on the job!”
“You just gotta come see for yourself. The dog’s in the back of my van.” Alex weaved his way to the vehicle. Superintendent Harvey followed shaking his head.
“Go ahead, talk.” Alex leaned so close to Herman he half smothered the captive dog with his alcohol breath. He shook Herman so hard, you could hear the dog’s teeth rattle.
“Talk, I say…I heard you speak…Tell my boss what you told me.”
“Woof woof woof, bow wow, arf.” Herman’s normally intelligent black eyes registered nothing but doggie excitement.
“Is that how he talks? You brought me out here for this?”
Disgusted by the pathetic scene, Superintendent Harvey scowled. “I’m putting you on leave for a week without pay. If you’re sober when you report back, I may not fire you. Now get out of my sight.”
“I’ll show him,” Alex grumbled. He locked Herman in the suffocatingly hot trunk of his rundown, 1995 yellow Grand Prix. Those wheels once carried Alex to freedom—away from the decaying neighborhood of his youth. Now the heap’s only destiny was the junkyard.
Herman’s eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness. “I hope my life won’t end in the trunk of this rattletrap,” he moaned. I have a lot to accomplish before I call it quits, he thought in desperation as the noxious exhaust fumes filled his small lungs.