Chapter Seven: A Brilliant Interrogation of a Difficult Suspect

As you might have suspected, that caught him completely by surprise, which was no accident. I use stealth and cunning whenever possible, brute force only as a last resort.

He licked his chops and looked at me with those big sad eyes, which were even bigger and sadder now that I had confronted him with his bloody deeds.

“How come I’m under arrest?”

I stood up and worked a kink out of my back. Then I began pacing. I think better on my feet, don’t you see, but on this occasion thinking on my feet turned out to be no ball of wax. I had taken a nasty fall, and the simple act of pacing required effort.

“My suspicions were aroused by the first words you said to me, something about ‘tender juicy chicken.’”

“I think you said that.”

“Don’t interrupt. The next clue emerged when I realized where we’d met. You’re a con, Clyde, a jailhouse dog with a record as long as a piece of string.”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“We’ve had two murders on the ranch, you see. Then a con with a crinimal record suddenly shows up. Interesting coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

“Never thought about it.”

“The next tip-off came when, through clever interrogation, I learned that you had changed your name and were operating under a false identity.”

“I already told you . . .”

“It was a smart trick, Clyde, and it took me a couple of minutes to pick it up. It would have worked on most dogs, but it was your bad luck to go up against one of the best in the business.”

Clyde swept his eyes to the left and right. “Where is he?”

“That’s very funny, Clyde, but I’m afraid it won’t get you out of this one. You’re in this thing up to your ears and . . . do you ever step on those ears when you walk?”

“Oh, every now and then. Sure makes a guy feel awkward.”

“Umm, yes. Tell me, Clyde,” I closed my eyes and paced away from him, “do these feelings of insecuriority bother you a lot, a little, or you may have a third choice?”

“Only when I step on my ears. Makes me feel awkward.”

“I understand. Now listen carefully and give me complete answers. When you’re in the grip of these moods, do you find yourself dreaming of, shall we say, outrageous things or reckless deeds?”

“Nope.”

“Of course you do.”

“Oh. Well, let me think.” He eased himself down into the grass, crossed his paws in front of him, and rested his chin on them. I observed every movement, every gesture out of the corner of my eye. “Sometimes I wish I was a bird.”

“What kind of bird?”

“A duck.”

“Hmmm. Why do you wish you were a duck?”

“Well, a duck can fly in the air and swim in the water and walk on dry land. And they don’t have big ears. Always thought that sounded like a pretty good deal.”

“I see. We’re getting very close, Clyde, and I must have your complete cooperation on this next question. How does your dream of being a duck relate to acts of violence and bloodshed?”

“Well, I don’t know. Let me think about it.”

“Think about it, Clyde, take your time. I want to do this case right.”

He closed one eye, and I noticed that the other one rolled back in his head. Seemed strange to me. Most dogs think with their eyes open, but we all have our peculiar ways. I waited. And waited. And waited. He was asleep.

“Time’s up, Clyde. What’s your answer?”

He opened his eyes. “Fish emulsion.”

“And how does fishy mullshun relate to your dream of becoming a duck?”

His eyes came into focus. “What are you talking about?”

“Murder.”

He blinked. “I must have missed something.”

“Yes, and let the record so state. You were talking, Clyde . . .”

“Ralph.”

“. . . about your fantasy of becoming a violent, bloodthirsty duck because your ears are too long.”

“That sounds crazy.”

I smiled and arched one brow. “You said it, Clyde, I didn’t. Don’t accuse me of putting words in your mouth.”

“Okay.”

“Tell me more about your homicidal fantasies. What else do you dream about?”

“Well, I dream about food.”

“Ah ha! Go on, tell me more. What kinds of food?”

“Oh, let’s see. Dog kernels, dog biscuits, dog burgers, chunky dog food in a can with gravy, steak bones, pork chop bones, chicken bones . . .”

“Stop!”

“Huh?”

I walked over to him. “Isn’t it amazing, Clyde, how the crinimal mind works? Were you aware, for example, that you put chicken bones at the end of your list?”

“Well, I really wasn’t finished.”

“Of course you were. And you put chicken bones at the very end, where you assumed I wouldn’t notice. But of course you couldn’t have known that I always ignore beginnings and middles and wait like a coyote on a rabbit trail for the last item on the list to come hopping by. How could you have known that?”

“Search me.”

“Exactly what I’ve been doing, Clyde, searching you, searching your mind, your dreams, your fantasies, your attempts to shield yourself from the dreadful truth.”

“What is the dreadful truth?”

“Not yet, be patient.” I paced away. “In this next procedure, I’m going to throw a series of words at you. I want you to answer immediately with the first thought that pops into your head. Ready? Here we go. Dream.”

“Cream.”

“Duck.”

“Pluck.”

“Bone.”

“Stone.”

I paced over and looked down into his mournful face. “I don’t think you understand, Clyde. This isn’t a rhyming exercise. It’s a serious procedure that brings the awful truth to the surface. Don’t give me rhymes, in other words.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Ready? Here we go.”

To avoid confusion, I’ll record this next segment of the interrogation in transcript form.

Hank: “Feathers.”

Clyde: “Uh . . . bird.”

Hank: “Blood.”

Clyde: “Guts.”

Hank: “Murder.”

Clyde: “Mystery.”

Hank: “Chicken.”

Clyde: “Squawk.”

Hank: “Juicy.”

Clyde: “ Steak.”

Hank: “Tender.”

Clyde: “Carbuncle.”

Hank: “Drool.”

Clyde: “Slobber.”

Hank: “I love it!”

Clyde: “Dog biscuits.”

Hank: “Can’t wait!”

Clyde: “Uh . . .”

Hank: “Young, tender, juicy chicken, larruping good, holy smokes!”

Clyde: “Uh . . . give me some time on that one . . .”

Hank: “Stop! No more, I can’t stand it!”

I staggered several steps away and slumped against a tree. Suddenly I felt light-headed and faint. My pulse was racing and I could feel my eyes bulging on every heartbeat. And I was drooling at the mouth.

Clyde was watching me. His jowls drooped, his ears drooped, his entire face drooped. “What’s the trouble?”

I took a deep, trembling breath and closed my eyes. “I . . . I’m not sure. All of a sudden everything just . . . I’m not well, Clyde.”

“Ralph.”

My eyes popped open. “You really are Ralph, aren’t you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What are you doing down here?”

“Came fishing with Jimmy Joe the Dog Catcher.”

“I was afraid of that. Do you know what this means?”

“Fish don’t bite after a rain.”

“No. It means my entire case has collapsed. Hours and days of work, all for nothing.”

“Gosh, I’m sure sorry.”

“You’re not entirely to blame. But then,” I stood up, took a deep breath, and smiled a brave smile, “but then I can’t very well blame myself, can I?”

“Reckon not.”

“And so the mystery slips behind the veil once more. Well! You’re free to go, Ralph. I have no evidence, no case. I can’t hold you any longer.”

“Guess I’ll go see if Jimmy Joe’s caught any fish.”

“Yes, do that, Ralph. Have fun for both of us. It must be nice to enjoy simple things.”

“It’s perty good. See you around, Hank, and I hope you catch the killer.”

“Ummm, indeed . . . yes.”