Then all at once he let go of the knife and collapsed, falling on the woman, limp as a blanket. She twisted and struck out at him, finally freed herself and managed to rise to her knees, sobbing and covering her head with her hands.

Policemen ran to her.

One of the dead man's bare feet was touching her leg. She didn't notice it, but a cop did and kicked it away. Another officer, still ski-masked, stood over the faceless corpse, legs spread, gun pointed.

The screen went black. Then bright blue.

The dog was barking again, loud and insistent.

I made a shushing sound. He looked at me, cocked his head. Stared at me, confused. I went over to him and patted his back. His back muscles were jumping and drool trickled from his flews.

“It's okay, fella.” My voice sounded false and my hands were cold. The dog licked one of them and looked up at me.

“It's okay,” I repeated.

Milo rewound the tape. His jaw was bunched.

How long had the scene lasted—a few minutes? I felt as if I'd aged watching it.

I stroked the dog some more. Milo stared at the numbers on the VCR's counter.

“It's him, isn't it?” I said. “Hewitt. Screaming on my tape.”

“Him or a good imitation.”

“Who's the poor woman?”

“Another social worker at the center. Adeline Potthurst. She just happened to be sitting at the wrong desk when he ran out after killing Becky.”

“How is she?”

“Physically, she's okay—minor lacerations. Emotionally?” He shrugged. “She took disability leave. Refused to talk to me or anyone else.”

He ran a hand along the edge of a bookshelf, grazing book spines and toys.

“How'd you figure it out?” I said. “Hewitt on the “bad love' tape?”

“I'm not sure what I figured, actually.”

He shrugged. His forelock cast a hat-brim shadow over his brow, and in the weak light of the library, his green eyes were drab.

The tape ejected. Milo put it on an end table and sat down. The dog waddled over to him, and this time Milo looked pleased to see him.

Rubbing the animal's thick neck, he said, “When I first heard your tape, something about it bugged me—reminded me of something. But I didn't know what it was, so I didn't say anything to you. I figured it was probably “bad love'—Hewitt's using the phrase, my reading about it in the clinic director's witness report.”

“Had you watched the video before?”

He nodded. “But at the station, with half an ear—a bunch of other detectives sitting around, cheering when Hewitt bit it. Splatter's never been my thing. I was filling out forms, doing paperwork. . . . When you told me about the tape, it still didn't trigger, but I wasn't that bugged. I figured what you did—a bad joke.”

“The phone call and the fish make it more than a joke, don't they?”