The Penguin Who Knew Too Much(41)

“Sic the law on him? You mean you reported your suspicions?”

Randall nodded.

“Chief Burke didn’t do anything?” I asked.

“He's been trying,” Randall said. “But I don’t think a city fellow like him knows how to go about it. He had that deputy of his, young Sammy Wendell, skulking around the woods, trying to catch whoever was doing it.”

“And Sammy didn’t have any luck?”

“You ever heard Sammy crashing around in the woods? No self-respecting poacher's going to hang around long enough for Sammy to catch him. Besides, Bromley's land is half in Caer-philly County and half in Clay County, and the Clay County sheriff has a peculiar lack of interest in the whole problem. I’ll give Burke one thing: he works hard and he's honest.”

By my count, that was two things, but I just nodded and studied the map some more, to make sure I had the location of the convenient dirt road firmly in mind.

And my mind was busily turning over the implications of what Randall had said. Which seemed to confirm what I’d learned from the film student. While Lanahan, the improvident zookeeper, might be annoying, it was hard to imagine anyone killing him. But Lanahan, mild-mannered zookeeper by day and evil organizer of canned hunts by night—he’d probably have a whole pack of people after him.

If there were canned hunts, and if Lanahan was involved. After all, given what had happened with his nephew Charlie, Randall might not be the most impartial judge of Lanahan's character.

Meanwhile, Vern had finished his phone call. He looked our way, and Randall, with a nod of farewell, went over to join him.

I studied the map for a few more minutes, than scuffed the dirt till I’d erased it. I wasn’t sure why—after all, I had Chief Burke's permission to visit the zoo, or at least his grudging tolerance.

But it occurred to me to wonder what the chief thought of the accusations against Lanahan. I went into the house to see if the chief was still occupying our dining room or if he’d been displaced by some new four-legged arrivals.





Chapter 24

I found the chief still ensconced in the dining room, though he’d moved the table he was using as a desk so it wasn’t directly beneath the chandelier where the sloth was hanging. Sloths, actually; now there were two of them. Dad and Montgomery Blake were also there, haranguing the chief about something. Rather, Blake was haranguing and Dad was standing by, with an anxious expression on his face. The chief looked even more irritated than he usually did in the middle of a case, so I decided to see if interrupting him would help.

“I have some information for you,” I said, joining the trio. “Did you know that the Save Our Beasts people have been picketing the zoo?”

“Save Our Beasts?” the chief echoed.

“It's an animal-rights group,” Blake said.

“I guessed as much,” the chief said. “But which one? What with the college and all, we have several of them operating in town. I hope they’re not nutcases who think we should let the wolves and grizzlies roam freely in their original habitat, whether or not there are thousands of people living there now.”

“I think these nutcases may have a legitimate beef,” I said. “They think Lanahan was arranging canned hunts.”

“It's an outrage!” Blake boomed. “No civilized society should tolerate it. The very idea—”

“Cut the editorial,” the chief said.

“How can you condone this barbarous behavior!” Blake shouted. Despite his advanced age, he had a good, strong orator's voice. Through the window, I could see people outside in the yard looking up to see what was wrong.

“I’m not condoning anything,” the chief said, interrupting Blake. “I spent thirty years trying to keep the good citizens of Baltimore from slaughtering each other. It's left me with a strong repugnance toward violence of any kind. And a strong respect for the law—”

“Canned hunting's illegal in this state,” Blake said.

“And Lanahan was innocent until proven guilty,” the chief said. “My officers searched every inch of the zoo grounds, looking for evidence of wrongdoing. And when we couldn’t find any, I called state game wardens and U.S. Fish and Wildlife agents in—they couldn’t find anything either. So either Patrick Lanahan was a hell of a lot smarter than any of us, or maybe the rumor was just that—a rumor.”

“So this has nothing to do with Patrick's murder,” Dad said with a sigh.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” the chief said with narrowed eyes. “Regardless of whether Lanahan was a saint or a sinner, anyone who's all fired up about how he treated animals has a definite motive for his murder.”