“Yes, ma’am. Have you seen him?”
“He’s standing right behind you.”
Berwanger turned to see Foley shaking hands with Moe Gustavson, who had briefly shed his scowl for a wide smile.
“How do you put up with this guy?” Gustavson demanded of Foley. “Detective Berwanger, you’re going to get in trouble one of these days, harassing female students.”
Looking hurt, Berwanger asked, “Was I harassing you, ma’am?”
“No, Detective,” she said. “Are you under arrest, Mr. Gustavson? Should I postpone your class?”
Gustavson threw up his hands in mock exasperation. “Very funny. And here I was, trying to protect your honor. Can’t I get any respect in this place at all? Fellas, this young woman is Lourdes Ramirez, one of my most promising students. She’ll make a writer if she can learn to write dialogue and set a scene in less than ten pages. If her desk relief shows up, you’ll see her in the front row in half an hour.”
“I’m glad I came, then,” said Foley.
“Quit harassing female students, Foley,” his partner grumbled. “So you want to be a mystery writer, Ms. Ramirez?”
“I hope to, yes.”
“Just like your teacher here, huh?”
She grinned impishly. “Well, maybe not just like him, no.”
“She’s a little too violent and profane for my taste,” Gustavson explained. “And I think she writes her, uh, romantic scenes the way she does just to make me blush.” Under a feminine pseudonym, Gustavson wrote cozy mysteries, with a caterer and her cat in featured roles.
Berwanger and Foley had been visiting Gustavson’s mystery- writing class for several years. It was one of their favorite stops on a demanding schedule of appearances before community groups.
As they walked with Gustavson down the corridor to the classroom, Berwanger asked, “Anybody repeating the course?” Creative-writing classes could be taken more than once for credit.
“A few familiar faces, sure. So you’ll have to come up with some fresh material.”
“That’s no problem,” Foley said.
“We’re still working cops, you know,” Berwanger said. They were in such demand as speakers, it was a struggle to resist a fulltime public-relations assignment.
The class was well attended as always, with more than twenty of the thirtysome desks occupied. The students represented a variety of ages, from teens to sixties, and an even wider range of talents, but they were united in their enthusiasm. Most were dressed student-shabby, a look that fit in perfectly with their instructor’s casual appearance. Others, who obviously had come straight from work, had on office wear.
Lourdes Ramirez sat in the front row, with male attendants on her left and right who paid closer attention to her than to the two cops, at least until Berwanger and Foley got into their more dramatic war stories. The anecdotes about domestic murders, drug killings, neighborly disputes, armed robberies, and gang wars were well polished and constantly replenished, and their tidbits about ballistics, jurisdictional issues, and crime-scene procedures kept the students’ pens and laptops busy. As usual, Berwanger did most of the talking, with Foley demonstrating the equipment — sidearms, handcuffs, weapon-weight flashlight — and throwing in the occasional one-liner from the sidelines. After about forty-five minutes, Berwanger asked the class for questions.
A hand in the second row shot up immediately. “Have you guys ever gone after a serial killer?”
Berwanger glanced at his partner with a humorous smirk and said, “These mystery writers love their serial killers, don’t they, Foley? Can’t they come up with something more original?”
“That wasn’t the question, though,” Foley pointed out.
“Right, it wasn’t. Well, you have to understand that serial killers get attention way out of proportion to their numbers. I mean, from the TV news and the paperback racks, you’d think there was one on every corner. Most Homicide detectives like ourselves go through a whole career without ever getting a crack at a serial killer. And I, for one, am thankful.”
Berwanger scanned the room as if looking for another question, but his partner said, “There was one, though.”
Berwanger said, “What? A serial killer?”
“Aren’t you forgetting about . . . ?”
“Oh, you mean . . . ?”
“Yeah, that one.”
“They don’t want to hear about that,” Berwanger said, but a murmur from the class contradicted him. Scowling at his audience, he said, “And even if you do want to hear about it, I’m not sure I want to tell you about it. Why should we encourage the creation of more serial killers, real or fictional, right, Foley?”
“Come on, Detective,” said a good-natured voice from an older student in the back row. They recognized him as a police buff who often hung around the station, asking research questions. “You have to tell us now.”
“I’m afraid he’s right, Berwanger,” Foley said. “We’re obligated.”
Berwanger sighed in resignation. “Well, I guess it was kind of interesting at that. And unique in its way. But it means you have to go to work, Foley.” He told the class, “My partner fancies himself an actor. He’s not really all that good, and I’m not all that much better” — Foley made a face — “so you’ll have to use your imagination while we do a little scene for you. You want some time to get into character, Foley?”
Foley twitched his shoulders, made a few faces, and looked at Berwanger with an intent stare. “Ready if you are,” he said.
“My partner, the Method actor,” Berwanger said. “Now you’ll have to use your imagination here. Close your eyes if it’ll help. It’s early morning on the bank of a big man-made lake in a city park. Cool morning, very pleasant, just after sunup. This lake is home to all kinds of aquatic birds. See them? Ducks, geese, coots, pigeons, seagulls. Occasionally, you might even see pelicans passing through, especially if the lake’s just been stocked with fish. There’s an island with some high trees in the middle of the lake, and there are usually a few cormorants perched on the branches, spreading their wings to dry them. Sometimes, when the cormorants go fishing, the pelicans will watch them, looking for guidance. That pair with a red ring around their necks are Egyptian geese, and that blue-beaked guy is an American wigeon. In this little scene we’re about to reenact for you, I’m a guy we’ll call George. Foley isn’t here yet, but when he turns up, he’ll be a guy named Fred. They don’t know each other. George likes to come here mornings and feed the birds.” Berwanger reached his right hand into an imaginary bag and made a tossing motion. “Notice how they all congregate at the edge of the lake, competing for the bread crumbs George throws to them. George thinks he’s alone, but then Fred turns up.”
Foley walked across the front of the classroom and stood next to Berwanger.
FRED WATCHES GEORGE for a while, looking as if he’s debating with himself whether he should speak. Finally he says, “Feeding the birds, huh?”
“You got it, pal,” George says, mildly sarcastic. “I’m feeding the birds.”
“Don’t think I’ve seen you around before. My name’s Fred.”
“George.” He says it kind of grudgingly, not really wanting to strike up a conversation.
“Glad to know you, George.” Fred pauses a few beats, then says, “You really shouldn’t do that, you know.”
“I shouldn’t do what?”
“Feed the birds.”
“They like it.”
“Well, yeah, sure they like it. But they’re birds. They are not the best judge of what’s good for them. We’re people. We should have more sense.” Fred keeps his comments casual, as if determined to stay reasonable, keep it friendly. “Haven’t you seen the signs saying ‘Don’t Feed the Birds’? They’re all over the place.”
“I don’t take those seriously.”
“Well, George, don’t take this the wrong way, but you should. There are good reasons for those signs. Lots of reasons.”
George looks at
Fred scornfully. “Enlighten me,” he says with heavy sarcasm.
“To begin with, feeding the birds gets them too dependent on humans. They’re wild creatures. They shouldn’t rely on people for handouts.”
“Look, buddy, you see how many birds there are on this lake? And there’s just one of me. Giving a few of them a little treat isn’t going to make them dependent on people. And even if it did, that’s the nature of urban birds in city parks. I’m sorry if it bothers you, but you need to get over it.”
“No, really, it’s more serious than you think. Some of these are migratory birds.”
“Yeah? So?”
“If free meals discourage them from migrating, they’ll just stay here, and that makes for all kinds of problems.”
“Why? It’s a big lake.”
“To begin with, if there’s overpopulation of birds, the ones that don’t migrate will compete with the native birds for natural resources. That can lead to the spread of bird diseases. Like duck viral enteritis, fowl cholera, and botulism.”
George looks at Fred suspiciously. “What are you, some kind of veterinarian or zoologist or something?”
“No,” Fred says with a modest laugh, “but there’s a big sign over there that lists the diseases and also tells why people shouldn’t feed the birds. You should read it sometime.”
“Look, buddy, you get your kicks memorizing bird diseases and I’ll get mine feeding the birds and we’ll both be happy, okay?”
“The birds won’t be happy. The migratory waterfowl that come through here, when they do migrate — ”
“I thought your point was they won’t migrate.”
“Maybe some of them won’t. But some of them will, and if they do and they’re sick, they can carry the diseases to other areas that haven’t been infected up to now.”
“If they can fly away, how sick can they be?”
“They could be carrying the disease but not showing any symptoms yet. Another thing is, when you’ve got bird overpopulation, you get interbreeding of species. They have genetically altered offspring who often can’t fly. The result is more nonmigration, more overpopulation.”
“Okay, pal, you’ve said your piece. I don’t agree with you, but I’ve listened to you politely. Now have a nice day, and let me get on with feeding my friends here, okay?”
Fred’s left eye begins to twitch nervously, and staying low-key appears to be an effort. “You think they’re your friends, huh? What you’re doing isn’t very friendly. The friendly thing is to let wild birds be wild birds.” Fred swallows hard, takes a deep breath, and presses ahead. “Another thing. What you’re feeding them. Bread crumbs. It’s not good for them. If they load up on stuff with no nutritional value, they’ll get malnourished. It’ll kill them eventually.”
“Urban folklore. The occasional bread crumb isn’t going to kill them.”
“If you don’t care about the welfare of the birds, your so-called friends, think about it from a selfish human point of view. Birds can be noisy, and the more of them there are, the more noise pollution they create.”
“Doesn’t bother me. I don’t live on the lake. I just visit.”
“What about this, then? These ducks and geese graze on the shrubbery and lawns. If there are too many of them, they could eat everything down to its roots. That would really mess up the landscaping in this beautiful park we all enjoy so much. And don’t forget, oversocialized birds can get aggressive. These geese, for example. They’ve been known to attack people. You don’t want too many of them around.”
“I’ll take my chances,” George says blandly.
Fred shakes his head. He looks thoughtful, as if searching his mind for one last argument that might move George. Finally he says, “Do you fish?”
“No, I don’t believe in fishing. Hunting either.”
Fred grows more agitated. He raises his voice slightly, though trying to restrain himself. “That is just so . . . so ironic. Then the fish are your friends too? Like the birds?”
As Fred gets more exercised, George looks amused. “I wouldn’t put it that way. I just don’t like the idea of fishing, that’s all.”
“It might interest you to know, George, that each and every one of the geese on this lake produces one pound of feces per day. That can lead to unpleasant odors for us but to even worse effects on the fish. It lowers oxygen levels, and that can be deadly to all aquatic life. And speaking of feces, ever heard of salmonella? A real public health hazard, right? It can come from duck feces. And do you want even more droppings on the picnic tables than there are now?”
“Oh. Okay. And if I don’t feed the birds bread crumbs, they won’t shit?”
Fred takes another deep breath. There is now a fanatical gleam in his eye. He appears to be a man losing control. “You may not fish on this lake, George, but others do. If birds get too friendly with people, they’ll wind up getting hooks caught in their beaks, or they can get tangled up in the fishing lines. That’s a terrible way for one of your so-called friends to die, don’t you think? What you’re doing is no good for anybody, people or birds or fish or anybody. You’re ruining the whole ecology. You really gotta stop.”
“And are you going to make me stop?” George says, still more amused than anything.
“I didn’t come here looking for any trouble. But there’s nobody around but you and me, and I probably could make you stop if I wanted to.”
“So now you’re threatening me?”
“I’m not threatening anybody. Just giving you some advice.”
“Well, take your advice and get outta here. I was enjoying the morning — calm, serene, feeding the birds, communing with my fellow creatures—and you’re ruining it for me. Get lost.”
“This is a public park. I can go where I want and say what I want and do what I want.”
“You can, huh?”
“Yeah, I can!” Fred starts waving his arms and yelling, frightening the birds, making them scatter.
George has had enough. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a handgun, and fires point-blank at Fred, who clutches his chest and falls dead at the edge of the lake. George looks down at him lying there for a moment, then resumes feeding the birds.
“YOU CAN GET up now, Foley,” Berwanger said. His partner regained his feet, and both bowed as the class applauded.
Lourdes Ramirez said, “That was great. But wouldn’t it have been even more effective if you’d pulled your real gun on Detective Foley instead of just pointing your finger and yelling ‘Bang’?”
“They would have gotten me fired if they had,” Moe Gustavson said from the back of the room.
Berwanger nodded. “Can’t make it so realistic we give somebody a heart attack.”
“Man, but that was so awesome,” said a young man in the back row. “I thought Fred was the serial killer. I was sure he was going to off George for feeding the birds. You really do a good fanatical nutcase, Detective Foley.”
“It’s not such a stretch for him,” said Berwanger.
“I feel kind of sorry for George,” said a serious-looking girl in the second row. Several of her classmates groaned, as if they’d heard off-the-wall points of view from her before. “No, really. I mean, in his mind, he was doing something good and generous for the birds. He thought of them as his friends. He was saving them from hunger. And along comes this guy, Fred, who tries to stop him. He listened to him, pretty politely really, until Fred started to chase the birds away. Then George just did what he needed to do to keep helping the birds. I mean, not that it was right, not that it was sane or anything, but he could keep feeding the birds, you know?”
“Wouldn’t the gunshot have scared them off more than a guy waving his arms and yelling?” a male student said reasonably, and she appeared deflated.
“But, man, this is really totally awesome,” said one of the young men bookending Lourdes Ramirez. “Really cool. Like, I mean, not that I’m in favor of murder or anything like that, but just imagine. This guy, George, becomes
a serial killer. He feeds birds in remote places with nobody else around, and if anybody shows up to object, he blows them away. I mean, that is just too cool, you know?”
Moe Gustavson asked, “How many people did George kill before he was caught?”
Berwanger looked surprised at the question. “Just the one.”
“Just the one?” Lourdes echoed, looking outraged.
“Sure,” Berwanger said mildly. “Some other people heard the shot. He fled, but we got a good description of him. We picked him up that same day, matched his gun to the slug found in the victim, made the case in court real easy. His lawyer tried to get him off on an insanity plea but got nowhere. He’s in prison now, and will be for a long time.”
“Is he working with birds there?” asked the serious girl in the second row. “Like the Birdman of Alcatraz?”
“No idea,” Berwanger said.
“Wait a minute!” Lourdes protested. “I feel totally cheated.”
“Never enough blood and gore to satisfy Lourdes,” Gustavson said.
“That’s not the point, Mr. Gustavson,” she said. “Detectives, you said he was a serial killer. If he killed only one guy, how could you call him a serial killer?”
Berwanger and Foley looked at each other for a moment. Then Foley said, “But what about all those birds he killed?”
A Certain Recollection
By John Buentello
He woke to the sound of sirens filling his ears. He called to his partner, Darby, who was not there, and then to his wife, who must have left for work as usual in the darkness of the early morning. Brenda worked at the bakery just down the street, three blocks from the house they had lived in for thirty years. Or had they been here longer? He fumbled out of the sheets, listening to the sirens, wishing Brenda was here to help shake him awake. He’d always been a heavy sleeper. Maybe that came from so many long hours driving to crime scenes and making out reports, sifting through all the evidence, interviewing witnesses and grilling suspects, looking for a clue to whatever case he and Darby had been assigned to.
The clock on the nightstand said it was three in the morning, and there was a chill in the air from the September winds that had been blowing through the city for days. He wondered why Brenda hadn’t turned on the heat before she left. Probably trying to save pennies again. They’d been saving for a vacation, three, no four, years now. So far they hadn’t saved much. Not enough to get away to — where was it she wanted to go again? She had wanted to relax a little. Someplace with water and a beach, he thought. The Cayman Islands?