The Litter Of The Law

Fair ran out to the drive at 11:10 P.M., when his wife finally drove up with Susan.

“Why didn’t you let me come to you?” Harry’s husband asked, his voice betraying his concern.

Harry opened the door to get out as Susan rolled down the window. The dog and the two cats also ran out of the house at Harry’s arrival.

“Honey, there was enough confusion,” she said. “Susan and I were together. We’re all right.”

“We are,” Susan reassured Fair. “I mean, as all right as you can be after finding something like that.” She took a deep breath. “Let me get on home. My dog needs to go to the bathroom.”

“Where’s Ned?” Fair asked.

“In Richmond.”

“Why don’t you stay here?” he invited her.

“I appreciate that but Owen needs to go out and I’ll feel better with him, at home, with a hot bath and bed.”

“Sure?” he asked, his eyebrows raised.

“Sure. And when I get there, if I can’t do as well as I think I can, I’ll bring Owen back with me and we’ll bunk up with you all.”

“Okay,” he agreed.

Harry leaned in the window, gave Susan a kiss. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Better.” Susan rolled up the window and turned the car around. Her two friends and their animal companions watched her motor down the long drive.

Slipping his arm around her waist, Fair walked Harry back into the house.

“Must be good,” Pewter said, meaning another big mess Harry had stumbled into.

“If only we could have heard the phone call,” Mrs. Murphy said.

“Yeah. I hate not knowing.” Tucker followed right on Harry’s heels, resisting the urge to slightly bite them.

Once inside, closing the kitchen door against the chill, Harry surprised Fair as she sat at the table. “I’d like a drink. What should I have?”

“Oh, how about if I make you a simple scotch and soda? Not too strong.”

“You know I can’t drink. But I need something,” she said, stating the obvious.

“This will relax you and help you sleep. No nightmares.” He opened the pie safe, where the liquor bottles were lined up like orderly soldiers.

Neither husband nor wife was much of a drinker, but there were spirits on hand for guests. Fair occasionally liked a cold beer at night in the summer and a scotch in the winter, but he could go days without a drink.

Tucker lifted her head. “Scotch has an interesting smell. Not bad.”

“Tuna is better,” Pewter remarked, patrolling the kitchen counter.

“Can’t drink tuna.” Mrs. Murphy jumped up on the corner.

Pushed by Fair, Harry took a sip of the scotch, then recounted everything. When she finished her tale, she sighed, then said, “Tell me about your day. I don’t want to think about this anymore.”

“I’m sorry, honey. I’m just worried and I want you to carry the old .38. Your father’s Smith and Wesson is as good as the day it was made.”

“Why? I’m in no danger.”

“Probably not, but you found two bodies and it seems likely both were done in by the same killer or killers. You will be in the paper and on TV. A bad guy might wonder why Harry Haristeen has a nose for murder.”

“ ‘Nose’ is the right word.” Harry wrinkled hers.

“Humans can’t smell worth squat.” Pewter leapt onto the counter with Mrs. Murphy.

“Even a human can smell a corpse that’s been dead for a bit, the days being warm. It’s not the full-blown effect but they can tell.” With her phenomenal powers of smell, Tucker knew of what she spoke.

“Sometimes I wonder how they survive.” Pewter looked out the window over the sink, where the last moth of the year fluttered.

Unaware of the animals’ condescending observations, Fair leaned back in his chair. “Pretty easy day today, so I actually got a little research done. Stem cell stuff.”

“Haven’t you used stem cell therapies?”

“Not much, honey, though I’d like to. It’s complicated but those treatments really work for horses’ musculoskeletal injuries. Vets have been using stem cell transplants since 2005. The problem is that there are bogus firms on the Internet that claim stem cell therapies can treat laminitis and neurological conditions, and that’s not true.”

Harry knew that “laminitis” meant an inflammation of the sensitive tissue of a horse’s hoof.

“I guess there are scam artists in every profession,” she lamented.

“There are, but when they cause suffering to living creatures, my blood boils. Someone without veterinary knowledge or degree, but with every good intention in the world to help their horse, gets on the Internet, finds a bogus product, buys it, and their horse continues to suffer.”

“Do you think the stem cell transplants used for horses will work for people?”

He folded his hands together. “Yes. But there again, as the science progresses, you will have doctors making wild claims or dishonest companies doing so.”

Fair was such a fount of knowledge that sometimes Harry fired question after question at him. “You think in time the obstacles for using human stem cells will be removed?”

“In some cases they already have, and while I believe in relieving suffering, I have to think about this one. It truly is a complex moral issue.”

“Maybe everything is, honey,” Harry said.

“Yes. Take murder. It seems cut and dried, doesn’t it? And yet surely there are times when murder is justified. A wife defends herself and her children against a rampaging husband. I couldn’t find it in my heart to condemn such a woman. Throughout all of nature, mothers kill or die defending their young.”

“Nothing is really that clear cut, is it?” Harry agreed.

“Well, the Ten Commandments make it seem so, but I guess there are exceptions to every rule, even those. Maybe that means I’m going to hell.” He half-smiled.

“You’re the best man I know,” she said, smiling his way. “And there have to be millions of people who ask questions, who wonder. What helps me is talking to Reverend Jones. I don’t know what I would do without him.”

“I should talk to him about this.” Fair unfolded his hands. “That and genetic engineering. We may be on the cusp of creating a super horse, and if we do that, people aren’t far behind.”

“That’s a terrifying thought.”

“It will start out safely enough. A tag on a gene sequence will be discovered to cause some kind of cancer. Doctors will get in there and manipulate the sequence. It sounds far-fetched but it isn’t. Just look at the genetic manipulations you’ve seen in crops.”

She took a long sip of scotch. “You know, when I was a kid, Dad and I would sit down with the seed catalogues. We’d try and figure out which corn could survive a drought, too much rain, which one had the sweetest taste. You had so many choices and now, well, you really don’t. I look in my catalogues and there’s just one page for corn, and every offering has disease resistance, a list of qualifications. Me, I just want Silver Queen,” she said, citing an especially delicious corn usually available at central Virginia vegetable stands in August. Her eyes misted. “Hester sold the best Silver Queen.”

“Brave new world.” He smiled at her. “I am so sorry you found Hester. So sorry.”

“If it’s a brave new world, that means we have to be brave to face it. But I remember the Law of Unintended Consequences. You never know what you’re stirring up.”

“By God, that’s the truth,” he said, slipping his arm around her again.

“But these murders have very intended consequences. They were carefully planned and enacted, and inflicted on the rest of us. That means there’s a message. You don’t do something as elaborate as this unless it’s an attempt to make a statement of some sort.”

“And that’s why you’d better carry your father’s snubnose .38.” Fair’s voice was firm.