‘Damien,’ I said, ‘let’s go to the neighborhood where the first killing was called in.’ * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I looked around the site. The dog had been in a fenced-in backyard. The owners said they’d heard no barking out of him the night before, and had found him dead on the back porch that morning. The dog had been shot near the fence line, and had made it to the porch before collapsing and dying, so I could see from the blood trail. It was not the owners I really wanted to talk to, but the occupant of the house to their right. Knocking on the door, I was admitted by Mrs. Campbell, the owner, an elderly black woman. ‘I don’t know about this.’ she said. ‘The Iron Crowbar in my house is an omen. You know I shouldn’t be talking to you. My people and the cops don’t have a good history. But the big man around here, T-Square, he says you are the real deal, so I’ll help you if I can.’ ‘I appreciate that.’ I said. ‘So you were a teacher at Booker T. Washington High School, were. His forehead was high, and his hair was thin, gray and cut short where it showed near his soft cap. He didn't offer Mr. Beall his hand or ask us in to sit down. He said, clipping out the words like they was shillings, "I did not expect to see you again so soon, Mr. Gally. How do, Mr. Beall." I was surprised he knew my name."Mr. Peter, sir," Beall said, taking the letter from inside his coat. "I have a message here from Justice Burgess and Constable Wainright." Robert Peter looked curious at that, raising a thin eyebrow, took the letter and popped it open with his thumb. He took out and unfolded a pair of eyeglasses and stood there under a ring of candles in his front hall and read one side and then the other and then went back and read the first side again."Preposterous," he said, taking off his glasses. And snorting, a very odd sound."Sir?" Alexander Beall said."Outrageous," Peter said, putting his glasses away."Yes sir," Beall said, "but will you do it?" Of course. I couldn't turn.
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