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The jerk had kicked the puppy so often that he had suffered per- manent nerve damage in his front paws. Surgery helped some, but the dog needed a loving home. One look at the photo convinced me I had to have him. I drove to the shelter, paid the adoption fee, and took the curious animal home. The jerk was charged with cruelty to animals, but made bail and skipped town. I finished my run, clicked on CNN, and made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch. Despite the lack of breakfast, I felt great. They say exercise is the best thing for depression, and in my case that is definitely true, but I add 150 milligrams of Imi- pramine every night just for insurance. I took one of my patented ninety-second showers, dressed, then sat at my desk to consider the case. I wanted to see the police files on the three victims. This would have been difficult even if they had all died in Boulder, but the three incidents had taken place in locations where I had no con- tacts. Unlike many private eyes, I had never been a cop, so I wasn't a member of the law enforcement fraternity. I had been a federal prosecutor, but even that was unlikely to get me past the disdain most police officers feel for lawyers. Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. I dialed information for Walla Walla only to learn the process had been automated so that you no longer spoke with a human being. A female cybervoice recited the number and offered to con- nect me for an additional seventy-five cents. I said, "In your dreams, sweetcakes," then hung up and dialed it myself. The woman answering for the Walla Walla Police Department informed me that Lieutenant Dick Gilbert was handling the Fontaine case. He wasn't in, so I left my name, number, and a request that he call me.