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he brought his tiny, agile front paws together at my response and stood up again, bouncing from paw to paw. I didn’t need that little dance—a ferret sign of distress or agitation—to get Frank’s point. The snoozing man behind the desk was an obvious object lesson.
    “Hey. Some of us just aren’t meant for domestication.”
    He hopped again, still agitated, and Albert stirred. Well, I’d do what I could for the little fellow. Besides, I’d said I’d drop by. I dragged a chair over toward the desk, letting the grating sound of the legs on linoleum startle Albert into full consciousness.
    “Bacon!” He sat up with a start. “Oh, it’s you.”
    I smiled. “Pleasant dream?”
    “I was—I was planning my shopping list.” Albert reached for a pencil and jotted a note. “Didn’t see you.”
    I let it lay. “You said you wanted to speak with me?” I had questions of my own, but if I were lucky, his would negate any need to ask.
    “Uh, yeah.” I saw him spell out the word “eggs.” It took a little effort. “You’re working with that special dog program now, right?”
    “Yeah.” This wasn’t what I’d expected, but I waited. I didn’t think the regional service-dog association would have any use for Albert, but I was curious.
    “You think they might, you know, have a dog for me?”
    I felt my eyebrows go up. Albert is not the sharpest tool in the woodshed. Nor the most attractive. He does not have any obvious impairments, however, beyond his personality. And as his presence behind that desk made clear, someone had judged him fit for full-time employment. Granted, Albert was more old school dog catcher than modern animal-control officer, but he served a purpose.
    “What are you thinking about, Albert?” Maybe he had a health issue. Considering his diet and apparent disdain for exercise, it was possible.
    “I was thinking it would be useful to have a dog who could, you know, help with my duties.”
    “Your duties?” Albert’s mandate entailed rounding up unwanted or nuisance animals. After that, I was the one who usually dealt with them—either relocating them, as I had a troublesome raccoon a few months ago, or finding some other way to repair the ruptured human-animal bond. The unloved pets, they were harder to deal with—largely because of the people involved—though Doc Sharpe and I did what we could, which usually meant working to place them in better homes.
    “Yeah, you know. If there’s a wild animal I have to take care of.” He was doodling now, and Frank was eyeing the pencil eraser with a covetous glance. “Like, something I have to track in the woods.”
    “You want a hunting dog, Albert. Not a service dog.” This was my opening. “But what kind of animal are you talking about? Has someone said something to you?”
    He shrugged, but kept hold of the pencil. I didn’t think Creighton would confide in this shaggy bear of a man. For better or worse, though, Albert was part of Beauville’s bureaucracy. Not even my alpha dog lawman could keep him entirely out of the loop.
    “I heard some of the guys talking, over at Happy’s last night.” Of course. Creighton might not hang at our local dive—for at least the part of the night he’d been with me—but some of the crew he’d brought out yesterday did. “Heard there’s something out there. A man-killer.”
    “Woman-killer is more likely.” The words slipped out before I’d thought them through, but when Albert looked up—startled—I realized I might as well take advantage of the moment. “Those guys get any kind of ID off her?”
    I tried to sound nonchalant. Not like I’d just asked the same question of Creighton. I got the same answer: a shake of the head. Considering that it was Albert I was dealing with, I was willing to believe he honestly didn’t know.
    “Kind of funny, isn’t it?” I didn’t want Albert to see my frustration, so I kept talking—and held out another pencil for Frank to play with. Not that