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since I started, and I’ve already lost two hundred and ninety-one dollars.”
    “Good work, Frank,” I said.  “Keep it up.”
    “Right,” he said.  Then, indicating the technicians with him, “This is Ed Noda and Vern Harrison.”
    After shaking hands with the other two members of the forensic unit, I gave them my initial assessment of the scene, indicating specific areas I wanted covered.  Then, as the three-member team started toward the house, I called to Morrison.  “Hey, kid.  You get that info I wanted from DMV?”
    “Yes, sir.”  The young officer made his way over, referring to his notebook.  “DMV has two vehicles registered to Charles Larson.  A Jeep and an Infiniti.”  He read the license numbers, noting that one of the neighbors had described the missing Infiniti as a persimmon-colored, four-door sedan.
    “Persimmon?  Is that red?”
    “More like rust.”
    “Rust, huh?  Same as mine.”
    Morrison eyed my battered Suburban.  “Yes, sir,” he agreed.
    “Any results on the neighborhood canvass?”
    “Nobody’s back yet, but I’ll check.”
    “Let me know right away if anything turns up.  Meantime, I want an APB on the missing car.  Do it now.”
    “Yes, sir.  By the way, when I saw the news van show up, I had somebody at the station start checking for next of kin.  They located Mrs. Larson’s brother.  He’s contacting the rest of the family.  We advised him to tell everyone not to come down here yet.”
    “Good work, kid,” I said, liking that he had shown initiative and deciding to make sure his sergeant heard about it.
    On my way back to the house, I noticed a neighborhood dog inside the garage, licking the concrete floor beside the Jeep.  “Hey!” I yelled at the Australian shepherd mix.
    The dog glanced up, took another guilty lap with his tongue, and trotted out the open door.  Curious, I reentered the garage and inspected the spot the dog had been licking.  A faint green stain marked the concrete near the oil drips I had noted earlier.  Radiator coolant , I thought, recognizing the fluorescent color and remembering that the yellowish-green fluid tasted sweet, resulting in numerous dog poisonings each year .   Deciding to close the garage to prevent further intrusion, I again used my pen to push the garage-door button.  After waiting for the motor to cycle and reconnect the manual release I’d disengaged, I tripped the button anew.  The garage went dark as the door thumped shut.  Stepping into the house through the laundry room door, I noted absently that the service light on the door-opener was out.
    I found Tremmel in the laundry room kneeling beside the bunny cage.  “Rabbit people, eh?” the criminalist said, glancing up as I entered.
    “Huh?”
    “Rabbit people.  My sister-in-law’s one.  There’s a whole community of them.  Pedigree bunnies, breeders, rabbit shows.  My sister lets her lop roam around the house.  Damn thing uses a litter box, just like a cat.”
    “I found this one thumpin’ around the living room,” I said.  “Nearly had to change my skivvies after that little encounter.”
    Tremmel smiled.  “Killer bunny attacks cop?”
    “Something like that,” I admitted sheepishly.  “Anytime you’re ready, Frank.”
    Tremmel rose to his feet.  “Okay,” he sighed.  “Let’s do it.”
    I spent the next several hours supervising the crime team—making decisions concerning which parts of the house to examine, what material to gather, and what avenues of investigation might prove fruitful.  During this time I also gathered a number of the victims’ personal items:  phone records from the kitchen alcove, a small vial of white powder and a packet of letters from the master bedroom dresser, and an address book, letters, and bills from a desk in the den.  These would be booked into evidence as soon as I obtained a computer generated “DR” number, then later returned—with the exception of the vial, if it turned