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run.
    The blooping line drive bounced off the shortstop’s glove and rolled to the second baseman, who also bobbled it. Even with the errors, he barely beat the throw to first, but by then the man on third had scored.
    That’s how he won the game. Or how his opponents lost it. And just as a winning pitcher is awarded the game ball, he was presented with the victory bat . . . or what was left of it. Hedidn’t care it was broken, that flaw mirrored him. The bat was wounded on the outside like he was wounded on the inside. Both shattered. One physically, the other emotionally.
    And each time he attacked a woman with the remains of it, his swing felt like a home run. If he concentrated, he could still make the cheers echo in his ears while they bled.
    So far, he was playing four for four. He wished he could brag about his record like other men did in sports bars, but that would have to wait until he testified in court, impressing jurors and journalists with his brilliance. Then off to prison, where his swagger would be envied by other inmates who served their time as nobodies.
    He had little doubt that, unless he stopped, his streak would end in arrest and he would spend the rest of his life behind bars.
    But he did not want to stop, because for the first time in a long time, he was enjoying life.

CHAPTER 9
    S uch a shame,” muttered Dr. Howard Stang, the veterinarian who treated Buddy at the university’s animal hospital emergency room. He wouldn’t let me see the dog’s body, but he did a camera interview, talking about how minutes in a hot car can put a pet through hell.
    “Especially when you’re talking about a black vehicle on black asphalt.” He raised his hands helplessly, hunching up his shoulders. “Not a lot of leeway there with the science.”
    “When I last saw him,” I said, “I thought I was covering a story about rescue and survival.”
    Dr. Stang shook his head. “Buddy’s internal body temperature was still one hundred and eight degrees by the time he reached the ER. He was vomiting and clearly in distress. We inserted an IV into his bloodstream, but it soon became clear he was suffering a painful, lingering death.”
    “Nothing could be done?” I asked.
    “I’ve autopsied dogs that died of heatstroke before. I know what I’ll find. Buddy’s organs will have turned to soup.”
    Every year pets, and even children, die in hot cars. That night Buddy became the poster dog for all of them in Minnesota. It wasn’t the first time viewers were outraged over the death of ananimal, but it was the first time Channel 3’s website crashed because of all the angry audience comments.
    THAT OWNER OUGHT TO BE FRIED.
NO WAY TO TREAT MAN’S BEST FRIEND.
DOG DAYS SHOULDN’T BE DYING DAYS.
    I’d given Buddy’s owner another chance to comment, but he’d declined. Officially, his home phone was unlisted, but I still had the number from Buddy’s dog tag stored on my cell phone from that call attempt in the parking lot. When I finally reached Keith Avise, he’d already heard the news about his dog’s demise.
    “What’s done’s done,” he said. “It was an accident. Don’t call me again.”
    Then he hung up.
    That cavalier response was only part of the reason neighbors toilet papered his house that night. They sent a photo of the deed to our weather center, hoping it would be used as a backdrop for the forecast. But the meteorologist passed, not wanting to get involved in controversy, and selected a photo of a birthday boy turning two, playing under a garden sprinkler.
    When Malik and I spoke to Minneapolis police chief Vince Capacasa that night it became clear justice might not necessarily be served. Leaving a dog unattended in a parked car is only a petty misdemeanor in Minnesota, so under that law, the most Buddy’s owner could receive was a twenty-five-dollar fine.
    No jail time.
    “You’re kidding me, Chief.”
    “Check with the county attorney if you don’t believe me.”
    “Viewers