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he said, “So I’m asking you again, Silas. Do you think it’s possible that a Native chief killed Ronnie Chew?”
    â€œHell no, Bernie. Anything is possible, but the chiefs that I know are all way too smart to drop a slavekiller where a dog could find it.”
    â€œMaybe, maybe not. Let me ask you this, though. Is it a Coast Salish club?”
    â€œIt might be, although slavekiller clubs were widely used. They’re usually more elaborate than this one. Designs varied. Some slavekillers were made of solid stone and shaped like animals. Some slavekillers were two-headed.”
    â€œSo what you’re saying is, this one could be a Coast Salish club, a Nootka club or a Kwakiutl club?”
    â€œAny or all of the above. I know it’s not a nightclub.”
    â€œOr a comedy club,” Bernie said.
    â€œOr an ace of club,” Nicky Nattrass added for good measure.
    Bernie grinned. “Okay, Nicky. Get back to work. Give Casey a dog biscuit from me.”
    Smiling, Nicky went off.
    Bernie looked happy. He was relaxed, smiling. Acting as he used to act. It was a good sign.

CHAPTER THREE
    By the time Bernie turned the murder house over to the Serious Crimes squad, Nicky Nattrass’ GMC muttmobile and several other emergency vehicles were parked along both sides of Collins Lane. Uniformed policemen and sniffer dogs combed the woods. Motorcycle cops were stopping motorists, asking questions, checking IDs and registrations, and ticketing people for not wearing seatbelts or other minor infractions. Manners fussed around, barking unnecessary orders.
    Driving back to Victoria, Bernie asked me if I had any ideas about the identity of the two female suspects. It was a long shot—hundreds of Native Indians live in the greater Victoria area, and the population is constantly changing. But I told him about the two Native raven watchers I’d seen on Pandora Street a few days previously. Bernie didn’t have any better suggestions, so he told me to look into it.
    I asked Bernie to drop me outside the Bay building at the Fisgard Street corner. As I was getting out of the car, Bernie made a fist, pointed a stiff finger and said, “Exsanguinated.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œDrained of blood. It’s that word I couldn’t think of earlier. Stay close to the phone, Silas. I’ll be talking with you later.”
    He drove off in a hurry. I ambled south along Douglas Street.
    A murmuration of starlings flew in from Vic West and settled on the utility cables flanking City Hall. Twittering gaily, the birds dumped a fresh load of guano onto the cars parked beneath them. In Centennial Square, a dishevelled middle-aged bag lady was standing on the tree-shaded grass guarding the treasures piled up on her shopping cart.
    A street dealer was already doing business in the square. Wearing a T-shirt, gold chains, a turned-around basketball cap, Timberland boots and low-rider jeans that displayed the crack of his ass, he was seated on a park bench about twenty feet distant from a public phone. When the phone rang, the dealer got off his bench and answered it. The phone rang every few minutes.
    Pigeons strutted. A pensioner was feeding bread crumbs to a murder of crows. Fuchsias, geraniums, petunias and bacopa dripped from the baskets dangling from Victoria’s cast iron lampposts. The sun was hot.
    I went into a robbery-friendly convenience store across from the square and monitored the scene from a convenient window. The street dealer was the apex of a drug-distribution triangle that also involved the bag lady and a trash bin. Every few minutes, loitering zombies hungering for a morning fix stopped by Asscrack’s bench and talked business, following which they gave alms to the bag lady. Shortly afterwards, a bicycle drug mule dropped a baggie into the trash bin for the zombies to retrieve. Trade was brisk.
    My car was parked on Pandora Street; I walked over there. A fat blonde with a