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I Go But to the Lord” and segued into “I’m Saved” as I hit 9R. The one thing I was sure about with Howard was that he had no one else in the world who would vouch for him.
    Maybe I just answered my own question.
    Al kicked me in the nuts when I came to the door and he barked for five minutes straight. It wasn’t clear what point he was trying to make, but clearly he felt strong about it. I fixed him a dish of lamb and rice and topped it with half a can of sardines and he calmed down. My trailer smelled like the combination of hound, hound flatulence, and canned sardines—aromatherapy.
    I had two messages.
    “Duffy.” It was Marcia and she was sniffling. “I had a bad day. There’s too much sadness in the world. Call me,” she said.
    She was a barrel of laughs.
    I hit the button for the second message.
    “Duffy, you gotta help me.” It was Howard and that’s all he said.

5
    The newspaper account of the McDonough High quarterback slaying used the words “gruesome,” “grim,” and “grisly” quite a bit. For nostalgic sickos it was quite a treat because he was found propped up against the same tree that Howard’s QB was, doing his Ichabod-Crane-meets-Johnny-Unitas pose. The cable news people were having a field day and ushering in a whole host of experts about serial killers. They also did profile after profile of Howard, discussed how he was missing, and went over and over his previous murders. This was getting scary weird.
    I turned off the TV and called the Crawford police to let them know Howard rang me up. I was put on hold and then spoke to two different very official-sounding cops, and they both told me to not touch anything and that they’d be over right away. Within fifteen minutes, three police cars, all with their lights flashing, and a so-called unmarked car with three detectives pulled up. It was unmarked but unmistakably a cop car, with its six-foot antenna, drab blue color, and lack of hubcaps. I never understood making unmarked cars so obvious because I didn’t know anybody who couldn’t pick out a cop car from a mile away.
    They all decided to come into the Moody Blue, which made for a tight squeeze. The Blue had been modified and customized, but it was still a trailer. I don’t know if it was the extra bodies inside the metal tube I call home or the intensity they all brought with them, but the Blue was getting warm.
    Al wasn’t pleased with the company. As a former member of the Nation of Islam, I’m sure he had experienced his share of harassment, and he was letting the eight police representatives witness his own brand of nonviolent uncivil disobedience. He wouldn’t shut up.
    “I’m Detective Morris, would you mind …” The cop who appeared to be the highest-ranking guy tried to introduce himself. He was a short guy with a thick neck and a wicked five o’clock shadow.
    “WOOF, WOOF, WOOF,” Al said.
    “Al, shut up!” I said.
    “WOOF, WOOF, WOOF,” Al said.
    “Uh, sir … ” Morris tried to start again.
    “WOOF WOOF, WOOF WOOF.” Al switched to a kind of staccato beat using two barks then a slight pause followed by two more. It had kind of a Rasta feel. The hair on Al’s back was standing up.
    “Sorry,” I shouted. “The last time I had an unexpected visitor Al got hurt.”
    “WOOF, WOOF, WOOF, WOOF, WOOF.” Al returned to the rapid-tempo single barks.
    “Do you think you could possibly …”
    “WOOF, WOOF, WOOF, AHOOOOOOOO.” Al started to bay.
    The cops all wrinkled their brows and rolled their eyes and did their best to look impatient. That seemed to piss Al off more.
    “AHOOOOOOO … WOOF, WOOF, AHOOOOOOO,” Al said.
    “Let me try to put him in the bathroom,” I said.
    I went to grab Al by the collar, but before I could get my hands on it he turned and ran. Al has a long frame, and doing a 360 for him is like an eighteen-wheeler doing a three-point turn. Just the same, he was surprisingly agile.
    He started to run all crazy around the Moody