Dead Pigs Tell No (Curly) Tales

When I first arrived on the scene, my first thought was: "Here we go again." My second thought was: "All these sticks and no one to play fetch." I'm a bloodhound, after all. The name's Houndstooth. Max Houndstooth.

The lights were still flashing and the neighborhood noseys were being interviewed by some of my colleagues. Being the chief homicide Inspector of a big city like Nursery York comes with its perks, and I appreciate every moment that I don't have to deal with the nuts that find a crime scene entertaining.

Lieutenant Patches, a tough-nosed collie that knew his way around the beat, gave me the specifics. "The vic lived alone. Was a bit of an environmentalist. No known enemies. No ties to the seedy side of town. Name of Durham Swineberg. Age thirty-thr--"

I stopped him. "Did you say 'Swineberg'?"

Patches nodded, a suspicious gleam in his eyes. "Yep. Brother of Graham Swineberg, the vic of that murder last week. Deaths seem related, but we won't know until the coroner gets a look-see."

I sighed. No matter how much you tried to get used to the job, it was still depressing. "Get on the horn with the eldest Swineberg. He needs to know that he has to bury another brother."

Patches nodded and got on the cell phone. It had been Hamilton Swineberg that found his youngest brother, Graham, bloodied and beaten within the ruins of his house made of thatch and straw. Graham was a bit of a pothead and had some previous arrests for minor offenses, so we thought it was a random thing. You know, young pig got in thick with the wrong crowd. But according to Patches, the middle brother, Durham, didn't have the same issues. Someone had it in for the Swineberg brothers. And I had to find out who.

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Back at the station, I had to give my report to the chief. He was an easygoing sort, at least as far as bulls go. He huffed and fumed when I told him that the murders were only related by the victims' relationships, but I assured him that we would be thorough and check every avenue.

I wasn't surprised when I found Hamilton Swineberg sitting in front of my desk.

He wasn't much like his younger brothers at all: Both Graham and Durham weren't well to do, what with Graham being a small-time hood and Durham being a tree-hugger with more 'important' things than money. Hamilton owned a mildly lucrative construction firm and was considered to be very admired in the better boroughs of Nursery York. He was wearing a three-piece suit and a look of heightened anxiety. I felt terrible for the little porker.

"Mr. Swineberg, I'm very sorry for your loss," I began, before a thin, grating voice interrupted me.

"Inspector Houndstooth, your sympathies are appreciated, but my client is here against my counsel." I looked in chair that I had previously assumed to be empty. Sitting in the chair was Johnny Vermin, one of the most notorious attorneys in Nursery York. The little rat was wearing a smart suit and tie, but it didn't draw any attention away from his beady little eyes.

"Mr. Vermin, a pleasure to see you again," I lied, and Vermin nodded, knowing that I was being untruthful and likely not caring. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"My client received a message following the tragic events of earlier today. He contacted me before coming here - a wise move - and I assured him that I could handle these procedures alone, but he insisted his own presence."

Hamilton Swineberg nodded in what I assume was supposed to be toughness, but it came across as only further distress.

"A message?" I asked, returning my attention to Vermin.

The rat nodded to Mr. Swineberg, who handed over a small answering machine casette. I placed it on my desk and kept my attention on the pig and rat. "Is there something on here you would like to explain to me?"

"It's a--" began Vermin.

"It's a message from the KILLER!" ejaculated Swineberg, his voice trembling.

I glanced down at the small casette, then looked back at Swineberg. Vermin was glaring at the pig as well, his beady eyes red with fury. "Mr. Swineberg, I appreciate you bringing forward what might be evidence, but I don't understand why you felt it necessary to bring legal counsel. This could be legitimate or a prank."

"I'll do the advising, thank you very much," scoffed Vermin, his tone growing haughtier than usual. "I've seen what this department has done to the rich in this city, finding it enjoyable to run names through the mud for no reason other than pure malice. My, poor Jack and Jill Andrews were branded to be 'either incredibly clumsy or hypochondriacs trying to cheat the insurance company' by someone in this department during their accident last fall. I don't want Mr. Swineberg to suffer the same fate."

I glared at Vermin for a while, and a small smile curled on his lip, exposing his yellow teeth. "Perhaps instead of questioning the presence of legal counsel, Inspector Houndstooth, you should be listening to the message we brought you?"

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The tape was grainy, like most answering machine casettes, but the message was fairly clear.

"Little pig, little pig let me in..."

There was a pause. I glanced at Swineberg, expecting this to be the end, but he gestured for me to wait. The voice returned.

"Or I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house in..."

This was followed by rough laughter and a long, ululating howl that raised my hackles and brought the sensation of the thrill of hunting to my mind. There was an abrupt click, and the tape stopped. My mind returned.

Mr. Swineberg was worse than ever. Vermin was patting one of his hooves gently, and glaring at me with his beady eyes. "Am I to understand that both of my client's brothers died following their houses collapsing?"

"I can't discuss the full details until the reports are completed," I said shortly. "You know that much, Mr. Vermin."

Before he could reply, his tiny cell phone on his hip chirped. He picked it up, said a few words of encouragment, and hung up briskly. The rat glowered at me, then apologized to Mr. Swineberg. "I'm sorry, Hamilton, but I have to go. Family services are trying to take away some of Mrs. Yates children again. Apparently living in a shoe, no matter HOW much room there is, is some kind of code violation." He turned to me. "Inspector."

They left together.


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I held my tongue when I heard the voice on the recording, mainly because I didn't want to tip my hand to slime like Vermin. It was difficult, to be sure.

The voice was clear to me.

B.B. Wolfe.

I'd busted him nearly twenty years before, for the brutal murders of a exaggerative shepherd boy and a kindly grandmother. The courts should have thrown the book at him, but he managed to get life. Another wonderful service of none other than Johnny Vermin.

A few months back, B.B. was released from prison. I didn't know where he went from there, but wherever it was, he was laying low.

Until now, at least.

I took the casette to forensics, so they could get an accurate voice match. I gave them my opinion and they assured me they would get right on it. In the meantime, I thought it might not hurt to make a few phone calls to find out where Mr. Wolfe was staying these days.

It didn't take long in the least. Wolfe was staying at a halfway house on the rough side of Nursery York.