A Neat Mess

21.Love of a Serial Killer

About thirty years ago, in a small, remote town-Sam's hometown.

"Search efforts intensify for the missing 8-year-old Johno, now into the twelfth day since his disappearance. This marks the second such incident this month and the eighth in the past six months. If you have any information that could help reunite Johno with his family, please come forward. Your assistance is crucial in bringing him home safely."

Dale turned down the radio as he pulled into the driveway, noticing in the rearview mirror two men in suits stepping out of their car. In the sweltering heat and given the usual attire of the neighbourhood, there was no doubt—they were detectives, waiting for him. With a weary sigh, Dale dragged his skinny frame out of the car, wiping his nose with the back of his arm before spitting on the ground, casting a disdainful look in their direction.

"Hi, Dale," the taller man greeted him. His accent was unmistakably foreign to the area, and he wiped the sweat from his forehead as he spoke. The detectives' approach stirred the dogs in the backyard, their barking a chaotic chorus. Dale, accustomed to the noise, noticed something was off.

The shorter detective was already peering into the back of Dale's truck.

"Your friends were here last week," Dale muttered. "They looked everywhere."

The taller detective ignored the comment, his focus shifting to the commotion behind the house. "I hear you rescue dogs, Dale. How many do you have back there right now?"

"About eighteen, maybe seventeen," Dale replied, a flicker of discomfort crossing his face.

The detective by the truck chimed in, his tone laced with suspicion, "What do you do with them? Find them homes? Sell them?"

"No, these are the dogs no one wants. I keep them," Dale replied, his tone flat.

The shorter detective glanced around, taking in the rundown cabin that Dale called home. "That's a lot of work, and a lot of mouths to feed. I'm guessing it's not with some fortune you inherited," he said, his gaze lingering on the dilapidated structure. The odour from the eighteen dogs in the backyard was strong enough to be smelled even from this side of the house.

"I help out farmers, and they help the dogs. I also grab scraps from the slaughterhouse," Dale explained.

The taller detective raised an eyebrow, looking Dale up and down. The boy was all bones, with a limp that suggested an old injury that had never healed properly. "What's your specialty in helping farmers? Where were you today, son?" he asked.

"A farmer had a fox that got stuck in his front-mounted mover," Dale said. "It was shredded and splattered everywhere in the machine. I take care of the jobs no one else wants to do."

The shorter detective's eyes narrowed. "So, what did you do with the leftovers? barbecued?"

The taller detective, clearly the one in charge, shot his subordinate a dirty look.

"I don't eat animals, and not much was left to bring back for the dogs either," Dale responded, He was no stranger to suspicion or confrontation.

Sensing the rising tension, the lead detective stepped in to defuse it. "He's just messing with you, son. Maybe because the back of your truck is spotless—no sign of you carrying a carcass, and the shovel doesn't have a speck of dirt on it."

"I clean it because if the dogs smell blood, they'll lick it, and they might get sick," Dale explained.

The two detectives exchanged a quick look. Despite Dale's simple speech and demeanour, there was something unsettling about him—a quiet intensity that was hard to pin down. How could someone with such a love for living creatures be suspected of kidnapping all those missing boys, leaving no trace behind?