"This dog will lead you to me. Yours, the Throat Slasher."

The police officers looked at each other, and down at the note again. The dog was sitting in the doorway, a tiny white curly-haired poodle.

"Pooch like that comes from some rich lady's purse," said Officer Jones. "Not from the Throat Slasher."

"Like we know anything about the Throat Slasher," said Officer Mann. As the corkboard in the evidence room made it clear, there was nothing that connected the Throat Slasher's victims. They were all different ages, different races and genders, different social classes, and lived in different parts of the city. The only thing that they all had in common was that their throats had been slashed. You couldn't make a profile for a serial killer off of that alone, except that they guessed it was someone strong and fast to get the dirty deed done without causing any other signs of a struggle.

The officers stared at the dog for a little longer. It wagged its tail at them, tilting its head to the side.

"Does Rogers still have those doggy treats in her desk?" said Mann.

"You're not really thinking of following that dog."

"Why not?"

"It could be a waste of time."

"And if it isn't? Then we ignored the first real lead we've had in this case all year."

"And you could be walking right into a trap."

"Then be my backup."

Jones rolled his eyes, pushing back from his desk. "Fine. I'll grab the doggy treats."

The dog hungrily snapped up the treats with a cheerful yip, and as soon as the officers stepped out onto the street, it went running off down the sidewalk. Mann and Jones did their best to keep up, neither of them knowing much about dogs, but fortunately this dog never got too far ahead before it stopped to sniff a tree or a fire hydrant, and it started skipping along again once the officers got close.

After about twenty minutes of walking through the busy city streets, the dog came to a stop at the front steps of one of those little grey houses all squeezed together on a street, its lawn overgrown with dark gray grass. The windows were too dirty to see through, but there was a dog flap in the front door. The dog sniffed at the stairs, and then found something even better-smelling in the grass to roll in.

Mann stepped towards the cracked stone steps, one hand cautiously on his gun holster. He looked at Jones, who shrugged, putting his hand on his gun as well. Mann reached up to knock on the door - and it swung open slowly, already unlocked.

Inside, lying on the floor, was a body. A tall man, his throat slashed open, a dark stain spread out beneath him across the green carpet. In his hand was a knife, covered in blood.

"I think the Throat Slasher claimed his last victim," said Mann.

Jones nodded grimly at the scene. "I hope you're right."