Biology Reference
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compared to a dog out for a stroll, breathing at thirty times a minute. Solo, being Solo, was
running and sniffing.
We weren't lost, but a certain aimlessness hovered on the edges. Time to regroup. Solo
found a patch of muddy swamp and flopped, glassy-eyed, head flung up, dark lips pulled
back to capture more oxygen. I poured him fresh water from my backpack—no need for him
to get a mega-dose of oil, chemicals, and pesticides from the storm water dumped during the
last rains.
We three humans reoriented ourselves, eyeing the map, squinting, pointing to various
landmarks on it, finding the corresponding creek beds and electrical towers around us, figur-
ing out the closest street, which way the suspect might have fled. Our conversation assumed
a certain rationality on the part of the suspect, and that wasn't a given. On the other hand, if
he knew the area at all, it was likely that he'd moved in the direction he told his girlfriend he
thought he was moving. he water had receded greatly; I could see higher-water mud mark-
ings all around. Nonetheless, it was difficult to know exactly how high it had been that night
or even where it had flooded.
I realized we should have started the search from the opposite side of the swamp. Solo
might have been following a human trail at the beginning of the search, but there was a
distinct possibility that we had been searching upwind of the victim. That wasn't good. We
should have started the search downwind. My temporary paramilitary obedience to my po-
lice escorts had undermined what good sense I had. With that sense of dread, my feeling of
being a know-nothing newbie reemerged. But soldiering on at this point was best. I picked
up Solo's water bowl, flipped out the remaining ropes of saliva and water, and hitched the
daypack onto my sweaty back.
It felt longer but was probably only five minutes later when I saw Solo slow from his steady
lope. He lifted his head. He had started hitting positives as he sampled the air. He threw his
head higher, to gather in more news from the rafts of air. We were coming out of the swamp,
approaching a copse of trees and heavy brush. Solo angled toward it and slowed even more.
He lifted both front feet off the ground in a rearing motion, bearlike, almost bipedal. He
looked as though he were trying to climb an invisible mountain or break free of a lead keep-
ing him anchored. He approached the edge of the trees, the sycamores, elm, and sweet gum.
With his tail tensed into a tight curl, he moved toward a couple of trunks and peered with
suspicion up into the branches. I knew that curl. Solo was in cadaver scent.
Although I suspected this particular victim was not in a tree, I felt a flash of pride about
Solo's skepticism. Dogs far too frequently search the ground obsessively, as though it is the
source of all scent. One of our standard trainings involves hanging material in trees and
bushes, forcing Solo's nose up. Dead people are found in trees more frequently than one
