Not a good thing for a cop to do, drink like that. He not only knew better, he had been told to cut it out. I’ll quit this time. That's what he'd told his Lieutenant when he got busted for being a drunk. Now he was a beat cop assigned to Miami's meanest streets.

    The sound of a dog barking was magnified and distorted by his relentless headache. It hit him right between the temples. He would have screamed at the dog, but that would be too painful. Let me get my hands on that damned mutt.

    It would have been pitch dark out, except for the orange glow from the mercury vapor lamps hanging high over the streets on giant aluminum arms. The heavy rain that ended a couple of hours ago had soaked Buckley to the bone. The humidity felt like a moist cotton blanket on his skin.

    "Shut up, mutt," Buckley said, leaning over toward the dog.

    The dog kept up its barking and turning. It had two distinct barks. One had a little growl at the beginning and was a long, low tone. The other was a staccato, high-pitched "arf" that jangled Buckley's nerves. The dog belonged to no one.

    The dog sat down in front of Buckley and looked up at him. Buckley tried to stare the dog down, but the dog would not blink. It stared back and barked a combination of the low, long bark and the high bark.

    Buckley looked at the dog. Those eyes. I've never seen eyes like that on a dog. "What do you want?"

    The dog barked and ran off. It kept looking back at him as it ran. Buckley followed. When Buckley saw what the dog wanted to show him, he started to run.

    A body lay face down in the street, head against the curb. Rain water drained, running toward a catch basin, past a lifeless face.

    Buckley put two fingers on the side of the man's neck, feeling for a pulse.

    There was none. He reached up for the microphone attached to his uniform shirt. He called in a code fifty-four and requested the Medical Examiner. Another homeless guy. Then he saw the horrible wound to the man's skull. "Oh, shit, it's Captain Jack."

    The man he'd known as Captain Jack was a former tugboat captain who'd lost his job and his license because of alcohol. He and Buckley had plenty in common.

    The little black dog started barking. "Arf, gr-woof, arf. Arf. Gr-woof, arf, arf."

    "Shut up, I told you."

    The dog became quiet.

    "Dispatch, that fifty-four is also a probable one-eighty-seven."

    A murder. Now he was stuck waiting for the detectives. I used to be a detective; now I'm a drunk.

    A long bolt of lightening illuminated the dark sky. A peal of thunder began as the light faded. The rain started again. Buckley pulled up the hood on his slicker. The drops made a tapping sound as they hit the rubberized fabric.

* * *

    Buckley couldn't sleep. The image of Captain Jack lying in the street wouldn't go away. I need a drink. He wanted the alcohol to help him get to sleep and make the images of Captain Jack go away. No. No booze.

    "Fractured skull, multiple traumas with a large blunt instrument," the deputy medical examiner had quickly concluded.

    Why would anyone kill the Captain? Jack had nothing to steal.

    Buckley walked over to the old desk and turned the transceiver on. The dials glowed like candles. A faint but steady electrical hum came from the gray metal cabinet.

    QSL cards from hams all over the globe were taped all over the walls of his bedroom. He operated the key expertly with his right thumb and index finger, sending out dots and dashes.

    Buckley tuned the radio until he found a quiet spot. Then he sent a signal out, asking if the frequency was in use.

    QRL?

    CQ CQ CQ DE K4GNP K4GNP K4GNP.

    He sent it over and over again.

    After each three sequences, he added a K at the end and waited for a reply. He gave up after twenty minutes. Conditions must not be good tonight. They sure hadn't been for Captain Jack. He shut off the radio gear and paced the room, looking down at the floor, his lips tight against his teeth. He walked into the kitchen and reached for the Irish Whiskey.

* * *

    "Hey, Buckley. Who did the Captain?" Buckley recognized the voice. It was Joe Washington, an elderly black man with snow white hair and more wrinkles than a Shar-Pei puppy.

    "I don't know, yet. But I'm damn sure going to find out. You know anything, Joe?"

    "Me? No. I sure don't know nothin' about it."

    "You'd tell me if you did, wouldn't you, Joe?"

    "You can count on it, Buckley," he said, walking back to his blue pup tent residence.

    The sun was out and all traces of the rain and of Captain Jack were gone. Another day at The End. The regulars gathered under the shelter of the highway supports.

    Sally W. ran things. No one knew Sally's full name and she wanted it that way. She might even have been pretty once, but life on the streets had taken its toll. She looked far older than her forty-eight years. She held court on the sloped concrete embankment.

    Buckley interrupted them. "Morning, Sally. Gentlemen."

    "No one here knows anything about Captain Jack," said Earl, a tall thin man with few teeth and matted hair.

    "He didn't ask you anything, Earl," said Sally, cutting him off in her raspy voice.

    "How 'bout it, Red, you heard anything?" Buckley asked the short square man with pale red hair.

    "Not me. Not a thing. Not a thing," answered Red Anderson. His cheeks were redder than his hair and were punctuated with the broken blood vessels of an alcoholic.

    "Stop repeating yourself," Sally W. shouted. "You get on everyone's nerves."

    "Give me a break. A break," he shouted back, rubbing the sparse stubble on his chin.

    "See that, Buckley. You just can't win for losing around here," said Earl.

    Buckley looked at the group. He tried to make eye contact with each one of them, like a politician at a rally. Only Sally W. looked him in the eye.

    "Okay. I get the message," Buckley said. Hell, it could have been any one of you. I bet Captain Jack would have helped find your killer. You guys know where to find me if you change your mind."

    Buckley turned and walked away in resignation. They won't talk and we'll never find the killer. Damn, somebody here knows something.

    The little black dog came running up to him, bouncing as she ran, barking in the two-tone erratic melody that seemed so odd to Buckley. He was feeling better today and was nicer to the dog.

    "You're the only one around here who'll talk to me, girl." He bent down to pet her, but the dog eluded him, running in a circle. "Maybe you know something, huh? Did you see anything? Maybe you smelled something that you could tell me about."

    The dog started barking incessantly. "Arf, gr-woof, arf. Arf. Gr-woof, arf, arf."

    The barking quickly soured Buckley's attitude.

    "You just won't quit," Buckley yelled, pointing his finger at the dog. "Pipe down."

    The dog ignored him. "Gr-woof, arf, arf, arf. Arf, gr-woof. Gr-woof, arf, gr-woof, arf. Gr-woof, arf, gr-woof."

    "Get lost. You're giving me a headache."

    The dog stopped barking. She cocked her head as though waiting for Buckley to say something else.

    "That's better," he said.

    The dog ran off.

* * *

    A week had passed. Buckley had nothing. No weapon, no witness, no motive. Nothing.

    Sally W. and the others still weren't talking. Silence was the code of the homeless camp. As they saw it, the system had taken everything from them and given them nothing. The cops were the system. You didn't talk, even if it might help one of your own.

    Buckley was walking his beat when he spotted an unfamiliar figure crossing the street just ahead of him. The man had the look of the homeless bent, tired, too many layers of clothing. Buckley picked up his pace. The man was walking as fast as he could without breaking into a run.

    Oh, shit. Now I've got to chase this jerk. Buckley broke into a full run.

    "Stop. Police," Buckley shouted. "I need to talk to you."

    His gun belt, weighted down with a night stick, gun holster and handcuffs, slowed him. Being out of shape didn't help.

    Buckley was closing the gap. The man looked back at him. His cheeks were sunken, like his dark, unreflective eyes, wide with fear. The man ran faster and Buckley started falling behind. His breathing was labored. They had covered two short blocks.

    The man came to an abrupt stop. Buckley was barely able to catch his breath. He was still moving forward, but his chest pounded and his upper legs ached.

    Why did he stop? Three more steps and Buckley saw why. The little dog had the man at bay. Forty-two dog teeth were showing. The dog's lips were pulled back, displaying a mottled pink gum. A low, steady growl emanated from the dog's throat.

    Buckley caught up to the man and his canine captor.

    "Why did you run from me?" Buckley asked, breathing heavily through his mouth.

    The man made non-verbal sounds and shook his head to the side in small, quick movements, trying to indicate the dog, but afraid to point at the dog.

    Buckley laughed. "That dog won't hurt you. She's a little street mutt."

    The dog looked over at Buckley with an annoyed expression.

    "She's going to bite me," the man said, trying to move a steel traffic signal pole with his body as he tried to back away.

    "No, she won't." Buckley turned and bent over toward the dog. "Leave him be, girl."

    The dog immediately relaxed, came over to Buckley and sat down.

    The man kept his eyes glued on the dog.

    "You new around here?" Buckley asked, knowing the answer. He knew everybody in The End. Like a small town, strangers stuck out.

    "Got in this morning. Came down from Jax. Hopped a train loaded with car carriers. Rode down in a new Caddy. Real comfortable."

    "Have you met Sally?"

    "That bitch punched me. Said I couldn't stay here."

    "Ever hear of a guy named Captain Jack?" Buckley asked.

    "No. Why?"

    "You sure about that?" Buckley asked.

    The man became defensive. "I said I didn't know the guy. I meet a lot of people on the street."

    "Any of them ever turn up dead?" asked Buckley.

    "Hey, man, I didn't kill that guy. Leave me alone." The man started walking away.

    "I'm not done with you," said Buckley. Buckley reached for the man's arm. He yanked it away.

    "That's resisting arrest. I can book you."

    The dog stood and ran up to Buckley. She barked her two-note pattern as she ran back and forth between Buckley and the man.

    "Gr-woof, arf. Gr-woof, gr-woof, gr-woof." The dog kept on barking the same pattern.

    Buckley stared at the dog. What is it about that barking?

    "What's your name?" Buckley asked.

    "Carter. George Carter."

    "I'll be keeping an eye on you, George. Watch your step. Now get going."

    The man walked away at a brisk pace. Buckley turned again to the dog.

    "You don't think he had anything to do with it, do you?"

    "Gr-woof, arf. Gr-woof, gr-woof, gr-woof."

    Buckley couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You're barking in Morse code! You know who killed Captain Jack. Did you try to tell me who did it?"

    "Gr-woof, arf, gr-woof, gr-woof. Arf. Arf, arf, arf." Buckley watched the dog run off.

    "Come back here, girl." He put two fingers into his mouth and whistled, but the dog kept running.

* * *

    Buckley saw the regulars standing in the shade of the overpass, seeking relief from the relentless summer sun.

    "What do you know about George Carter?"

    "We don't need no one new 'round here. There's too damned many people here already," said Sally.

    "You think he did the Captain?" asked Joe.

    "No, I don't think so. Someone here knows who did it, though."

    The little black dog appeared from nowhere. She half-walked, half-ran, her tail up and curled. She sat down next to Buckley.

    "You cops always need someone else to do your job for you," said Red. "Why do you need help from the likes of us?"

    "Because one of you killed the Captain."

    "Ridiculous," scoffed Sally. "We all liked Captain Jack."

    "Someone here didn't. How about it? Someone speak up," Buckley said.

    "Arf, gr-woof, arf. Arf. Gr-woof, arf, arf. Gr-woof, arf, gr-woof. Arf, arf. Arf, gr-woof, arf, arf. Arf, gr-woof, arf, arf."

    Buckley didn't miss the message this time. He was working Morse code. Once his mind was tuned to the rhythm of the dots and dashes, he heard the words.

    "Last chance. Anybody want to say something?" Buckley started to walk away and then turned back. "There was an eyewitness."

    "No shit," said Sally. "Then who killed Captain Jack?"

    "Tell her, Red."

    Red Anderson dropped the piece of French bread he was holding and started to run. The dog bolted after him and grabbed the back of his too-long pants leg behind the right ankle. His momentum sent him forward out of control to the pavement. He grunted as the air was knocked out of him.

    Buckley ran over, handcuffed Red and brought him to his feet. Blood ran from his nose down onto his torn, flannel shirt.

    "The Captain stole my wine. I caught him. Caught him. I have to have my wine. My wine." Red Anderson was shouting, crying and whining, all at the same time.

    "Who seen it, Buckley?" Sally asked.

    "No one you'd know," he answered. "Let's go, Red."

    The cop and the killer walked slowly away from The End. With the sun shining brightly, a light rain began to fall. Buckley heard something behind him. It was the little black dog.

    Buckley stopped. He kept a firm grip on Red's elbow.

    "You're some police dog. I think you need a new name. How about McGarrette, like that cop on Hawaii Five-O?"

    "Gr-woof, arf, gr-woof, gr-woof. Arf. Arf, arf, arf."