Cereal Killer

renovator/decorator, Savannah would have loved to get her hands on something like that house, to restore it to all of its former grandeur. But not having at least a cool million socked away for such a time-consuming venture, not to mention the time and energy to spend the next ten years cleaning, scraping, and painting, she had decided to stick with her own little house.
    When the burning desire to refurbish something became overwhelming—usually after watching a show on the Home & Garden TV channel—she reminded herself of the leak under her kitchen sink, and that was usually enough to stifle the urge.
    But she couldn’t help saying, “Beautiful old house,” as they walked up the sidewalk to the front door.
    “Eh, it’s a dump. You couldn’t give me a mess like this.”
    Savannah thought of his rusted house trailer and the yard that surrounded it—a bed of gravel. She opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it and swallowed the comment.
    Sometimes she was just in the mood to be kind.
    “She lives in the back,” he said, leading Savannah to the right and along the wide veranda that wrapped all the way around the house.
    At the back of the home, a quaint Dutch door bore a brass plaque with the letter B scrolled on it. The window in the upper half of the door was covered by a lace curtain. On either side of the door, the window drapes were drawn.
    “Looks like it did when I was here before,” Dirk said, tapping his knuckles on the window glass. “This was a waste of time.”
    “Probably, but you’ve gotta start somewhere,” Savannah replied—the sunbeam forever trying to penetrate his clouds of doom and gloom. It was a thankless task, one that she couldn’t seem to break herself of doing.
    When no one answered his knock, he hammered his fist on the lower wooden half.
    Other than a dog who started barking in the yard next door, there was no response.
    “Try the door,” Savannah said, nudging him with her elbow.
    “Oh, yeah, right. We’re gonna get lucky two times in a row...
    He jiggled the knob, but it was locked.
    “That’s it,” she said. “A no-go.”
    “Maybe. Maybe not.”
    Savannah gave him a suspicious side glance. There was no mistaking the mischievous tone in his voice. The one he always got just before he did something that would eventually land him on the police chief s carpet.
    “Did you hear that?” he asked, cocking his head sideways and listening intently.
    Savannah grinned. They had played this game before, but not for a while. You had to rotate games pretty frequently. Police Chief Hillquist might be a jerk, but he wasn’t stupid.
    ‘Yeah, I think I did,” she said, cupping her hand behind her right ear. “Sounded like somebody calling out for help to me.”
    “That’s what it sounded like to me, too. I think we’d better break in.”
    “And make it snappy.”
    “Chiefs gonna be pissed,” he said as he pulled his jacket sleeve down over his hand.
    ‘Yeah, well... wouldn’t be the first time. Or the last.”
    With hardly any force at all, Dirk gave the lower right-hand glass panel one sharp rap, and it shattered.
    “What’s the point of even locking your door when you’ve got glass three inches from the knob?” she said as he carefully reached inside and opened the door.
    “Really,” he said. “I wouldn’t have glass in my trailer door for nothin’.”
    For half a second, Savannah entertained the idea of an elaborate stained-glass window in the door of Dirk’s humble trailer, and she nearly giggled.
    But any inclination toward laughter disappeared the instant Dirk opened the door and she caught a glimpse of what was inside.
    “Damn,” Dirk whispered as he pushed the door all the way open.
    They both drew their guns and each took a position on either side of the door, where between the two of them, they could see all of the room inside.
    “Clear,” Savannah said.
    He nodded. “Clear.”
    Guns leading the way, they stepped inside the tiny studio apartment that looked as though an invading army had tramped through it.
    The coffee table was overturned, its mirror top broken in several pieces. A bookshelf lay on its face, its books, pictures, and bric-a-brac scattered on the floor.
    In the kitchenette area in the right rear of the room, pans, dishes, glasses, and a potted plant had been knocked to the floor. Dirt and shattered pottery lay everywhere.
    Cautiously, Dirk poked his gun, then his head into the bathroom to the left. “It’s clear,