“Fourteen,” I said.

“Really?” Commented my handler.


“Wow. How about that one?” He indicated a blond haired woman.


“Huh. How does she…”

“I don’t know. Some people just don’t I guess. What’s the number?”

“Seven point four.”

“Yeah, I thought so. There’s your guy.”

He lifted the radio from his pocket. “We’ve got him,” he declared, “blue baseball cap, jean jacket.”

“Ouch,” I said, watching the assault team tackle the man.

“He earned it,” said my handler.

“I suppose. Can I have my carrot cake now?”

“Yes, you can.”

“Thanks,” I said, pushing the treat out of his hand and tackling it on the floor. Being a canine psychic interrogator is so much more satisfying since they taught us to talk. I hope I never have to smell beef liver again.

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