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hs03150.jpgbuy prints of select* halfsquatch photographs at etsy or dawanda. (*prints of all photographs are available upon request) day 3

Rebecca folded herself into the passenger seat of Lisa’s sports car. It was like an exercise in awkward origami no matter how many times Rebecca did it.

“Excuse me.” There was a tap and a wide face at Rebecca’s window. She powered it down. “Excuse me, Rebecca? Are you Rebecca Richman?”

Rebecca nodded. The wide-faced woman pushed her hand into the car, encouraging Rebecca to take it. “I’m Paula Winter from the Reporter. I was wondering if could ask you a few questions about tonight.”

“I don’t… I don’t know—”

“She’s a minor,” Lisa broke in.

“I wouldn’t, I mean, I couldn’t use your name or anything. I just wanted to get your take on things, you know, to make sure we get it right. I think we’re sitting on a great story here.”


Rebecca squeezed ketchup evenly over a pile of fries. “What I really want is to get at the why.” Paula pressed herself against the table. “Why the cat? Talk to me about your motivation, let me in your head.”

Rebecca shrugged her way through Paula’s questions.

“Did you set out tonight knowing you were going to steal the cat?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Was it an animal rights thing?”


“What were your plans for the cat, assuming you had successfully, um, liberated it?”

“I don’t know.” Rebecca’s eyes wandered, settling on a couple dutifully taking their trays to the flip-front garbage bin. Piles of burger wrappers, soft drink cups and unopened condiments. She could feel the choke of tears and looked away. All those ketchups and salt packages, unused. Rejected.

“Were you planning to use the mummified cat as part of any sort of ritual or sacrifice?”

"It’s not like that.”

Paula leaned in closer. “Tell me what it is like, Rebecca. Make me understand.”

“Was it something for your art?” Lisa asked.

“You’re an artist, Rebecca?” Paula scribbled something on her notepad.

“Sort of, I guess.”

“She makes over dolls – from the thrift store – and then her and her friend Dave photograph them in the most unusual ways.”

“Unusual how?”

“They’re just very provocative images – not as racy as some of the stuff I did when I was in art school, but….” Lisa’s voice trailed off.

“Provocative how? Like pornographic provocative?”

“No!” Rebecca raised her voice, snapping Lisa out of her daze of art school memories.

“I really don’t think it would be fair to call it porn,” Lisa said.

Paula’s eyes bugged and glazed, her expression very nearly lewd. Dolls! Porn! Dead cats! Goth teens! To think Jeremy convinced her earlier that he had the bigger, better story with that bogus Sasquatch business.

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                                                                                                                                                          ©2008 pamela klaffke