After I arrived home – accompanied by Archie and our new friend Daffney, the normal-sized and weirdly adorable chickadee – I did not see my boyfriend, Special Investigator Clayton Yonder, for two days.

However, that morning, he left this message on my answering machine:

“Lots going on here. DNA results are starting to dribble in. Also, disturbing news from nearby parks. I’ll try to call with an update tonight. If not, I’ll see you on Saturday morning with whatever documents and photos I’ve got. I’ll bring the bagels.”

The “here” he referred to was the base of operations and laboratory for the Avian Slaughter Task Force, which Clay was heading. He confided to me privately that the National Park Service had brought him in because federal wildlife officers, rangers, and managers were emotionally unequipped to deal with the creature responsible for slaying and partially decapitating (but not eating) hundreds, if not thousands, of birds.

The way he explained it (my words, not his) was this:

Men and women who love nature – birds, bees, flowers, trees, mushrooms, berries, groundhogs, alligators, lizards, kangaroos, caterpillars, owls, spiders, bats, butterflies, rattlesnakes, baboons – often gravitate toward careers at zoos, botanical gardens, forest preserves, national parks, and so on. In college and on the job, they are taught to preserve life in its infinite variety, regardless of the dangers that particular life-form may present to plants or animals nearby.

These individuals proudly call themselves “environmentalists,” and their brains have been programmed by employers and educators not to discriminate. Not to evaluate. Not to equate. Not to draw parallels between species. Simply – like a police department motto – to serve and protect.

If, for example, you shudder in their presence at the mere mention of a rat, they will tell you that domestic rats make great pets and are model organisms for laboratory research.

However, they are less likely to mention that brown rats … city rats … sewer rats … are filthy, sneaky, smart, almost indestructible, and dangerous. Their bodily discharges intermingle with airborne dust, and they carry disease-ridden fleas. They contaminate food and household surfaces with their urine, feces, and saliva. They bite. They transmit hantavirus, salmonella, leptospirosis, bubonic plague, and hemorrhagic fever.

Then we have cockroaches. Not the kinds that live in jungles and in forests. The kinds that live behind the cereal boxes and baseboards in your apartment or your house. They leave droppings on kitchen counters, on the floor, in the bathroom, behind the stove. They spread salmonella and shigella. Their excrement worsens allergies and asthma. They skitter across your mouth when you are asleep, and you wake up screaming. They are vermin.

Nevertheless, if you ask most ecologists what would happen if suddenly – like a magician – we could make all rats and cockroaches vanish from the face of the earth, they would protest vociferously that “Their absence would disrupt food chains and nutrient cycling.”

Yeah. Right.

Nutrient cycling for what? Boll weevils, stinkbugs, locusts (Hello, Moses), and tsetse flies?

Since those likely to throw their bodies in front of sewer rats and cockroaches for the sake of bio-diversity are often the same people who adopt orphaned bear cubs, baby squirrels that fall out of trees, and blind baby elephants abandoned by their mothers, it’s hard to see them as villains. Nevertheless, their philosophy that “all-species-are-wonderful-but-some-are-more-wonderful-than-others” makes for impotent warriors when it comes to defending against a wildlife massacre.

When an invasive species, like the Burmese python, is plopped into an alien terrain – like the Everglades – and immediately begins to annihilate 90 percent of its neighbors, the individual members of that species are not only apex predators, they are also assassins. And there is no moral equivalency – no sort-of-less good. Good. Better. Best – when dealing with a killing machine. An executioner is an executioner is an executioner.

Which is where Special Investigator Clayton Yonder comes in.

As Clay explained it to me and the gang on the day that they met, “My background is law enforcement, and for years, I specialized in identifying and apprehending serial killers.”

Translation: “I am the good guy. They are the bad guys. There is no middle ground.”

Even though Clay had told me he might be out of touch for the next two days, he did manage to call on the night of the day that Daffney, the little backward-kneed chickadee, joined our ranks.

“Hi,” I said, picking up my bedside phone.

“Hi back to you. I have to make this quick, because Jules wants me in his office for a meeting with Marcus in in ten minutes.”

Before I continue with what Clay told me, I want to introduce you to this new Cast of Characters: “Jules” is Jules Landau, Clay’s superior officer in Park Department’s Division of Criminal Investigation. Marcus Landau, Jules’ twin brother – I don’t know how they pulled that off, but they did – supervises the Park Department’s Protests and Special Events Division. Which means that whenever an incident occurs involving law breakers (human or animal) and the public (human), Jules and Marcus pool their resources and collaborate.

Clay respected and liked them both, and marveled at how – while so often having to deal with bureaucrats and politicians – they managed to get their jobs done

But never mind that now. Back to our telephone conversation.

“Just so you know what’s going to happen,” Clay went on, “Sunday morning, Jules and Marcus are giving a televised news conference alerting the public to the avian massacres in Gossamer Gardens. They are going to publish your drawing, as well a full-length rendition of same, on our website, and distribute copies to news sources, pet stores, veterinarians, zoos, and anywhere else they can think of, asking the public to alert our office if they see, or even think that they see, a creature resembling the bird that you drew … anywhere.”

“Like America’s Most Wanted?” I asked.

“Exactly,” Clay said. Then he added, “I’m going to need your help.”

“Yes, SIR,” I shouted into the phone. “My combat boots are polished, my saber is sharpened, my water pistol is loaded, and I bought a new shade of lipstick that goes perfectly with my combat fatigues.”

Clay laughed. “I love you,” he said.

“I love you, too. What else?”

“Make sure your bird and bug buddies are there on Saturday. I’m going to need their help, too.”

“No problem. They’re living in my house. Is that all?”

“Not exactly,” he said. He sighed. “My involvement, which means your involvement, isn’t quite as administrative as I may have led you to believe.”

“That’s all right. I never actually believed what you led me to believe. But, go on.”

“Okay,” he said. He paused. A little too lengthy a pause, I thought. So, I urged, “Spit it out.”

Then, imitating his boss’s voice, Clayton Yonder, Lead Investigator of the Avian Slaughter Task Force said, “Regarding the as-yet-unidentified species decimating our native wildlife, unofficially, and these are his exact words, Jules Landau, my boss, ordered me to ‘Make Them Disappear’.”

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2026. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, visit www.shellyreuben.com.