Laying Down the Paw (7 page)

“Good. What else?”

“The killer used something jagged on his neck. Maybe a serrated knife.”

“Not a knife,” called the tech, who was crouching next to the body with his camera. He reached out with a hand clad in a blue latex glove and lifted the end of a narrow chain from the wound in the victim's neck. “A chain.”

He tugged on the chain, slowly pulling it out from the victim's neck where it was embedded, pieces of bloody flesh sticking to it as it came free.
Ew.

The chain looked too thick and had loops too big to be a typical necklace, but it was too small for other typical purposes, like towing a car or securing a fence.

Jackson must have had the same thought. “Any idea what kind of chain that is?”

My first thought was that it could be a man's rosary, but it lacked the requisite prayer beads. “Could it be a chain for military dog tags?” Maybe our victim was a veteran.

The tech chimed in now. “No, not dog tags. Those hang from a ball chain. This chain has open loops. Looks to me like something Mr. T would wear. Could be the suspect's a gangbanger.”

“We've got plenty of those around here.” Jackson gestured to the body. “What about his face? How do you think the killer did that?”

I eyed what remained of the dead man's cheek. It contained four dark bruises spaced at even intervals. The two marks in the center were slightly darker than the outer two. I looked around, noting a few jagged stones and pointy tree limbs on the ground. “Was he hit repeatedly with a rock maybe? Or a stick?”

“Nope. The spacing is too precise. Whoever hit the victim was wearing brass knuckles.”

Ouch.

“Look here.” Jackson pointed at something small and white lodged in the bark of a tree a few feet away.

I stepped closer.
Oh, my God! It was a tooth!

The tech pulled a tongue depressor from his tool kit. “This killer was brutal. Take a look at this.” He used the wooden stick to lift the dead man's blood-caked upper lip, revealing a set of jagged, broken teeth. “I better collect the fragments.” He exchanged the tongue depressor for a pair of oversized tweezers and began to pick small white objects, which I'd originally mistaken for pebbles, from the ground.

Again my stomach attempted to purge itself. I made a mental note to take a Dramamine next time a corpse cropped up on my to-do list.

The second tech joined the first and began to pat down the dead man's pockets. Finding nothing in the pants or outer jacket pockets, he reached inside to check the inside pockets. “No wallet. No ID. Nothing.”

Jackson pulled out her cell phone. “I'll call the station. See if we've got any missing person reports that fit his description.”

She placed the call, was put on hold for a minute, then said, “Thanks.” She put her phone away. “No missing person reports. Not yet, anyway.”

Who was this man?

And why did someone kill him?

I felt a tug on the leash in my hand, Brigit trying to pull me over to the body.

“No, girl.” She was probably curious, but no way did I want to get any closer. This was just too damn creepy.

Brigit tugged again, refusing to take no for an answer, this time digging her claws into the soft dirt and leaning toward the body.

I nudged her furry butt with my knee. “I said ‘no, girl!'”

The techs and Jackson looked our way. An embarrassed flush burned my cheeks. Brigit was making me look like an idiot, like I couldn't control my dog.

Brigit woofed and tugged again. That's when I realized she was trying to tell me something.

I looked from the techs to the detective. “I think she smells something and wants to check it out. Is it okay to let her get closer?”

“Sure,” the lead tech said. “Can't hurt anything at this point.”

I led Brigit over, letting the leash out a few inches so her head could move freely. She began to snuffle along the body, her nose twitching and wiggling as she sniffed, thankfully starting at the guy's boots. She made her way up his calves, nudged a knee, and thoroughly sniffed his thigh. She sat back then, giving her passive alert.

“She's indicating there's drugs on him,” I explained.

The tech frowned. “I already checked his pockets.”

Jackson stepped up beside me. “Check inside his pants.”

The tech carefully unzipped the man's jeans and pulled them down a few inches, revealing a pair of blue briefs and hairy thighs. Sure enough, a plastic bag containing small white crystals was affixed with medical tape to a shaved spot on the guy's thigh.

“Aha,” Jackson said. “Looks like fuzzy-wuzzy discovered a possible motive.”

Drugs.
Not a surprise, really. Drugs played a huge part in crime. Many of those who committed crimes were high on drugs at the time. Others committed crimes in order to get money to buy drugs.

“Good girl!” I praised my partner, retrieved a liver treat from the stash in my jacket, and held it out to her.

She took the treat from my fingers, wolfed it down, and began to snuffle around in the nearby trees, probably scenting a squirrel or raccoon.

A call came in on my shoulder radio, reporting a disabled vehicle impeding traffic on Rosedale. “I better get back to work.”

Jackson lifted her chin in acknowledgment. “I'll let you know what we find out.”

As Brigit and I headed back to our cruiser, I found myself wanting to talk to Seth. He'd seen people killed in Afghanistan, seen people die in fires here. Surely he could help me deal with this murder.

What do you know? Maybe I did need him for something, after all.

 

ELEVEN

HOME, STINK, HOME

Brigit

She'd wanted really bad to roll on that man's dead body. Wasn't that what dead things were for? Rolling on? But given Megan's tight hold on her leash, Brigit knew she'd get in trouble if she tried. She'd had to settle for rolling on a squirrel in the parking lot. The flat, dried-out thing was days old, its odor mostly gone. Not much of a consolation prize, but the dog would take what she could get.

Brigit wasn't quite sure why Megan kept taking her to empty houses, but she liked this one. It smelled great. Like mildew and wood rot. The carpet also bore scents of sweaty feet and spilled milk. The backyard was great, too. Very little grass so she'd have an easy time digging holes if given the chance.

The evening was even better. Seth brought Blast with him to Megan's apartment. While their meal tickets talked on the couch, Brigit and Blast wrangled and wrestled on the carpet. Brigit bested Blast, flipping him over onto his back. She went for his throat. Playfully, of course, mouthing his fur without sinking her teeth into him. From the way he wriggled on his back and begged for more, Brigit suspected he liked it. Megan and Seth ought to give it a try sometime. The two looked like they could use some fun.

 

TWELVE

FAMILY REUNION

Dub

“Pleeeeeease?” Dub begged. He knew Wes would give in eventually. “Just one burrito. All that basketball made me hungry.” Dub had spent the last two hours playing in a drop-in game at the Y while Wes sat in a nearby Starbucks, grading exams. “I'm a growing boy. I need nourishment.”

“You can hardly say a fast-food burrito is nourishing,” Wes said. “We've got plenty of healthy stuff in the fridge at home. Spinach. Broccoli. Brussels sprouts. Tofu…”

The grin on Wes's face told Dub his foster father was only teasing. Sure enough, Wes turned his Civic into the drive-thru lane at Taco Bell.

They waited as a woman with what looked like an entire girls' soccer team in her SUV placed a long and complicated order, turning back to the girls several times to discuss the “hold this's” and “extra that's.”

“Girls,” Wes said, rolling his eyes.

Dub emitted a grunt of agreement, though actually, their pickiness aside, he thought girls weren't bad at all. Unlike Mark Stallworth, the puberty fairy had visited Dub early, tapping him quite hard with her magical sparkling wand. He'd had facial hair by age twelve and was often mistaken for an adult. The guy who'd come to their door the other day trying to selling them new gutters hadn't asked to see Dub's parents. He'd assumed Dub was the owner of the house.

Their team's order finally done, the woman drove forward and Wes pulled up to the menu board.

A woman's voice came through the speaker. “Welcome to Taco Bell. What can I get you today?”

Holy shit.

That Tennessee twang was unmistakable. What happened Sunday night could land Dub in a world of trouble, and so could the woman whose voice had just come through the speaker.

Wes leaned his head out the window. “One bean burrito,” he called.

The woman repeated the order and gave him a total. Wes thanked her and began to pull forward.

“Wait!” Dub cried.

Wes slammed on the brakes. “What is it?”

Dub opened the passenger door. “I'll be right back. I need to go inside and use the bathroom.” Dub hopped out the door and slammed it behind him.

He did not want the woman working the drive-thru to see him. He
couldn't
let her see him. If she did, everything he'd worked so hard for would be over.

Yet he wanted to see her.

Needed
to.

Dub pulled the white hood of his Tornadoes sweatshirt over his head and walked into the restaurant. He turned left into the dining area rather than right toward the food counter. Keeping his face ducked, he circled around to the drink machine. Taking a deep breath, he dared a look behind the counter.

There she was.

Standing inside the drive-thru window was a small black woman, barely five feet, wearing a colorful Taco Bell uniform. She wore her dark hair in a springy Afro. She'd never been able to afford to have her curls relaxed. Dub was glad about that. She looked cute this way, more real, younger and less processed and pretend.

She turned to talk to one of her coworkers. Her face had no bruises or cuts, no swollen mouth. She still had the thick scar on her upper lip where it had been split open a few years ago, but that had healed as much as it ever would. Her eyes looked clear. She'd put on some weight, too, no longer looking like one of those half-starved refugees on TV.

Thank God.

Relieved, he turned to go. He was nearly to the exit door when her voice came again.

“Wade?” she cried. “Is that you?”

He stopped in his tracks but didn't turn around. Everything in him told him to run. To run as fast as he could out to Wes's car and to never look back. To get away from her and to stay away.

But he couldn't do it. Had never been able to do it.

Slowly, he turned around.

By this time, she'd stepped up to the front counter. He saw tears in her deep brown eyes.

“It is you!” Her smile revealed an incomplete set of teeth. “I knew it!”

She was out the door that led from the food prep area and standing in front of him before he could even take a breath.

And he knew right then it was all over. The basketball at the Y, the B average in school, the bedroom and bathroom he had all to himself.

He was no longer blessed, but damned.

Damned straight to hell.

And, this time, he could blame no one but himself.

 

THIRTEEN

HOUSE CALLS

Megan

Thursday morning, the W1 Division captain called the staff in early for a briefing. We officers—uniformed, plainclothes, and detectives alike—crowded into the conference room.

The Big Dick had been lucky enough to snag a chair up front. Summer had been unlucky enough to land the seat next to him. By the time I arrived, it was standing room only. I managed to squeeze myself into a small space between two male officers, a Latino named Hinojosa and a stocky African-American named Spalding, both of whom were veteran cops in their thirties. After offering them a nod in greeting, I turned my attention to the front of the room and Captain Leone, a fortyish guy with spongy dark hair and wiry eyebrows that threatened to reach out and grab you.
Terrifying.
Brigit sat at, and on, my feet, her rigid stance indicating she didn't like being boxed in by the crowd. Couldn't much blame her. With any luck, this briefing would be quick.

The captain stepped up to the podium and scanned the group, his face blank with a practiced impassivity perfected during years as a homicide detective. If I hoped to make detective someday, I should probably work on my poker face. My emotions tended to be obvious, as evidenced by my gastronomic response to seeing that bludgeoned corpse on Monday.

“Listen up, folks,” Leone barked, the crowd immediately quieting in response. “It's been a busy week. We've had reports of two home burglaries, one in Mistletoe Heights, the other in Fairmount. The thieves took the usual. Jewelry. Electronics. Silverware. Both homes were unoccupied at the time. The couple who owns the first house was on a cruise. The second house was owned by a single woman who was away at her cousin's wedding in Sonoma, California. Best we can tell, both burglaries took place in the late afternoon, after school hours but before most people get home from work. Residents of Mistletoe Heights and Fairmount are understandably concerned. Spend a little more time in these neighborhoods, let the people know we're looking out for them. All right?”

Murmurs of assent came from the officers gathered.

“Okay. Item number two, the murder at Forest Park. I'll invite Detective Jackson up here to give y'all an update.”

As Detective Jackson stood from her seat and made her way to the front of the room, Captain Leone stepped aside to allow her to take the podium.

Jackson leaned forward, resting her arms on the podium and curling her fingers over the front lip. “A few more details we've found out. Fingerprint analysis positively identified the victim as Brian Keith Samuelson. Samuelson has a conviction for possession of methamphetamines and has long been suspected of doing some occasional dealing in the area. Unfortunately, though we've now identified our victim, we still have no idea who might have killed him. Since we found drugs but no money on Samuelson, we suspect his murder was a drug deal gone bad. The medical examiner put his time of death around eight o'clock Sunday evening.”