"U" is for Undertow (25 page)

“Really? You remember him?”

“I couldn’t have told you his name, but I know the animal you’re referring to. He was the only wolfdog I ever had occasion to treat. You see more of the mix these days, but back then it was rare. As I recall, the fellow called a number of pet hospitals in the area and none of the other vets would agree to see him. Beautiful beast, absolutely magnificent. He had so much wolf in him, he looked like he’d just come loping out of the woods. He’d apparently been experiencing episodes of lameness that seemed to be getting worse.

“I thought about osteosarcoma the minute his owner mentioned the joint being so extremely tender. An X-ray confirmed my suspicions. A tumor of that sort doesn’t cross the joint space and invade other bones. It’s a gradual expansion in the joint where it’s found, destroying the bone from the inside out and causing excruciating pain. On the views I took, it looked like the bone had been eaten away. The dog couldn’t be saved. That’s the long and short of it. I knew the fellow was upset, but I gave him my best advice and that was to spare the animal further suffering.”

“The man’s name was P. F. Sanchez. The dog belonged to his deceased son.”

“I see. Well, that’s a sad situation that could pile misery upon misery. It’s hard enough having to put an animal down, regardless of the circumstances, but when the dog belongs to a child you’ve lost . . .” He let the sentence trail off.

“What would have happened to the dog after he was put down?”

“County animal control picked up the remains and disposed of them. We’d place the body in a canvas bag that we left in a storage shed out back. This was a wooden contraption that could be opened from either side. I don’t know how things are handled these days. I believe with recent budget cuts, the county has discontinued the pickup service and it’s up to the individual veterinarian to deliver the remains to the animal control facility. Whatever the procedure, the animals are incinerated. That much is the same. I would have assumed that was Ulf’s fate until you told me otherwise.”

“Did the county make daily sweeps?”

He shook his head. “We called when we had a pickup and they’d be there by the end of the business day.”

“Did you ever have reason to bury the remains yourself?”

“No. I understand the desire to bury a pet in the backyard, but I wouldn’t have taken it upon myself. The animal wasn’t mine.”

“Would you know if the county kept a record of pickups?”

“There wouldn’t have been any reason to. We had a form the pet owner signed, giving permission for an animal to be euthanized. Sometimes the owner would ask us to return the ashes and sometimes animal control was asked to dispose of them. I can’t imagine why that would be subject to dispute.”

“No, no. There’s no dispute,” I said. “Sanchez told me he gave you authorization by phone.”

“I don’t remember his doing so, but that sounds right.”

“What about your records?”

“Those are gone. When I retired, some charts were forwarded to other vets on request and the rest I put in storage. I held everything ten years and then boxed up the lot and called a shredding company. It probably wasn’t necessary, but I didn’t like the idea of personal information going into the trash.”

“Can you think of any reason why Ulf wouldn’t have been picked up and cremated? Some special circumstance?”

McNally shook his head again. “That was the protocol.”

“Most people keep the ashes?”

“Some do and some don’t. What makes you ask?”

“I was just curious. I don’t own a pet so I have no idea how these things are done.”

“People get attached. Sometimes a dog or cat means more to you than your own flesh and blood.”

“I understand,” I said. “Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time.” I reached for my shoulder bag and found a business card before I got to my feet. “I’ll leave you this in case something else occurs to you.”

He rose at the same time, still talking as he walked me to the door. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

“You gave me more than I expected. It’s frustrating, but I guess I’ll have to live with it.”

“What hangs in the balance? That’s what you ought to ask yourself.”

“I don’t know yet. Maybe nothing.”

“Don’t let it keep you awake nights. It’s bad for your health.”

“What about you? Do you sleep well?”

He smiled. “I do. I’ve been blessed. I had a wonderful family and work that I loved. I’m in excellent health and I have all my faculties about me, as far as I know,” he added wryly. “I managed to set aside enough money to enjoy my dotage so it’s a matter now of staying active. Some people aren’t as fortunate.”

“You’re a lucky man.”

“That I am.”

Getting in my car again, I wondered how lucky he’d feel when he heard about the trouble his son Walker was in. If he’d been informed, he gave no indication of it.

 

 

 

On my way back to the office I made a second trip to Mid-City Cat Clinic, this time turning into the alleyway behind the place. The name of each business was stenciled on the back door so it was easy to spot the shed Dr. McNally’d mentioned. I parked and got out, inspecting it at close range. It was smaller than the housing used for garbage cans, mounted on the wall to the right of the door. The wood construction was straightforward, with a simple metal hook that fit into a small metal eye. There was no other locking mechanism visible and no evidence there’d ever been one. There wasn’t even a hasp where a padlock or combination lock could have been inserted and secured. I pulled the wooden knob and the door opened with scarcely a sound. Except for dried leaves and spiderwebs, the interior was empty and didn’t appear to be in use. At the back of the shed, the door that had opened into the clinic in Dr. McNally’s day had been boarded over.

I studied the alley in both directions. Across the way I could see a series of private garages, with gated walkways leading into backyards, most of which were separated by fencing. This was a public thoroughfare, utilitarian in nature but accessible from either end. Anybody could have known about the pickups—pet hospital staff and clientele, animal control officers, neighbors, adjacent businesses, trash collectors, vagrants. Cleverly, I’d narrowed the field of corpse-napping suspects to a couple of hundred unknown individuals. The question still remained: why would someone steal a dead dog and transport it to Horton Ravine for burial?

Unless, as Sutton had suggested, the two men felt compelled to substitute Ulf’s remains for whatever, or whomever, they were in the process of burying when the six-year-old Sutton stumbled onto the scene. I’d dismissed the notion when he’d mentioned it, but now I reconsidered. An adult male wolfdog would have been far bigger than a four-year-old child, but since I didn’t have a way to determine what had actually happened, maybe it was time to approach the question from another point of view: not the motive for the dog’s removal and subsequent burial, but the choice of the spot. Why there and not somewhere else?

 

 

After lunch I drove to Horton Ravine, taking Via Juliana as far as the Y where Alita Lane branched off. I parked in front of Felix Holderman’s house, locked the car, and ambled up his driveway. To my right, at the far end of the house, the overhead doors were open on his three-car garage. A late-model sedan sat in the first bay and the other two had been converted into a workshop. Felix had his back to me but he sensed my presence. He looked up and lifted a hand to signal that he’d be with me momentarily, and then returned to the task in front of him. He wore dark blue denim overalls, a long-sleeve shirt, gloves, and goggles. In an open cabinet to one side, sheets of colored glass were stored vertically.

As I approached I could see that he was creating a stained-glass panel. On the workbench he’d laid out a design, a stylized pattern of trees, leaves, and branches against a white background. He’d cut paper templates for each section of the design, and these he’d glued to various pieces of glass. As I watched he ran a wheel glass cutter along the edge of one template. He’d already cut a number of sections, and I waited while he completed the straight line he was tracing. When he finished he tapped the glass and it broke neatly.

He lifted his goggles and pushed them up on his head.

I said, “Hi, Mr. Holderman. Sorry to interrupt your work.”

He peeled off his gloves and laid them on the work surface with a shake of his head. “Don’t worry about it. I was ready for a break. I get lost in this stuff and it’s good to come up for air now and then. You were the one who knocked on my door and asked to walk the hill. You should have told me what you were up to.”

“Sorry for the omission, but I didn’t think I’d succeed. I should have laid it out for you regardless.”

“I’ve blanked on your name.”

“Kinsey Millhone,” I said. “Did the officers bring you up to speed?”

“After the fact. They seemed to think you were onto something.”

“I did, too, but I’ve been wrong before and such is life.” I peered at the section of stained glass he was working on. “You made the panels in your front door?”

“I did. This one’s a bit more complex, but I’m having a good time.”

“That’s the lead?”

He nodded. “It’s called came. These are U-shaped cross sections for the circumference and H-shaped for the middle of the design. Lead came is meant for two-dimensional panes. You want to do three dimensions, you use a copper foil technique.”

“What will you do with the window when it’s done?”

“Give it away. Just about everybody in my family’s had a window foisted off on ’em at some point. My daughter’s house looks like a church.” He smiled, showing dimples I hadn’t seen before. “What brings you back to the neighborhood?”

“I’m curious about the people who owned the property where the dog was buried. You mentioned the house changed hands twice. Did you know the previous owners?”

“Oh, sure. Patrick and Deborah Unruh. Nice folks. The dog wasn’t theirs, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“I know. I’ve talked to the real owner and he has no idea how the dog ended up in someone else’s backyard. There’s probably a simple explanation.”

“That whole section of the hill was overgrown back then. Maybe whoever buried the dog didn’t realize it was private property.”

“Could be,” I said. “When did the Unruhs sell the house?”

“You got me there. It’s been at least fifteen years. I’d say closer to twenty.”

“Did they buy another house in the area?”

“No. They moved to a gated community in Los Angeles. He owned a manufacturing plant, making uniforms, sports gear, and outerwear. He worked down there through the week and drove up here weekends.”

“You think he wanted a place closer to his business?”

“That’d be my guess. The move was abrupt, which I thought was odd. They were here one day, gone the next. I remember chatting with them at a barbecue a few days before and neither said a word about plans to relocate. Next thing I know there’s a moving van in the drive and guys are loading up the household goods.”

“Do you remember when this was?”

“Not a clue. One of the other neighbors might know. The gal next door, Avis Jent, kept in touch for a while. She could tell you more.”

“What about you? No exchange of Christmas cards?”

“We weren’t close friends, more like social acquaintances. Patrick was killed in a plane crash a couple of years ago. After that, I heard Deborah moved back here, but I’ve never had it confirmed. A town this size, you’d think you’d run into people all the time, but you don’t.”

“Do you think she remarried? I ask because I’m wondering if she’s still using the name Unruh.”

“Probably. From what I saw of them, they were one of those magic twosomes who mate for life. They even looked alike. Both tall and trim, fair-haired.”

“Any children?”

“Just one, a boy named Greg. She and Patrick ended up raising his daughter, Rain, so that might count as two kids.”

“What’s the story on him?”

“Typical of the times. Early sixties, he went off to college as a clean-cut kid and came home looking like a bum. I believe it was the summer after his sophomore year, he and this little gal showed up in a yellow school bus. He’d been traveling across the country, thinking what a free spirit he was while he borrowed money from his folks. Turned out his girlfriend was pregnant and the two of them were broke. Deborah and Patrick offered them a place to stay. Nothing permanent, just until the baby came. The girl already had one kid, five or six years old. Greg parked the bus on one side of the cabana and that’s where they hung out. I used to see the little boy running around the front yard without a stitch of clothes on. Deborah and Patrick were fit to be tied. To top it off, once the baby was born, Greg and what’s-her-face took off with the boy and left the little girl behind. After two years of no contact and no financial support, the court terminated their parental rights and the Unruhs adopted her.”

“Sounds like a soap opera.”

“It was. They thought they’d seen the last of them, but here they came again some time later, in the same yellow school bus, only now it was covered with peace signs in psychedelic paint. It was the talk of the neighborhood. Greg had changed his name to Creed and she was Destiny. I forget what her name was before. Her son was ten or eleven by then. They called him Sky Dancer, Sky for short.”

“Oh dear,” I said. “And the daughter was Rain?”

“Patricia Lorraine. The shortened version came before it occurred to them to rename themselves.”

“Why’d they come back?”

“Beats me. They left again abruptly some weeks later. By then, Deborah was worried the day would come when the bio-mom would try getting her daughter back so that might have been another reason she and Patrick packed up and left. ‘Gone, no forwarding’ as far as those hippies were concerned.”