Bending the Paw

by Diane Kelly

  The fallen phone, wallet, and blood spatter told a tragic tale, a sad, sickening story involving a sharp blade plunged repeatedly into a human body during a wild struggle. The footprints and paw prints on the floor told a story, too.

  Around the perimeter of the puddles and angling to the door that led to the garage were footprints indicative of women’s high heels. The sole under the ball of the foot formed a triangular shape, while the tips of the heels left small dots a few inches behind. Two of the triangles were elongated, telling me that Shelby’s feet had slipped in the blood. Footprints facing in the opposite direction led out of the kitchen, fading with the distance as the blood wore off the sole of the shoe. The pattern told me that Mrs. Olsen had entered the kitchen, run to the door to look in the garage for her husband or his car, and returned to the living room when she failed to find him.

  Other footprints appeared around the kitchen, too, despite the fact that someone had evidently tried to erase them by running a mop over part of the floor and smearing the blood and prints. They seemed to have abandoned the effort mid-task, either realizing it was futile or panicking and wanting to leave the scene as quickly as possible. The mop leaned against the counter. Judging from the patterns of the remaining footprints, there appeared to be three different sets and, judging from the size, all three likely belonged to men. One set, presumably, was Greg Olsen’s. It looked like he’d been outnumbered, two to one. Not a fair fight. But criminals don’t care about fairness. Distinct bloody paw prints appeared all around the kitchen, the little bulldog having run rampant through the crime scene. I wondered what the dog had witnessed here, wished she could tell me, felt glad her life had been spared.

  My gaze moved about, seeking a weapon among the blood and the numbered plastic evidence markers but spotting none. A single steak knife appeared to be missing from the block on the counter, though, an empty slot evidencing its absence. Had one of the attackers held Mr. Olsen while the other took the knife to him? I didn’t want to think about it. But I had to. A professional investigator had to face their cases head on, no matter how difficult that might be. There was no room for squeamishness. If I wanted to make detective some day, I’d better get used to it.

  The bloody scene was eerily similar to photos taken at the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre in Chicago on February 14, 1929. I’d seen pictures in my criminology textbooks in college, the horror muted only slightly by the fact that the photos were in black and white. Today was the anniversary of that horrific event. In a barbaric act of gang warfare, seven members of the city’s Irish North Side Gang, which was led by George “Bugs” Moran, were lined up against a wall and mowed down by Thomson submachine guns. Al Capone, who led the South Side Italian crime syndicate, was suspected of orchestrating the executions as part of a ploy to control the profitable but illegal gambling, prostitution, and bootlegging trades in the city during the days of Prohibition. The only survivor of the shootings was a dog named Highball, who was visibly shaken at the violence he’d witnessed. This scene, too, was nothing short of a bloodbath, a modern-day Saint Valentine’s Massacre with a dog, once again, as the only witness. But while the long-ago crime had never been solved, I was determined to do whatever I could to ensure this one would be.

  As I stepped into the kitchen, a floral fragrance met my nose. A dozen red roses in a glass vase sat on the kitchen table to the right. A white ribbon with red hearts was tied around the top of the vase. A heart-shaped Mylar balloon floated above it, the shiny surface reading ALWAYS AND FOREVER. I cringed. So much for that sentiment. Shelby’s husband must have brought the roses home for her. A small pink gift bag adorned with tissue paper sat on the table, too.

  A particularly large pool of blood seeped over the edge of the tabletop, releasing a slow drip onto the floor below. Had someone approached Greg Olsen from behind and slashed his throat as he placed the roses on the table? An open jugular vein would explain the blood spurts that appeared on the walls and cabinets. Had the men whose footprints appeared about the kitchen followed him in from the garage, or might they have already been waiting in the house?

  The technician who’d been collecting blood samples from the various pools and puddles stepped back to give my partner and me room to work. I had no way yet of knowing exactly what had happened here, but whatever had occurred had been violent and vicious, brutal beyond belief. Brigit, too, took in the scene, though while I relied predominantly on my eyes to assess the evidence, my partner relied primarily on her nose. She sniffed at the blood on the floor in front of us, moving from one puddle to another and back again. She sniffed the puddles on each side of the dishwasher before turning her attention to the one in front of it again, as if comparing scents. Fortunately, she didn’t knock over the yellow plastic marker, which identified the puddle as number 23.

  Given Brigit’s behavior, I suspected that particular pool of blood might have been from a second person, perhaps an attacker. The volume of blood would be typical of multiple victims. Still, even with all three people involved in the incident being potential sources of the blood, the amount splashed about the room seemed extraordinary. Without enough blood, the body couldn’t transport oxygen to the brain and other organs, and they’d soon begin to fail. But only time and lab results would give us an accurate body count.

  Once Brigit had gotten a good sniff around the room, I issued the order for her to trail. The dog lowered her snout again, inhaling with more purpose now as she searched for the scent trail that would tell her where the people had gone. She led me a few feet in one direction, before going back in the other, probably following the path the killers had taken as they attacked their victim. After performing this improvised two-step, she trotted straight to the door at the back left of the kitchen, which stood ajar. I noticed damage to the drywall behind the door, a tell-tale circle indicating where the doorknob had impacted the wall. Someone had shoved the door open, either to get in or to get out, or had bumped up against it, hard. Someone had also dragged something through the blood, leaving a long smear.

  Both the smear and Brigit continued through the door and into the one-car garage, which contained miscellaneous lawn-care tools, a garbage can, a recycling bin, and a member of the crime scene team, who was dusting the wall-mounted door opener for prints. As I followed behind her, Brigit sniffed along in a roughly rectangular pattern, outlining a compact automobile. The smear ended in a still-wet puddle where the trunk of the car presumably would have been. Brigit spent extra time at the back of the garage and on the far side before circling back around and sitting to tell me the last of the trail ended where the driver’s door would have been if a car had been parked in the garage.

  Just to be sure, I asked the crime scene technician to open the garage door.

  “No problem.” He pushed the button on the wall with the small end of his fingerprinting brush and the door rambled its way up and over our heads.

  I led Brigit over to the open doorway and ordered her to trail, but when she did, she retraced the same rectangular track as before, lingering again where the trunk and passenger doors would have been before returning to the driver’s side of the car. Her behavior told me that whoever had been in the Olsens’ kitchen had left via a car that had been parked in this garage, and that the person or persons had spent some time at the rear of the car and the passenger door. The fact that Brigit had lingered in those areas told me the scent was stronger in those specific spots.

  I bent down, looked my partner in the eye, and praised her performance. “Good girl!” Knowing she’d expect payment for her services, I reached into my pocket and pulled out three liver treats, feeding them to her one by one.

  My partner and I went back into the house. Detective Jackson motioned for me to follow her to the corner of the kitchen to give my report privately.

  We huddled in the corner and I filled her in. “Whoever was in this kitchen left in a car that had been parked in the garage.” I told her how Brigit had paused where the trunk and passenger do
ors would have presumably been, assuming the car hadn’t been backed into the space.

  Jackson thought aloud. “So the people who’d been in the kitchen put something in the trunk and one of them climbed into the passenger seat and one into the driver’s seat.”

  “Looks that way.”

  As far as the “something” that might have been put into the trunk, my gut and the smear pattern told me the something was most likely a someone. I still wasn’t sure what had happened here, but one thing was certain. Cupid wasn’t to blame for what had happened. It would take more than an arrow to cause this amount of carnage.

  THREE

  MAKING SENSE OF THE SCENTS

  Brigit

  The kitchen had been an interesting place to explore. There’d been blood all over. Brigit knew what blood was. In her time working with Megan, they’d come across blood at some of the crime scenes. She’d smelled blood on dead squirrels and frogs she’d rolled on, too. Most of the blood here smelled the same, but one puddle smelled different from the others. She could scent the smells of three people in the kitchen and the garage. One of the smells was very strong. The same smell seemed to be in the living room and hallway, though more faint. That person must live here. The smells of the other two people she scented were very weak, but she could still distinguish them. Her nose told her that the little dog had been in the kitchen, had run through the blood on the floor. Her nose also told her that there was a box of peanut butter-flavored doggie treats in the pantry. She’d been tempted to paw at the door to see if Megan might give her one, but she knew better than to mix business with pleasure. She was on duty now, and she had to stay on task.

  Part of Brigit envied the tiny beast. Brigit was too big to fit nicely on Megan’s lap. She’d tried several times without success. But being able to curl up on a person’s lap is where Brigit’s envy ended. The poor thing had a smushed snout rather than a nice long one like Brigit. A flat nose like that wouldn’t be much use in scenting. But she supposed it didn’t much matter. The dog seemed to serve the same purpose as a toy. Whether she could scent well wouldn’t much matter. Yep, all in all, Brigit was happy being a big, furry working dog.

  The fact that her partner had already paid her in liver treats told Brigit that she’d completed the tasks she’d been brought here to perform. Still, Brigit stood dutifully beside Megan just in case her partner needed her again. She wished she could get out of these weird booties, though. They felt strange on her feet and legs.

  FOUR

  SLASH AND SPLASH

  The Slasher

  He had to ditch the car. Quick. By now, law enforcement would be looking for the black Jetta. If he was caught driving it, he and his partner in crime could face prosecution and serious prison time.

  He turned into Marion Sansom Park, which sat in the northwest part of the city and bordered Lake Worth. The sign at the entrance stated that the park was open from dawn until dusk, but he ignored it, driving down the entrance road in the darkness. He kept the headlights off so as not to draw attention to himself, only a small flashlight stuck out the open window to show him the way.

  The park was hilly, rugged, and craggy with scrubby trees and brush. Serious mountain bikers came here to ride the challenging trails, which had names like Thunder Road, Gangster, Lone Wolf, and Rocket Loop. The trail he sought was known as the Dam Drop. The trail flanked the tall concrete structure that held back the waters of the west fork of the Trinity River, forming Lake Worth.

  When he reached the parking lot, he looked around for the trailhead and drove onto it, the tines of the prickly pear cactus and the limbs of the scrubby mesquite and cedar trees scratching along the sides of the car. At one point, the car got hung up on a small outcropping of limestone, but he managed to rock it free.

  When the trail narrowed too far for him to proceed any farther, he cut the engine. He ripped open a small foil packet containing a pre-moistened wipe and cleaned the steering wheel, gear shift, and door handles. He pulled up on the trunk release, and the back opened with a pop. He wiped the trunk release clean, then tucked the wipe in the front pocket of his pants.

  He grabbed the trash bag of bloody shoes and clothing from the passenger seat, and headed to the dam overlook on foot, being careful not to overstep. He hurled the shoes and clothing over, sending them as far out into the water as possible. Scurrying back to the car, he raised the trunk lid and wrangled with the heavy, incriminating contents, dragging it down the trail, too. Pulling the steak knife from his pocket, he gutted the evidence, letting it fall into the lake below where it would become food for fish, a tasty treat for turtles. He followed it with the car keys, listening until he heard a satisfying splash.

  Relief washed over him as he hurried back down the trail on foot, the beam of his flashlight bouncing. In minutes he was out of the park, striding past the entrance to Camp Carter, a YMCA facility where local youngsters attended summer camp. He passed the Carswell Federal Medical Center, a minimum security healthcare facility for female inmates, taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself. Another mile and he was back in civilization. He passed a bus stop, but kept on going. He knew the city buses had security cameras. He also knew that once the car was found, the police might assume the killers had caught a ride at the nearest bus stop. They might review the footage from the bus cameras. He continued walking for a couple more miles before approaching a stop where three women awaited a ride. They were probably employees of the stores in the nearby strip mall that had just closed up for the night.

  He kept his face down, looking at his phone, avoiding eye contact. He didn’t want to risk any of the women getting a good look at his face and being able to identify him later. He needn’t have worried. They, too, stared down at their screens. Nothing short of a nuclear explosion would have gotten their attention.

  His respiration and heart rate began to slow as realization sunk in. We’ve gotten away with murder.

  FIVE

  BLOOD, SWEAT, AND TEARS

  Megan

  “Mind sticking around?” Detective Jackson asked me. “Can’t hurt to have another set of eyes and ears on the case.”

  “Of course.” She didn’t have to ask me twice. The opportunity to watch her in action, to see a murder investigation unfold, wasn’t one that came along often. It would be a great, if grim, learning opportunity for me.

  We stopped at the curtain to remove our booties and dropped them into the trash bag the crime tech held out to us. Brigit danced a little jig, glad to be bare pawed again.

  The three of us returned to the guest room, where Jackson returned her attention to Shelby. “I’d like to interview you alone. Would it be all right if we sent Regina on her way?”

  Shelby nodded, and the other woman rose from the bed. “If you need somewhere to stay tonight,” Regina told her, “call me. You’re welcome to sleep at my place. I can come back and pick you up if you want. You can bring Marseille, too.”

  Marseille must be the dog’s name.

  Shelby looked up at her friend. “Thanks, Regina.”

  I walked the woman to the door, advising her to stay on the paved pathway out front and to check out with Derek. “Don’t tell anyone the details of what you saw in the house,” I warned. “It could jeopardize our investigation.”

  “Can I call our boss?” Regina asked. “She’d want to know that Greg’s missing. Some of Shelby’s work will need to be reassigned if she doesn’t make it into the office tomorrow.”

  It was only fair to give their boss a heads-up so she could shift any time-sensitive matters to another staff member. “That will be fine. Just no specifics. She’s an attorney, right? She’ll understand why we have to be cautious in legal matters like this.”

  Once I was back in the guest room, Detective Jackson addressed Shelby. “It would help if we could identify the shoeprints in the kitchen, determine if any of them belong to your husband. Can we see his other shoes?”

  “Of course.” Shelby stood, still holding tight
to her phone and cradling the dog. She tilted her head to wipe an escaped tear off the shoulder of her pink sweater.

  She led the way down the hall, the detective and I following her. We passed a small bathroom and another bedroom that had been turned into a media room. A thick, light-blocking curtain covered the window. A big-screen TV took up most of one wall. Two recliners fitted with swivel trays and cup holders faced the screen. The loose vinyl on the seats said the couple had owned the chairs for some time, watching many a show from them. An assortment of DVDs filled a rack designed specifically for such media. Other racks sat empty, with boxes marked SCORSESE, SPIELBERG, ABRAMS, EASTWOOD, KUBRICK, COPPOLA, and TARANTINO on the floor before them. The Olsens appeared to own every movie made in the last three decades.

  Shelby glanced back and caught me looking into the media room. “Greg studied film at the University of Oklahoma. He’s a total movie buff.”

  Their bedroom at the back of the house featured a king-sized bed with a shiny brass headboard and a whimsical polka-dot comforter. Boxes marked MASTER BEDROOM sat about the perimeter of the room. More candid photos of the couple sat on the night table and dresser, while a decorative piece of metal scrollwork that read ALWAYS AND FOREVER hung above the headboard. Shelby placed the dog and her phone on the bed, and opened the closet door. Like many of these older houses, this one had limited closet space. The rod was crammed tight with clothing, mostly hers from the looks of it. While her shoes resided in a pocketed bag that hung over the closet door, her husband’s footwear lay jumbled in the bottom of the closet. Still holding onto her dog, she reached down and matched a pair of tennis shoes before standing and handing them over to Detective Jackson.