Bending the Paw

by Diane Kelly

“Exactly. I’ll also need something with Greg’s DNA on it, maybe a comb with a hair on it or a cup or toothbrush he’s used.”

  Fresh tears welled up in Shelby’s eyes. “Our laptops are in the media room.” She stood from the bed. Lest Marseille escape the bedroom and run amok through the blood again, I offered to hold the pup while Shelby collected the items for the detective. She handed the dog to me. The little thing was surprisingly heavy for her size. She was like an adorable, bug-eyed anvil. I took advantage of the situation to ask about the dog’s paws. “Marseille looks clean. Did you wipe her feet?”

  “No,” Shelby said. “I didn’t think to do it.”

  Looked like the detective was right, that the dog might have licked her paws clean herself.

  Shelby went down the hall to their home theater and returned clutching two laptops to her chest, their tangled cords gripped in her other hand. After laying the computers on the bed, she disappeared into the master bath, emerging with both a comb and a toothbrush in her hand. Jackson called for the crime scene tech to bring an evidence bag. The man who’d been working in the kitchen came to the living room and held an open bag out to Shelby. Her hands shook as she dropped her husband’s comb and toothbrush into it. She handed the laptops over, too. He slid the computers into larger plastic bags for safekeeping.

  The items secured, Jackson asked, “Do you know your husband’s computer password?”

  “It’s the word ‘always’ in all caps, followed by the ‘and’ symbol, the number four, and the word ‘ever’ in lower case.”

  ALWAYS&4ever. The same phrase on the balloon in the kitchen and posted on the wall over their bed, though modified to include a special character, a number, and a combination of upper-case and lower-case letters to comply with best practices for passwords. My guts squirmed again. If my fears were correct and Greg Olsen was dead, their “forever” hadn’t lasted long.

  Jackson jotted the password down on her pad and held it up for Shelby to read and confirm. Shelby looked the notation over and nodded.

  “What about his phone?” Jackson asked. “What’s his login?”

  “Zero four two six zero eight,” Shelby said. “April 26th, 2008 was our wedding date.”

  Jackson jotted that password down, too, as well as Shelby’s computer password, before looking up again. “Where do you and your husband maintain your bank accounts?”

  “Chase,” she said. “Same as the theater. Greg opened a personal account for us there after he started working for Take Two. It made things more convenient.”

  “Any chance your husband withdrew money for your upcoming trip?”

  “I don’t think so,” Shelby said. “We normally use our debit or credit cards to pay for things. We don’t carry much cash around with us. But I can check on my banking app.” She worked her phone again and held it out to show the detective her screen. “There’s been no recent withdrawals. See?”

  Jackson took the phone, leaned forward to run her eyes over the screen, and reached out a finger to scroll down. From my vantage point, I could see the screen over her shoulder. It showed a current balance of $27,456.89 in the Olsens’ checking account. Not too shabby. It also showed a list of recent transactions on the Olsens’ account. The transactions included payments to their cable provider and the gas company. They’d used their debit cards at Walmart, Target, and several grocery stores, including Kroger, Albertsons, Tom Thumb, and Whole Foods. Dollar stores, too. Quite a number of times, in fact. They must be the type of couple who shopped more frequently rather than stocking up on items.

  Jackson murmured in agreement with Shelby. “Mm-hmm. No recent cash withdrawals.”

  Jackson continued to scroll, looking back through several months’ worth of data. I was pretty sure she was taking advantage of the situation to see if there was any evidence of a large cash withdrawal that Shelby might have used to pay a hit man. But rather than a large withdrawal, she noted a sizable deposit. “You got a windfall in early December. Just over thirty grand.” She looked up at Shelby for an explanation.

  “That was profit from the sale of our house in Oklahoma.”

  “I see.” The detective handed the phone back to Shelby. Sitting back, Jackson asked a final question, one with horrific undertones but one that had to be asked nonetheless. “Does your husband have any birthmarks or tattoos? Piercings? Scars? Moles?” In other words, did he have anything on his body that would help the police readily identify him if they happened to find a corpse?

  Shelby swallowed hard. “He had his appendix removed when he was fourteen. It left a diagonal scar below his belly button.” She ran an index finger over the right side of her own abdomen to indicate where the scar would appear on her husband. “He also has an outie.”

  “Outie?”

  “His belly button. It sticks out.”

  I knew from my forensics classes in college that only around ten percent of the population had belly buttons that protruded outward. That fact could be helpful in identifying Greg’s remains, assuming we found them and they weren’t too decomposed.

  “Anything else?” Jackson asked.

  Shelby shook her head.

  “That’s all my questions for now,” the detective said. “I know it can be difficult to remain on site under these circumstances. If you’d like a ride somewhere, Officer Luz would be happy to take you.”

  “No, thank you,” Shelby said. “I want to stay here in case Greg comes back.”

  There seemed to be little to no chance of her husband returning, but who could blame the woman for wanting to maintain some hope?

  Jackson turned her attention to Brigit and me. “Thanks for your help, Officer Luz.” She looked down at my partner. “You, too, Brigit.”

  That was our cue to leave. I turned to Shelby. “Take care, Mrs. Olsen. I’m hoping for the best.”

  Her lips quivered and her eyes welled with fresh tears. All she could do was nod in acknowledgment.

  Brigit and I exited the house, went down the porch steps, and headed over to sign out with Derek. He held the clipboard and pen out to me, but yanked the pen back as I reached for it, smirking at his lame prank. Jerk. I pulled a pen from my breast pocket, grabbed the clipboard firmly, and scribbled my name and Brigit’s. While I normally let my K-9 partner tell me when she needed to relieve herself, she’d also been taught to urinate on command in case we’d be stuck inside for prolonged periods of time. I gave her a subtle hand signal and she lowered her hindquarters, releasing a puddle around Derek’s feet.

  He looked down as we headed off, jumped back to get out of the urine, and stamped his feet to clean them. “Damn dog!”

  SIX

  TRAIL TO NOWHERE

  Brigit

  Brigit had heard the words “damn dog” before, and she could tell by the tone that the big man who smelled of sweat and onions hadn’t liked her pissing on his shoes. But she didn’t give a rat’s ass. The guy had never been nice to her. Besides, Megan sneaked another liver treat out of her pocket and discreetly fed it to Brigit. The dog knew the treat meant she’d been a “good girl,” no matter what the smelly man said, and Megan’s opinion was the only one that really mattered to her.

  Although Brigit didn’t fully understand exactly how she’d helped Megan and Detective Jackson tonight, she was smart enough to know that when she’d tracked her way around the perimeter of the car that was no longer in the garage, it had been helpful to them somehow. She could tell that something bloody had been put in the back of the car, could smell the same blood from the kitchen concentrated in that area, could smell the man whose scent was all over the house and on the computer and comb the woman with the little dog had given to Megan’s boss. The icky smell of the automobile exhaust had faded some, but it was still relatively strong. The car hadn’t been gone long from the garage. She wondered if Megan would find the bloody car and if she’d get to chase whoever was inside. Brigit liked to take humans down, show them who was really boss.

  SEVEN

  LYING
LOW

  The Slasher

  He handed the desk clerk the driver’s license and the prepaid credit card. He looked down at his phone again while the young Latino man input the information into the hotel’s computer system. He didn’t want the clerk getting a good look at him, either.

  “Is the address on your license current?” the clerk asked.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “I see you’re local,” the guy said, a hint of question in his voice as he slid the driver’s license across the counter.

  Fortunately, the Slasher had anticipated the question and had an excuse at the ready. “Renovating my house. Don’t want to live with the noise and dust.”

  “I don’t blame you. I renovated the kitchen in my condo last year and it was a mess.”

  The clerk ran his credit card through the system and handed it back over the counter along with a key card for his assigned room. “You’ll be in two-thirteen. Housekeeping comes once a week. There’s a continental breakfast in the lobby every day from six to nine. Wifi password is ‘welcomehome.’ Laundry room is on the ground floor next to the fitness center. If you need anything else, just call down.”

  “Thanks.”

  The Slasher slid the key card into his back pocket and the credit card into his wallet. Hiking his backpack up onto his shoulder, he headed to the elevator and rode up to his room on the second floor. The hotel was one of those long-term places you could stay for weeks at a time at a reasonable rate. He planned to hide out here until things settled down and he could safely show his face in public again.

  He slid the key card into the slot and the lock released with a click. He stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind him. The room was a bare-bones studio, with a full-sized bed, one nightstand, a table with two chairs that served as both dinette table and desk, one arm chair, and a television. The kitchenette and bath were small, but sufficient for his needs.

  After setting his backpack down on the bed, he went to the window and used the stick attached to the thick curtain to move it aside. The room looked out onto the parking lot and the highway frontage road beyond. Ugh. He wouldn’t have much fun watching traffic going by. Too bad he hadn’t thought to ask for a room with a view. But it was too late now. He didn’t want to go back down to the desk and make an issue of it, have to show his face again. Besides, if he turned his head to the right and put his face up against the glass, he could just make out the edge of the upper deck of the football stadium at TCU to the east. This room and this view would be his world for the next few weeks. He might as well get used to it.

  EIGHT

  TAKE IT TO THE BANK

  Megan

  The morning after Valentine’s Day dawned unseasonably warm but overcast, the pleasant temperature and gray sky matching my mixed-up, half-happy and half-somber mood. I’d barely slept last night, both excited about my engagement and also wondering what had happened to Greg Olsen, whether he was recovering from his injuries or giving way to them somewhere.

  Frankie shuffled into the kitchen as I poured coffee into my travel mug. Her spiky blue hair stuck up in all directions as she cradled Zoe in her arms. Frankie and I had met quite some time ago, when she’d roller skated in front of my patrol car and I’d nearly run her over. She’d been crying over the boyfriend who’d just dumped her, and her tears and emotion had blurred both her vision and judgment. It was a Code D—damsel in distress. While police protocols provided for the mere issuance of a safety warning in such situations, the implicit code among women dictated that I help her even the score with the man who broke her heart. I’d taken Frankie into my cruiser, driven her home, and prevented the loser ex-boyfriend from taking the television she’d helped pay for. Soon thereafter, I replaced him on their lease. Brigit and I had been living in a tiny studio apartment and needed a bigger home with a yard. Coming across Frankie that day was pure kismet, happy happenstance for both of us, and we’d since become the closest of friends.

  She placed Zoe on the counter, along with her food bowl. Not the most sanitary of practices, but the only way to prevent Brigit from stealing the kitty’s food. Once Frankie had filled Zoe’s bowl with crunchy kibble, she turned her attention to me. “You were out late last night.”

  I affixed the top to the mug, making sure it was on tight so hot coffee wouldn’t spill in my lap as I patrolled my beat. “It was a very unusual crime scene.”

  Frankie paused at the refrigerator, her hand on the door. “Unusual how?”

  “There was enough blood to coat an entire kitchen.”

  She grimaced, as if picturing the scene. “Yikes.”

  Yikes, indeed. “There was also no body.”

  “No body? How could there be no body?”

  “That’s what we have to figure out.” Toying with my roommate, I lifted my mug with my left hand, tilting it to and fro as I raised it to my lips, making sure my ring glinted in the early morning sunlight streaming through the window.

  Frankie cast me an odd look at first, no doubt wondering about my strange behavior. But when she spotted the diamond on my ring finger, her face burst into a broad smile. “You’re getting married?”

  A smile spread across my face, too. “I am.”

  “Oh, my gosh!” She shut the fridge, stepped over, and took my hand to get a closer look at my new engagement ring before enveloping me in a warm hug. “That ring is gorgeous. I’m so happy for you two!”

  “Thanks.”

  When she released me, she said, “I’m so happy for me, too.”

  “You are? Why’s that?”

  She performed a mock cringe, grinning all the while. “Because your engagement makes it easier for me to tell you that I’m moving out at the end of the month.”

  “You are?”

  She beamed. “Zach asked me to move in with him.”

  “Wow! That’s great, Frankie.” With her previous boyfriend having proved to be a total jerk, I was glad she’d found a guy who appreciated her and treated her right. Looked like Valentine’s Day had been eventful for both of us. I pulled her into a second hug, this one to celebrate her change in relationship status. I’d bet dollars to donuts that Frankie and Zach would be following Seth and me down the aisle before too long. “The timing is perfect,” I added. I’d assumed Seth and I would have to find a new place of our own once we were married but, with Frankie on the way out now, he could move in here with me. The house wasn’t big, but it had two decent-sized bedrooms and a nice yard for the dogs. As a bonus, it was conveniently located within just a few minutes’ commute to the police and fire stations where we worked. Still, the news made my heart ache just a little. In light of our irregular work schedules, Frankie and I sometimes went days without seeing each other. But the time we’d spent together here had been fun, and I’d always known she was there for me if I needed her. I was going to miss her.

  She rounded up a coffee mug for herself. “The closet in my bedroom is bigger than yours. You better claim it before Seth moves in.”

  “Good thinking.” I was crazy about my fiancé, but there are some things a woman should never sacrifice for a man, including her independence, her dreams, or her closet space. I grabbed my keys, bade Frankie goodbye, and reached out to ruffle Zoe’s ears. “See y’all later.”

  Detective Jackson waylaid me shortly thereafter as I checked in at the police station, silently summoning me to her office with a quick wave of her hand. She wore the same suit she’d had on last night, which said she had yet to return home. She also wore a slack-faced, heavy-lidded expression, clearly operating on little to no sleep. Brigit and I followed her down the hall, my partner’s toenails tapping out a rhythm as we made our way. As Jackson slid into her desk chair, I closed her door behind me.

  “There was no word from Greg Olsen overnight,” Jackson said, though her tight face had already told me as much. “No contact from anyone claiming to have kidnapped him, either. If the attackers decided to take Greg for ransom, they might have changed their plans when they realized t
hey’d be unable to provide proof of life if Shelby asked for it.”

  Even though I’d had the same thought, that Greg might have died at his attacker’s hands, hearing it out loud from Detective Jackson made it more real. I didn’t want to accept it, to believe that there could be such brutality in the world. “You think there’s any chance he could still be alive?”

  “The odds are against it,” Jackson said on a sigh. “But I’ve been surprised a time or two. The lab has expedited the blood analysis, but there were so many separate samples that it’s going to take a while. I hope to know something by the end of the day. Until we have the results, we need to keep our minds open.”

  With any luck, some of the blood would match a person already in the criminal database and we’d readily identify the culprits, make a quick arrest, and find out exactly what had happened to Greg Olsen last night. A prompt resolution might make for a boring investigation, but it would give Shelby some closure rather than leaving her in a state of emotional limbo.

  “What about his car?” I asked. “Has anybody spotted the Jetta?”

  “Nope.”

  Darn. I’d hoped to hear there’d been some progress.

  She gestured to one of her wing chairs. “Pull up a seat. I ran over to the theater late last night and the manager gave me the login information to access their security feeds. I’ve watched the past week’s footage several times, but nothing has caught my eye. I want you to look over the video footage from yesterday and tell me if you see anything suspicious.”

  Over the next hour, we scoured the camera feeds, trying to identify anyone who appeared to be plotting to rob the theater, who’d zeroed in on Greg Olsen as a means for carrying out the theft. From an outside camera feed, we saw Greg’s black Jetta pull into the theater parking lot as he arrived for work at a few minutes before noon. Only a few other cars were in the lot, mostly minivans and SUVs, mom-mobiles. When Greg climbed out of his vehicle, a sick feeling filled my gut. We were watching what was very likely the last day of this man’s life.