Bending the Paw

by Diane Kelly

  I continued on and crossed the bridge over the Trinity River, which was brown with silt and moving swiftly with runoff from the morning’s storm. I wondered if Greg Olsen and his car might be in the water below. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had pushed a car into a body of water in an attempt to hide the evidence of their crime. Other times, criminals set cars on fire for the same reason. I supposed only time would tell what had happened to Greg and his Jetta. Then again, even time didn’t always yield answers. Some cases went cold and remained unsolved for decades. But for now, I needed to issue a speeding ticket to the college kid in the sports car who’d just passed me doing 68 miles per hour in a 35 zone. I reached out to the dash, flipped on my lights and siren, and hooked a U-turn.

  * * *

  The following morning, as our shift began, Brigit and I headed directly to Detective Jackson’s office for an update. On her desk sat Greg’s computer and cell phone, the plastic evidence bags beside them. Both were plugged into a surge protector on the floor behind the detective’s desk.

  She looked up from her chair as we stepped into her doorway. Although her forehead was furrowed in concentration, she appeared better rested today. She motioned for my partner and me to come into her office. While I took a seat in one of the chairs, Brigit circled around the desk for one of Detective Jackson’s ear rubs. Jackson reached down to grasp a furry, pointed ear in each hand and massage them. “How’s the big girl this morning, huh? How’s the big girl?”

  Brigit wagged her tail to let the detective know the big girl was doing quite well this morning, thank you very much.

  Jackson continued to stroke my partner while she filled me in. “There was nothing on Greg’s computer or phone that gave any indication he’s been having an affair or any type of problems with anyone. In fact, there was little on his phone or computer at all. What few personal e-mails there were in his inbox were mostly from Shelby or online stores he’s ordered stuff from. His work e-mail account had nothing of interest, either. There were only a handful of contacts in his phone. His recent call history showed that the only numbers he’d called in recent weeks were Shelby’s and his boss’s number at the theater. He had the usual incoming calls from spammers and solicitors, but nothing from a private number other than Shelby’s or his boss’s.”

  “So he led a fairly insular life.”

  “Looks that way. He had a bunch of photos on his phone, but they were mostly of him and Shelby and their dog. He’d snapped a few pics of movie posters and a selfie of him with that cardboard cutout of The Rock from the theater’s lobby, but that’s it.”

  From what I’d heard, it wasn’t unusual for a man who’d been married a while to lose touch with friends. Besides, I’d gleaned that the Olsens were one of those couples that did nearly everything together, functioned almost exclusively as a unit. Their unit didn’t seem particularly extroverted, either. Nearly all of the photographs at the Olsens’ house and on Shelby’s social media showed the couple doing things by themselves, not with other people.

  As the detective and I talked, the screen on Greg’s phone lit up and the device blared the standard default ringtone. I looked at the screen. Although the phone faced the detective’s side of the desk and I was reading upside down, I could tell the words on the screen warned SPAM RISK. There was no point in answering the call. But wait a minute … “Didn’t Duke Knapczyk say that Greg’s phone had played the ‘Popcorn’ song?”

  Jackson sat up straighter, her brows moving up her forehead. “He did.” When the phone stopped ringing, she picked it up, typed in the password, and reviewed his ringtones before turning her gaze on me. “I don’t see a ‘Popcorn’ ringtone on here.”

  “Think he deleted it yesterday after he left the bank? Maybe he got tired of it.”

  “Or maybe Knapczyk only thought the sound was coming from Greg. Maybe it was coming from someone else. There were quite a few people in line.”

  “If the sound was coming from someone else, it would explain why we didn’t see Greg reach into his pocket to turn off the ringer.” Besides, even though popcorn was generally associated with movie theaters, the song itself wasn’t. “Or Greg could have had a burner phone on him and ignored the call.”

  “That’s always a possibility.” Jackson leaned back in her chair. “I’ll run by the bank again, see if anyone heard the ringtone Knapcyk mentioned and whether they could tell where it had come from. In the meantime, I’ll have the technical team take a closer look at Greg’s computer and phone. They’ll be able to recover any deleted files or browsing history, make sure I didn’t miss anything. But unless they find something, this investigation could stall out.”

  “Nothing turned up on security cameras near the Olsen’s house?”

  “A convenience store picked up a glimpse of what might have been the Jetta heading north on Hemphill, but that’s it.”

  With nothing left for the detective and I to discuss, I stood and patted my leg to round up my partner. “Call me if I can help.”

  She gave me an appreciative smile. “You know I will.”

  Brigit and I set out on patrol. As we cruised through the well-established, exclusive Mistletoe Heights neighborhood, I spotted a white Chevy pickup with New Mexico license plates parked in front of one of the largest, fanciest homes. A sixtyish woman with olive skin and shiny black hair stood in the front yard next to a trim, silver-haired man wearing khaki pants, a white dress shirt with striped tie, and a heavy, fleece-lined shearling jacket. The two stared up at the gabled roof, the man pointing first to one spot, and then to another. Looked like the out-of-town roofing companies had set their sights on Fort Worth, too. Typical. Many contractors were mobile, taking their crews to disaster areas where skilled labor would be in short supply. Houston had become a contractors’ mecca after Hurricane Harvey, pulling in construction workers from far and beyond to rebuild homes and businesses. Fortunately, the fact that contractors were willing to travel meant repairs could be made sooner and homeowners could get their lives back on track quicker than if everyone had to rely only on local construction crews. It was a win-win situation.

  Brigit and I continued down the street and turned into Forest Park. My first murder case had originated in this very park, after a jogger found a corpse in the woods. The victim’s face had been pulverized, and I’d lost my breakfast in front of a group of bystanders. I’d become more hardened since, but I doubted I’d ever get to a point where a violent crime scene didn’t affect me. I might be a cop, but I was first a human being. It was impossible for those of us in law enforcement to completely set aside our emotions when working a traumatic case.

  As a greenbelt that was dark at night, the park made a good place to dump a body. Although I’d driven around looking for Greg’s car in the more isolated areas of my beat yesterday, I figured it couldn’t hurt to make a more concentrated effort today on searching for his body. Greg might have been left here before his killers took off in his car. I decided to park and take Brigit on a walk down the trails, see if I spotted his body anywhere, or maybe a pile of loose dirt that marked a shallow grave.

  I let Brigit out of the back of the cruiser and grabbed a tennis ball from her enclosure. We walked to an open area, where I threw the ball for her several times, letting her get some exercise and work out the kinks in her muscles from sitting in the car. I, too, worked out some kinks, performing some knee lifts and stretches. When I realized I was procrastinating out of fear that I might actually locate Greg’s corpse in the woods, I called Brigit over, took a deep breath, and set out on the trails.

  Enjoying her off-leash freedom, Brigit chased a squirrel up an oak, putting her paw up on the trunk as she barked up at the little beast. The squirrel clung to the bark, chirping down at Brigit, cursing her out in squirrel-speak. Chit-chit-chit!

  Although the rain had moved on, yesterday’s brief yet heavy storm had left quite a few puddles behind. Brigit stopped to lap at each one we came across, sampling each puddle as if she were a somme
lier tasting a variety of vintages. This puddle is mud-forward, with subtle hints of dry oak leaves and earthworm.

  As we made our way down the path, I peered carefully into the woods, looking for any clue that a body might be secreted among the trees and dead leaves. But all I seemed to see were squirrels making desperate searches for overlooked acorns, and twigs broken in the torrential storm. As we drew closer to the Trinity River that formed the northwest boundary of the park, my eyes landed on something bright yellow sticking out of a pile of leaves in the woods. Could it be Greg Olsen’s yellow theater uniform?

  It was a Schrödinger’s cat situation. So long as I didn’t verify what the yellow thing was, Greg Olsen wouldn’t be confirmed dead. But if I determined that the yellow object was Greg’s blazer—and found him dead still wearing it—there’d no longer be any hope at all. But there wasn’t really even a glimmer of hope any more regardless, was there? Not with the lab confirming that all of the blood found in the kitchen belonged to him.

  Ordering Brigit to stick close by my side, I ventured into the trees, the leaves crunching under my feet. I circled wide so as not to disturb any evidence that might be about. When I drew close, I squatted down and squinted at the object. It’s only a Lay’s potato chip bag. I released a long breath, equal parts relieved not to be facing a corpse and frustrated it wasn’t the missing man. Brigit, on the other hand, stuffed her snout into the opening and licked the salty remnants from the crumpled bag.

  My partner and I continued our trek through the trees. When we reached the river, Brigit traipsed down the bank and lapped at the water’s edge, taking another drink. I, on the other hand, ran my gaze over the water and riverbank, looking for a body washed up on the shore or anything that might indicate a car sat under the surface or had been pushed down the slope. A pair of ducks floated past on the swiftly moving current, but nothing else caught my attention.

  Where is Greg Olsen and where is his car? Normally, as we worked a case, I could sense us drawing closer and closer to the truth. In this case, though, it seemed that the truth was drifting farther away, much like the mallards floating on the Trinity.

  FIFTEEN

  BACK TO NATURE

  Brigit

  Brigit enjoyed being a pampered pooch, sleeping on Megan’s bed and having her meals doled out from a can or bag rather than having to hunt down something herself for her dinner. But she also enjoyed taking breaks in Forest Park, where she could get in touch with the wild wolf deep inside her, chase the squirrels, feel the cool breeze ruffle her fur. She’d enjoyed the best of both worlds today. After Megan led her into the woods, Brigit hunted down a potato chip bag and licked the salty crumbs from it. She quenched her thirst afterward by drinking from the river and the puddles they came across.

  After the break in the cold outdoor air, it felt good to be back in the warm cruiser, where she settled down on the fleece-covered cushion in her enclosure to take a nice little nap. Yep, while she’d enjoyed getting in touch with her inner wolf, she was also grateful to her ancestor who realized that buddying up with the two-legged creatures who could make fire might not be such a bad idea.

  SIXTEEN

  A PRISON OF HIS OWN MAKING

  The Slasher

  It was only his third day at the hotel, but already it felt as if the walls were closing in. It was like the COVID-19 lockdown all over again, except then he hadn’t been alone. At least there was a sufficient supply of toilet paper this time. He was lonely and bored, his gloomy mood exacerbated by the dreary weather. He found himself humming the Eagles’ “Hotel California,” feeling, as the lyrics said, like a prisoner who could never leave. Ironic, since by hiding out here he was doing his best not to become an actual prisoner.

  He’d shaved his head but not his face, doing what he could to begin transforming his appearance. According to the news reports, there’d been little advancement in the case. No suspects or even persons of interest had been identified. The car had not yet been found, either, though with the recent run of cold, wet weather that wasn’t a surprise. Not many people wanted to venture out in frigid drizzle. Seemed the police hadn’t determined a clear motive yet, either. Looked like they didn’t know about the cash. With any luck, they’ll never find out about it.

  SEVENTEEN

  THERE GOES THE BRIDE

  Megan

  Late Saturday morning, I stood in front of a three-way mirror in a bridal shop with four sets of eyes on me. One set belonged to my mother. The second set belonged to Gabby. The third belonged to Frankie. The final set belonged to Seth’s mother, Lisa, who’d been thrilled to hear about our engagement. She’d never been married herself and would never have a daughter. She asked if she could be included when I went dress shopping, and I’d said, “Of course! The more the merrier.”

  Oh, how wrong I’d been. Had five women ever agreed on anything, much less a wedding dress? My mother preferred the old-fashioned styles with poofy sleeves and lots of ruffles. Gabby liked the excessively ornate models more suited for a princess than a police officer, while Frankie leaned toward the sexier, sleeker contemporary styles. Lisa liked the dresses in stark white, while I thought antique ivory better complemented my skin tone.

  I wriggled into yet another overwrought model, with more shiny beads than a Mardi Gras parade. When I emerged from the dressing room, Gabby squealed, “It’s so glamorous!”

  “It is,” I said. “But it feels too frou frou to me.”

  My mother rolled her eyes. “That’s only because you’re used to wearing epaulets and tool belts and holsters, not to mention those ugly metal-toed combat boots.”

  My tactical shoes were not combat boots, but there was no sense arguing the point. The only real difference between the two was the height of the shank. Neither was designed to be pretty.

  I was a dozen dresses in, and going out of my mind, when Detective Jackson called and rescued me. “Greg’s car has been located near Lake Worth. Want to head out there with me?”

  Did I ever! “I’ll be right there.”

  I begged off with profuse, if insincere, apologies to my family and friend, and to the sales clerk. “Sorry! Duty calls.”

  * * *

  An hour later, Brigit, Detective Jackson, and I parked and approached a trailhead at Marion Sansom Park which flanked Lake Worth in the northwest part of the city. The Trinity River flowed through Texas for more than 700 miles, from its beginnings just south of the Red River that separated the Lone Star State from Oklahoma all the way down to Houston, where it emptied into the Gulf of Mexico. Dams formed a long series of lakes along the river’s path, including Eagle Mountain Lake and Lake Worth, which were popular recreation areas.

  A sign to the left of the path’s entrance identified it as the Dam Drop trail. Cordon tape stretched from the sign to a tree on the other side, preventing anyone from coming this way. Jackson and I ducked under the tape and strode along a rough, rocky mountain-biking route that sat on a bluff above the dam. Brigit walked by my side, restrained by a short leash I’d wrapped tightly around my hand. The three of us moved as fast as we dared given the multiple tripping hazards posed by stones and roots along the way.

  While the trail was wide enough in some places for two or three bikers to ride side by side, in others it was too narrow for a car to pass easily. Broken limbs on the scrubby branches along the way evidenced the damage caused when the driver forced Greg’s car down the more constricted parts of the trail.

  As we made our way, I inquired about Jackson’s follow-up with the bank. “Did any of the employees hear the ‘Popcorn’ ringtone?”

  “The tellers who served Greg Olsen and Duke Knapczyk both said they heard it, but they said it wasn’t as loud as Knapczyk made it out to be. He was in a foul mood, so that might explain why it got on his nerves so bad. At any rate, since Greg didn’t react when it went off, the teller he was dealing with assumed the sound was coming from someone else in line. Both tellers were in a rush to get all the customers handled before closing time,
so they didn’t pay it much attention.”

  In other words, the ringtone was another dead end. “What about Greg’s phone and computer? Did the tech team discover anything that had been erased?”

  “Nope. Greg doesn’t appear to know a lot about technology. He had all sorts of cookies on his computer, and had never cleared his browsing history. Greg hadn’t even emptied the trash on his computer since he bought it.”

  “So anything that was ever there is still there.”

  “Yes,” she said. “And so far, none of it points to any personal reason for the attack. The theory that the attackers were after Greg to get access to the theater’s safe is looking more viable.”

  The three of us strode around a bend, and there it was. The Jetta blocked the trail. In fact, the mountain biker who’d discovered the car this morning had barreled around the curve and slammed into the trunk, unable to stop in time. Luckily, the woman hadn’t been seriously injured, though her front tire had popped and both the wheel and the frame of her bicycle had been bent. The athletic thirtyish woman and her bike sat off to the side. The woman was dressed head to toe in black Lycra and sported specialized biking shoes and gloves, as well as a helmet. A long auburn braid hung down her back.

  An officer from the northwest beat guarded the scene, while a couple of the techs who’d worked the crime scene at the Olsens’ house were also on-site, waiting to begin working this scene, too. Jackson had evidently told them to keep the scene intact until she arrived.

  I eyed the Jetta. It sported no evidence of hail damage. The storm earlier in the week hadn’t hit this area as hard as the central and southern parts of the city. Still, the damp ground told me this area had received some rain.