The Baby Squad

by Andrew Neiderman

  “Then is she home?”

  “No. She had another means of transport,” Preston said.

  Ryan said nothing. He placed his bag on the table to the right and opened it to pluck out his search tool.

  “This is a bloodhound,” he explained. “It has already been programed with Lois Marlowe’s blood.”

  It began to tick slowly, resembling a Geiger counter. McCalester and Preston followed slowly behind Ryan Lee as he began to criss-cross the garage to form the investigative X. Midway, the bloodhound’s clicking grew more intense and faster. Ryan turned slightly to the right. It diminished. He turned harder to the left, and it returned to its rapid beating. He glanced at Preston, who remained quite cool, almost disinterested, and then he walked toward a tool cabinet.

  The bloodhound was raging. Ryan touched the second drawer, and it began to brighten and beep. He opened the drawer and gazed into it. McCalester was at his side, Preston a few feet behind them. The drawer was empty. Ryan and McCalester looked at each other, and then Ryan turned to Preston.

  “The weapon was in this drawer, Mr. Ross, but it’s not here now.”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, detective.”

  “The bloodhound has sensed and recorded the presence of Lois Marlowe’s blood in this drawer. The instrument that had been placed in here left it. That instrument is no longer here.”

  Preston shook his head. “Instrument?”

  “Flashlight,” Ryan said through tight lips.

  “I’m afraid I still can’t help you,” Preston said.

  “The results of a bloodhound have long been held to be acceptable evidence in court, Mr. Ross,” Ryan said as he returned the investigative tool to his bag.

  “So?”

  “So, what we have here in courtroom parlance is incriminating evidence linking you or your wife to the murder of Lois Marlowe,” Ryan recited. “Now, it’s missing. It’s enough for me to have you arrested or your wife arrested and brought in for formal questioning.”

  “But you claim you saw someone else put this…this…instrument, as you referred to it, in here. Perhaps this person has returned and retrieved it. Maybe she just left it here on a temporary basis.”

  He turned to McCalester.

  “We all know we’re talking about this Stocker Robinson, and you told me earlier she ran away from school. She could have come here and taken the weapon, instrument, whatever,” he muttered, turning back to Ryan.

  “Why would she do that?”

  “That’s your problem, detective, isn’t it? The how, what, and why of all this?”

  “Being it was on your property, it’s now your problem as well. I insist on speaking with your wife.”

  Preston just stared at him coldly.

  “One way or another, Mr. Ross, that’s going to happen. Now, if I’m forced to do it, I’ll have a warrant issued for her arrest as a potential material witness in a murder case. It’s entirely your call.”

  Ryan held his gaze on him, his eyes like two small flashlights themselves.

  “All right,” Preston said, relenting. “I’ll have her call you. Where can she reach you?” he asked.

  “It would be better if you told me how to get in touch with her.”

  “I have to prepare her for this,” Preston said in a softer, more cooperative tone of voice. “My wife is somewhat nervous these days. She’s a writer, and sometimes difficulty with a story or with editors puts her on edge. What difference does it make, anyway, as long as you get what you want?”

  “It’s not what I want. It’s what the state wants,” Ryan replied sharply, meeting harsh tone for harsh tone. “It’s important to me to be face to face with my witnesses,” he added, “in the flesh and not on some video phone.”

  Preston stood firm, his eyes now cold and dark. “What are you, a mind reader, too?”

  “I’m a trained observer,” Ryan said. “The state spent a great deal of money enabling me to be that, and I see no reason not to investigate this crime under the best possible circumstances. I’m sorry your wife is having some difficulties, but the Marlowe family is having some difficulties, too, at the moment, and I think you would agree that their difficulties are far more severe that what you’ve described.”

  McCalester held his breath throughout the exchange. His eyes moved from Preston to Ryan as if he were watching a tennis match. The silences between their statements were so deep he held his breath.

  “Give me a little time and I’ll make the arrangements for an interview you’ll find satisfactory,” Preston said. It was more of a demand than a concession or a request.

  McCalester looked at Ryan to see how he would react.

  “That door leads into your home, does it not?” he asked instead of replying.

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like your permission to take the bloodhound in there right now.”

  “The warrant says…”

  “You’ve seen technical evidence proving beyond a doubt that the weapon was on your property. Why would you not want me to clear the house?” Ryan asked. “The instrument is programmed for only Lois Marlowe’s blood sample. You couldn’t ask for a more concise search. I can go back and ask the judge to expand the warrant, of course, but if you will sign this paper permitting me to expand the search for this one specific reason, you’ll save the state some time and expense and help get the matter out of your face. And I’ll wait until morning to arrange to meet your wife and interview her,” he added with a definite tone of concession.

  McCalester’s face was actually red with his subconscious effort to keep from breathing too loudly.

  Preston took the paper from Ryan’s hands and put it on the table. He scribbled his permission on the document and stepped back. Ryan read it, folded it, put it in his inside jacket pocket, and opened his bag to take out the bloodhound again. He scooped up his bag with his other hand and nodded at Preston, who moved to the door.

  The bloodhound began its steady, low clicking, literally sounding like the canine after which it had been named, sniffing its way. The three men, with Preston in the lead, moved into the kitchen. Ryan made his sweep, and they moved through the dining room, into the hallway, pausing at the door of the great room where the Rosses had their entertainment center. The clicking began to increase a bit.

  He stood by the settee and gazed at the instrument.

  “Something?” McCalester asked.

  “No,” Ryan said, but he continued to study the room as if he had microscope lenses in his eyes. Occasionally, he glanced at Preston. The lawyer still looked more annoyed than worried. Ryan turned and walked out of the room. They followed the hallway to the formal living room and then went to the stairs after he had opened and closed the doors of the two closets and inspected the laundry room.

  McCalester and Preston walked behind in a strange parade of silence, the continuous clicking of the bloodhound the only real noise now in the house. Ryan checked the two guest bedrooms, the bathrooms, and the closets and then entered the master bedroom. He didn’t need any state-of-the-art criminologist’s device to conclude that someone had left this house in a hurry. Drawers in the closet were half open, some of their contents dangling over the edges. There were drawers still open in the armoire, as well, and garments tossed about, over chairs, some dresses even on the floor of the closet.

  “Housekeeper’s day off?” he asked Ryan.

  “I was supposed to see to all this today, but I’ve been unexpectedly distracted,” he returned.

  Ryan’s eyebrows rising were the only indication he didn’t believe Preston Ross. It was enough for McCalester, who looked down and then at the disheveled room. The bloodhound clicked the way it had in the den, but Ryan said nothing.

  “Well?” Preston asked with impatience. “I have some important business to tend to today.”

  “Okay,” Ryan said.

  The phone rang. Everyone looked at the receiver by the bed.

  “Excuse me,” Preston sai
d, leaving the room to take the call in the room next to the master bedroom.

  “Seems like Esther Robinson should be called in a day earlier to clean up, don’t you think?” Ryan asked McCalester.

  The burly policeman shook his head and shrugged. They met Preston in the hallway emerging from one of the guest bedrooms.

  “Where can you be reached?” he asked Ryan.

  “I’m at the Sandburg Creek Inn, but you can call Chief McCalester as well,” Ryan said. “If I have to do any significant traveling, I’d like to hear before eight P.M.”

  “Understood,” Preston said.

  They all descended the stairs and parted company at the front entrance. Preston remained inside the house. As McCalester and Ryan got into their vehicle, the garage door began to close. Ryan watched it a moment and then got into McCalester’s car.

  “What do you think?” McCalester asked him.

  “I haven’t put it all together yet,” Ryan replied. It was as good as saying, None of your business.

  His tone seemed to button McCalester’s lips. They barely passed any small talk between them all the way back to Ryan’s hotel.

  “I’ll call you if he calls me,” McCalester said when Ryan stepped out with his bag.

  “Right,” he said.

  He walked quickly to the hotel. McCalester lingered a moment until he was gone and then drove off.

  As soon as Ryan stepped into his room, he put the bag on his bed and opened it. He stared at the results on the bloodhound.

  What he had seen before and what he saw now made him pause.

  This community was on the verge of an earthquake, and whether he wanted to or not, he would be the one causing it.

  “What the hell’s with that dog now?” Mickey Ross screamed from the living room. Esther had tried to keep herself busy making dinner and not to think about Stocker. Nevertheless, every time she glanced at the phone, she expected it would ring and the police would be calling to say they had picked her up walking on the road or she had been located hanging out at some video parlor.

  “I don’t know,” she called back.

  “It’s that damn cat. You had to keep it around here. I swear, I’ll put a bullet in both their heads!”

  She slammed down the pan of chicken cutlets and wiped her hands on her apron.

  “She’s just been tied up all day is all,” Esther said, walking through the living room.

  Mickey glared at her. She knew how irritated he was sitting there just waiting as she was. I do pity that girl when she walks through the front door, she thought, and walked out and around to where Kasey-Lady was chained.

  The dog was barking wildly and leaping against the limits and restrictions of her chain. She practically dangled in the air at times, stepping forward on her rear legs, falling to all fours, and whimpering.

  “Quiet!” Esther screamed at the golden retriever. Usually obedient, the dog just barked louder and worked harder at getting itself free.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?” she cried. She looked about for signs of the cat, who she imagined enjoyed tormenting the dog, but didn’t see him anywhere, which she readily admitted to herself didn’t mean the cat wasn’t snuggled in some nearby opening, waiting for her to walk into the house.

  The dog actually took a few steps back and then charged forward, lunging at the air and flinging her own body back so violently Esther winced. What could make that animal so crazy?

  “All right, all right,” she said, walking toward the golden retriever. “I know you need a little breathing room.”

  She did feel sorry for the animal chained up most of the day or at least usually until she or Chester returned from work. With all that had been happening today, neither of them remembered the animal.

  That was another thing that riled Mickey. Stocker was supposed to walk the dog every day. It was supposed to be part of her daily chores, but it was obvious she rarely did it, no matter how much she swore up and down that she did.

  Kasey-Lady whimpered, pleading with her body and her eyes for Esther to unhook her collar.

  “Never should have taken on the responsibility for you in the first place,” Esther muttered. “I should have known what Stocker would be like when it came to doing what she promised when we first saw you in the pet shop. ‘Please, Mommy, please. I promise. Please.’ Anyone who believes in the word of a ten-year-old deserves what she gets,” she concluded, speaking to the animal as if she believed the dog understood every single word. She certainly looked attentive, even nodding at the right moment.

  Esther laughed. “Go on, run around the house like you do, and then I’ll let you in to follow me around the kitchen, hoping for me to drop a scrap of this or that,” she told the dog.

  The moment she unfastened her collar, she did just as Esther had suggested and charged toward the rear of the house. Esther stood, gazed around looking for the cat again, shook her head, and started for the front door when she heard the dog barking even louder and harder. She wasn’t going around the house as Esther had expected. The way she ran sometimes, it was a miracle she didn’t smash head-on into the building.

  “What is it now?” Esther called. The dog continued to yap. “I need this today.” She shook her head. Mickey would be out here in a New York minute if she didn’t get the animal quieted. She trudged to the rear of the house.

  “Kasey,” she snapped, and looked up. The animal was sitting and whimpering, its tail flogging the ground.

  Esther let her eyes follow the animal’s gaze. For a long moment, it was like a dream, an illusion, something that you could wipe away with your hand or blink away and then laugh about afterward, but it wasn’t. It was real.

  Stocker dangled from the railing that ran along the rear porch. Her feet were turned down and just off the bottom railing. It looked as though she had been standing there and simply stepped forward into death. The rope around her neck looked embedded in her skin. Her mouth was slightly open, the faded, purplish tip of her tongue hanging over her bottom teeth. Her eyes were two glass marbles. Although her arms dangled at her sides, her hands were closed, the fingers locked like claws.

  Esther couldn’t swallow, couldn’t speak. She stumbled backward and then turned and ran from the sight. Kasey-Lady immediately started her barking again. Esther’s legs gave out on her after she reached the front door. She managed to open it and fall forward into the hallway. Still, her voice wouldn’t serve her. She could barely manage a loud gasp which was followed by an unearthly, throaty cry.

  Mickey Robinson slammed his opened hand on the arm of his chair so hard it stung his palm.

  “Damn it to hell!” he screamed. “I’ll kill that dog. I’ll kill it.”

  He rose and stepped into the hallway. The moment he saw her, he stopped, his mouth dropping open. She was reaching up for him like someone drowning.

  “What the hell…what?”

  With all the strength she could muster, she took a deep breath and screamed.

  “Stocker!”

  Then she collapsed into unconsciousness, her face hitting the floor so hard Mickey Robinson winced in sympathetic pain. He stepped over her and walked out and around the house, every cell in his body already aware that he was about to view the most horrible thing he could imagine.

  Thirteen

  Ryan had just stepped out of the shower when his phone rang. He stared at it. He didn’t expect the call to come this soon and thought it was probably Lieutenant Childs checking up on his investigation. He tied the towel around his waist and pushed the receiver button. McCalester appeared on the six-inch screen.

  “Sorry to bother you so quickly,” he said.

  “What’s up?”

  “We found the Robinson girl.”

  “Where was she?”

  “Hanging around her house,” McCalester said.

  “I’ll be right there. Get dressed.”

  The screen went dark.

  McCalester was there in ten. Ryan was still buttoning his shirt when
he called up for him. Ryan grabbed his bag and charged out of the room. On the way to the Robinsons’, McCalester described the phone call he had received from Mickey Robinson. They reached the house before the ambulance. Mickey was sitting on the front stoop, his head in his hands. Kasey-Lady was sprawled at his feet, finally quiet, actually exhausted from her hysterical alarms. McCalester and Ryan stepped out of the car and walked slowly toward Mickey Robinson. He raised his head as if it weighed fifty pounds.

  “Around back” was all he could manage.

  “Jesus,” McCalester said when they turned the corner of the house. They both stood there gazing up at the gently swaying body of the teenage girl. “There hasn’t been a teenage suicide in this state for more than twenty-five years.”

  Ryan looked at him.

  “I’m just thinking about the press and what will be made of it,” McCalester feebly explained.

  Ryan said nothing. He climbed up on the railing to get closer to the corpse and began to study the rope, first around her neck and then where it was tied over the beam.

  “She knew it was just a matter of time before you came to get her,” McCalester rattled on. “You know what else I’m thinking now? This girl was pregnant. We should have followed up on that.”

  Ryan looked down at him. “Do me a favor,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Fetch my EB.”

  “What?”

  “My evidence bag,” he said, and began a detailed survey of Stocker Robinson’s face, gently exploring her lips, nose, and temples with the tips of his fingers.

  McCalester shook his head. “Never could get close to a dead person,” he muttered, and hurried back to the vehicle as the ambulance came tearing up the street.

  He and the two paramedics returned to the scene. They stood back in awe. Neither of the two had ever seen a suicide. The sight of someone so young who had taken her own life stunned the seasoned veterans of all sorts of accidents, and gruesome ones at that.

  Ryan hopped off the railing and opened the bag as soon as McCalester handed it to him.

  “What do you have?” McCalester asked him.