protect the officers from hardened criminals, separated dog from driver.
Victoria’s bodyguard Rocky, a beefy ex-Chicago cop, jogged up to the officer in charge. It was his good friend, Detective Kelly. Their talk was brief.
“Hi, Rocky. What brings you down here with the poor folks?” Detective Kelly chomped down on a well-chewed wooden toothpick as he eyed the black limousine.
“My boss thought there might be a story here,” answered Rocky, muscles straining through his extra, extra-large sport jacket.
“Nah. It looks like another drug deal gone bad,” confided Kelly, squatting down to tie his shoelace. Before Kelly had a chance to ask his friend what brought the famous Victoria Vickers to the crime scene, Rocky had disappeared.
Inside the dark limousine, Rocky shook his head. “Whatever news that guy had up his sleeve, he’s carrying it to the grave. We better leave before Kelly decides to haul us down to headquarters.” The screech of rubber tires on asphalt echoed down the empty street.
7
Trouble with a Capital “T”
Animal control arrived at the crime scene seconds after the limo pulled away. Alex, an animal control officer, carried Herman from the squad car to the waiting van. Heavy leather gloves protected Alex’s hands from possible animal bites and scratches. Alex’s dark, good looks were marred by years of alcohol and drug abuse. His latest burden could have been a sack of groceries as far as Alex was concerned.
“Where are you taking me?” asked Herman, frightened at the thought of being parted from Thomas.
Alex stopped dead in his tracks. He couldn’t believe his ears. “Mmmmmf. What??” snorted Alex convinced his last drink had more of an effect than he bargained for. Wiping his mouth with a soiled handkerchief, Alex shrugged and continued his job.
“Stop,” demanded Herman growing more alarmed by the minute. “I need to talk to the policeman in charge. I’m sure that was Victoria Vickers’s car I just saw.” Herman tried to squirm free, but Alex’s grip tightened.
Alex kept walking. No, the dog’s not really talking, he told himself. With Herman securely locked in the back of the animal control van, Alex made a beeline for the animal control center.
Over-worked Superintendent Harvey, Alex’s boss, had the uncanny ability to spot trouble before it happened. He took a hard look at Alex. Oh no, he grimaced, Alex is drinking again. Wonder what fantastic story he cooked up this time? Boy, I don’t have time for this he thought, sweeping aside a sheaf of papers cluttering his desk.
“Got me a talking dog in the truck—no fooling,” slurred Alex whose right eye and left eye weren’t quite synchronized. “I know you don’t believe me, but I’m tellin’ the honest truth.”
“This is the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever invented, and you’ve come up with some real doozies, Alex. How many times have I told you—no drinking on the job!”
“You just gotta come see for yourself. The dog’s in the back of my van.” Alex weaved his way to the vehicle. Superintendent Harvey followed shaking his head.
“Go ahead, talk.” Alex leaned so close to Herman he half smothered the captive dog with his alcohol breath. He shook Herman so hard, you could hear the dog’s teeth rattle.
“Talk, I say…I heard you speak…Tell my boss what you told me.”
“Woof woof woof, bow wow, arf.” Herman’s normally intelligent black eyes registered nothing but doggie excitement.
“Is that how he talks? You brought me out here for this?”
Disgusted by the pathetic scene, Superintendent Harvey scowled. “I’m putting you on leave for a week without pay. If you’re sober when you report back, I may not fire you. Now get out of my sight.”
“I’ll show him,” Alex grumbled. He locked Herman in the suffocatingly hot trunk of his rundown, 1995 yellow Grand Prix. Those wheels once carried Alex to freedom—away from the decaying neighborhood of his youth. Now the heap’s only destiny was the junkyard.
Herman’s eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness. “I hope my life won’t end in the trunk of this rattletrap,” he moaned. I have a lot to accomplish before I call it quits, he thought in desperation as the noxious exhaust fumes filled his small lungs.
8
A Fate Worse than Death
It’s hopeless, Herman groaned. I’m held prisoner in this pigpen called a kitchen, chained to a filthy stove. He surveyed his grim surroundings with a shudder. A single, bare light bulb swung from a frayed cord overhead. Greasy dishes teetered high above the stained porcelain sink. A smelly red and white-checkered oilcloth covered a rickety white table, badly in need of paint.
Herman crouched as far from Alex as his chain would allow, expecting the blows to come raining down on his head any second.
“If you want to see another meal, you better talk for me, you stupid beast.” Alex’s shaking hand clutched an empty whisky bottle retrieved from the pile of empties littering the linoleum floor. Alex took careful aim at Herman’s head ready to strike, but changed his mind. Something in the animal’s unflinching gaze made Alex stop.
In the far reaches of his memory, Alex recalled faithful Sam, the golden retriever he owned as a kid. Sam had that same penetrating look until he died in the fire that destroyed Alex’s house, carelessly set by Alex’s drunken stepfather. Alex never recovered from Sam’s death. From that day on, Alex refused to speak to the old man.
The next morning Alex, more inebriated than the day before, dangled a tender, juicy T-bone steak inches from Herman’s snout. Heavenly molecules invaded Herman’s sensitive nose. It was as if a strong rope was drawing him to the source of the delicious aroma against his will.
“Come on. I know you must be starving, you lousy dog. All you hafta do is talk and the steak’s yours.”
Herman didn’t bother to raise his head. Alex hounded the dog determined to break him, with no success.
Weary of Alex, Herman mustered enough courage to utter a few raspy words. “I will never do what you ask because you’re a selfish man.”
A fit of coughing interrupted Herman’s speech, but only for a moment. “Thomas, the best friend I ever had, told me that some things are more important than eating and sleeping—even life itself. If I have to die, at least I know I did the right thing. You can eat the stupid steak yourself.” With that, Herman turned his back.
Down at police headquarters, Detective Kelly outlined his plan of action to his hardheaded boss. Police Chief Meredith Morris couldn’t understand why this simple case was taking so long.
“Tomorrow,” Kelly said, sounding more confident than he felt, “I’m going to get a statement from Victoria Vickers. It was fishy her turning up at the scene of the crime and Rocky pumping me for information.”
Morris leafed through the pages of Kelly’s report. “So what’s the deal with the victim, this Thomas Thomas?” asked Police Chief Morris, slightly irritated.
“We’ve turned up zilch,” answered Kelly. “Looks like the guy never got into trouble—at least anything we can find.”
“You’d better watch yourself, Kelly. Victoria Vickers has a list of important friends in this town that will come to her aid like an army if she’s in trouble.”
Police Chief Morris slapped the file on Kelly’s desk. “If anything happens to her, it’s not just your neck that’s on the line, it’s mine too.”
At last Kelly reached Victoria by phone. He explained the reason for his call. “Miss Vickers, is there anything you can tell us that might have a bearing on this case?”
“Not that I can think of…except possibly one thing,” she answered hesitantly. “This may sound kind of strange, but was there a dog on the premises? Thomas mentioned something about a dog in his letter and I spotted one at the crime scene.”
“Funny you should ask,” said Detective Kelly. “We turned a small dog over to animal control the night his owner, Thomas Thomas, was killed.”
Victoria answered with sudden firmness, “I want to see that dog.”
“OK,” said Kelly. “How soon can
you be ready?”
“Pick me up in twenty minutes at my TV station.”
9
Hot on the Trail
Superintendent Harvey hastily closed the door to his private office once Detective Kelly was seated. He answered Kelly’s pointed questions with a nervous edge to his voice. “The last thing I need is trouble, officer.”
“Three days ago,” Kelly said ignoring the remark, “one of your drivers, I think his name is Alex, brought in a small Schnauzer. Is the dog still here?”
“Yeah, I remember him—a black-and-silver with keen black eyes. Alex tried to tell me the critter could talk. Can you imagine? Let’s see,” he said consulting a wall chart. “He’s in pen number 14. Follow me.” A short walk brought them to pen 14. It was empty.
“Gee, I told Alex to put him in here,” muttered Superintendent Harvey, scratching his head in confusion.
“Give me Alex’s address. I’m going to pay him a little visit,” said Kelly. “And I’d appreciate it if you don’t let him know I’m coming.”
This time Victoria insisted on going to the door with Detective Kelly. He agreed on the condition that she stay behind him.
“You never know, this guy could be dangerous,” he warned. He patted his breast pocket to make sure his police-issued gun was secure in its holster.
A shaggy-haired, unshaven man, who smelled like the camel exhibit at the zoo, answered the door.
“Whatta ya want?” Alex asked, suspicious of the cop on his doorstep,
Dog Justice Page 3