by Diane Kelly
ZOOS, POOS, BUT NO CLUES
Megan
After speaking with Landis, I spent the rest of my shift trying to identify illegal wildlife traffickers living in the area. It wasn’t easy. While there were a number of people who’d been convicted of the crime, they weren’t required to register a current address with the government like sex offenders were. Animal welfare advocates had suggested a registry should be created for animal abusers, too, to protect pets. I’d be all for that.
At any rate, it was up to me to match the names of the convicted to driver’s license records, vehicle registrations, or other data that would indicate their current address. What’s more, it was possible that people convicted or arrested in other states had since relocated to north Texas and begun to dabble again in their nefarious trade here. Unless I searched every state’s criminal database and compared the names of the convicted to the Texas records, I might miss someone. But with the limited time I had, I decided to restrict my research to those convicted of animal trafficking in Texas and the four adjacent states—Louisiana, Oklahoma, Arkansas, and New Mexico.
Unfortunately, the people who’d been brought in for unlawfully trading in animals seemed to have scattered to the winds on their release from prison. A couple had likely returned to their home countries south of the border. Three had landed themselves back in jail for other offenses, and remained incarcerated. By the end of my shift, I was left with only two possibilities, one here in Fort Worth and another a four-hour drive down the road in San Antonio.
The latter guy, Bruno Molina, had been convicted of buying reptiles that had been smuggled into the country from Brazil. He’d resold them in the San Antonio area. One of the iguanas turned out to be sick and succumbed to his illness. The customer demanded a refund, but Bruno stupidly refused. He’d been arrested after the customer reported the incident to the local police. Molina had been released from prison eight months ago. While he certainly could have resumed his despicable business and expanded his stock-in-trade to include macaws and monkeys, it seemed questionable whether he’d be operating in Fort Worth, over 250 miles from home. Moreover, I’d found no reports of animals missing in the San Antonio area. His previous MO didn’t involve stealing animals, either.
Still, I hadn’t ruled Danny Landis out entirely as a suspect. I pondered the possibility of Landis and Molina being in cahoots. To ensure I didn’t dismiss Molina too soon, I consulted the man’s criminal record to see where he’d served his sentence. He’d been assigned to the Darrington Unit in Brazoria County, south of Houston. Landis, however, had done his time at the Telford Unit, which sat in Bowie County in northeast Texas. I reviewed their driver’s license records back to inception. Landis had obtained his first license at sixteen right here in Fort Worth. His address on every license since had noted a north Texas address. Molina was issued his first driver’s license at seventeen. Though he’d moved about the San Antonio area, every address was in the south Texas city or one of its suburbs. In other words, the two men had never lived in proximity to each other and it seemed unlikely they would have crossed paths.
The local guy, Vaughn Waggoner, had been convicted six years ago of smuggling both parrots and pot into the country from Mexico. His illegal activities had been arranged and enabled by a border patrol agent who was on the take and repeatedly let Waggoner pass through the border crossing without a detailed vehicle inspection. Waggoner might still be smuggling his illicit wares had the agent not suffered a sudden heart attack on the job and been transported to a hospital for treatment. When Waggoner arrived at the crossing, he discovered his coconspirator had been replaced by another border patrol officer, who in turn discovered a mother lode of wacky weed and feathered fowl in Waggoner’s trunk.
Though Waggoner had been arrested and convicted, his attorney had negotiated a reduced sentence in return for Waggoner’s guilty plea and providing testimony against the corrupt agent. On recovering from his heart attack, the border patrol agent was released from the hospital and taken directly to jail to face smuggling and corruption charges.
Both Waggoner’s driver’s license photo and his mug shot showed a chubby, cherub-faced guy with curly blond hair. But, despite his appearance, he was clearly no angel.
It was the middle of the night when I finally logged out of the computer and roused Brigit, who’d fallen asleep at my feet. We headed toward the front doors of the station. While part of me was exhausted from worry and the long shift, another part of me couldn’t wait to confront Waggoner and find out if he was behind Sarki’s kidnapping and the disappearance of the hyacinth macaws. Despite the late hour, I decided to swing by Waggoner’s place. I couldn’t go banging on his door in the middle of the night without concrete evidence of his involvement, but, at worst, I’d waste a little time. And maybe, just maybe, I’d spot something that would help bring Sarki and the macaws home.
Brigit and I climbed back into our cruiser and headed to the apartment complex where Waggoner lived. It was an older complex on Thornhill, comprising two long, rectangular two-story buildings standing parallel at either side of a pothole-ridden parking lot. The building bore a combination stucco-and-stone façade with dark green paint on the railings and doors. A vinyl banner attached to the upstairs railing near the street lured potential tenants with the promise of ALL BILLS PAID!
I cruised slowly down the length of the first building, looking for unit A8. Not an easy feat when the majority of the letters and numbers were missing from the doors. There it is, on the back corner. Waggoner occupied a first-floor, end-unit apartment. While many of his neighbors had strung multicolored Christmas lights in their windows or along their door frames, he displayed no holiday decorations. His windows were dimly lit, though, with light coming from inside, behind the curtains. Looked like he was still up. Good. I wouldn’t have to wait until morning to talk to him.
I pulled into an empty spot at the end of the lot, retrieved my partner, and headed to Waggoner’s door. His sporty red Mazda3 sat in the space in front of his apartment. Though his door and windows were closed, I could hear sounds coming from inside. People talking and laughing, loud enough for me to hear them but not so loud a neighbor would complain or call the cops. I rapped softly on the door.
From inside came a man’s voice. “That must be X-Ray with our tacos.”
“About time!” said another. “I’m starving!”
These guys were about to be sorely disappointed. I wasn’t X-Ray and I came bearing no tacos.
The door swung open and I found myself face-to-face with the chubby cherub. He was dressed in jeans and a bright red hoodie. On the couch behind him sat another, equally chubby guy, though the second guy had darker skin. On the coffee table in front of the couch sat several stacks of bills, separated by denomination. Next to the bills sat open boxes of brownies, cookies, and gummy candies, all individually wrapped in plastic. A half-dozen mason jars filled with greenish-brown leafy material sat on the table, too. I had no idea whether Vaughn was still dealing in contraband parrots, but it was clear he’d continued to market marijuana.
A huge orangey-brown fluff ball lay on its side between the coffee table and the door. Judging from the color of his fur and his square face, I’d say the dog was primarily chow chow. Judging from his size, I’d say some mastiff was mixed in with the chow. And, judging from the exposed anatomy, I’d say the dog was an unneutered male. He raised his head and eyed me. Uh-oh. I didn’t want to have to hurt the dog. He had nothing to do with his owner’s criminal activity. Sadly, dogs were sometimes shot by officers who misread their body language and didn’t know how to handle them. Fortunately, thanks to the efforts of the Texas Humane Legislation Network and its group of dedicated activists, a bill had been passed in 2015 mandating that law enforcement officers in Texas receive training in canine encounters. As part of my standard police training, I’d been taught how to read a dog’s body language and react accordingly, deescalating the situation and minimizing the need for lethal force. The numbe
r of dogs shot by law enforcement in the state decreased dramatically after the training was put into effect. Of course I’d learned lots more about dog behavior in my specialized K-9 team training, too.
This dog hadn’t raised his hackles, bared his teeth, or even growled, so there were no signs he was about to attack. Even so, it was best not to look him directly in the eye. I averted my gaze, but kept an eye on him in my peripheral vision lest he decide to make a sudden lunge for me or Brigit. Luckily, he didn’t seem the least bit concerned about the strangers at his door. Given the business the men seemed to be running from the apartment, there likely were unknown people coming to the door at all times of day and night. Nothing for him to get upset about. In fact, he lumbered upright, ambled over to stand at Vaughn’s knee, and wagged his tail in greeting. He certainly wasn’t living up to his bully-breed reputation.
Vaughn stared at me for several seconds before his mouth slowly dropped. “Uhhh … you’re not X-Ray.”
Slow reaction time? Bad case of the late-night munchies? This guy’s been sampling his wares.
“Nope, not X-Ray,” I told him. “Sorry to disappoint you.” Not knowing whether there were other people or weapons in the apartment, I wasn’t about to enter alone and put myself and Brigit at risk. That said, I wasn’t about to let Vaughn shut the door, either. Best to keep him in my sights. I eased the steel toe of my tactical shoe over the threshold where it could serve as a doorstop, if necessary, and used my radio to call for immediate backup. I glanced from one of the men to the other. “Anyone else in the apartment besides you two and the dog?”
“No,” Vaughn said. “Just us.”
I hoped he was telling the truth. I’d been lied to and unpleasantly surprised before. I motioned with my hand. “Come on out, guys. You’re under arrest.”
Vaughn cocked his head. “For what?”
Seriously? I lifted my chin to indicate the coffee table. “For your illegal bake sale.”
“We’re not … uh … selling that stuff,” he stammered. “We … uh … made them ourselves.” He beamed, as if proud of the magnificent cover he’d come up with.
Yep, definitely stoned. “Planning to leave those cookies out for Santa?” The jolly old elf would crash his sleigh if he ate those cannabis cookies. Or maybe he’d park his sleigh somewhere and binge on the baked goods, shirk his gift-delivery duties and leave nice kids wondering why they’d ended up with empty stockings, whether being good all year had been worth it.
Vaughn’s friend piled on. “They’re Christmas presents. Homemade gifts are where it’s at.”
That might be true, but I had a hard time visualizing these two poring over Pinterest, looking for crafty gift ideas.
Vaughn added. “It’s the thought that counts, you know.”
“Oh, yeah? Then you should’ve put more thought into your lies.” How stupid do these guys think I am? Or maybe the better question was, How stoned are these idiots? “I can see the labels on those cookies and brownies from here. There’s marijuana in them.”
Vaughn scowled. “You don’t know that.”
I looked down at my dog. “Is there pot in those brownies, girl?” I gave Brigit the order to scent for drugs, but kept her leash taut. Until my backup arrived, neither one of us was going into the apartment.
My partner lifted her snout and sniffed the air. Her nostrils twitched just once before she sat, staring at the items on the table, issuing her passive alert.
“See that?” I said. “She’s alerting on your cookies.” I motioned again for them to step outside. “Come on out, you two. No more games.”
“Wait!” Vaughn raised a palm. “Maybe we can work something out. Cops don’t get paid much, right? I bet you could use some extra bank for Christmas.” He raised hopeful brows.
“What are you suggesting?”
He gestured back to the table. “We could split that with you. Three ways.”
“The cash?” I specified.
“Yeah.”
“So you’re saying if I don’t arrest you, you’ll give me a third of that money?”
“Yes. Jeez!” Vaughn rolled his eyes. “Do I have to spell it out for you?”
No, but you just spelled it out for my body camera. “Not gonna happen, buddy,” I said. How anyone in law enforcement could be on the take was beyond me. How do they look themselves in the mirror? “Come outside, guys.”
Vaughn took a step forward and the guy on the couch stood. But just when I thought this arrest would go down easy, Vaughn waved his dog out the door. “Get ’em, Sasquatch!”
The obedient dog trotted outside. As soon as the furry mutt crossed the threshold, Vaughn tried to slam the door shut. My steel-toed shoes did their job, both blocking the door and protecting my little piggies. Meanwhile, Brigit and Sasquatch exchanged butt sniffs and did that funny little circling dance dogs do when first meeting each other.
Vaughn’s face contorted in confusion as he pulled the door open a few inches and tried to slam it again, meeting with no more success the second time.
I yanked my baton from my belt and flicked my wrist to extend it. Snap! “Cut the crap!” I hollered. “And come out here with your hands up!”
Disregarding my demands, he tried a third time to slam the door. When again it failed to shut, he finally had the sense to look down and spotted my foot. He reared his foot back and mule-kicked my shoe, his heel meeting my toes, my female feet no match for his men’s size twelves. Putting his entire body weight against the inside of the door, he slammed it again, getting the door closed before I could insert my foot or baton into the space. I went for the knob but heard the telltale schwick of the dead bolt hitting home. Dang it!
Headlights turned into the lot to my right. I shielded my eyes. Is that my backup? With the glare in my face, I couldn’t tell. But as the car rolled toward me and my eyes adjusted, I could tell it wasn’t a cruiser. Rather, it was a silver Ford Mustang with a thirtyish guy at the wheel and a Taco Bell bag in his passenger seat. He must be X-Ray. My eyes went to his license plate. When the guy saw me he hit the gas, careened around the row of parked cars, and zipped back out of the lot, leaving the sound of tires screeching and the smell of burned rubber in his wake. I pushed the talk button on my radio and told my fellow officers to be on the lookout for the vehicle, giving them the make, model, and plate number.
Lest Sasquatch run off or get upset by the melee that was likely to ensue, I led him over to my squad car and secured him in Brigit’s compartment. He stood at the window, looking out, his warm breath fogging the cold glass. I hurried back to the apartment door. From behind it came the whirring grind of a garbage disposal interspersed with the shushhh-shushhh of a toilet flushing repeatedly. Vaughn and his houseguest were getting rid of the evidence. My backup better get here soon!
I twirled my baton while I waited. Swish-swish-swish. My wrist was nice and loose now in case I ended up in a wrestling match.
Headlights turned into the lot once again, this time accompanied by the flashing lights atop the patrol car. The cruiser jerked to a stop behind Vaughn’s Mazda and Derek emerged, his expression smug. “You little ladies in over your head?”
I took a deep breath as I’d been taught in the anger-management class I’d been forced to take after Tasering Derek in the testicles, and whispered the calming mantra I’d borrowed from the Catholic Church and modified for my own purposes. “Peace be with me. Peace be with me.”
Having quashed my urge to whack my former partner with my baton, I used it to point to the door. “We need to get in that apartment. Now.”
Derek didn’t ask why. He didn’t care. He lived for this kind of thing. He drew his gun, turned sideways, and ran at the door shoulder-first, like he’d learned when playing football in high school. At the last second, he jumped so that his entire body weight, all two hundred-plus pounds of it, slammed against the door. BAM!
While the door didn’t open, the framing pulled loose and a sliver of the interior light shined through at the edg
e. Derek backed up and made a second run for the door. This time, the top half of the door fell inward, the upper and middle hinges pulling loose from the frame, the dead bolt bending. Derek raised a leg and used the bottom of his shoe to kick the door the rest of the way in. The man was a pompous ass, but he was also a human battering ram. Guess I have to take the bad with the good, huh?
Derek stormed over the door and into the apartment. Brigit and I stepped over it and followed him. Vaughn stood at the kitchen sink, his back to us. The garbage disposal continued to whirr and the faucet, which was running full blast, splashed water all over Vaughn, the countertops, and the floor as he shoved brownies and cookies down the drain. More water ran over the lip of the sink and onto the floor. Looks like the idiot clogged the pipes.
Derek stopped at the doorway to the galley kitchen, his gun at the ready, and hollered, “Hands up!”
Vaughn didn’t raise his hands, though. Instead, he grabbed a wooden spoon and jabbed it into the water in an attempt to dislodge whatever had stuck in the drain. Derek rushed forward and slid on the tile, which had become an indoor Slip ’N Slide. Momentum carried him forward until he slid into Vaughn’s back and slammed the guy hard against the sink.
Having no doubt Derek could wrangle the suspect into submission, I took off down the hall, looking for the other man. He’d locked himself in the bathroom, but there was no need for Derek to bust down this door. The apartment building was old and cheaply built. I could take down the flimsy interior door myself. Rather than risk a shoulder injury, which could impede my ability to unwrap my Christmas presents, I went straight for a kick, turning sideways and putting the full force of my thigh into it. BAM! The hollow door splintered on my first try. Those squats are really paying off. I reached through the hole I’d made, unlocked the door, and shoved it open. Vaughn’s cohort stood over the toilet, plunger in hand, going at the clogged commode like a pioneer in a butter-churning contest.
I brandished my baton. “Drop the plunger and put your hands up!” Brigit backed me up with a BOW-WOW that echoed in the tiny space and said Do what my partner says or I’ll bite you in the ass!