Paw of the Jungle

by Diane Kelly

  “I suppose you want to take a look,” the man said.

  If, in fact, he had Dinari, we wouldn’t only be taking a look, we’d be seizing the animal as evidence. But no need to address that point until we’d confirmed the animal’s identity.

  He motioned for us to follow him into his work area, and led us over to a large table covered with a bloodstained canvas tarp. As he grabbed an edge of the tarp, my insides squirmed, but I fought the feeling. I’d never survive as a detective if I couldn’t face things head-on. Still, I took a deep breath to steel myself.

  He pulled the cloth back to reveal the head and shoulders of the animal. If the ringed horns, cinnamon-brown and white fur, and distinct black stripes on its cheeks and side weren’t enough to tell us the creature lying on the table was Dinari, the series of numbers and letters tattooed inside his lower lip identified him with one hundred percent certainty. Our nightmare had become a reality. The springbok we’d hoped to save was dead, shot for his trophy head.

  Brigit raised her snout and sniffed Dinari’s face, but quickly backed away, emitting a soft whimper. She, too, seemed to realize the tragedy of the situation.

  Though we were certain of the animal’s identity, it never hurt to cover your ass. Bustamente snapped a pic of the animal’s face with the tattoo exposed and sent it via text to Sharon Easley for confirmation. A minute or so later, we received our reply. The numbers match. That’s Dinari.

  “It’s him,” Bustamente told the taxidermist.

  “Damn,” the man muttered as he looked down at the springbok. “Guess I was hoping you’d tell me I was wrong. Once I saw that tattoo I knew there was a problem.” He looked back up at us. “I didn’t let on that I had suspicions. Figured if I did, the guy might take the animal elsewhere.”

  Bustamente gave the man a pat on the back. “You’ve done everything right. We can’t thank you enough for giving us a call. Of course, we’ll have to take the animal as evidence. But we’ll break that news to your customer so you don’t have to.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” the man said. “He ain’t gonna be happy about it, I’d say.”

  The taxidermist assured us the animal could survive the one-hour drive to Fort Worth without risking decomposition, but advised us to get the animal into a freezer ASAP. While Bustamente called for a crime scene team to bring a van out here to pick the animal up, the taxidermist rounded up the hunter’s name and phone number for us, jotting it down on the back of a piece of junk mail and handing it to me.

  I glanced down at the name he’d written. Philip Broadwell. Uh-oh. My insides squirmed. “Detective?” I said when Bustamente ended his call. “We’ve got a problem.”

  Philip Broadwell was an old-money Fort Worth native who’d retired a few years ago after working for decades in the railroad industry. He now served on the city council—or at least he would until this news got out. If it became known a city official killed the zoo animal, the public would likely demand his resignation.

  I pointed to the name on the envelope and Bustamente responded with a decisive grunt. “This case just keeps getting hairier, doesn’t it?”

  The case had already been a public relations nightmare for the police department. It would be nothing short of a disaster once the press got wind of this. We’d have to handle the matter delicately, make sure we didn’t do anything without notifying the top brass.

  The taxidermist looked from one of us to the other. “Something wrong?”

  Bustamente gave him a small shake of his head. “Nothing we can’t handle. By the way, have you mentioned anything about this to anyone? Told anyone about the springbok or the man who brought it in?”

  “No. The guy just brought it to me this morning. I work alone. Haven’t talked to anybody since, other than whoever answered the phone at the police department and you folks.”

  The detective cocked his head and aimed a pointed look at the man, speaking slowly and with authority. “You’ll need to keep everything about this under wraps. Not a word to anyone about the animal, who brought it to you, the fact that we’ve been out here. Understand?”

  The man dipped his head in acknowledgment. “I most certainly do.”

  We shook hands again and thanked him before heading back out to the cruiser. As I drove the three of us back to Fort Worth, Bustamente phoned the chief and gave him the terrible news. Dinari dead, killed by a council member. He pulled the phone back from his ear when the chief, predictably, exploded in a string of expletives.

  When our boss quieted down, Bustamente put the phone back to his ear and listened. “Yes, sir,” he said. After a short pause he added, “We’ll meet you there.” He returned the phone to his pocket and turned to me. “Head for the city hall. We’re assembling at the mayor’s office.”

  An hour later, the detective, Brigit, and I checked in with the mayor’s assistant and were escorted into her office. She sat in a paisley tapestry wing chair, her face pinched. The chief sat on a love seat, man-spreading and taking up the entire seating space.

  Bustamente nodded to Chief Garelik and turned to the mayor, dipping his head as a sign of respect. “Madam Mayor, I’m Detective Bustamente.” He raised a hand to indicate me and my partner. “Officer Megan Luz and her partner Sergeant Brigit.”

  After raising a hand to indicate there was no need for her to get up, Bustamente and I reached over the coffee table to shake the mayor’s hand and sat down on the sofa. Brigit sat on the rug between us. Our bums had just met the fabric when the mayor’s assistant escorted Philip Broadwell into the room. He wore tan chinos and a thick sweater with a short zipper at the collar, distinctly L.L.Bean. His wire-framed glasses rested on his narrow nose, and his gray hair was slicked back on his head. He was old enough to look distinguished, but far from doddering.

  After quick introductions, he tentatively lowered himself into a chair. “What’s this about?”

  The rest of us waited for the chief to take the lead. “That animal you bagged this morning? It’s the missing springbok from the zoo.”

  His face seemed to contract momentarily in confusion before everything went wide. His eyes. His mouth. Even his nostrils. “Oh, Lord,” he said on an exhale. “This is bad.” He seemed to know the public would demand justice. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. His head for Dinari’s.

  The chief eyed him. “You know what you were killing?”

  “I knew it was a springbok, sure,” Broadwell replied. “It’s not illegal to hunt them in Texas. But did I know it was the one missing from the zoo? Of course not!”

  The mayor seized the bull by the horns, so to speak. “We’ve got to get out ahead of this. Let’s call a joint press conference and put the news out ourselves, so we can control it, before some nosy reporter gets wind of it.”

  Broadwell balked. “I don’t have to be part of that, do I?”

  “Hell, no,” the chief said. “You stand up there and confess, you’re likely to get shot yourself. We’ll have to identify you, of course, but we’ll do our best to point out that hunting springbok is permitted in the state. Nobody can expect a hunter to tell the difference between a zoo animal and another springbok, especially from a distance.”

  The chief would paint the incident as yet another tragic chapter in this ongoing saga, and place all blame squarely at the feet of the kidnappers.

  “Even so,” the mayor said, addressing Broadwell, “we’ll have to prepare a statement, too. The press will want something straight from the horse’s mouth.”

  I cringed at the animal reference. It hit too close to home.

  The mayor turned to the chief. “Until this settles down, we’ll need officers here at city hall, at least one unit at Philip’s home, too. We don’t want this to get out of control.”

  While the chief and mayor were concerned about PR and backlash, the detective was concerned with nailing those responsible. “Where’d you shoot the animal?”

  “Squaw Vista Ranch,” he said. “It’s on the west side of Squaw Creek Lake, a lit
tle north of Glen Rose. It’s a smaller hunting ranch, a few hundred acres at most.”

  “Who’d you deal with out there?” Bustamente asked.

  “A guide named Colt,” Broadwell said. “Young buck, but he knows his stuff. He manages the game, too. He’s told me several times before that if there was ever anything in particular I wanted to shoot that they didn’t have on-site, he could bring one in for me.”

  I chimed in now. “Did you see a black-and-white monkey there? Maybe a couple of bright blue parrots?”

  Broadwell shook his head. “No. Just exotic and game animals. Some hunting dogs.” He went on to tell us he’d paid the six grand trophy fee in cash. “Their usual fee for a springbok is sixty-five hundred, but Colt said they were offering a cash discount. It sounded reasonable. I know credit card companies charge ridiculous fees, and businesses don’t like to risk a chargeback.” He exhaled sharply. “Colt was really pressuring me to use their on-site taxidermist. Now I know why. But I went with my usual guy. He doesn’t charge as much.”

  After a few more questions, our powwow was complete. The mayor and the chief summoned folks from their public relations departments, while the detective, Broadwell, Brigit, and I went to obtain a search warrant for the Squaw Vista Ranch. With Broadwell providing sworn testimony about his morning’s hunt and Detective Bustamente providing photos of the dead animal and its telltale tattoo, the judge had no reservations granting us the warrant.

  Minutes later, the detective, Brigit, and I were backtracking our way west in two separate cars. The detective brought a squad car along to transport Colt back to Fort Worth after we arrested him. I’ve sure put a lot of miles on my cruiser today. At least they’d been productive miles. By the time we arrived at the hunting ranch, it was dusk. We made our way into the log-cabin-style lodge to find a bunch of men in camo gear drinking beers and telling tall tales about the one that got away.

  A waitress in tight jeans and an even tighter knit top spotted us and came over. “Y’all need help with something?”

  “We’re looking for Colt,” the detective said.

  “That’s him.” She pointed to a thirtyish, sandy-haired man shooting whiskey with a group of other guys at a table near the back. Nobody at the table had spotted us yet.

  We weaved our way through the tables, a few of the men looking down at Brigit and ogling her. While German shepherds weren’t hunting dogs, they were nevertheless working dogs, something these men could appreciate.

  “That’s one fine bitch,” one of them said.

  Another gave a whistle. “Ain’t she something.”

  I had to agree.

  We stepped up to the table. Colt froze when he saw us, a shot glass poised at his lips, a sure sign of guilt if ever I saw one. He expressed no curiosity as to why two members of law enforcement were staring him down and another was sniffing his boots. Yet another sign of guilt. Most innocent people expressed an interest in finding out why a police officer singled them out.

  Bustamente jerked his head to indicate the front doors. Colt set his shot glass down and addressed his tablemates. “I’ll be right back.”

  The detective and I flanked Colt as we stepped outside.

  “How’d you get Dinari?” Bustamente asked. No beating around the bush or pulling punches.

  “Dinari?” Colt said.

  “The springbok,” the detective said.

  Colt scratched at his chin, the facial touch a common sign of a person who was lying. “We buy our springboks from a breeder down near Kerrville.”

  “Cut the crap,” the detective said. “I’m talking about the one from the zoo and you know it.” When Colt said nothing else, Bustamente cut his eyes to me, his look saying Get your handcuffs ready. He returned his gaze to Colt. “You’re under arrest. You have the right to—”

  As I took his right arm and slipped a cuff on it, Colt panicked and tried to turn out of my grip. Dumb move. A few quick maneuvers and I had the guy facedown on the hard-packed dirt, my knee in his back. My partner barked encouragement to me. Arf! Arf-arf!

  Colt turned his head and spit out dirt. “Stop! I’ll talk!”

  Undeterred, the detective continued to recite the Miranda warning that everyone in law enforcement had memorized and could repeat in their sleep. Even if Colt was willing to talk voluntarily, it was best to read him his rights first so there’d be no question about the admissibility of his statements in court.

  Bustamente finished with, “Do you understand the rights I have just read to you?”

  “Yeah,” Colt snapped. “I’m not a moron.”

  That’s debatable.

  “With these rights in mind,” the detective wrapped up, “do you wish to speak to us?”

  “Maybe.”

  I pulled Colt up to a sitting position on the ground. He turned his head and used his shoulder to wipe dirt from his cheek.

  Bustamente crouched down to Colt’s level. “Did you take the springbok from the zoo, or did you buy it from someone who did?”

  “I want immunity before I talk,” Colt said.

  Ugh. Conditions. If he wanted immunity, it likely meant he wasn’t the one who’d actually taken Dinari from the zoo. We’d have to get a prosecutor involved and he’d have to get a defense attorney. We’d lose precious time, but at least we’d finally have a real lead.

  We hauled Colt to his feet and began to lead him to the detective’s cruiser.

  He dug his heels in. “Wait! Why are y’all taking me to the car? Can’t we work things out here?”

  “That’s not how it’s done,” Bustamente said. “For you to get immunity, we’ve got to book you first. You’ll wait in jail while we round up an assistant DA. You can get a lawyer then if you want. Of course it’s late now. You’ll spend the night in a cell.”

  “I’ll have an arrest on my record?” Clearly he didn’t like the idea. He should’ve thought about that before he involved himself in illegal animal trafficking.

  “Yes. The arrest will be on your record.”

  “What if I talk to you here?” Colt asked.

  “We’d appreciate it,” the detective said. “It would allow us to move forward on our investigation right away and it might encourage the prosecutor to go easy on you. But there’s no guarantees.”

  “Would I still be arrested?”

  “Yes.”

  “Damn!” His shoulders slumped. “Guess I better wait to talk to a lawyer then.”

  As I opened the back of Bustamente’s cruiser to load Colt inside, a series of pops sounded from off in the distance. My first thought was fireworks, but a moment later I remembered where we were. With night-vision scopes, hunters weren’t limited to daytime hours. More pops sounded, followed by a sick squeal and whoops.

  Colt glanced in the direction the noise came from. “Someone just bagged themselves a pig.”

  “They weren’t the only ones,” I snapped as I shoved him into the car.

  FORTY-TWO

  HAVE YOU HERD

  Brigit

  Brigit heard the popping sound off in the distance. She recognized that sound. It came from guns. She’d heard it many times before. But when she heard the squeal, she knew what had happened. The same thing had happened to her not long ago. A loud pop and then a hot, burning feeling in her chest. Then everything had gone dark …

  She knew things had gone dark for the springbok they’d seen earlier, too. She’d recognized the animal’s scent, knew it came from the zoo. Things had gone dark for that big cat at this ranch, too. Same for that big thing with antlers, and all those creatures whose skins were stretched out inside. Only for them, things would never go light again.

  Brigit had been lucky. Her light had come back.

  FORTY-THREE

  TURNING TO GOLD

  The Poacher

  He walked in the front door feeling defeated. He’d eked out a few bucks selling the metal stars and Texas-shaped wall decorations to local nurseries and a gift shop up in the stockyards district. But he hadn’t earne
d nearly as much as he’d hoped and definitely not enough to keep them afloat much longer. Vicki still hadn’t applied for jobs. In fact, she’d been talking lately about maybe taking some classes at the community college. Computers and stuff.

  “I’m tired of being on my feet all day,” she said. “I want to work in an office. I’ll have to work on my typing speed, though. Nobody’s going to hire me if I can only type twenty words a minute.”

  At least Harper took his mind off his woes for a bit. “Daddy-daddy-daddy!” she’d cried, running to him as he came in the door. “Look what I made you in art class today!”

  Valentine’s Day was still three weeks off, but she’d used pink construction paper to make a big heart. She’d written “I love you Daddy!” with glue in the middle of the heart and covered it with silver glitter. As always, she’d written her name in big letters at the bottom of the heart, putting a cute little tail on the p.

  He took it from her. “I love it, squirt. I’m going to hang it up at work so I can look at it all day.”

  Vicki glanced over from where she stood at the stove, browning ground beef. “Where would you hang it up? You don’t have an office. Aren’t you out in the field most of the day?”

  Uh-oh. He’d screwed up. “We have lockers in the work trailer,” he lied. “That’s what I meant. I’ll hang it on my locker.” He turned to Harper. “All of the other daddies will be so jealous.” He reached out to tickle her and she giggled before his fingers even touched her.

  The following morning, he made a loop with some of the remaining painter’s tape, stuck it to the back of the heart, and hung it on the wall inside his garage. After, he put the final touches on the sign he’d been building for his shop, KING MIDAS METALWORKS spelled out in corrugated sheet metal. Sturdy, but lightweight. He spray-painted the letters in a shiny copper color, the same shade as Vicki’s and Harper’s hair. A little of the paint had ended up on the floor, but his landlord could hardly complain. The concrete floor was already covered in oil stains and cracked in a number of places.