Three Dog Day

by Lia Farrell

  “Call Mike Clifton back and tell him that I have some questions. We can question him in the car on the way to the morgue.”

  Rob’s eyebrows shot up.

  “You better get your Dramamine,” the sheriff said.

  Rob called Mike, who agreed to be picked up from his motel in half an hour. Ben drove his own truck, thinking the unofficial vehicle might put Mike at ease enough to answer questions without reservations. Rob knocked on the door of room number 17 at the Country Rose Motel, while Ben stayed in his F-150 with the motor running. Mike opened the door and peered out, then followed Rob to the truck after locking the flimsy door. Rob waved him to the passenger side and climbed into the back seat.

  “Good morning. Thanks for agreeing to talk to us.”

  Mike Clifton gave Ben a small nod, looking around the leather swathed interior. “Yeah. Nice truck. Didn’t know sheriffs made this kind of money.”

  “The bank owns it, not me.” Ben backed out of the parking space and pulled onto the road. “Your brother didn’t answer his phone when we called. Have you heard from him since yesterday, Mike?” Mike shook his head and looked away. Ben caught Rob’s eye in his rearview mirror. They would check his cellphone later to see if he had lied about talking with his brother.

  “You said your brother Jerrod asked you to come back to town?” Rob leaned forward.

  “Yeah. He said he had a chance to make some big money and wanted me in.” Mike scowled. “Said he could use my help and to get here right away.”

  “Had he found a different way to make money off the pit bulls? Dog fighting, maybe?” Ben asked, clenching his jaw.

  “No. He said he was going to shut down the dog operation. Wasn’t making enough money on it and he needed the barn for storage.”

  “What would he have been storing?” Rob’s voice was casual; just a friendly conversation.

  “Didn’t say. What the hell’s this all about, anyway? Should I be worried about my brother? Is he okay?”

  “It’s about a murder.” The sheriff gave Mike a flat stare. “We need you to ID a body for us.” Mike’s face went white.

  “Is the dead guy my brother?” he asked.

  “No, it isn’t Jerrod.”

  Their passenger pursed his lips and looked out the window. They rode the rest of the way to the morgue in silence.

  They arrived at the hospital and Ben drove around and parked in an underground loading dock with a double door that opened into the morgue. He got out, keyed in the code, and the doors slid open. Ben waited in the doorway while Rob and Mike walked in ahead of him. Even the strong, mingled odors of bleach and disinfectant could not cover the odious smell of death.

  “Ever been in a morgue before?” Sheriff Bradley asked Mike.

  Mike Clifton shook his head. Rob had already called and made an appointment with the ME while they were driving to the motel. Dr. Estes and his assistant—a young white guy wearing a name tag identifying him as “Charles Dep, Diener”—were waiting for them when the large cargo bay slid open.

  “Dr. Estes, this is Mike Clifton. We think he may be able to identify the John Doe we brought in a few days ago from the river. Hello, Dep.”

  Dr. Estes nodded at his Diener, giving him permission to show the sheriff the dead man. Ben had recently learned that the word ‘Diener’ was German for ‘corpse servant,’ an ancient occupation—the person who transported the dead and cleaned the morgues. Some, like Mr. Dep, even did the dissections prior to autopsy. Dep walked over to the bank of refrigerated drawers and pulled one open. A white sheet lay over the corpse.

  “Can we make this snappy? I have other work to do,” Dr. Estes asked, exhibiting his trademark irritation.

  “Yes, sir,” Sheriff Bradley said. “Go closer, Mike.” The sheriff prodded Mike in the shoulder. Charles Dep pulled the sheet off the man’s face. “Pull it down farther, Dep. I want him to see his wounds. Do you know this guy, Mr. Clifton?”

  Mike grimaced, stepping back. “It could be this guy I saw once at my brother’s place. Maybe a year ago. I think Jerrod called him Web.” He looked at the dead man’s face once more. “I’m not sure, though. And you better get me out of here before I puke.”

  The three men left together. After dropping Mike Clifton off back at the motel, Ben turned to Rob.

  “Did you find our John Doe’s fingerprints in AFIS?” The Automated Fingerprint Identification System was the largest biometric database in the world. It was maintained by the FBI and housed the criminal histories and fingerprints of seventy million subjects in the master file.

  “No luck, boss.” Rob sounded as discouraged as Ben felt. An uncertain ID of a first name wasn’t going to be much help and it had been almost a week since Mae found the body. Time was bearing down on him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  January 13th

  Mae December

  When Mae walked into her kitchen, Thoreau—the grizzled old Rottweiler she had inherited from Noah—was standing on the rug in the middle of the room. She patted her pocket where she kept her treat stash.

  “Come here, Thoreau.” The big black and tan took a step toward her and stopped, swaying where he stood. Mae went over to him. “Are you okay?” She patted his head. He leaned into her leg and fell to the floor, twitching. The big dog was having another seizure—his third in as many weeks. Mae sat down on the rug beside him, stroking his flank until he stilled. His side heaved when he took in a deep breath. Thoreau struggled to sit up, looking at Mae with eyes clouded by cataracts.

  “It’s all right, my sweet boy. You stay here. I’m going to call Dr. LaBelle.”

  Mae called the vet’s office and got an appointment for 11:00 the next morning. “I think it’ll be okay to wait until then,” she told the receptionist. “He just stood up. He’s walking around like he feels fine now.”

  “That seems to be the way with our older patients,” Amy, the receptionist, said. “I pulled his chart. He’ll be fifteen in two more months.”

  Fifteen? How could that be? “I guess Noah got him when he was in high school. Thanks, Amy. See you tomorrow.”

  Mae had known Thoreau was getting old, but he had outlived the average lifespan for his breed by almost three years.

  Ben was coming to pick her up at six for dinner at her parents’. Earlier this morning, Ben had begged off, pleading his work load with the unsolved murder and the copper pipe theft. “Did you hear me say that there was a pile of copper pipes in that garage on the Clifton property?” Mae asked, just before he got off the phone. There was a brief pause. “Thanks, I forgot about that.” Ben said a quick goodbye. Later on, he had called back to tell her that he was taking an evening off. Apparently Mike Clifton had only been able to give them a first name for the stabbing victim.

  Using one hand, she picked up the Tater—her adorable young strawberry-blond corgi—put her in her crate in the kitchen and made sure her three older dogs had fresh water in their bowls. Then she went upstairs to change into her new jeans and a hip-length ivory sweater with loose sleeves. Mae checked her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She’d recently lost five pounds (hence the new jeans) and was happy with the slight reduction in hip size. Her hair was another story. The cold, dry air, atypical for a Tennessee winter, seemed to have added flyaways to her list of unruly hair issues. Blonde, thick and curling to her shoulders, her hair had a mind of its own. Several wisps stuck straight up.

  Mae leaned closer to the mirror. “Clearly, Thoreau’s not the only one who’s getting old,” she told her brown-eyed, rueful reflection. Three of the upright hairs were gray.

  “Who’re you talking to up there?” she heard Ben call from the bottom of the stairs.

  “Myself.” Because that’s what gray-haired old people do. A wry expression crossed her face and she realized she was being ridiculous. “I’ll be right down.”

  She combed on some mascara and slapped on a quick coat of lip gloss, plucked out the offending hairs and hurried downstairs. Ben was standing at the bottom of th
e stairs, and Mae kissed him. He was taller than she, with dark hair and vivid blue eyes. With her blonde hair and dark eyes, she thought they made a handsome couple. And he didn’t seem to be holding a grudge over the Rizzoli and Isles episode, thank goodness. Ben had agreed not to mention the ‘collar’ of Mike Clifton to her parents. In Mae’s opinion, it would be better for everyone if they didn’t know. They had freaked out enough when Mae told them about breaking her wrist after finding the body by the river.

  “Hi, baby girl, how’s the wrist doing?” Mae’s father, Don December, gave her a hug when she and Ben walked into her parents’ house. Mae was the Decembers’ youngest child and in her father’s mind, had never really grown up.

  “It’s better, Daddy. I’m just tired all the time. Everything’s more of an effort when you only have one working hand.”

  Mae’s dad made a sympathetic noise and then shook Ben’s hand. “Sheriff, glad you could make it. Come in.”

  “I didn’t see July’s car. Are she and Fred coming tonight?” Mae asked her mother, Suzanne, who had walked out of the kitchen. Usually family dinners included Mae’s older sister, July, along with her husband Fred and their three children, twins Nathan and Parker and their youngest, Olivia.

  “No, they couldn’t make it. Too much going on with the kids, apparently.” Suzanne hugged her daughter and rose up on tiptoe to kiss Ben’s cheek.

  “I’m kind of glad it’s just the four of us tonight. Your daddy’s got a surprise for you, Mae. It’s in the dining room.”

  They followed Suzanne’s petite frame to the formal dining room, which overlooked a creek that rippled through the backyard. Mae exchanged a smile with her father.

  “I hope you took some pictures of that when we had all the snow, Daddy. I bet it was just beautiful.”

  “I did.” Her father nodded. “Such a rarity to get this much snow here. I wanted to record it.”

  “Oh, that reminds me.” Ben turned back from the window. “I took some pictures on my phone from up on the ridge right after the snowstorm.”

  “I’d like to see them. Maybe I can do a winter painting for you—for your birthday.” Mae smiled at her boyfriend.

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” Ben answered with a little grin.

  Mae looked at her father. “So, Mama said you had a surprise for me?”

  Don December gestured at a large coffee table-sized book that lay on the gleaming walnut of the table. “I do. It’s right there.”

  Mae went to the table and touched the cover, a photograph of a microphone standing on an empty stage. “Offstage. Good title.”

  “Open it, honey,” Don December said.

  She flipped the cover to the dedication page. “To my youngest daughter, Mae—none more brave or lovely in my sight,” she read aloud. She looked up, tears stinging her eyes.

  “Thank you, Daddy.” She cleared her throat. “Are you happy with the way this book turned out?”

  Over the course of his thirty-five-year career as a photographer, Don December had put together three other books; all collections of his work. He’d photographed many of the legends of the country music world, but his latest book featured the hardworking but not-so-famous songwriters, sound engineers, and session musicians. Mae knew there would be several pictures of her fiancé, Noah, who had just started to make a name for himself as a songwriter before he was killed in a tragic car accident, only months before they were to be married.

  Ben put a hand on her shoulder and looked down at the book. “Any pictures of you in there, Mae?”

  Her father came over and opened the book to a page near the middle and began pointing out pictures to Ben.

  “Here she is, with Noah. And there, with my brother Phil.”

  “I don’t think I’ve met your brother yet,” Ben said. “Is he a musician?”

  “Yes, he’s a songwriter. Usually co-writes with John Ayers, although they haven’t done much lately.”

  Mae closed her eyes for a second. “Excuse me,” she murmured and escaped to the powder room in the hall. Ever since she had learned that Tammy and Patrick were getting married, Noah had been on her mind. Her current awareness of Thoreau’s advanced age was making the memories even more poignant. She didn’t want to look at pictures of Noah now. She was Ben’s girlfriend and happy to be with him. However, the pictures of Noah and those early years still saddened her, considering his untimely death.

  Mae and Ben arrived back at her house after ten that night. She went into the kitchen to get the Tater out of her crate and heard whining in the dark room. When she flipped the light switch on, Titan, her older male corgi and Tallulah, her black pug, looked up at her. The black pug, whimpering, sat beside Thoreau, who was sprawled across the rug. Titan sat on his other side.

  “Oh, no! He must’ve had another seizure. Ben, can you come help me?”

  He came in, running, and knelt beside the fallen Rottweiler. Ben laid his hand on Thoreau’s neck and looked up at Mae.

  “Honey, I’m so sorry. He’s gone. There’s no pulse.” Ben stood up. “Do you have an old blanket I can wrap him in?”

  “You’re not going to bury him tonight!” Mae burst into tears. “I haven’t said goodbye to him, and it’s cold and dark out there.”

  Ben wrapped his arms around her and held her for a few minutes, while she sobbed. He loosened his grip and stepped back.

  “If you want to wait, I’ll bury him tomorrow. Let me wrap him in something. I’ll take him out to the garage to keep the other dogs from getting more upset.”

  Still unable to speak, Mae nodded and went to get a blanket. Tomorrow she would have to watch as a dog she loved—her last remaining tie to the life she’d shared with Noah—was buried in the cold ground. Bidding farewell to the big Rottweiler would be the final scene of her life with her former fiancé. Up till now she had always kept a small part of herself for him, but it was time to stop looking back. Now she could give her whole heart to Ben.

  Chapter Eighteen

  January 14th

  Sheriff Ben Bradley

  Ben had a hard time digging a hole big enough for Thoreau’s grave in the almost frozen ground of Mae’s backyard. He had let the three house dogs out into the frosty morning, ushered them back into the kitchen after they took care of business, and gone out to the barn for a shovel. Mae had three boarders in the kennel—the Boston terrier pair and Lulu. All were sleeping peacefully. The three pit bull pups she was fostering were also sound asleep in their accustomed pile.

  He grabbed a shovel and a pair of work gloves and went out to the very back of Mae’s property. After fifteen minutes of serious digging he had removed his coat and was starting to sweat, despite the atypically cold weather. He pulled out several large rocks, finally got a decent-sized grave dug, and then went back in the house. He knew Mae would want to say goodbye to Thoreau before he buried the big Rottweiler.

  Mae was dressed in jeans and an oversized sweater, sitting at her kitchen table and staring at the steam rising from her coffee cup. “Thank you for doing that,” she said quietly. “I guess it’s time.” Mae closed her large dark eyes for a moment. When she opened them, tears starred her lashes. “I’m not sure I can do this, Ben. I know he was old, but it’s hard to say goodbye ….” Her voice trailed off into sobs.

  “I know it’s hard, sweetheart. When I lost my old basset hound, Buttercup, I cried like a baby. I was a twenty-eight-year-old police officer and still I cried. I didn’t shed a tear when Katie left me, but losing that dog was rough.” Mae looked at him and sniffled as he went on, “I’m going to tell you what my mom told me then. She said, when you lose a dog, they take all the bad things in your life away with them when they go. That’s how you know it’s time to move on to a new phase of your life. You have a lot of memories tied to Thoreau, but we’ll be making new memories together.”

  He held his hand out to Mae. She took it and got out of her chair, giving him a trace of a smile. “I guess today is the first of many three-dog days around here.�
��

  Ben gave her a smile in return. “Have you ever heard the expression, ‘three dog night’?”

  “No, I haven’t.” Mae shook her head.

  “It’s an Alaskan night that’s so cold you need to sleep with three of your sled dogs just to survive. So I guess it’s a three dog day all right. But by my count you actually have nine dogs on the premises—three sets of three.”

  “You’re right, I do. And at least Titan, Tallulah, and the Tater are all young enough that they’ll be around for years to come.” She took a deep breath. “Let me get my coat, and I’ll come with you to say goodbye.”

  Mae was quiet after they laid Thoreau to rest. Ben helped her with kennel chores and scrambled some eggs for both of them. When breakfast was over, he gave her a hug and she clung to him, her face turned into his shoulder.

  “You need to go to work. As you know, I’ve usually jumped in to getting information about your cases, and we’ve had our differences of opinion about it. But this time, when I really could help, I’m just so worn out from my wrist, and things keep happening to stop me. But I don’t want you to worry about me. I’ll be fine.” Her voice was muffled by his shirt.

  “I probably can’t put it off much longer,” he agreed. “But I will be thinking about you. It takes a lot of energy to heal a broken bone, you know. And you’re right; my cases have come between us. Wayne’s taking some time off, though, so it’s a little different working on this one. I’ll call you later.” Ben brushed Mae’s hair off her face, kissed her gently, and walked out to his truck in the frosty morning light.

  On his way to the office, Ben called Detective Fuller’s cellphone. “Good morning, Rob. Have you uncovered anything new on the copper pipe case?”

  “I’ve been checking out contractors and flippers, and there are several of them that have had copper pipe go missing. There’s this one flipper I talked to named Cliff Newcomb. According to Cliff, he isn’t making as much money as he did.”