Taking On Lucinda

by Frank Martorana

“Believe me, I’m aware of that. That’s why I’m asking for your help.”

  Kent shifted back to the chair across the desk from Stef and sat in broody silence.

  Stef turned to Merrill. “Chief, I’d like to discuss something alone with Kent. Would you mind? There’s a coffee machine down the hall to the left.”

  She waited till the door closed behind Merrill. “If you don’t mind my asking, what was your net income last year?”

  “Around fifty thousand.” Kent knew that to her, the amount was pocket money, but he was long beyond embarrassment in that regard and was silently grateful when she showed no reaction.

  “So it’s true vets don’t make as much as MDs.”

  “Most do better than I do, but no, not even close to MDs.”

  “The worm has sure turned since our old school days. You were from a respected family, destined to be a professional. I was the tramp from a nothing family. Strange, huh?”

  “I never considered you a tramp, Stef.”

  “No. I guess not.” There was a tone of appreciation in her voice. “Mary? She was a different story.”

  “Mary was competitive.”

  Stef shot him a cool look. “And when you couldn’t provide everything she wanted, she took up the game with someone else.”

  Her assessment stung Kent, even though he knew Stef didn’t mean it to. Kent watched the ghostly shadows of Stef’s legs as she crossed them behind a deep pink modesty panel.

  “That’s between her and me.”

  “Right. I’m sorry I brought it up. Anyway, if you agree to make one inspection here per week, be on call for any emergency, and act as public liaison, I’ll pay you one hundred thousand dollars. Your income triples. That’s for a one-year contract.”

  The offer jolted Kent. How could he refuse? Of course, Stef knew that. She knew about his alimony payments and nursing home bills. He hated being manipulated. He had long ago promised himself he would keep out of other people’s affairs. People were selfish, unpredictable, and disloyal. He had buried himself in his work because animals were all the good things people were not. Now he was about to change all that—for money.

  “No sense lying to you. I could use the money. You know that.” He listened to himself as if someone else was talking. “You’ll stand by me on this public thing? I don’t want to get left out on a limb.”

  “We’ll work together on public policy and statements.”

  Kent swallowed hard. “I’ll take the job. One year. You can call Merrill back in.”

  “Perfect. So I can line up a formal meeting—you, me, and Ms. FOAM?”

  “Yep, what the hell.”

  As he left Copithorn, picketers were still slowing traffic passing out of the industrial park. The afternoon bunch seemed even more fervent, more rowdy, than the morning group.

  “Just great,” he said to Lucinda. “I’m supposed to talk sense into these idiots.”

  Lucinda sprang from her seat and forced her muzzle through the crack at the top of the window. She whimpered softly and wagged her tail. Kent followed her gaze and was instantly transfixed. Aubrey Fairbanks was glowering at him.

  Kent glanced from Lucinda to Aubrey and back. The big hound’s rear end did the canine rumba she usually reserved for old friends. Aubrey continued to knife him with her eyes.

  He turned out onto the highway, gave Lucinda’s tail a gentle tug. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

  Chapter 6

  Sally closed the accounting ledger she was working on with more force than necessary and slid it to the back of her desk. “Jeez. You’re such a grouch today.”

  Kent looked up from the anesthetized English pointer whose fight wound he was suturing. “Me?”

  “What did you do, stay out all night hunting?”

  “Lucinda and I went out and chased a couple of coons around the woods for a while, but we got back pretty early.” Sally could read him like an old mama cat reads her kittens.

  “So what’s your problem?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. Then, after a pause, “I keep thinking about Aaron.”

  Sally came around the corner, took her usual place against the operating room wall, and said nothing.

  “He was Dad’s hunting buddy for all those years.” Kent laced the jagged gash on the dog’s hock with a few more stitches. He paused again, looked up, gave a short, embarrassed laugh. “It was odd. Lucinda and I went out coon hunting all right, but we didn’t bag a single one. The trip turned into kind of a memorial service for Aaron. Just me, Lucy, and Mother Nature.”

  He gave Sally a confused look. She returned a sympathetic one but remained silent.

  “We spent most of the night up at Big Rock, just sitting there thinking. Trying to figure out what really happened. The way they say he died is so contrary to anything about his life!”

  Sally had heard a lifetime of Big Rock stories. Huge bucks, missed shots, getting lost in the woods—male bonding stuff. She knew it had been Aaron’s favorite place in the world. It was easy for her to envision her boss going there to mourn.

  They worked through another long break in the conversation. Finally, Kent said, “And there’s another reason I’m grouchy.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Aubrey Fairbanks.”

  “That FOAM bitch is still under your skin? I’d be grouchy, too, if I couldn’t get her off my mind.”

  “Actually, she isn’t such a bitch.” Kent was surprised to hear himself defending the woman.

  “She ripped everything you stand for, and she’s not a bitch?”

  “She is…very self-confident, I’ll admit, but she’s not mean. She’s just absolutely positive of her position. I doubt anyone’s going to alter her stance on animal rights one bit.”

  “Whatever.” Sally returned to her office, dropped a folder into the metal file cabinet, and slammed the drawer shut. “Sounds like a brassbound bitch to me.”

  “It would be nice to be that confident about things. She makes me question myself.” Kent daubed a trickle of blood. “And my profession. I never considered veterinary medicine to be anything but honorable.”

  “Forget her, Kent. You’re all right. They swoop down on our town and start messing up everyone’s life. What gives them the right? Why don’t they just leave us alone?”

  He wrapped a bandage around the pointer’s repaired leg. “My whole life has been veterinary medicine. Fairbanks makes me doubt all that.”

  “Kent, she’s crazier than a waltzing mule. Forget her.”

  “Then…why do we dock tails and crop ears, anyway?”

  “To put food on the table, for starters. But since that sounds kind of selfish, how about because owners of purebred dogs want them to look like the breed is supposed to look. If vets quit doing it, they’ll do it themselves. Then you really do have a cruelty problem.” She snapped up a copy of the morning paper and waved it at Kent. “You read today’s yet?” She began reading aloud from an article she’d obviously noted earlier:

  Police Cage Copithorn Animal Activists

  Jefferson, NY—The Freedom of Animals Movement (FOAM), a California-based pro–animal rights group, met yesterday with officials of Copithorn Research to discuss animal abuse at the cosmetic company. Copithorn has recently been the target of FOAM demonstrations.

  “Some meeting. Ambush would be a better word for it.”

  “Let me finish.”

  “Copithorn has patently refused to alter its R&D policy to eliminate animal testing. We object to their methods whereby innocent animals, rabbits, puppies, and even pregnant dogs are subjected to repeated and prolonged exposure to chemicals with unknown effects,” FOAM spokesperson Aubrey Fairbanks said. Stef Copithorn, CEO of the firm, countered, “We, like most cosmetics manufacturers, are committed to and progressing toward implementation of the three Rs—reduct
ion, replacement, and refinement of the use of animals.

  “‘Unknown effects,’” Kent said under his breath.

  Sally ignored him. “Oh, looky here. You get a quote!”

  Copithorn’s animal-care supervisor, Dr. Kent Stephenson, a Jefferson veterinarian, said FOAM’s charges are totally unfounded. “I personally monitor the company’s colony of research animals and can attest to their care and housing. It far exceeds state and federal requirements. Animal testing is kept to the bare minimum that allows for a safe product that meets the FDA’s requirements.”

  “And this is a tasteful picture they’ve included—courtesy of FOAM, no doubt.” Sally held the paper so Kent could see the photo of a would-be scientist stretching a wild-eyed rabbit across a stainless steel table as a second scientist dripped liquid from a beaker onto an area of freshly shaved skin. “Nice touch. Too bad the stuff in the beaker isn’t smoking.”

  Sally rolled the newspaper into a tight tube. “Maybe you should tell the bitch you like coon hunting and that you own a coon dog. That ought to make some points with her.”

  “Lucy already met her.” He stared at his dog as if looking at Benedict Arnold. “I think Lucinda likes her. At least she wagged her tail.”

  “Lucinda likes everyone.”

  He poured himself a cup of coffee, sank into a chair, and unfurled the newspaper. He flipped to the one article he had read and reread that morning:

  Aaron James Whitmore, 70, died Tuesday. A native and lifelong resident of Jefferson, Mr. Whitmore graduated from the New York State Police Academy in 1939 before serving in the army in World War II. Under the command of General Eisenhower, he fought in the Normandy invasion at Omaha Beach. After the war, Mr. Whitmore returned to the Jefferson police department and was made chief in 1952. He retired in 1972.

  An avid outdoorsman, Whitmore was active in the Boy Scouts of America throughout his life. For many years, he was a freelance outdoors writer for the Jefferson Dispatch. His wife and love of his life, Claire, predeceased Aaron in 1977. They had no children. Surviving are sister Eunice M. Robinson of Old Forge and several nieces and nephews. A private family burial is planned. Contributions can be made to the Jefferson Police Youth Program or BSA Troop 18 in Jefferson.

  He turned from the obit when Sally thumped her forehead with the heel of her hand and moaned. “Damn!”

  “What?”

  “I was supposed to tell you Mrs. Philips called this morning. Her Maltese, Bear, is missing.”

  “He’ll turn up.”

  “Right. I guess.” Sally studied her fingernails, picked at a cuticle. “Have you noticed what I have? I think.”

  “Noticed what?”

  “We’ve had more than the usual number of missing pets. You notice that? Not just the everyday idiots who let their animals run loose. I mean people who watch their animals carefully. A lot of them.”

  “Put them on the lost and found bulletin board. I’ll start paying better attention.”

  “Usually people call back in a day or so, all apologetic, saying they found the escapee. Seems like I usually take down about as many missing posters as I put up. But lately, the pets aren’t getting found.”

  Kent rolled Sally’s observations over in his mind. “Let’s keep track of it for a while.” He tapped the newspaper. “Anyway, back to this FOAM thing. I should wring Merrill’s neck for getting me into this. I should wring my neck for letting him get me into this. ‘You’re just going to be a figurehead.’ Right.”

  “I think you should meet with her one-on-one.”

  Kent rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “Yeah. Ms. FOAM and me, one-on-one. I can see it now.”

  “Why not?”

  “If I want to get chewed up, I’ll try to give a shot to some junkyard dog. Besides, what could I gain from a one-on-one meeting?”

  “You’d be able to argue your side. You do better without a crowd. You know what I mean? You’re most convincing when you just talk to someone. Like you were just talking to me.”

  Kent considered Sally’s idea while she redid the operating room for their next patient. After a few minutes, he set his coffee cup aside and leaned forward, elbows on knees.

  “You know, the more I think about it, the more I like your idea.”

  “Oh, shit. Now I’ve done it.”

  “If I get this Fairbanks woman away from her comrades, she might loosen up. You never know.”

  “Like I said, it’s your style.” She let that thought hang for a perfectly timed moment, and then under her breath but loud enough that Kent would hear, she said, “Of course, sometimes your style ends up getting your ass kicked too.”

  He didn’t have to see her tongue to know it was in her cheek. The thought of firing her flitted wistfully through his head.

  Kent sat with the phone against his ear, listening to the emptiness of being on hold. He watched the thin red hand of the clock on his office wall ticking off seconds. This animal-care supervisor thing was taking up way too much time. Sally had rescheduled several appointments. He had rushed through surgery and treatments. He hated slighting his clients and patients for this stuff. Eventually, a voice came back over the line, and by midafternoon he had confirmed a slot on Ms. FOAM’s calendar. He set the phone down as Sally entered the office.

  “We’re on for tomorrow, Aubrey Fairbanks and me. Alone. Lunch, then maybe a tour of Jefferson.”

  Sally didn’t respond. He looked up at her. She was starting back at him with blank eyes, her face ashen.

  “What?”

  She mouthed something, but no sound came out.

  “Sally?”

  She slumped into a chair, swallowed hard, and gave him the crushed look of an owner who had just witnessed her dog being run down by a car. “I went to get the mail.”

  “So?”

  She held out a sheet of paper with a photo collage on it. “They want me to quit. They say they’ll burn down our hospital.”

  Kent snatched the paper from her. It was a letter addressed to Sally.

  “For Chrissake. This is like something in a TV movie.” He studied the cinematic cliché. Odd-sized words and letters cut out of magazines to disguise the author’s handwriting. It would have been funny if it weren’t so frightening:

  NO ANIMAL KILLERS IN JEFFERSON.

  QUIT THE TORTURE CHAMBER SALLY

  IT COULD GO UP IN SMOKE

  Kent grabbed the phone and punched in the chief’s number.

  Kent waved the letter in his brother’s face the second Merrill stepped into the clinic. “This your idea of a figurehead?” He tossed it on the desk.

  Merrill scanned it quickly without touching it. “It’s probably nothing.”

  “Nothing? It scared the hell out of Sally. You call a threat to burn my hospital nothing?”

  “Take it easy. I didn’t mean it that way. We’ll check it out.”

  Merrill placed it carefully between a couple of paper towels and secured it to a stack of tattered papers on his clipboard.

  “This stuff happens when there’s an emotional issue. Odds are it’s a prank. Some lowlife wants to jump on the bandwagon. It wouldn’t make sense for FOAM to send this. They’d have to know you would bring a threat letter right to the police, and they’d be the number-one suspects. They have nothing to gain—they’re too smart for that.”

  Sally arose out of her daze. “Kent, you better make a big hit at your meeting with Aubrey Fairbanks tomorrow.”

  “I’ll make a hit, all right!”

  Merrill’s eyebrows lifted. “What meeting?”

  When Kent ignored the question, Merrill shifted his eyes to Sally.

  “He’s going one-on-one with Ms. FOAM.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow. Lunch.”

  Merrill’s lips pursed into a satisfied expression. “That might work. Yeah. A
nimal-care supervisor meets FOAM field rep.” He paused for the same perfect second Sally had. “Course, it could get you killed too.”

  Sally couldn’t help but chuckle.

  “How do you go about firing a police chief?” Kent said to her.

  She was trying to think of a reply when Merrill held up his clipboard. “Before you get me fired, let me tell you about Lalomia’s report. He faxed it to me this morning.” Merrill teased several pages out and flipped through them in a way that told Kent he’d spent some time studying them already. “A couple of interesting points.” He tapped with his finger as he hit key items. “No witnesses. Autopsy put the time of death at about ten at night. Lividity and all that stuff indicated the body was not moved. Rain washed away most of the little things forensic guys collect.”

  He paused, eyes still on the report.

  Kent and Sally waited.

  Finally, Merrill let them breathe. “But.” He moved his gaze to Kent.

  “Come on, Chief. But what?”

  Merrill held up a pair of fingers. “There were two rounds fired from Aaron’s revolver. Both casings were recovered still in the cylinder. One bullet was recovered alongside the handle of the passenger door.” He paused again.

  Kent took the bait. “What happened to the other one?”

  Merrill shrugged, and let his brother run with it.

  “Cause of death was the throat wound. Right?”

  “It took out both carotid arteries and his trachea.”

  Kent grimaced. “Okay. He was lying across the front seat, right side down, gun in his right hand. You said that before. Correct?”

  “Yep.”

  “Bullet was fairly low in the passenger door.”

  Kent formed his left hand into a revolver, held it to his neck, elbow held high. “Wouldn’t this be kind of an awkward way to shoot yourself and then switch hands with the gun? I mean, it’s the only way the bullet could end up in the passenger door from where Aaron was sitting.”

  Merrill kept his poker face. “People get weird at the moment they’re going to do it. They wince and jerk. Their hands shake like hell won’t have it. He may have been trying to put the muzzle under his chin and just twitched on the trigger before he got it up there.”