I eyed the other numerous stacks of papers, wondering if they also housed shoe boxes full of cash. “You . . . don’t have all of your money here in the trailer with you, do you?”
“Course not. Rachel wouldn’t let me do that.”
The name was familiar and, thinking back to my appointment with Ken’s psychologist, I asked, “Rachel Taylor?”
He nodded. “She’s my social worker. She keeps people out of homes . . . like where adults gots to go when they can’t take care of themselves no more. She gives me all kinds of advice on how to do stuff.” He shrugged. “See, at first, when Mary divorced me, I di’n’t do so good, so Dr. Thames thought Rachel would be good for me to talk with. And she is. She’s great. She said I need to keep my money in a bank, ’cuz there could be a fire or somethin’. I got it all in a savings account at the credit union.” He patted his box as he returned it to its hiding place. “This is just my petty cash.”
“Aren’t you afraid it’ll get stolen?”
He spread his arms to indicate our shabby surroundings. “This don’t exac’ly look like a place where there’s a batcha money hidden, does it?”
“No, but . . . what about supposed friends? Or neighbors? People who know about your box of money?”
“Nobody knows. ’Cept Mary, here.” He patted his dog on the head. “And Rachel. But she don’t know where I keep it hidden. Only you know that.”
“You and I just met today. How do you know I’m trustworthy?”
He patted his dog again. “Maggie likes you. She don’t take to bad people.” He rubbed his palms, grinned, and said, “So let’s get goin’ on this leash training. Okey doke?”
I pocketed the money, despite my concerns. The police would be here soon. If, despite my instincts to the contrary, Ken proved to have gotten his money from some illicit means, I could turn over the money to the police as evidence. Otherwise, I could do as he asked—keep a running tally of my hours and expenses. In the meantime, I might as well try to give him his money’s worth.
The police dispatcher had asked me to keep an eye on the bones, and I decided I could best do that by staying in their vicinity. “Why don’t you keep her leash on her, and let’s go outside?”
“Sure. Just mind your step, gettin’ around the screen.” Ken had leaned the sliding door, still off its tracks, into the opening. I moved the door aside, then waited while Ken pulled Maggie through. She strained against the leash with all four paws spread.
On the bright side, Maggie had kept on the collar I’d brought for her. If nothing else, her getting used to wearing that was a step in the right direction. With profuse apologies, Ken eventually moved her past me, and I balanced the screen in the doorway again.
For the next several minutes, I showed Ken how to use the clicker in conjunction with tidbits. “The neat thing about using the clicker is that the dog thinks she’s training you to click it and give her a treat. That way, you get Maggie’s full attention and enthusiasm.”
Like many woefully undertrained dogs, Maggie made great initial strides by virtue of finding something to challenge her and to encourage her owner to reward her. The concept of heeling, though, was completely foreign to Maggie. Ken soon grew frustrated at trying to turn and block her path when she attempted to lead. He looked at me in exasperation. “You sure all this leash stuff is necessary?”
“Yes. You’re strong enough to maintain a good grip on her, but what happens if someone else needs to take her for a walk? Or what if her clasp breaks, and she decides to run into traffic? Think of it from her perspective. All of her life, she’s been taught to believe that it was her duty to lead the way.”
“Yeah, but Mary got mad when . . .” He sighed and swiped some dots of perspiration off his forehead. “Mind takin’ over for a minute? I gotta go get a drink of water.”
He handed me the leash, and Maggie instantly turned and tried to back away in an effort to free herself. I slapped my thigh, then clicked my tongue and gave her a treat. A strange hissing noise broke my concentration, and I looked around. It seemed to come from the direction of Ruby’s trailer.
I heard a definite “Psst” this time and led Maggie in that direction to investigate. The beckoning sounds were coming from Ruby’s yard.
I did a double take when I spotted the top of Ruby’s head. She was kneeling behind a shrub. “Are you talking to me?” I asked.
“Yeah, Allie,” she said in a partial whisper. “Don’t tell Ken, but I need you to take a quick look at my dog.”
Though I kept her on a short leash, Maggie bowled her way through the shrub and promptly started licking Ruby’s face. She cursed and swatted at the dog. I pulled Maggie away and got her to sit, then asked, “Why can’t I tell Ken?”
“He won’t like me hornin’ in on his appointment with you.”
“I’m in the middle of my work now, but I’ll come over afterwards. That would be the black Lab mix you mentioned earlier?”
She rose and nodded, her black hair now every which way. “He seems to be having a hard time standing up.”
“Does he have physical problems? Hip dysplasia?”
“No, but I think—” She broke off and cursed under her breath. “Here comes Ken again.” She shaped her hands like a megaphone and called to Ken, “I jus’ need to borrow your dog lady for a minute, Ken. I’ll get her right back to you.”
Ken waved pleasantly and said, “No problem, Ruby. How’s T-Rex? Haven’t seen him around the last couple days.”
“Fine. He’s just sleepin’,” she called back, then said under her breath to me, “He’s been sleeping all day now.”
“For twenty-four hours? Without waking?” My sense of alarm was rising. With the downward spiral my day was taking, the horrid possibility of my discovering a dead dog seemed to be a logical progression. Without hesitation, I handed her the leash and said, “Here. Give Maggie back to Ken.”
“It ain’t like he stopped breathing!” she said as I rushed past her and into her trailer.
A medium-large black dog was lying on his side on a small throw rug just inside the living room, which, I noticed, was almost as messy as Ken’s. I knelt beside the dog and placed the back of my hand near his nostrils. I could detect his warm breath on my skin, and his rib cage was moving up and down in regular, peaceful intervals.
Because this was a totally unfamiliar dog, I backed away; the expression “Let sleeping dogs lie” doesn’t come from nothing. “T-Rex! Good dog,” I called, trying to rouse him, to no avail.
Ruby came in, letting the screen door bang behind her. T-Rex opened his eyes for just a moment. Ruby clicked her tongue. “He just kind of picks his head up every now and then.”
There was no telltale whitening of the fur around his muzzle. “This looks like a fairly young dog. How old is he?”
“He’s six. Used to have so damned much energy that I couldn’t even control him. That’s when I started to see Dr. Palmer.”
“Uh, oh. You’ve been giving him a prescription tranquilizer, haven’t you?”
“Yeah, but Dr. Palmer said—”
I gritted my teeth. I needed to set aside the question, for now, of why the dog had apparently been sedated just because he was energetic, for God’s sake. “Your dog is overmedicated. Let me see your prescription bottle.” I made a quick calculation. T-Rex weighed about sixty pounds, and he was acting as though he’d been given at least fifty milligrams of acepromazine.
Ruby retrieved a nearly empty bottle of pills, saying, “See? I’m s’posed to give him two of these a day.”
I glanced at the label. “These aren’t tranquilizers, they’re Clomicalm, an antidepressant. Does T-Rex have a second prescription for acepromazine?” She was looking at me with such a blank expression on her face that I snapped, “A second bottle of pills. Just for when you’re taking him to the vet or someplace he’s afraid to go.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks turned red, betraying the fact that the implications of my question had dawned on her. She shrugged and
said, “Yeah, but I . . . didn’t give him that. I gave him two of . . . whatever you just said it was.” She pointed at the bottle in my hand.
“Could I see the other prescription, too, please?”
She brought me that bottle. I sighed with relief to see that these were also 25 mg tablets. The 50 mg dose he’d obviously been given by mistake was not going to kill him. I looked again at the Clomicalm label. She was only supposed to give him one pill a day, not two.
I handed her back both bottles. Trying to be tactful, I said, “I don’t have my reading glasses on. Could you tell me what the labels say, please?”
She scoffed and put a hand on her hip. “ ’Scuse me?”
“I’m trying to find out what’s going on with your dog so that I can help him. I need to know how much medication you’ve been giving T-Rex and when.”
“I . . . do exactly what it says there on the labels. Maybe you should leave if you can’t help T-Rex anyways.”
“So you give him two pills of the tan-colored tablets with a morning treat every day?” I said, testing.
“Right.”
“That would mean T-Rex is receiving twice his prescribed medication.”
She furrowed her brow. “I jus’ meant that’s what I gave him this morning. ’Cuz giving him just one hasn’t made much difference.” She looked down at T-Rex. “You think my dog is gonna be all right?”
“I hope so. We have to watch for respiratory failure. But he seems to be breathing fine.”
She nodded and sighed in relief.
“I am not a veterinarian, Ruby, and can’t give medical prescriptions, but my advice would be to stop all medications to T-Rex immediately.”
“But then he’ll be . . . acting as out of control as that damned Maggie!”
“In my opinion, it’s very likely that he simply needs to be better trained. At this stage in my career, I can’t volunteer my services free of charge, but the Humane Society has obedience classes that are reasonably priced, and maybe they’ll provide scholarships, if money is an issue.”
“Ain’t it always?” she snarled.
I felt a bit trapped, wanting to do something to help T-Rex but knowing that his drug-ingestation was best left for a skilled veterinarian to handle. “Please take your dog to a vet.”
She set her sturdy chin and glared at me.
“I’ll be right next door if T-Rex’s symptoms change,” I murmured.
She nodded, but continued to glare at me.
Now that I’d ascertained T-Rex was not in immediate danger, I became aware of relentless barking from Maggie and saw the cause as soon as I left Ruby’s. A policeman, a tall man with a long, sharp nose, had finally arrived next door. Beside the officer, Ken stood anxiously shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Meanwhile, Maggie was trying once again to break free of her leash, in Ken’s grasp. Either Ken or the officer had used a spade to remove a portion of the dirt covering the bones, and the officer was staring down at them with interest.
He nodded when I approached. “Evenin’. You must be the person who called this in, right?”
“Yes, and I—” I broke off when I spotted what appeared to be the skeletal remains of a hand. I’d been on the verge of apologizing for bringing him out here, most likely for nothing, but that was no longer necessary. I quickly looked away, feeling slightly nauseated.
“I swear, Allie,” Ken said, “I never noticed that hand in there. It’s Mary’s. I just know it.”
“Mary?” the officer gently prompted.
“My ex-wife. Mary Martin Culberson. She died four months ago.”
Now I was beginning to have some real doubts about Ken. “Your next door neighbor, Ruby, told me she was killed a year and a half ago. Was she mistaken?”
He shook his head. “That’s just when the accident took place. Mary was in a coma for over a year.”
“And you think these are her remains?” the officer asked. “Is her grave nearby?”
“No,” Ken said. “Baltimore.”
The officer glanced at me, then back at Ken and said, “I’m going to have to call in some cri— some investigators. They’ll probably need to take these bones to the lab . . . run some tests on them.” He pointed at Maggie, still barking incessantly. “Put your dog inside, sir, so we can talk more easily.”
“Can’t I keep her with me, so long as she’s on her leash?”
Her barking had long since surpassed my tolerance level. I clapped my hands twice to distract Maggie. Before she could resume barking, I said, “Good dog,” and gave her a tidbit. “Officer, this is a service dog, believe it or not, and the man needs her to be with him whenever possible.” Maggie stared at my pocket for more treats.
“How long will she stay quiet for?” Ken asked.
“A couple of seconds, or as long as you’ll give her treats in exchange for—”
Maggie started barking again.
“—not barking.”
Ken dragged his hand over his bald pate. “It’s okay. I’ll just lock her in the bedroom and shut the window. Much as she hates that.”
Once Ken and Maggie were inside the trailer, the officer indicated Ken with a motion of his eyes and asked me quietly, “Do you and this man know each other well?”
“We just met today, when he hired me to work with his dog. He seems to be delusional about his late wife’s death. Ex-wife’s death, rather. His therapist told me that he didn’t kill the woman, however.”
“What’s his therapist’s name?”
“Terry Thames, a psychologist. He has an office downtown.”
Ken returned, looking very agitated at the sound of Maggie’s muffled yet frantic barks from inside his home. The policeman gestured at the bones. “Anyone touch these?”
“No, sir,” Ken responded, squaring his shoulders to take on the bearing of an army private to his captain. “Just Maggie.”
“Can I speak to her?”
“You just had me put her in the house!”
“Maggie’s the dog,” I said, suppressing nervous laughter.
“Did the dog dig them up from your property here?”
“No, sir. She keeps finding them someplace and hauling ’em home.”
“It’s important that we find out where that is.”
“She had a bone with her when she was coming from that direction,” I said, pointing toward the road south of the trailer park.
“There’s some heavy equipment out that way, near the road. Right in front of the clubhouse,” Ken said. “I think they been laying pipes down for some new homes.”
“When did she first start collecting these?” the officer asked, indicating the bones with a slight motion of his head.
Ken shrugged. “A week . . . or two or three ago, I guess. And I just . . . never looked at them. It was Allie here who said they might be human.”
The officer asked Ken to show him where his phone was and asked me to remain outside. I sat down on the step and waited. Several minutes elapsed, and I suspected that the officer was questioning Ken. A second patrol car pulled up, and the first officer emerged from Ken’s trailer to speak with him.
By now both Ruby, her square jaw set in a frown, and Yolanda, peering out from her thick lenses, were standing by the side of the road. “What’s going on?” Ruby called.
“Nothing to worry about, ma’am,” the first officer called back.
After some discussion, the newly arrived officer asked Ken to show him where this “heavy equipment” was located, and the two of them headed out, Maggie once again barking vociferously from inside the trailer. Meanwhile, the first officer asked me to sit in his patrol car with him “for some privacy,” and to tell him what I knew about Ken Culberson.
I recounted my initial meeting with Ken as best I could, my conversation with Terry Thames, and how Maggie had run off and then returned with the suspicious bone. I deliberately, however, left out my conversation with Ruby regarding her suspicions about Ken.
Ken was wide-eyed and sweating pr
ofusely by the time he and the officer returned to his property. Having seen them coming down the street, the first policeman and I got out of the car. Ken brushed right past us and said, “I gotta go tell Maggie I’m back.”
“We’ll come with you,” said the officer who’d accompanied him to the construction site. While Ken led the way into his home, the officer said quietly to the other, “Something’s not right. There’s another bone there, but it hasn’t got a speck of dirt on it. It’s just lying out in plain sight, no footprints or marks anywhere near. Looks like someone tossed it there.”
Ken had already closed himself in the back room with Maggie. The first officer called, “You all right in there, Mr. Culberson?” His hand was resting on the holster of his gun as he asked.
Ken, Maggie in tow, emerged. “I’m fine, but I gotta ask you to witness some paperwork for me.”
“ ’Scuse me?”
“Made some changes to my will, and I need someone to witness me signing ’em, just in case I’m . . . tied up for a while.”
Changes to his will?
The policemen looked at each other. “I . . . guess so,” one replied.
Maggie, meanwhile, had resumed barking at the two officers. Over the noise, I asked, “Ken, you’re not feeling . . . in fear for your life for any reason, are you?”
“Naw, I been needin’ to take care a this for a while now, ’n’ don’t get many visitors for official witnesses.” He looked at Maggie, once again his eyes reminding me for all the world of a sad Saint Bernard’s. “Allie, can you try ’n’ do something to help calm her down?”
“Sure thing.” I clapped my hands and called, “Maggie, come.” Not wanting to face Ruby and Yolanda outside, I took Maggie into the kitchen and worked with the clicker. Remarkably, really, she instantly became so engaged in the game of getting treats for tricks that she ignored her owner and the two officers in the other room. But my thoughts were only partially occupied with the dog; I was more concerned with Ken. I suspected that he was scared he was not only about to be arrested, but that he would be incarcerated for a long time. Surely, though, he had nothing to do with the bones in his yard, and the police would let him go.
Give the Dog a Bone Page 5