Maximum Security (A Dog Park Mystery)

by C. A. Newsome

  “This isn’t over. It’s my job to watch your back and right now, I’d say you’re a train wreck waiting to happen. Lia ever suggest to you that she even wants to get married?”

  “Marriage is what people do when they grow up. I know you’re unfamiliar with adulthood, but maybe you’ve heard something about it?”

  “You do know you’re in the twenty-first century, don’t you?”

  They exited the building. As Peter turned left, toward his Blazer, Brent put a hand on his shoulder and redirected him to the right. “This way, my man. You’re in for a ride.”

  “Meet Celeste,” Brent said as he clicked his fob. A midnight blue Audi A4 obligingly flashed her lights and beeped. “She’s my sexy new girl.”

  Peter let out a low whistle as he walked around the sporty sedan. “Isn’t Celeste a French name? Shouldn’t she have a German name, like Helga or Gertrude?”

  “It may be a German car, but Audi is Latin. Celeste is Latin for heavenly. And that, my man, she is.”

  “If she didn’t set you back a year’s pay, I’ll eat my badge.”

  “Start chewing, Brother. Even with the Bluetooth and the iPod interface, the walnut inlay and those very snazzy wheels, I managed to skim under.”

  “That include insurance?”

  Brent held open the passenger door and waved his arm. “I refuse to dignify that. Slide your manly rear onto that leather seat and Celeste will show you what she’s all about.”

  Peter got into the car. Brent shut the door and headed for the other side.

  “Did you get the sissy seat warmers?”

  “No, I did not get the sissy seat warmers.”

  “Too bad, that could come in handy on a stake out.”

  “Celeste does not do stake outs. Celeste draws too much attention. Don’t you, Baby?” Brent patted the steering wheel and started the car. “Hold on to your metaphorical hat.” He pulled out onto Ludlow Avenue.

  “So my Blazer is good for something then.”

  “You’ll be ashamed to climb into that rolling pile of scrap metal after Celeste is done with you.” He cut neatly through traffic and headed up the hill, toward University Hospital.

  “Insult me all you want. My truck is paid for. While you’re bleeding the equivalent of a house payment every month, I’m socking it away.”

  “House payment? You buying a house?”

  “Not yet, but I’ve got my eyes open and I’m going to be ready when the right place comes on the market.”

  “Lia know about this?”

  “I’ve been saving that money for years. No reason to talk to Lia about it until something interesting comes along.”

  “Rings and house payments. You do have it bad. I bet she’s perfectly happy with things as they are. You’d better have a chat with her about all this before you go any further down the road to Fantasy Island.”

  “There is no road to Fantasy Island. You have to take a plane. Don’t you know anything?”

  “I know trouble when I see it.”

  “You want to make love to your car. And you think I’m in trouble?”

  ~ ~ ~

  Peter again smelled the scent of urine and putrefaction when he entered the morgue. Deputy Coroner Amanda Jefferson stood by a steel table holding an array of bones arranged roughly as a skeleton. The bones had been cleaned of all scraps of meat and sinew since Peter and Brent last saw them, revealing an abundance of gouges in the surface. There were a number of gaps where bones were missing.

  “Gentlemen, meet John Doe. He was a Caucasian male, age somewhere between forty and sixty. He had white hair and he was five foot, six to five foot, eight inches tall. Clothing fragments found at the scene suggest he was wearing blue jeans, a red tee-shirt and a tan jacket. The only object found at the scene was a crossbow bolt with a three-blade hunting broadhead.”

  She picked up an ulna and held it so that Peter and Brent could see where it was riddled with triangular punctures. “These are bite marks from coyotes. The marks are of various sizes, indicating more than one animal. I haven't yet counted up how many coyotes feasted on John, but it looks like it could have been a whole pack.

  “I found no specific marks on the skeleton to indicate cause of death. We can postulate that with the blood soaked area found at the scene along with the crossbow bolt, the bolt was the cause of death and that he bled out at the scene. The amount of blood in that spot suggests he bled out very quickly.

  “It’s likely the bolt struck a major artery, the carotid in the neck or the femoral artery in his thigh. It’s doubtful he was struck in the head or the heart, as this would have been indicated by damage to the skull or the ribs.

  “Due to the difficulty confirming cause of death, we’re holding the remains until we can get a forensic anthropologist in to make an examination. This may take a week or longer.

  “Our coyote pack went after John like a school of piranha. There was not much left for insects to chew on, but from the existing activity, my preliminary estimate is that death took place sometime on Monday. He’s been dead approximately seventy-two hours.“

  “Why do you think the coyotes went after him like that?” Peter asked.

  Amanda walked over to the next table and picked up a scrap of fabric from an array laid out like a quilt. As she brought it near, the reek grew stronger.

  “What is that smell?” Brent asked.

  “I’ve sent a sample over to the lab. It’ll be days before we have an answer, but I suspect someone doused Mr. Doe here with scent lure. It would have drawn every coyote in the park. I bet they were fighting over the body like rabid zombies.”

  “Let’s hope they did that after he died,” Brent said.

  ~ ~ ~

  Back at District Five, Brent tackled their list hunters while Peter went to work identifying the victim. He pulled up the missing persons database and plugged in search options. There were three matches in the Ohio-Kentucky-Indiana region over the last year. He scanned them quickly for proximity.

  One, a George Munce, lived less than two miles from Mount Airy Forest. This report was also the most recent, having been filed late Tuesday. He reviewed the other entries just in case. Neither were especially promising. He went back to George’s file.

  George was last seen by his wife on Monday morning before she went in to her job as a school counselor for Hughes High School. George worked evenings as store manager at the Dollar Hut on Colerain Avenue, and hadn’t been discovered missing until he failed to show up for his shift that afternoon. He was most likely wearing jeans and a tan jacket. Huh. The family dog was also missing.

  He glanced at the name of the officer taking the report. Hinkle. Peter snorted. That was why the report hadn’t hit the news. It also explained why the interview was sketchy. Nothing like having to redo someone else’s work. At least Hinkle remembered to put out a BOLO for the man’s car.

  How do you tell a wife that what might be her husband’s body is in no condition to be viewed, and who is his dentist? Not a situation he’d ever faced before. It would be interesting to see how the likely widow reacted to news that her husband’s body may have been found. He’d get Brent to tag along. Any excuse to power up his new toy would do.

  ~ ~ ~

  The woman who answered the door was small and trim, neatly dressed with a cap of dark, salon-highlighted hair and a sprinkling of freckles across a small nose. Peter thought she looked like a pixie, except for the dark circles under her eyes.

  Peter and Brent introduced themselves as they produced badges.

  “Is this about George? Have you found him?” she bit her lip as her eyes pleaded for answers.

  “We’re not sure. We have some questions for you,” Peter said. “May we come in?”

  “Yes, please do. Can I offer you coffee?” Manners collided with nerves as she rattled on. “I have scones. I baked scones this morning. Please say you’ll have one. I didn’t have anything better to do, so I baked.” She stopped talking suddenly and blinked, as if uncertain
what to do next.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Munce,” Peter said. “It’s not necessary. You don’t need to go to any trouble.”

  “No trouble at all, it’s already made.” She led them into the kitchen. “Have a seat at the bar.”

  The kitchen was ruthlessly clean and organized. A fresh pot of coffee warmed on the brewer. A platter of scones studded with some kind of dried fruit sat on the breakfast bar. Next to the platter was a jar of clotted cream.

  She pulled two pottery mugs out of a kitchen cabinet and set them on the counter. As she reached for a third, one of the mugs on the counter slipped and crashed to the floor.

  “Oh! I’m so stupid!” She stooped and started picking up pieces, shaking her head. “I can’t believe I did that. I loved that mug. . . I’ll have this cleaned up in a jiffy.”

  Brent crouched beside her. “It’s all right, Mrs. Munce. Why don’t you let me take care of this while you sit down with Detective Dourson.” His voice whispered of Tupelo honey, soothing.

  She shut her eyes for a moment, inhaled deeply, collected herself. “Let me get you coffee, at least.”

  “I see the coffee right over there. How about I pour some for you?” He took her by the elbow and gently raised her up, guiding her to one of the stools.

  “I see you’ve got Splenda sitting out. Is that what you take in your coffee?” She nodded, surrendering to Brent’s ministrations.

  “There’s half-and-half in the fridge. I’m sorry, I’m just so nervous. Please tell me you’ve found something.”

  Peter’s eyes met Brent’s. Brent handed her a cup of coffee, then went back to picking up the broken pottery. She clutched at the cup, rubbing her thumb over the clay ridges formed on the pottery wheel.

  “Mrs. Munce,” Peter began, “we may have a lead.” Her hollow eyes bored into him. He plowed on. “We found a body, and we think it might be a match.”

  “A match? You mean it might be George? George isn’t dead, he’s just missing,” she said inanely. “You’re supposed to find him.”

  “In that case, we need to rule George out, make sure this isn’t him.”

  “You want me to look at him? I gave you pictures, can’t you tell?” Peter noticed a stridency in her voice that suggested she was getting angry.

  “It’s not that simple. The body was exposed to the elements. It’s not recognizable. We’re going to need dental records. Can you tell us who his dentist is?” Peter lowered his voice and spoke slowly, in the hope that she would also lower hers.

  “He was just here, four days ago. How is it possible that he’s not recognizable? Let me see him, I’m sure I can tell if it’s him or not.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t do that.”

  “Why ever not?” She demanded, escalating several decibels.

  Peter changed the subject. “Mrs. Munce, this body was in Mount Airy Forest. Did your husband ever go there?”

  “Yes, he liked to hike with Daisy. What does that have to do with identifying him?”

  “Scavengers got to the body. There is little left to identify. That’s why we need the dental records.”

  “You mean something ate him?” She set down the mug with a thump, slopping coffee over the sides. She stared at Peter.

  “We won’t know for sure until the coroner completes her report.”

  “How did he die?”

  ”That’s undetermined at this time.”

  “Mrs. Munce,” Brent placed a soothing hand over hers. “We’re still not sure that it’s George. One step at a time.”

  “I’ve been sitting here, waiting for him to come home, and he’s dead?” her voice rose dangerously in pitch.

  “Mrs. Munce,” Peter interjected, “it may be George. It may not. If it is George, we’ll have some questions for you.”

  “Oh, it’s George all right.”

  Peter caught Brent’s eye. Brent raised his eyebrows behind Mrs. Munce’s back.

  “Why do you say that, Mrs. Munce?” Peter asked.

  “Because George wouldn’t run out on me. Ask your questions. Go ahead and ask them now. I’ve had nothing to do all week but sit around and wonder where he was.” She stood up and got down three small plates and placed scones on them. She slapped a generous dollop of clotted cream on each with trembling hands. The plates thudded as she set them in front of Peter and Brent. “You will have something to eat, won’t you? It would be a shame for these to go to waste.”

  She busied herself in the kitchen, gathering cloth napkins and silverware with the grim determination usually reserved for military campaigns and root canals. The domestic routine appeared to soothe her. Peter watched as she willed competence back into her hands, rebuilding her facade bit by bit. When Peter and Brent were settled with coffee and scones, clotted cream and honey, she also settled.

  A veneer of crisp efficiency firmly in place, she reseated herself at the counter and faced the two detectives. “What,” she asked, “would you like to know?”

  “This is premature, you understand?” Peter said.

  “In my mind, it’s overdue.”

  “Was George upset about anything in the weeks before he disappeared? Anything unusual going on?” Peter asked.

  “Not upset, no. He was concerned about some issues with an employee at work, but he was in a good mood when I saw him.”

  “What does that mean,” Brent asked, “‘when you saw him’?”

  “We work different shifts. I have to get up early because I’m a counselor at Hughes High School. I was often in bed when he came home.”

  “Did that bother you, never seeing him?” Peter asked.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Monica Munce’s voice was no longer edging toward hysteria. Peter found her new, steely resolve no more reassuring.

  “Please, Mrs. Munce, I need to have a picture of his situation. Anything could be important.”

  “We’re settled married people, Detective, and we’ve got many balls in the air. I don’t have to connect with him every day to know he’s there.”

  Peter noted the use of present tense in her responses. “He have problems with anyone?”

  “He was worried about that clerk, but I don’t think it was anything serious. George was just George. He didn’t like to make waves. He wasn’t the sort to antagonize people. If he didn’t like something, he usually kept it to himself.” She was breaking off little pieces of scone that never made it to her mouth.

  “Do you know the name of the employee?”

  “Oh, I’m sure I don’t remember. If it wasn’t one, it was another. If you haven’t noticed, the sort of people who work in those stores hardly have the best lives.”

  “What sort of trouble was he having with this employee?”

  “I don’t really remember. George didn’t talk about work very much. It was just something he said in passing.”

  Peter observed a picture of a teenage girl on the window sill. She had dark, waist-length hair, conservative clothes and a serious expression.

  “Is that your daughter?” He nodded to the photograph.

  “Yes, that’s Stacy.”

  “What was her relationship with her father?”

  “George was Stacy’s stepfather. They got along well enough. She’s very busy with her studies and extra curricular activities. She’s an honor student at Walnut Hills.”

  “She ever get into trouble?”

  She shook her head. “Stacy is never a problem.”

  “What about drugs?”

  “Not my child!”

  “Begging your pardon, Ma’m,” Brent said. “We have to ask.”

  “What about financial trouble? Could anything like that have been bothering George?”

  “We’re not rich, Detective, but we’re okay.”

  “Gambling?”

  “George?” she sputtered. “He wouldn't do anything so tawdry. Let me explain something to you. Having a loving family was the only thing that mattered to him. He would never do anything to jeopardize us.” />
  ~ ~ ~

  “I tell you what,” Brent said as they pulled out of the Munce driveway, “that was like pulling teeth, getting the freaking dentist out of her. Couldn’t you have just done that over the phone?”

  “I wanted to see her reaction when she heard her husband might be dead. How would you describe state of mind? ”

  “Brittle? Histrionic? Then, for a minute there, I thought we were facing the reincarnation of General Patton.” Brent said.

  “Interesting shift of mood there. Like she was angry at him for dying.”

  “Shame about the mug.”

  “She said she loved the mug. Wonder why she never said anything about loving George?” Peter asked.

  “Maybe she didn’t, Brother. We get to come back this afternoon. I wonder how she’ll act.”

  “We have to interview Stacy. Kids notice things.”

  “I’m looking forward to more drama. Fun city, Brother.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Stacy had a quietly defiant look on her face when Monica led her into the dining room that afternoon.

  “Detectives Dourson and Davis have some questions they’d like to ask you, though I can’t imagine what you could tell them,” Monica announced.

  Peter noticed Stacy narrowing her eyes behind Monica’s back. Something going on there.

  Stacy seated herself at the table, smoothing her skirt as she sat down. Her voice was excessively polite. “You don’t have to stay, Mother. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn’t think of leaving you to face this alone.”

  Stacy’s rolling eyes punctuated a long-suffering look. Despite the facial gymnastics, her voice remained calm and precise. “It’s the police, not the Spanish Inquisition. If they pull out thumbscrews, I’ll be sure to yell loud enough for you to hear me.”

  Monica ignored this. She looked pointedly at Peter and Brent. “What would you gentlemen like to know?”

  Brent leaned forward. “Stacy, I’m Detective Davis, and this is my partner, Detective Dourson. He’s in charge of the investigation into your stepfather's death. We’re wondering what you noticed about your stepfather in the days before he disappeared.”