“Sorry, had to get his leash on. Also left my pack on your backseat on top of that locked ammo can you have on the floor if that’s okay.”
They went inside without Chandler saying a word, eyes transitioning from the bright light outside to dull fluorescents. Cork bulletin boards displayed wanted and missing person posters mixed around public service announcements featuring McGruff the Crime Dog. The entryway terminated in a front counter which flipped up on one side to walk through to the space behind containing a battleship gray metal desk for the receptionist and several matching file cabinets. All were adorned with magnets holding scraps of paper and the occasional dent. The floor tiles seemed a bit dusty. Old cubicle workstations went around the perimeter, but most looked long unoccupied. Yellow ceiling tiles served as a monument to the once smoking workplace. An old heavyset man in a white lab coat holding a manila folder stood by the water jug just to the right of the back hallway.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Doug,” said the sheriff. “What have you got?”
“Don’t you want to know what happened in your office first?” gestured Dr. Doug Fairborn around the corner.
Chandler shook his head, “Nothing was in there for whoever to take. I went home after the scene. This is the first I’ve been back to the office.”
Fairborn looked slightly disappointed, although his bushy drooping eyebrows could hardly fall further than their nature state. Chandler walked over to a bookcase holding several large black binders on top of which was a long black charger holding radio batteries with several LED lights in green and red. He swapped one out with the radio on his belt while Kelton lingered with Azrael in the entryway on the other side of the counter to give them some space. Above the battery charger was a four-foot by six-foot map of the city covered in Plexiglas.
“Well,” said Dr. Fairborn with his cheeks drooping like a basset hound, “I wanted to share a couple of my preliminary findings.”
His voice was low and muttered, but Kelton could hear him just fine. They stood within arm’s reach of each other, the sheriff standing relaxed with his head cocked slightly to one side while the doctor wandered away from the water jug to lean on the side of the receptionist’s desk.
“All five of the victims suffered acute coronary and spinal trauma from a single entry wound, and probably bled out in less than a minute after hitting the pavement. All had exit wounds and so far no bullets have been recovered. Given the frontal orientation of the wound channels, I can tell you that none reacted significantly to the assault. First shot to fifth were fired in well under a second, probably closer to half a second, with precision shot placement. Whoever this guy is, he is extremely dangerous with a handgun,” finished whispering the doctor in a low deep tone.
“He’s a former army officer who took shelter from the rain. The DA will determine how we proceed, but I think his affirmation defense is strong. We will have to concede the element of disparity of force given it was five to one. Proximity wise, they were certainly close enough to require action on his part if he was in fact facing hostile intent. The only real question is, was he actually under attack?”
“We’ve two witnesses. What do they have to say?”
“I’ve haven’t seen Buck’s report, but there would be plenty of room for the defense to challenge their character as well as them having to explain why the victims had moved to the other side of the bridge away from the motorcycles. But that’s assuming those women don’t collaborate the young man’s account. I actually have a suspicion they will.”
“Alright. I just do the medical stuff. I will finalize my report by the end of the week,” said the old doctor playfully punching him on the arm, “but it is my considered professional opinion that the five motorcycle riders did not die from natural causes.”
Azrael’s head tracked the doctor and showed a silent fang as he passed the counter and walked down the front hall to the parking lot. Sheriff Fouche held the manila file considering, eyes staring at the empty holster on Kelton’s thigh. From down the front hall they heard Doctor Fairborn’s voice just before he reached the front doors.
“Good afternoon, Buck.”
“Have a good day, Doctor. Hey, Sheriff, what’s the scoop?”
Kelton sized up the deputy in the daylight. He was dressed and equipped properly, but his eyes were sunken and his uniform had some fading and fraying. The broad shoulders said he may have been an athlete once, but his stomach was starting to bulge over his utility belt.
“We had a break-in this morning. Mr. Jager and his dog are going to see if we can track the perp who took Dixie.”
Kelton saw Buck’s eyes flash wide for a second before a poker mask reappeared.
Buck asked, “Okay, so where do we start?”
“Scent trails last for days and since Deputy Dixie is here daily going different directions, I think we should try and track your intruder,” advised Kelton.
Buck gave a chuckle.
“What’s so funny?”
“Dixie is our receptionist and file girl, Mr. Jager,” explained the sheriff with a slight upturn at the corner of his mouth.
“Right. Your office then?”
Sheriff Fouche turned to lead the way down the back hallway with Deputy Garner bringing up the rear. There were a couple of restrooms on the right, one for each traditional gender, flanking a water fountain built-in to the cinderblock walls. It didn’t hum with refrigeration equipment and the dry lime deposits indicated it had been replaced by the blue water jug years ago. Beyond the restrooms was an interrogation room with a window to see inside from the hallway. Opposite it and the facilities were a couple of offices occupied by Buck and Chandler. The hallway ended in a glass door, beyond which were three holding cells and a finger printing station. A heavy metal door past the cells and leading to the alley outback was ajar.
Unlike the aged and neglected aspects of the building at large, Chandler’s office was neat and tidy. A large black plastic name plate with white letters, flanked by the Sheriff’s Star and the Virginia State Seal, held a couple of black pens. Behind the walnut veneer desk with the green leather top were the American and Virginia State flags, whose colors were new and bright despite being exposed to west sun near the window facing the parking lot. A pair of leather chairs with brass studs waited to make visitors comfortable. Kelton felt it looked more like a photo-studio for making campaign literature, “Re-elect hardworking Sheriff Fouche” as he posed behind his desk, than a real office.
But clearly, it hadn’t gone unmolested. The pristine chamber, lacking dust or scratches in woodwork, held a glaring violation of trespass. The polished metal floor safe with its brass dial and lever handle sat on its side, the base sporting twisted lag bolts and anchors with fouled threads. Concrete dust lay near the holes in the carpet. It had been brutally ripped open using a combination of a sledge hammer and a pry bar. It had been a safe more for show than effectiveness, more akin to a personal safe from a hardware store than a bank vault. Inside, a couple boxes of checks and a revolver were askew from the safe’s rough handling.
“We should dust for prints,” suggested Buck.
“No way. I’m not making a mess with all that dust in here when he probably wore gloves anyway,” rebuked Chandler.
“Is anything missing?” asked Kelton.
“No, that looks like everything.”
“Okay, the exertion to manually open that safe will give us a strong scent pad to start our track. You smell that boy? You got that?”
Azrael wagged his tail as he circled the area around the safe, nose to floor. Then his body grew tense and his tail became straighter, legs bending like he was ready to pounce.
“Such!,” commanded Kelton. It sounded like “Zook”. The dog world used German words so the dogs weren’t confused by hearing command words used in idle conversation.
The dog exited the office in a rush where Buck stood near the doorway, and took a left toward the cells. Kelton opened the glass hallway door for him, letting the
twenty-five foot tracking lead play out before following. By then, Azrael was going through the ajar door into the alley, leading the small posse.
The alley was gravel and narrow for any two-way traffic, but sufficient to keep delivery trucks and unsightly garbage cans off the narrow city streets. Azrael wasn’t distracted by the trove of odors available, and stuck to the trail like he was trained to do. He worked steadily, nose down, swaying slightly from side to side with each stride. Azrael turned right, heading east, and Kelton carefully followed, letting the dog move at his own pace, while keeping the lead from fouling and causing a distraction. Sheriff and deputy, also not wanting to interfere, lagged a respectful distance.
Two buildings over Azrael paused, and turned right again down a driveway that exited onto Main Street. He strode out onto the sidewalk, sniffed in an arc from left to right a few times, and then sat down. Kelton slowly approached, coiling the tracking lead as he came closer, with Chandler and Buck on his heels. He looked east and west, up and down the street, noting the occasional parked car and light traffic. There was a barbershop across the street. Turning around he noted that one building was a realtor’s office with a sign in the window reading “Out Showing Houses”. The other was shuttered with a sheet of plywood across the window, although a painted sign above said “Appliance Repair Parts and Service”.
“The trail ends here at the curb,” said Kelton as he kneeled to praise Azrael and provide him a marosnack.
“Right. I’ll go across the street and see if old Mr. Butler noted anything,” said Buck.
He strode across, slowing just enough to check traffic.
“What would happen if I asked you to track Miss Dixie?” asked Chandler.
Kelton remained on one knee rubbing Azrael’s chest. The dog’s eyes were closed and his nose high in the air as his tongue hung from the left corner of his mouth.
“We would find her trails of the last few days. That’s plural. If she walks to work, I will show you her house. I will show you where she walked to lunch if that was her habit. I will show you where her trail ends in the parking lot if she drives.
What I can’t do is tell you if she disappeared off of some point of one of those regular tracks, or whether such disappearance was voluntary or not. If there are two trails to lunch, I can’t definitively tell you where she went today versus yesterday.”
“You’ve certainly narrowed down the possibilities for us to canvas,” said Chandler and then the wise face went dark.
He looked up and down the street and then at the apartment windows above the shops. Kelton stood and brushed off his knee with his hand while Chandler’s mental gears turned.
“Our Main Street isn’t as busy as most Main Streets in this country, but it’s still a lousy place to try and force a young woman into a car if she doesn’t want to go,” he said as a Buick station wagon went by. “Can you tell me if Miss Dixie was even here on this sidewalk?”
“Yes, Sir. But I can’t tell if its post break-in or from this morning if she walks to work this way.”
“I see. Her house is just back up the road there a piece.”
Buck came running out of Mr. Butler’s barbershop, caused an east bound rusty Ford Bronco to check his brakes, and dashed to join them.
“Mr. Butler said a blue truck was parked here late morning. He didn’t see it leave, but he wrote down the license plate. Said he’s being nosy about who might buy the old Whirlpool building and fix it up. Doesn’t want competition,” said Buck with a wink.
“Alright, let’s go in and run that plate.”
They walked fast down the sidewalk, west toward the city park, rather than retrace their steps in the alley to the back entrance. Once they were through the heavy metal doors, sheriff and deputy raced towards their offices leaving Kelton and Azrael loitering by Dixie’s desk.
“Buck, what’s that plate so I can put out an A.P.B. with the State Police and neighboring counties?”
The deputy hesitated a quick second, “Give me a minute to boot up this old computer and check if it matches the vehicle described. Mr. Butler’s eyes aren’t what they used to be and I’d hate to put out bad information.”
“Good thinking. I’ll be checking email in my office and tidying up. Yell when you have something.”
And then they were both gone into their respective office doors, leaving him alone up front.
Kelton looked at the map above the battery charger first. The map wasn’t from Rand-McNally, but rather a framed city planner blueprint with scale blotches for the structures. St. Albans was basically a three street town, with Main Street spanning from the railroad tracks on the west side of town to Ed’s Truck Stop and then past the interstate. Paralleling Main Street to the north was Smallwood Street, and similarly to the south was Coalson Street. Unlike Main, they both were more residential than commercial. Smallwood Street crossed the tracks and curved off to the North West. Thigpen Road, running north and south along the interstate connected them on their east ends, and Lowland Road intersected them to the west by the railroad tracks.
Next he wondered over to Dixie’s workstation, Azrael heeling obediently on the leash.
“Platz,” he commanded and Azrael dropped down to the floor.
He let the leash go slack and turned the sweater covered chair around. A few strands of blond hair lingered on the headrest. The upholstery showed a stain or two from long service, but the sweater looked fashionable and professional in Kelton’s limited knowledge of such things. He guessed it lived on the chair for those times the heat struggled or the air conditioning was too much.
The desktop computer hummed with lights, although the monitor was dark, and he reached out and gave the mouse, greasy with hand lotion, a wiggle. He smelled the perfumed lotion on his hand as the screen lit up, showing a log-in page for the Lowland County Sheriff’s Department. To the right were the usual office supplies: scissors, paper clips, pens, and rubber bands among others. No light shone on the desk phone to indicate any messages.
Kelton looked over his shoulder down the back hallway, and wondered what was taking so long. No sounds came indicating that either of the two lawmen were imminently leaving their offices. He looked at his dog, and Azrael seemed to smile at him with bright eyes full of boundless energy.
Kelton thought to himself if they weren’t going to look for clues, he was going to. He started opening the desk drawers. A couple contained files, or binders with procedures for handling certain types of calls. In the upper left drawer, he found a small clutch purse. He opened the clasp, finding a pair of cigarettes, a tube of lipstick, a tampon, ten dollars, and her driver’s license.
Dixie Johnson was twenty-six and lived on Main Street. She was not an organ donor. Her picture looked more like a glamor shot than an I.D. photo with loud mascara, thick lipstick, and her hair styled. There was a resemblance to Doris, but she was much narrower in the face. Judging from the height and weight, if you believe them he thought, she was also taller and slenderer than her mom.
It was as good a scent article as they would find he thought and slipped it into his left side cargo pant pocket. He then turned around, leaned on the desk, and waited staring down the back hallway. Another fifteen minutes passed, and he wondered why he cared to be involved. Old computers from the army would lap these guys several times over. Finally, Buck yelled from his office.
“Okay, I got it. Braxton Greene, he’s on Thigpen about three miles south. Also has some misdemeanor drug convictions,” Buck stepped into the hallway. “I’ll be back with him in half an hour.”
“Take Mr. Jager and that dog with you. Tracking might be helpful down in those wilds,” instructed the Sheriff from his office.
Buck began, “I’m not sure how good an idea it is to…”
“Can I please have my gun back?” asked Kelton. “Even if just for self-defense purposes?”
The sheriff came to the doorway of his office and declared, “It’s evidence.”
“Evidence of what? That I most
likely shot the bikers because I was found near the bodies and it’s my gun? That point is not in dispute.
I’m willing to help you find your receptionist, but we’re not approaching known criminals unarmed.”
The deputy patted his Colt service revolver and interjected, “We’re not, Dog-Boy.”
“‘We’ was referring to Azrael and myself,” corrected Kelton. “Besides, having a gun doesn’t make you armed any more than having a guitar makes you a musician.”
Deputy Garner bristled, “You should be back in one of the cells until the DA makes his decision.”
“And just how many qualifying rounds did you fire last year with that?” challenged Kelton.
“Boys, quiet!” ordered Chandler with his hands on his hips.
“I’m returning Mr. Jager’s firearm strictly for self-defense. It’s in my vehicle. He has no LEO immunity. We need the dog to find Dixie or at least this Braxton character. But get this,” the sheriff said with narrowing eyes and voice dropping an octave but not a decibel in volume, “I don’t care if you are some West Point war hero. You screw around in my town and I will put you back there in one of those cells until someone else says otherwise. Any questions?”
“Yeah,” said Kelton. “What the hell is a LEO?”
Buck sighed in resignation, “Law Enforcement Officer. Come on, let’s go. Try not to get hair all over my car.”
CHAPTER—5
Dixie squirmed on the floor of the back seat of the crew cab truck not being able to see. She felt tiny bits of gravel dig at her skin and the odor of oily grease filled her nostrils. Her bound hands forced the twisting motion to come from her torso, and a tire iron punished her ribs. The duct tape over her mouth pulled at her skin as her face rubbed against the vinyl seatback, but it caused the old windbreaker tied over her eyes by its sleeves to slip from her head. A gruff voice protested as her knees hit the back of the driver’s seat.
K-9 Outlaw: A Kelton Jager Adventure Book 1 Page 4